Christianity is described as a universal faith,
transcending borders and cultures. Yet how it is practised is shaped by
history, politics and economics. The contrast between Kenya and the United
States makes this clear. Both nations profess large Christian populations. Both
invoke Christ in public life. Yet the priorities, pressures and controversies
surrounding the faith differ sharply, even as certain temptations remain the
same.
In Kenya, Christianity is vibrant and highly
visible. Worship is energetic. Services overflow with song, testimony and
passionate preaching. Churches are not merely houses of prayer; they are social
anchors. In a society marked by inequality, unemployment and political
uncertainty, they offer belonging and hope. Alongside historic denominations
such as the Catholic Church, the Presbyterian Church of East Africa, the
Seventh-day Adventist Church and the Anglican Church of Kenya, countless
independent ministries have emerged.
Over time, however, parts of this landscape have
taken on the character of a marketplace. The aim is not always pastoral care
but expansion, spectacle and revenue. Dramatic miracle claims and constant
appeals for tithes dominate some pulpits. International branches in Europe or
North America are portrayed as evidence of divine favour. Global travel by
church founders is equated with spiritual authority. In some cases, ambition
appears to eclipse mission.
At its worst, this culture has proved deadly. The
Shakahola tragedy forced the country to reflect painfully. Paul Mackenzie, leader of Good News International Church, was linked to
the starvation deaths of followers convinced that extreme fasting would secure
salvation: many abandoned families, work and medical care under apocalyptic
instruction. The episode exposed how easily fear and desperation can be
manipulated in a weakly regulated religious environment.
Other controversial figures — including Victor Kanyari, associated with the KSh 310 televised “seed” scandal, James Maina Ng'ang'a and Ezekiel Odero have also
faced scrutiny. When the pulpit becomes a stage for profane outbursts, public
humiliation, staged miracles or opaque fundraising, the Gospel’s credibility
suffers. Scripture sets a clear test: “By their fruits you shall know them”
(Matthew 7:16). Christ measures leadership not by drama but by humility,
integrity and love.
Yet Kenyan Christianity cannot be reduced to
scandal. Churches run schools, hospitals and charities that serve millions. In
a society burdened by poverty, promises of miraculous financial or medical
breakthroughs are understandably compelling. The danger lies in exploitation
disguised as faith.
Across the Atlantic, Christianity in the United
States faces a different challenge. Mainstream Protestant churches and the
Catholic Church operate within structured systems and established doctrine.
Worship is often restrained. Miracle spectacle is less central. Roughly 64 per
cent of Americans identify as Christian, but adherence is falling, particularly
among younger generations. Many congregations struggle to sustain membership.
In Kenya, by contrast, nearly 85 per cent identify as Christian and churches
are growing, especially among the youth.
The theological tone also diverges. American
churches increasingly adopt progressive positions on LGBTQ+ rights and social
justice. Kenyan churches largely uphold conservative teachings on marriage and
morality.
American Christianity is increasingly entangled in
partisan politics. The rise of Christian nationalism seeks to merge national
identity with a narrow reading of the faith. This movement gained force during
the presidency of Donald Trump, as many conservative believers embraced the
“Make America Great Again” banner as a shield against secularism. Yet when
allegiance to Christ is blurred with allegiance to party, the Gospel risks
becoming a campaign slogan rather than a transforming truth.
Commentators such as the late Charlie Kirk, pastor Paula White-Cain, and Robert Jefress, among others, have invoked Christianity while making remarks about
America’s “whiteness” that many consider racially charged.
When immigrants are demeaned or refugees portrayed
as threats, the tension between political rhetoric and Christian teaching
becomes stark. Scripture affirms that all people are made in the image of God
(Genesis 1:27). Paul insists that in Christ “there is neither Jew nor Greek”
(Galatians 3:28).
More troubling is the readiness of some Christian
leaders to sanctify military action. Franklin Graham, son of Billy Graham, publicly
praised President Trump for strikes against Iran, framing them as a stand
against an “evil empire”. The language was celebratory, not cautious. When
prayer accompanies bombing campaigns, and faith is invoked to justify force,
the line between spiritual conviction and state power grows thin.
The Sermon on the Mount offers a different vision.
“Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9). “Love your enemies” (Matthew
5:44). Christ calls for mercy and humility, not triumphalism. When asked about
the greatest commandment, he replied: love God wholeheartedly and love your
neighbour as yourself (Matthew 22:37–39). He went further: “Greater love has no
one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). The
Lord’s Prayer teaches dependence on God and forgiveness, not domination.
Measured against this standard, both
commercialised religion in Kenya and politicised Christianity in America fall
short. In one context, the temptation is financial power; in the other,
political power. In both, faith risks losing its centre.
The contrast between practising Christianity in
Kenya and in the United States is therefore spiritual, not merely geographical.
It reveals how easily faith drifts when captured by spectacle or supremacy. The
major question, therefore, is this: does our Christianity reflect the humility,
justice and self-giving love of Christ?
If Christianity loses its centre — love of God and
love of neighbour, it may retain crowds, wealth or influence. But it forfeits
its soul.
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