I have been following the story surrounding PCEA Milele Hotel, and there is one thing I have come to appreciate about the controversy: the passion. I may not agree with everything either side is saying, but I cannot ignore the intensity with which people are defending what they believe is right. There are those who appear to be saying, “Let the hotel go. If auctioneers have to take it, let them take it.” Then there are those saying, “No. Our grandparents sacrificed their money to establish this property. We cannot simply watch it disappear.”
Interestingly, I think both sides have a point. Those who say the hotel should go may be looking at the matter through the eyes of business reality. If a business is continuously consuming resources without producing adequate returns, at what point does keeping it become an exercise in emotional attachment rather than sound stewardship?
On the other hand, those who want it rescued may be looking at the matter through the eyes of history, sacrifice and institutional memory. They may be asking a legitimate question: How can we casually dispose of something that previous generations sacrificed to establish?
Both questions deserve to be asked. But as I have watched this saga unfold, I have found myself asking a completely different question. What if Milele Hotel is teaching us a lesson that has very little to do with hotels? What if this is not merely a church-property dispute? What if it is a lesson about mission diversion?
One of the first things I learned about business is that not everything worth preserving should necessarily be preserved. A business exists for a purpose. It must create value. It must generate sufficient returns to justify the resources committed to it. When it consistently consumes more than it produces, something has to be questioned.
Sometimes the answer is restructuring. Sometimes it is changing the strategy. Sometimes it is finding new management. Sometimes it is changing the business model. And sometimes, painfully, the answer is to let the business go.
Business scholars may describe an enterprise that continuously absorbs money without generating commensurate returns as a capital sink or a money pit. The terminology may differ, but the question remains the same: How long do we continue pouring resources into something simply because we have already invested so much in it? This is where the Milele conversation becomes interesting.
Those fighting to save the hotel have a responsibility to ask a difficult question: What exactly are we saving, and what will it produce if we succeed? It is not enough to say, “Our grandparents gave money for this.” That history matters. Sacrifice matters. Heritage matters. But heritage without sustainability can become an expensive monument to yesterday.
Our grandparents may have planted a tree, but that does not mean we should refuse to prune it because they planted it. We honour their sacrifice by making sure what they planted continues to serve a meaningful purpose. And that brings me to what I believe is the bigger lesson.
I am a believer in institutions. I understand why people become emotionally attached to properties, buildings, schools, businesses and other things established by previous generations. But every institution must periodically ask itself one uncomfortable question: Why do we exist?
That question is more important than the assets we own. If we forget why we exist, we can become extremely successful at protecting things that were never supposed to become our ultimate purpose.
A church can become so occupied with protecting its buildings that it forgets the people who enter those buildings. It can become so concerned about its investments that it forgets the struggling families living around those investments. It can become so passionate about defending property that it becomes less passionate about defending people. And that is why I find the Milele Hotel story thought-provoking.
I keep wondering: Have we ever seen the same level of institutional passion when ordinary church members are sinking under the weight of life? Where is the same energy when a church member loses a job and cannot pay school fees? Where is the same determination when a young person is struggling with addiction, hopelessness or unemployment? Where is the same urgency when a widow is unable to feed her children? Where is the same institutional machinery when a family is collapsing under debt? Where is the same passion when a young person leaves the church because nobody noticed that they were hurting? Perhaps these questions are uncomfortable. But sometimes discomfort is exactly what a good question is supposed to produce.
I am not saying a church should not protect its property. I am not saying investments are evil. I am not saying institutions should surrender every business venture they own. I am asking something much deeper: Should the preservation of an institution's assets ever become more urgent than the preservation of its mission?
A hotel is a means. A building is a means. Money is a means. Property is a means. An institution is a means. But when the means become more important than the end, we have a problem. This happens everywhere, not just in churches.
A company starts with a mission to serve customers, but eventually becomes obsessed with protecting its market position. A school begins with the desire to educate children, but eventually becomes obsessed with buildings, rankings and revenue. A government is established to serve citizens, but eventually becomes obsessed with power. A family begins with love, companionship and responsibility, but eventually becomes obsessed with property, inheritance and appearances.
Even an individual can lose their way. We start working to provide for our families, then discover that we are so busy working that we no longer have a family life. We start accumulating money for security, then discover that we have become prisoners of the money we accumulated. We build a house for our family, then spend our entire lives fighting over the house while the family itself falls apart. We buy a car to make transportation easier, then spend more time worrying about the car than enjoying the journey. The thing that was supposed to serve us begins to control us. That, to me, is the deeper lesson in the Milele conversation.
This is where the story stops being about PCEA Milele Hotel and becomes personal. I have been asking myself: What are the Milele Hotels in our own lives? What are those things we are fighting desperately to preserve even though we have forgotten why we wanted them in the first place? What are the things consuming our energy, relationships, money and attention? What are we defending because we have already invested too much to walk away? And perhaps the most uncomfortable question: Are we fighting for the right things?
Consider a family. Why are you a child in your family? Is it simply to inherit your parents' property one day? Is it to prove that you are more successful than your siblings? Is it to win every argument? Or is there a deeper responsibility—to love, respect, support and contribute to the family?
Why are you a spouse? Is marriage merely about owning property together, raising children and maintaining appearances? Or is it about companionship, sacrifice, friendship, faithfulness and helping another human being navigate life?
Why are you a parent? Is it simply to produce children who will eventually take care of you? Or are you entrusted with human beings who need guidance, protection, love, discipline and an example worth following?
Why are you an employee? Is your purpose simply to receive a salary at the end of the month? Or are you also expected to contribute something meaningful through your skills, integrity and responsibility?
Why are you an employer? Is it merely to make profit? Or do you also have a responsibility toward the people whose labour helps create that profit?
Why are you a member of your community? Is your community simply a place where you happen to live? Or are you part of something larger, with responsibilities toward the people around you?
I do not know where the Milele Hotel story will eventually end. Perhaps the hotel will be rescued. Perhaps it will be sold. Perhaps it will be restructured. Perhaps another solution will emerge. Those decisions belong to the people entrusted with making them. But as a Kenyan watching from the outside, I believe there is something more valuable that ordinary people can take from this saga.
We should learn to distinguish between preserving a thing and preserving its purpose. Our grandparents did not sacrifice merely so that we could possess buildings. They sacrificed because they believed in something. Our parents did not raise us merely so that we could inherit property. They raised us because they believed we could become something. We do not enter marriages merely to accumulate possessions. We marry because human beings need companionship, love, partnership and family. We do not become parents merely to produce heirs. We become parents because children need people who will guide and protect them. We do not work merely to occupy offices. We work because our talents and labour can create value. We do not belong to communities merely to enjoy what others provide. We belong because we have something to contribute. And a church should never forget that its buildings, businesses, investments and institutions are ultimately means to an end. The people are not supposed to exist for the institution. The institution exists to serve the people and the mission.
Perhaps this is the question I should leave with myself—and with anyone reading this. What is your Milele Hotel? What are you spending enormous energy trying to rescue? What are you desperately trying to preserve? What are you fighting over? What are you protecting? And have you stopped recently to ask yourself why?
Maybe your Milele Hotel is money. Maybe it is a job. Maybe it is a title. Maybe it is a piece of land. Maybe it is a family inheritance. Maybe it is your reputation. Maybe it is an old friendship. Maybe it is a position in an organization. Maybe it is a relationship that has already died but you are afraid to admit it. Maybe it is even an idea about yourself that you have outgrown. The danger is not necessarily in having these things. The danger is forgetting why they matter. We can spend our entire lives fighting to keep the hotel while forgetting to ask whether the hotel is still serving the purpose for which it was built.
Interestingly, I think both sides have a point. Those who say the hotel should go may be looking at the matter through the eyes of business reality. If a business is continuously consuming resources without producing adequate returns, at what point does keeping it become an exercise in emotional attachment rather than sound stewardship?
On the other hand, those who want it rescued may be looking at the matter through the eyes of history, sacrifice and institutional memory. They may be asking a legitimate question: How can we casually dispose of something that previous generations sacrificed to establish?
Both questions deserve to be asked. But as I have watched this saga unfold, I have found myself asking a completely different question. What if Milele Hotel is teaching us a lesson that has very little to do with hotels? What if this is not merely a church-property dispute? What if it is a lesson about mission diversion?
One of the first things I learned about business is that not everything worth preserving should necessarily be preserved. A business exists for a purpose. It must create value. It must generate sufficient returns to justify the resources committed to it. When it consistently consumes more than it produces, something has to be questioned.
Sometimes the answer is restructuring. Sometimes it is changing the strategy. Sometimes it is finding new management. Sometimes it is changing the business model. And sometimes, painfully, the answer is to let the business go.
Business scholars may describe an enterprise that continuously absorbs money without generating commensurate returns as a capital sink or a money pit. The terminology may differ, but the question remains the same: How long do we continue pouring resources into something simply because we have already invested so much in it? This is where the Milele conversation becomes interesting.
Those fighting to save the hotel have a responsibility to ask a difficult question: What exactly are we saving, and what will it produce if we succeed? It is not enough to say, “Our grandparents gave money for this.” That history matters. Sacrifice matters. Heritage matters. But heritage without sustainability can become an expensive monument to yesterday.
Our grandparents may have planted a tree, but that does not mean we should refuse to prune it because they planted it. We honour their sacrifice by making sure what they planted continues to serve a meaningful purpose. And that brings me to what I believe is the bigger lesson.
I am a believer in institutions. I understand why people become emotionally attached to properties, buildings, schools, businesses and other things established by previous generations. But every institution must periodically ask itself one uncomfortable question: Why do we exist?
That question is more important than the assets we own. If we forget why we exist, we can become extremely successful at protecting things that were never supposed to become our ultimate purpose.
A church can become so occupied with protecting its buildings that it forgets the people who enter those buildings. It can become so concerned about its investments that it forgets the struggling families living around those investments. It can become so passionate about defending property that it becomes less passionate about defending people. And that is why I find the Milele Hotel story thought-provoking.
I keep wondering: Have we ever seen the same level of institutional passion when ordinary church members are sinking under the weight of life? Where is the same energy when a church member loses a job and cannot pay school fees? Where is the same determination when a young person is struggling with addiction, hopelessness or unemployment? Where is the same urgency when a widow is unable to feed her children? Where is the same institutional machinery when a family is collapsing under debt? Where is the same passion when a young person leaves the church because nobody noticed that they were hurting? Perhaps these questions are uncomfortable. But sometimes discomfort is exactly what a good question is supposed to produce.
I am not saying a church should not protect its property. I am not saying investments are evil. I am not saying institutions should surrender every business venture they own. I am asking something much deeper: Should the preservation of an institution's assets ever become more urgent than the preservation of its mission?
A hotel is a means. A building is a means. Money is a means. Property is a means. An institution is a means. But when the means become more important than the end, we have a problem. This happens everywhere, not just in churches.
A company starts with a mission to serve customers, but eventually becomes obsessed with protecting its market position. A school begins with the desire to educate children, but eventually becomes obsessed with buildings, rankings and revenue. A government is established to serve citizens, but eventually becomes obsessed with power. A family begins with love, companionship and responsibility, but eventually becomes obsessed with property, inheritance and appearances.
Even an individual can lose their way. We start working to provide for our families, then discover that we are so busy working that we no longer have a family life. We start accumulating money for security, then discover that we have become prisoners of the money we accumulated. We build a house for our family, then spend our entire lives fighting over the house while the family itself falls apart. We buy a car to make transportation easier, then spend more time worrying about the car than enjoying the journey. The thing that was supposed to serve us begins to control us. That, to me, is the deeper lesson in the Milele conversation.
This is where the story stops being about PCEA Milele Hotel and becomes personal. I have been asking myself: What are the Milele Hotels in our own lives? What are those things we are fighting desperately to preserve even though we have forgotten why we wanted them in the first place? What are the things consuming our energy, relationships, money and attention? What are we defending because we have already invested too much to walk away? And perhaps the most uncomfortable question: Are we fighting for the right things?
Consider a family. Why are you a child in your family? Is it simply to inherit your parents' property one day? Is it to prove that you are more successful than your siblings? Is it to win every argument? Or is there a deeper responsibility—to love, respect, support and contribute to the family?
Why are you a spouse? Is marriage merely about owning property together, raising children and maintaining appearances? Or is it about companionship, sacrifice, friendship, faithfulness and helping another human being navigate life?
Why are you a parent? Is it simply to produce children who will eventually take care of you? Or are you entrusted with human beings who need guidance, protection, love, discipline and an example worth following?
Why are you an employee? Is your purpose simply to receive a salary at the end of the month? Or are you also expected to contribute something meaningful through your skills, integrity and responsibility?
Why are you an employer? Is it merely to make profit? Or do you also have a responsibility toward the people whose labour helps create that profit?
Why are you a member of your community? Is your community simply a place where you happen to live? Or are you part of something larger, with responsibilities toward the people around you?
These questions may appear unrelated to a hotel. They are not. They are the same question. What is my mission?
One of the greatest tragedies in life is to spend years protecting something and discover that we have lost ourselves in the process. A person can spend twenty years building a business and lose their marriage. A politician can spend years fighting to remain relevant and lose their integrity. A parent can spend years accumulating wealth for children who barely know them. Siblings can spend years fighting over inherited property and destroy the very family that created the property. A church can spend enormous energy protecting institutional assets and gradually become disconnected from the people it was established to serve. And an individual can spend a lifetime pursuing things without ever stopping to ask whether those things were worth pursuing.
Sometimes we need to stop and ask: If I win this battle, what exactly will I have won? That question can change everything. Imagine winning an argument with your spouse but losing intimacy. Imagine winning a property dispute but losing your siblings. Imagine becoming wealthy but losing your children. Imagine preserving an institution but losing the people who gave the institution meaning. Imagine saving the hotel but losing the church mission. Would that really be victory?
I do not want anyone to misunderstand my argument. There is nothing wrong with fighting for something you believe is valuable. In fact, there are things worth fighting for. There are principles worth defending. There are people worth protecting. There are institutions worth preserving. There are inheritances worth safeguarding. There are businesses worth restructuring rather than abandoning.
The issue is not whether we fight. The issue is whether we know what we are fighting for. Sometimes we fight because something is genuinely valuable. Sometimes we fight because we are emotionally attached. Sometimes we fight because walking away would make us admit that we were wrong. Sometimes we fight because we have already invested too much. Sometimes we fight because our pride cannot tolerate losing. And sometimes we fight because we have forgotten the original mission.
That is why wisdom is required. Before I join a fight, I should ask myself: What is at stake? What will victory accomplish? What will failure cost? Who will benefit if I win? And perhaps most importantly, is this battle consistent with the reason I was entrusted with this responsibility in the first place?
One of the greatest tragedies in life is to spend years protecting something and discover that we have lost ourselves in the process. A person can spend twenty years building a business and lose their marriage. A politician can spend years fighting to remain relevant and lose their integrity. A parent can spend years accumulating wealth for children who barely know them. Siblings can spend years fighting over inherited property and destroy the very family that created the property. A church can spend enormous energy protecting institutional assets and gradually become disconnected from the people it was established to serve. And an individual can spend a lifetime pursuing things without ever stopping to ask whether those things were worth pursuing.
Sometimes we need to stop and ask: If I win this battle, what exactly will I have won? That question can change everything. Imagine winning an argument with your spouse but losing intimacy. Imagine winning a property dispute but losing your siblings. Imagine becoming wealthy but losing your children. Imagine preserving an institution but losing the people who gave the institution meaning. Imagine saving the hotel but losing the church mission. Would that really be victory?
I do not want anyone to misunderstand my argument. There is nothing wrong with fighting for something you believe is valuable. In fact, there are things worth fighting for. There are principles worth defending. There are people worth protecting. There are institutions worth preserving. There are inheritances worth safeguarding. There are businesses worth restructuring rather than abandoning.
The issue is not whether we fight. The issue is whether we know what we are fighting for. Sometimes we fight because something is genuinely valuable. Sometimes we fight because we are emotionally attached. Sometimes we fight because walking away would make us admit that we were wrong. Sometimes we fight because we have already invested too much. Sometimes we fight because our pride cannot tolerate losing. And sometimes we fight because we have forgotten the original mission.
That is why wisdom is required. Before I join a fight, I should ask myself: What is at stake? What will victory accomplish? What will failure cost? Who will benefit if I win? And perhaps most importantly, is this battle consistent with the reason I was entrusted with this responsibility in the first place?
I do not know where the Milele Hotel story will eventually end. Perhaps the hotel will be rescued. Perhaps it will be sold. Perhaps it will be restructured. Perhaps another solution will emerge. Those decisions belong to the people entrusted with making them. But as a Kenyan watching from the outside, I believe there is something more valuable that ordinary people can take from this saga.
We should learn to distinguish between preserving a thing and preserving its purpose. Our grandparents did not sacrifice merely so that we could possess buildings. They sacrificed because they believed in something. Our parents did not raise us merely so that we could inherit property. They raised us because they believed we could become something. We do not enter marriages merely to accumulate possessions. We marry because human beings need companionship, love, partnership and family. We do not become parents merely to produce heirs. We become parents because children need people who will guide and protect them. We do not work merely to occupy offices. We work because our talents and labour can create value. We do not belong to communities merely to enjoy what others provide. We belong because we have something to contribute. And a church should never forget that its buildings, businesses, investments and institutions are ultimately means to an end. The people are not supposed to exist for the institution. The institution exists to serve the people and the mission.
Perhaps this is the question I should leave with myself—and with anyone reading this. What is your Milele Hotel? What are you spending enormous energy trying to rescue? What are you desperately trying to preserve? What are you fighting over? What are you protecting? And have you stopped recently to ask yourself why?
Maybe your Milele Hotel is money. Maybe it is a job. Maybe it is a title. Maybe it is a piece of land. Maybe it is a family inheritance. Maybe it is your reputation. Maybe it is an old friendship. Maybe it is a position in an organization. Maybe it is a relationship that has already died but you are afraid to admit it. Maybe it is even an idea about yourself that you have outgrown. The danger is not necessarily in having these things. The danger is forgetting why they matter. We can spend our entire lives fighting to keep the hotel while forgetting to ask whether the hotel is still serving the purpose for which it was built.
And we can do exactly the same thing with our lives. We can fight for houses and lose homes. We can fight for businesses and lose families. We can fight for positions and lose relationships. We can fight for money and lose peace. We can fight for institutions and lose people. We can fight to be right and lose those we love. We can fight for the means and forget the mission.
That is why, for me, the greatest lesson in the Milele Hotel saga is not about who is right and who is wrong. It is a question that reaches far beyond Milele: In the things I have been entrusted with, have I remembered why I was given them in the first place? Because at the end of the day, a successful life is not necessarily one in which we preserve everything we inherited. It may be one in which we faithfully preserve the purpose behind what we inherited—and have the wisdom to let go of anything that has become a distraction from that purpose.
Perhaps the real question is not: “Can we save Milele Hotel?” Perhaps it is: “While we are fighting to save the hotel, who—or what—are we failing to save?”
That is why, for me, the greatest lesson in the Milele Hotel saga is not about who is right and who is wrong. It is a question that reaches far beyond Milele: In the things I have been entrusted with, have I remembered why I was given them in the first place? Because at the end of the day, a successful life is not necessarily one in which we preserve everything we inherited. It may be one in which we faithfully preserve the purpose behind what we inherited—and have the wisdom to let go of anything that has become a distraction from that purpose.
Perhaps the real question is not: “Can we save Milele Hotel?” Perhaps it is: “While we are fighting to save the hotel, who—or what—are we failing to save?”
