There was a time when the church was the last refuge of the soul — a place where truth stood higher than power, where the pulpit was sacred and the Word untouchable. But somewhere along the way, the pulpit became a platform for politics, and the altar a bargaining table for the powerful. I have sat in pews and watched the line between holiness and hypocrisy blur until it disappeared completely. In today’s Gítithia, the church no longer stands apart from the auction — it sits at the very table.
I remember a Sunday morning when a convoy of sleek cars pulled up outside a small church in my hometown. The people rushed out to see what was happening. The pastor, suddenly filled with excitement, hurried to the entrance, flanked by ushers carrying polished smiles. A local candidate had come to “worship.” Cameras followed him into the sanctuary.
As the worshippers sang, he stood in front, tears glistening in his eyes. When the time for giving came, he opened an envelope thick with notes and laid it on the altar. The pastor raised it to heaven and declared, “May the Lord bless our leader, chosen for such a time as this.” The congregation erupted in cheers, not knowing that what they were witnessing was not worship — it was transaction. That envelope was not an offering; it was a down payment for divine endorsement.
The church has become a safe space for politicians, a place to sanitize their image and buy legitimacy. The same hands that sign corrupt contracts lift themselves in prayer; the same lips that lie to the nation quote scripture fluently. They know that in a country where faith still commands hearts, capturing the church means capturing the soul of the people.
I have been in meetings where politicians discuss church visits as part of their campaign strategy. “Let’s do the morning service at Manna, then the afternoon crusade at Ark,” one strategist said. “We must secure both pulpits. The bishops likes brown envelopes.” Another replied, “Don’t forget to invite the gospel artists for a performance; that helps with the youth vote.”
It broke my heart to realize that the altar — once a place where sinners came to repent — had become a stage for performance and propaganda. Pastors were no longer shepherds; they were brokers of blessings.
In Kwa Mathore, one popular televangelist was known to invite politicians on stage during services. They would sit in the front row, nodding as he preached about leadership and divine destiny. Then, he would call them up to “sow a seed” for their campaigns. The crowd would roar as bundles of cash changed hands, the cameras capturing every smile. He called it “kingdom partnership.” I called it spiritual laundering — washing dirty money in holy water.
The tragedy is not just that politicians use the church. The greater tragedy is that the church allows itself to be used. It no longer rebukes corruption; it blesses it. It no longer speaks truth to power; it eats from power’s hand. The prophets of this generation do not shout from the wilderness; they whisper in the corridors of State House, waiting for their share of appointments.
When the people cry about poverty, the pastors tell them to pray harder. When hospitals collapse, they preach about divine healing. When corruption scandals surface, they remain silent, because their tithes depend on the same men responsible for the rot. And when elections approach, they trade their pulpits for microphones and become campaign managers in cassocks.
I once attended a rural crusade where a governor arrived with his entourage. He was accused of misusing public funds, but that day, the crowd cheered him as the pastor handed him the microphone. “We thank God for leaders who love the church,” the pastor declared. The governor smiled, gave a donation for a new church roof, and promised to “walk with the ministry.” The people clapped until their palms hurt. Nobody asked where the money came from. Nobody dared. The auction was complete — souls sold for a roof.
It is difficult to blame the people. They are desperate. They have been taught that God blesses through the rich and that proximity to power equals favor. In their eyes, when a politician kneels at the altar, it must mean God has chosen him. But in truth, it is not divine selection — it is strategic deception.
There was a time when the church produced moral giants — men and women who stood before kings and called them to upright leadership. They were fearless, driven by faith, not favor. Today, those voices are gone or silenced. The few who still speak truth are branded rebellious, ungrateful, or political. Meanwhile, the rest enjoy the comfort of privilege — their pulpits insulated from the cries of the poor.
I have come to believe that the church has not only been infiltrated by politics — it has joined the auction. Bishops compete for influence, churches compete for candidates, and preachers compete for visibility. Faith has become a performance, salvation a slogan, and blessings a commodity. We have built cathedrals but lost conviction; we have filled pews but emptied hearts.
The danger of this alliance between altar and power is that it kills accountability. Once a leader is baptized in the waters of religion, he becomes untouchable. Any criticism becomes blasphemy. “Touch not the Lord’s anointed,” they say, even when that “anointed” steals from hospitals and lies to the nation. The church, meant to be the conscience of the country, has become its accomplice.
I remember standing outside one grand church in Escarpment as a convoy left after a service. I looked at the gleaming cars, the tinted windows, the bodyguards, the laughter of men who had just been “prayed for.” Then I looked at the barefoot children playing in the mud nearby — their mothers waiting in long queues at the clinic, their fathers begging for day jobs. I asked myself, if Christ walked these streets today, which side of the road would He stand on? Would He ride in the convoy or sit with the mothers who have no fare to the hospital? That question still burns in me, because I know the answer — and it shames us all.
The auction table is no longer hidden. It sits right in the open, beneath the cross, wrapped in worship songs and hallelujahs. Every Sunday, deals are made in the name of God. The same lips that bless the poor bless the men who oppress them. And we, the faithful, clap, unaware that our faith is being used to crown our own captors.
I do not hate the church. I still believe it can rise again. But it must cleanse itself of this political disease — this hunger for influence disguised as ministry. The church must return to the simplicity of truth, where the gospel cannot be bought, where prayer is not a campaign tool, where the pulpit burns with conviction and not comfort. Until then, the auction will continue — the politician will keep buying holiness, and the preacher will keep selling salvation. And somewhere between the two, the people will keep losing both their faith and their freedom.
I remember a Sunday morning when a convoy of sleek cars pulled up outside a small church in my hometown. The people rushed out to see what was happening. The pastor, suddenly filled with excitement, hurried to the entrance, flanked by ushers carrying polished smiles. A local candidate had come to “worship.” Cameras followed him into the sanctuary.
As the worshippers sang, he stood in front, tears glistening in his eyes. When the time for giving came, he opened an envelope thick with notes and laid it on the altar. The pastor raised it to heaven and declared, “May the Lord bless our leader, chosen for such a time as this.” The congregation erupted in cheers, not knowing that what they were witnessing was not worship — it was transaction. That envelope was not an offering; it was a down payment for divine endorsement.
The church has become a safe space for politicians, a place to sanitize their image and buy legitimacy. The same hands that sign corrupt contracts lift themselves in prayer; the same lips that lie to the nation quote scripture fluently. They know that in a country where faith still commands hearts, capturing the church means capturing the soul of the people.
I have been in meetings where politicians discuss church visits as part of their campaign strategy. “Let’s do the morning service at Manna, then the afternoon crusade at Ark,” one strategist said. “We must secure both pulpits. The bishops likes brown envelopes.” Another replied, “Don’t forget to invite the gospel artists for a performance; that helps with the youth vote.”
It broke my heart to realize that the altar — once a place where sinners came to repent — had become a stage for performance and propaganda. Pastors were no longer shepherds; they were brokers of blessings.
In Kwa Mathore, one popular televangelist was known to invite politicians on stage during services. They would sit in the front row, nodding as he preached about leadership and divine destiny. Then, he would call them up to “sow a seed” for their campaigns. The crowd would roar as bundles of cash changed hands, the cameras capturing every smile. He called it “kingdom partnership.” I called it spiritual laundering — washing dirty money in holy water.
The tragedy is not just that politicians use the church. The greater tragedy is that the church allows itself to be used. It no longer rebukes corruption; it blesses it. It no longer speaks truth to power; it eats from power’s hand. The prophets of this generation do not shout from the wilderness; they whisper in the corridors of State House, waiting for their share of appointments.
When the people cry about poverty, the pastors tell them to pray harder. When hospitals collapse, they preach about divine healing. When corruption scandals surface, they remain silent, because their tithes depend on the same men responsible for the rot. And when elections approach, they trade their pulpits for microphones and become campaign managers in cassocks.
I once attended a rural crusade where a governor arrived with his entourage. He was accused of misusing public funds, but that day, the crowd cheered him as the pastor handed him the microphone. “We thank God for leaders who love the church,” the pastor declared. The governor smiled, gave a donation for a new church roof, and promised to “walk with the ministry.” The people clapped until their palms hurt. Nobody asked where the money came from. Nobody dared. The auction was complete — souls sold for a roof.
It is difficult to blame the people. They are desperate. They have been taught that God blesses through the rich and that proximity to power equals favor. In their eyes, when a politician kneels at the altar, it must mean God has chosen him. But in truth, it is not divine selection — it is strategic deception.
There was a time when the church produced moral giants — men and women who stood before kings and called them to upright leadership. They were fearless, driven by faith, not favor. Today, those voices are gone or silenced. The few who still speak truth are branded rebellious, ungrateful, or political. Meanwhile, the rest enjoy the comfort of privilege — their pulpits insulated from the cries of the poor.
I have come to believe that the church has not only been infiltrated by politics — it has joined the auction. Bishops compete for influence, churches compete for candidates, and preachers compete for visibility. Faith has become a performance, salvation a slogan, and blessings a commodity. We have built cathedrals but lost conviction; we have filled pews but emptied hearts.
The danger of this alliance between altar and power is that it kills accountability. Once a leader is baptized in the waters of religion, he becomes untouchable. Any criticism becomes blasphemy. “Touch not the Lord’s anointed,” they say, even when that “anointed” steals from hospitals and lies to the nation. The church, meant to be the conscience of the country, has become its accomplice.
I remember standing outside one grand church in Escarpment as a convoy left after a service. I looked at the gleaming cars, the tinted windows, the bodyguards, the laughter of men who had just been “prayed for.” Then I looked at the barefoot children playing in the mud nearby — their mothers waiting in long queues at the clinic, their fathers begging for day jobs. I asked myself, if Christ walked these streets today, which side of the road would He stand on? Would He ride in the convoy or sit with the mothers who have no fare to the hospital? That question still burns in me, because I know the answer — and it shames us all.
The auction table is no longer hidden. It sits right in the open, beneath the cross, wrapped in worship songs and hallelujahs. Every Sunday, deals are made in the name of God. The same lips that bless the poor bless the men who oppress them. And we, the faithful, clap, unaware that our faith is being used to crown our own captors.
I do not hate the church. I still believe it can rise again. But it must cleanse itself of this political disease — this hunger for influence disguised as ministry. The church must return to the simplicity of truth, where the gospel cannot be bought, where prayer is not a campaign tool, where the pulpit burns with conviction and not comfort. Until then, the auction will continue — the politician will keep buying holiness, and the preacher will keep selling salvation. And somewhere between the two, the people will keep losing both their faith and their freedom.
