Who Will Save Traditional Churches from Extinction?

• By Daniel Kakuru

I remember the day I went to a church and got born again for the first time. Attending church was not a part of my plans that day. I was on the road to a place I don’t remember when the clouds sanctioned an impromptu gathering in the sky above and squirted a torrent of rain. Marooned in the middle of nowhere as the rain washed me, the only building in sight was a church and yes, you guessed right – I stormed in. My cloths were already soaked a little too much for me to claim a seat. I stood in one corner, shook myself like chicken while I waited to dry.

The church was in chaos. The pastor, at the pulpit, was spitting into the microphone, speaking a language neither he (nor anyone else, for that matter) could comprehend. The sheep were pacing the room with their fists clenched, their eyelids locked into one another. The word ‘fire’ escaped a few people’s lips more times than I cared to count. The pianist pressed the keys enthusiastically and ensured that the hugger-mugger rhythm was uninterrupted. A few people fell from their feet, rolled on the floor and shouted incoherent things as the prayer session ran on. Then the pastor intoned a song and all the sheep sang in unison. Those who were on the floor with deranged minds rose in installments like zombies and found their feet. For a while, they sang and danced eerily. The dance moves appeared rehearsed and washed, but so the hell what? I cared not; for they passed the eye test.

When the time for dancing and praying and singing was up and everyone had found a seat and made themselves comfortable, only two of us were left standing – the pastor and I. He was at the pulpit talking to his flock. I was in my corner waiting to dry up and grab a seat for myself. The pastor – Apostle Makumbi, as I would later learn – cast his eyes across the congregation and spotted me. Before drawing his next breath, he announced that his prayers for a miracle had finally been fulfilled.

‘‘God has blessed our church with the important guest who has appeared in my visions on multiple occasions,’’ Apostle Makumbi declared pointing at me. ‘‘Let’s praise him for fulfilling his promise.’’

I was soundly confused at first. I looked around just to be sure it wasn’t me this good-for-nothing pastor was pointing at. Because I was anything but an important guest, let alone a promised one. Besides, I was in that church because the rain had fallen with both hands and pushed me in against my will.

But it was already too late for me to escape my fate. Everyone in the congregation had turned their eyes towards me. The ushers had thrown themselves at me and hugged me from all directions. As my feet carried me to the pulpit from where I’d been beckoned by the pastor, beads of sweat formed on my forehead and I rubbed them off with the back of my hand. The pastor, as had the ushers, embraced me tightly like I was a long lost friend. The applause was deafening when I held the microphone and introduced myself. I do not remember how it happened, but by the time I handed the pastor his microphone again and trudged down the pulpit to find a seat, I was a born-again follower of Jesus Christ. I had accepted this guy, Jesus, as my personal lord and savior and he had in turn washed my sins away.

I would return sporadically to that church a few more times after that day before their berserk praying style bored me stiff and I inevitably disappeared into the wilderness like the lost sheep I am. I must admit though that it was the only time I went to a church and felt welcome. Those born-again people, wild as they were during prayer, were lovely humans. They oozed tenderness, love, kindness. Everyone knew everyone’s name. Everyone seemed to be at good terms with everyone. I think I miss fellowshipping with them. Sometimes I remember the days I attended their fellowships and catch myself smiling.

I remember the day I last went to holy communion in the Holy Roman Catholic Church where I belong by default. It was the first weekend of the 2023 February. I had crawled out of my bed in an exuberant mood that Sunday to be told by my mind that the most appropriate destination for me was church. Maybe it’s not my mind I was listening to. Maybe God had remembered to speak to me; I don’t know. Never will. But I ended up in church without even having breakfast (I was too broke to afford ‘katogo’ at Mama Boy’s kiosk anyway).

When it was time for holy communion at mass, I collected myself into one piece and stood at the tail of the queue. I wore the face of an angel, closed my eyes and held my hands together. The line moved slower than a bulky goods’ lorry whose tyres had all fallen off. I swear, I could have grown a beard while waiting for my turn to reach the altar and receive my host which had by now been transformed into the body and blood of Jesus Christ.

‘‘Mukulu!’’ a husky voice whispered into my ears as a hand tapped me twice on the shoulder. ‘‘Can I have a quick word with you?’’

He held onto my hand tightly and asked that we walk out together. I opened my eyes. They were wet. I nodded – reluctantly – and followed him outside without noticing the frown on my face.

“What’s up Mzee? Why have you dragged me out here?’’ I asked, feeling uneasy.

“Young man, there’s a small matter I need to talk to you about,’’ he started. ‘‘You can’t take holy communion; you shouldn’t be in that queue.’’

I made a face. Cleared my throat.

‘‘What do you mean, I can’t have holy communion?’’

‘‘You arrived late and missed the readings. To touch the body of Christ at this time is to call a fatal curse upon yourself and on us all.’’

I had not been to church in a little over a year before that day. Nothing had prepared me for the humiliation this old twat, whose upper anterior teeth were missing, would subject me to. Never in my whole life had I been blackmailed and denied holy communion so brashly. But this mean man, old enough to remember the day Cain killed Abel, was standing before me, hellbent on making sure I did not receive the body of Christ.

No, I did not explain myself; a lump had formed in my throat, blocking any words. Even if I had wanted to talk him out of this wild idea, his stale breath had filled the air and would suffocate me if I did not excuse myself and decamp from his presence. So I just wove on my feet, made for the gate and returned home.

When I moved to my current city in the West Nile Region of Uganda, the urge to attend mass occasionally returned. But there was a problem – language barrier. My Lugbara vocabulary barely comprised more than one sentences at the time:

‘‘Ife mani oma.’’

‘‘Ale mi mbi.’’

‘‘Mavu sende yo.’’

I hope you don’t understand what the above phrases mean. But when I finally happened upon a Catholic Church where the prayers were meant to be recited (exclusively) in English, the choir insisted on singing hymns in Lugbara. The priests, too, delivered their homilies in Lugbara. Often times, I saw people laughing and couldn’t figure out what it was they were laughing about. I couldn’t pick anything; not a word. I needed not be assured that there was nothing for me in that church, dumb though I am. Eventually, I gathered what was left of me and retreated back to my cave. That was before a neighbor of mine, the pretty one, banged on my door one Sunday morning and demanded that I follow her to a one EndTime Legion Church where she was a sheep. She was tired, she said, of seeing me tread the path to hell. Her goal, she swore, was to end the devil’s dominion over the world, and she would not yield; not while she still walked the earth. I laughed out loud when she finished talking. She too laughed, not without effort, and palpating the uneasiness in her dry laughter, I knew I was subtly being a silly prick. Is it not bad manners or the lack thereof to laugh at someone’s dreams and fantasies? I atoned for my mannerlessness by agreeing to follow her to that church of hers.

We did not exchange any words on our way there. I laughed when I beheld the excuse of a church building. The walls were wooden cardboards, partially shredded to powder by termites. The floor was made of rough concrete with poorly buried stones baying for the flesh of any sheep that dared to fall down in the pretense of exorcism. The pastor was a lanky youngish bloke with rimmed spectacles and a shaggy beard. She eagerly introduced me to him as a neighbor whose name she did not know and we all burst out laughing. She was right, though. We had been neighbors for a good few months but not talked before that day. A gun could have been held to my head and its content spilled before I mentioned her name either.

Attending Sunday service at this church changed my life forever. A church is more than just the building housing it, I learned. It was my first time lurking around, but I more than felt right at home. They prayed in English (they still do) and language barrier felt like a faded memory from a billion years ago. They served holy communion without judging whom it was being served to. Are you wearing shorts and bathroom slippers? Do you have dragon tattoos on your face? Do you reek of cigarette smoke? Did you forget to shower or shave your armpits on your way to church? No matter. The sinners, the black sheep, the pariahs who would otherwise be barred from taking holy communion in the Catholic Church are the ones most in need of Christ. They are first in the pecking order when the body of Christ is being served. Needless to say, I smelled the coffee that day and recited those pre-meditated words after which the pastor declared that I was born again – again! Then he asked the congregation to rise to their feet, raise their hands up and pray over me. I don’t know if there’s anyone that secretly prays for me. But the last person I remember raising hands and praying over me was my mother, back in 2019 just before Covid – 19 reared its ugly head and grinned at us. Here I was, though, in a church of strangers and they were willing to waste a fraction of their time on me. I found myself smiling. My heart was singing, man. Maybe I was more than just the mug of porridge I always mistook myself for. These strangers embraced me with open arms, took me in as one of their own and showed me that I mattered more than anything else in the wide world.  One more soul had been won into their ranks and according to them, it was a feat worth celebrating. I have since sneaked into their praise and worship team, and if everything falls in line, I might become the lead pastor one day.

We are living in modern times and church attendance has plummeted to an all-time low. The traditional religious denominations – including, but not limited to, the Roman Catholic Church, the Anglican Church, the Seventh-day Adventist Church – whose congregations are shrinking as night follows day are the most affected, and they seem clueless on how to tackle this formidable crisis. The creation of convenient excuses, shifting cultural values, lack of shame and guilt, self-directed spirituality, scandals that have plagued traditional religious institutions, et al, have all contributed to the decline in the number of people thronging the churches and mosques which have been here since the beginning of time. But none of those factors has contributed to the collapse of traditional churches in the way proliferation of mega Balokole churches has. These new independent churches, mostly found in urban areas, contain mainly young adults and single parents who are leading hardknock lives in the real world. They have been cornered by the troubles that come with growing up, and are usually compelled to turn to God for quick miracles. The Roman Catholic Church, the Anglican Church and the Seventh-day Adventists are not advertising any such miracles. Neither is Islam. This leaves modern Balokole churches as the only viable option for those seeking God’s love in the form of miracles. The pastors, apostles and self-proclaimed prophets are still seemingly churning out miracles and the testimonies are everywhere.

No, the majority of the people joining these new independent (Balokole) churches do not always get the miracles that take them there in the first place. But even when they aren’t at the receiving end of miracles, they find a comfortable home in these churches. They find tolerance, kindness, hope and camaraderie. They are accepted and embraced just the way they are. Nobody is telling them their sins are too sacrilegious to be forgiven. Their life situations are in line with the teachings in these churches. They are taught that it is okay to abandon an uncomfortable marriage and live as a single parent. It is okay to be a homosexual and still receive holy communion. It is okay to have three children from five marriages. It is okay to be anything (as long as you are paying your tithe promptly). God loves us all in spite of our differences and imperfections; we’re only human.

In order for the traditional churches to survive in the modern world, they will need to push some pre-existing boundaries and learn to be flexible enough to fit in. If divorce was a taboo subject in 900 AD, they will need to shift their goalposts and stop judging those who failed at marriage and are living as single parents. If homosexuals were sneered upon and lynched to death by mobs in 900 AD, the traditional religious denominations will need to close an eye and embrace them in the modern day and age. If they do not adapt, their flock will soon scatter and not find their way back. Because, as things appear, the newer independent churches are more than just willing to give these sheep a new home where their imperfections are not only tolerated but embraced.

About the Author: Daniel Kakuru is a lukewarm writer. His articles have appeared in several publications in print and online. He drinks and smokes and hopes to die by suicide.