Christianity has increasingly become an albatross for many. Consequently, there is a need to re-evaluate its worth, especially because the Church of Christ has become unashamedly extractive and exploitative.
This psychological conditioning runs much deeper than is evident from the surface. In 1972, Congolese musician Verckys Kiamangwana Mateta released the landmark rumba song 'Nakomitunaka' with Orchestre Vévé amidst President Mobutu Sese Seko’s Authenticité movement that sought to erase memories of Belgian colonialism. Lingala for "I ask myself," the song confronted the colonial legacy of Christianity, questioning why sacred figures were rendered white while evil was portrayed as black.
Verckys called for an awakening of consciousness against uncritical dogma by asking why believers accepted doctrines that subordinated them. Today, that questioning spirit must confront a new form of spiritual captivity; commercialised faith.
The need for church regulation, as a result, has never been more imperative. However, any time this matter finds itself at the centre of public discourse, the Church bunches up and becomes defensive. And curiously, the State always backs off. A bigger part of the Church has become a commercial undertaking, which vindicates Karl Marx’s centuries-old claim that religion is the opium of the masses. Nowhere is this more evident than in Kenya.
Take the infamous ‘panda mbegu ya 310’ con-game by preacher Victor Kanyari. Planting a seed of Sh310 became a national punchline, but behind this exhortation lay a calculated transaction. Pastor Kanyari later admitted the gimmick had nothing to do with divine miracles; poverty had simply crushed him, and asking desperate people for money was his escape route. He monetised their desperation for his own financial relief.
This practice has become more of a business model than an isolated anomaly. Religious broadcasting has effortlessly transitioned into a high-stakes, disguised betting scheme. Turn on religious TV channels, and you will see ‘prophets’ running spiritual lotteries. Viewers send mobile money payments over and over, chasing a promised breakthrough that, in all likelihood, will never arrive.
In one instance, Ruth Wanjiku, an elderly woman from Kikuyu claimed to have spent over Sh6,000 within an hour while Joseph Nga’nga, a widower, gambled away his children's school fees on a prayer. Elsewhere, investment scams come disguised as scripture. An Eldoret-based pastor masterminded the De La Vie Consult forex scheme promising 30 per cent monthly returns; a classic Ponzi setup presented as a heavenly blessing.
We are staring at structural exploitation, not just a few bad apples. A rising class of ‘Churchpreneurs’ has realised that a devout, economically strained demographic is the ultimate captive market. As the national economy stagnates and public institutions fail to deliver jobs, healthcare, and security, the Church steps into the void as the lone merchant of hope. The harsher the economic reality, the more that hope is commodified, turning the poorest citizens into a steady revenue stream.
On the extreme, this unaccountable spiritual manipulation leads to horrors like the Shakahola cult deaths. When spiritual leaders operate with zero institutional oversight, the slide from financial extraction to total psychological control becomes inevitable and lethal.
What makes this extraction so egregious is that scripture itself has been displaced by the offertory bowl. Nowhere in the mainstream Christian text is ‘seed money’ or mandatory tithing made a precondition for healing or divine favour. It is a modern, manufactured doctrine. Mercifully, some clergy inside the system are calling it out. Anglican Bishop Beneah Salah once publicly condemned the "horrible commercialisation of the gospel”. The critique isn't just coming from outside secularists; it's a serious conflict within faith itself.
The flow of wealth moves strictly one way. Church leaders acquire fleets of luxury cars, mansions, and media empires, while the congregants financing these lifestyles sink deeper into penury. The ‘seed’ rarely grows for the person who planted it.
Just as Nakomitunaka urged believers to open their eyes to historical indoctrination, modern congregants must interrogate today’s spiritual merchants. A commercially engineered strain of faith, built on prosperity doctrine and unregulated pulpits, functions as a high-margin painkiller. It profits the seller, pacifies the sufferer, but leaves the underlying malady of poverty completely untouched.
