I hail from the traditional tribe of the Baganda in Uganda. Although Christianity had already spread to Northern Africa by the center of the 2nd century—long before it reached Northern Europe—we in Sub-Saharan Africa continued to worship our own gods, completely unreached by the Gospel.
Our gods were feared and revered. Their representatives—the witch doctors, or medicine men and ladies—could heal, torment, or kill when invoked. I recall tales of 1 witch doctor casually floating on a goatskin across Lake Victoria without sinking. Water spirits, or mermaids, were said to seem often along the shores of this great lake, locally called Nnalubaale—“the house of the gods.” Young men were warned to watch out for the light-skinned, flawlessly beautiful women with unusually long hair. To sleep with one, it was said, meant being dragged beneath the waters, never to be seen again.
Night dancers also haunted our townships. These were naked men with shiny, oil-covered bodies who terrorized villages under the quilt of darkness. Deep in Africa, there have been virtually no atheists. The very notion of rejecting belief within the supernatural was considered absurd. Indeed, this was a continent shrouded in pervasive spiritual darkness.
In the fifteenth century, the primary white missionaries penetrated Sub-Saharan Africa. Though many were propelled by the antislavery crusade and European ambitions of colonization, additionally they challenged us to imagine in an unseen God. The very thought was absurd. How could a loving God, invisible and dwelling beyond the skies, be real, much less trusted? Our gods were cruel, vindictive, and exacting. They demanded sacrifices and unbending allegiance. A God of affection seemed weak.
To make matters worse, these Whites declared that their unseen God was “the King of kings and Lord of lords”—an outrageous insult to our culture and rulers. So we killed them.
But they’d not stop coming. Eventually, we listened. And then we surrendered. We accepted their God and His Son, Jesus Christ. To our surprise, He was not weak in any respect. Confrontations with witch doctors revealed that this Christian God held far greater power than our gods. We encountered His overwhelming love and forgiveness for our sins. We were converted—radically saved and stuffed with the Holy Spirit.
With Christianity got here greater than salvation. It ushered in education, literacy, trade, and enterprise—though also colonialism and exploitation. Yet what made this faith utterly distinct was that we weren’t asked to understand this God of affection; we were invited to imagine. And by believing, we could do what Jesus did.
God’s guarantees to those early converts still ring true for us Africans: “
And these signs shall follow them that imagine; In my name shall they solid out devils; they shall speak with latest tongues; they shall take up serpents; and in the event that they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and so they shall get well.” – Mark 16:17–18
And we saw it. Jesus still heals. He still opens blind eyes and unstops deaf ears. Miracles, signs, and wonders followed us. I personally witnessed not less than eight dead people raised to life on the invocation of His mighty name. I actually have been poisoned by Islamic radicals and shot at point-blank range by armed thugs. Many of my brothers and sisters have suffered far worse—persecuted, raped, tortured, burned alive, or slaughtered for his or her faith.
We were never told that Christianity was a snug religion. We didn’t come to Christ for blessings, health, riches, or earthly comforts. We got here to die to ourselves and live in Him. Our anthem became Paul’s words:
“For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” – Philippians 1:21
And even now, revival flames burn across East and Central Africa—what many scholars imagine to be the longest continuous revival within the history of the Church.
In 1989, I used to be invited to go to London, England. Naively, I half-expected they is likely to be handing out Bibles at Gatwick Airport. After all, this was the house of the Church Missionary Society—the very movement that had once dispatched brave pioneers like Sir Charles Stanley and Dr. David Livingstone. I couldn’t wait to experience an English church.
What I discovered fascinated me. The service was fastidiously programmed: a somber welcome, the solemn thunder of pipe organs, a cultured sermon, and a timely benediction. A quite short service, I assumed. But where were the testimonies? Didn’t they realize that if the one voice heard was the preacher’s, the abnormal believer might assume that God only worked within the lives of a selected, visible few?
When I asked, the reply got here: “Such items should be planned and programmed to make sure a timely end to the service.” I couldn’t understand it. Back in Uganda, we cared little for the clock. We got here to the home of God to come across Him, to listen to from Him, to be touched by Him—and nonetheless long that took, it was time well spent. We never imagined confining God to a tidy 90-minute “Sunday morning experience.”
Four years later, I’d visit the United States—and eventually settle here. The churches were grander, the services livelier than those in Europe. But in some ways, the story was much the identical.
Evangelism has grow to be attractional.
The gospel is packaged, merchandised, and sold with preachers marketing “Jesus the fixer”—the blesser, healer, comforter, or provider. Suffering, persecution, and the price of discipleship are rarely mentioned. Instead, the message is: “Suffering will not be of God, because our good Father only gives good gifts to His children.”
Worship has been reduced to performance.
It is now about style, polish, and entertainment. The band should be cool, tight, and marketable. Worship leaders not labor in prayer over song lists or sets; they simply echo what’s trending on social media or copy the newest release from their favorite bands.
Bible study has been replaced with interest groups.
Instead of deep diving into Scripture, gatherings revolve around shared hobbies and casual discussions. The focus will not be on truth, but on fostering love, unity, and community—good things, but divorced from biblical grounding.
Stewardship has been monetized.
Giving is preached as an investment strategy: “sow a seed, reap a breakthrough.” Prosperity preachers peddle financial miracles, while retired corporate executives are hired to run churches with the perfect business practices—as if the Kingdom of God were merely one other organization.
Pastors have grow to be team leaders.
In many places, seekers are encouraged not to make use of the title “pastor” in any respect—just first names—because “in Christ we’re all equal.” Team leaders should be witty, funny, and motivational. Sermons are replaced with short “talks,” capped at 38 minutes to suit so-called diminished attention spans. The content must encourage, never convict; hell and sin are off-limits.
Service has been rebranded as volunteerism.
Ushering, greeting, or helping is not any longer a sacrifice—it’s optional, based on convenience and preference, done only when and where people feel comfortable.
Church planting has been franchised.
Since pioneering is messy, dangerous, and expensive, leaders are urged to brand, package, and replicate their model—turning churches into franchises that promise efficiency and replicability, even on the expense of authenticity.
I write to beg the Church of Jesus Christ within the West to pause and reckon with the true fruit of this brand of Christianity—this so-called theological progressivism. Are we truly making disciples, or just recruiting members? Are we equipping servants, or enlisting volunteers? Are we dispatching missionaries, or manufacturing consumers? Have we slipped, almost imperceptibly, from Christianity into Churchianity? Could it’s that we’re, without realizing it, offering a more “palatable” substitute—Christianity-light?
It is time—past time—to return to the unique intent, to theological originalism. The gospel was never ours to revise. The mandate has never modified. We are called to be sent. Authentic conversion produces a holy revulsion toward sin and a burning loyalty to the Great Commission:
“Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them within the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey every part I actually have commanded you.” – Matthew 28:19-20
No culture, no era, no generation has the appropriate to tweak, distort, or bedazzle this charge. What we hold will not be a brand but a trust—a two-thousand-year-old, blood-stained baton, passed down through martyrs, reformers, revivalists, and faithful saints who refused to compromise the reality. They laid down their lives in order that we could hear. And now, we dare not drop it.
Therefore, “since we’re surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, allow us to lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and allow us to run with endurance the race set before us” (Hebrews 12:1). Let us get well the fireplace of the early church. Let us reject the diluted, the franchised, the marketable. Let us return to the rugged cross, the costly grace, and the unshakable kingdom.
The hour is late. The cloud of witnesses watches. The nations wait. The Bridegroom comes. Church of the West—pick up the baton, and run.
Photo Credit: ©Unsplash/Tachina Lee
