Politics made in the pulpit, where Sunday service is just another rally

If Kenyan politics had a tagline, it would be: “Kenyan Politics — Made in the Pulpit.” Think of it as a high-powered production line, and the Church is the factory floor. Here, raw political ambition enters the assembly line cloaked as piety.

The pulpit is the molding station where reputations are reshaped. The offering basket? A capital injection point. Sunday services double as public relations booths.

The church compound becomes the showroom for new political models —tested, packaged, and rolled out for distribution.

Feedback loops are real-time, with congregants acting as the survey panel. And worst of all, the sacred space mutates into a cutthroat arena , where rivals elbow for dominance, and preachers become MCs for political auditions. Kenya’s most influential political machinery is not in Parliament, it’s in the pews.

Strip Kenyan politics of its pulpit privileges, and much of its moral theatre and cultural power would collapse overnight.

Political handlers and strategists would be left stranded, asking, “Where do we go now?” For them, there is no alternative to Sunday morning, it is prime political real estate.

Politicians rise with one mission: to find a church. Every Sunday morning, political motorcades snake through estates and villages. Helicopters are not left behind. Neither the size of the church nor its denomination matters. Attendance is the message.

Once they show up, the cameras will follow. Media crews flock to sanctuaries to capture soundbites. A few words from a rural pulpit will echo through the evening news, reaching living rooms nationwide. A small church becomes the launchpad for national headlines. Mission accomplished.

Pastors have become critical contacts for political strategists. They are profiled, categorised, and grouped into two camps: the friendly and the unfriendly. The unfriendly ones are well-known and often avoided. The friendly ones, however, are nurtured, rewarded, and elevated. Political players work hard to cultivate alliances with accommodating denominations.

In fact, securing the loyalty of an entire denomination — or a network of churches — is considered a major political achievement. It guarantees a Sunday slot, week after week.

In political strategy circles, having a reliable pulpit is as valuable as airtime on a major TV station. Friendly churches are not just spiritual partners, they are political assets. They offer credibility, coverage, and crowds. In a landscape where optics matter more than outcomes, owning a pulpit can mean winning the week.

Sunday is a political beehive. Politicians arrive late to one church because they’re coming from another. They leave early often before the sermon because there’s yet another church waiting before the benediction. The sacred rhythm of worship becomes a circuit of political stops. Sometimes, high-stakes Sunday events — installations, ordinations, inductions, inaugurations, anniversaries—turn into political battlegrounds.

Rival political factions show up in full force, each determined to make a statement. The sacred place becomes a ring of contest for influence. Jibes fly. Everyone wants to have the final word.

The desperation is real. Even where they are not welcome, politicians press on. They force their way into pulpits, leaving behind a trail of tension and unresolved conflict.

Church leaders are left debating whether the visit was worth it, whether the money mentioned was actually given or merely promised.

Meanwhile, congregations are left fractured, divided over the legitimacy and value of political activity in sacred spaces. But for politicians, this is collateral damage. Conflict doesn’t bother them, it’s their native language.

Dividing a church is just another line in their playbook. If stirring division means securing votes, then so be it. In their calculation, spiritual harmony is expendable, but political gain is non-negotiable.

Politicians don’t invest in church networks out of sentiment, they do it because it works. They know, by experience and strategy, that Kenyan politics are made on Sundays. Miss a Sunday, and you risk slipping into political obscurity.

In this landscape, pulpit presence equals public relevance. Those who avoid the church circuit communicate disinterest and may lose ground altogether. For Kenya’s political class, salvation is optional—but Sunday visibility is essential.

Kenya’s politics are made on Sunday because the publicity is cheap. A politician doesn’t need to book airtime—just show up.

The sanctuary doubles as a free press conference. Churches provide ready-made crowds which are gathered, attentive, and emotionally engaged. A Sunday service offers politicians a direct channel to a concentrated bloc of potential voters. Within sacred walls, even the most divisive rhetoric is wrapped in the language of prayer.

The church setting softens political speeches, shielding them from scrutiny and sanitising controversy.

In a society where religion holds sway, a politician who appears spiritual can earn uncritical support. A Bible verse, a kneel at the altar, leading in a hymn, a big offering often overrides a poor track record.

Most churches offer a monologue, not a dialogue. Politicians speak without interruption or interrogation, no accountability, just applause. A handshake from a bishop or a blessing from the altar becomes a stamp of moral approval.

The sacred optics elevate even the most questionable leaders. A well-placed Sunday appearance launches narratives, fires political salvos, and establishes momentum. From the pulpit, a campaign can begin—or a rival can be buried. Politicians know that even if their presence causes tension or splits congregations, the electoral value outweighs the spiritual damage. Division, after all, is part of their craft.

The problem isn’t that politics in Kenya are forged on Sundays, the Sabbath is, in fact, a worthy day for political formation. Nor is it merely that politics unfold in sanctuaries.

The real issue is that Sunday sanctuary politics are often crafted by politicians while many priests—the custodians of worship—sit back as silent spectators. In many churches, worship programs are trimmed, sermons shortened—just enough to make room for “a word from Mheshimiwa.” The pulpit, once a sacred place of proclamation, is reduced to a podium for political posturing. Sadly, this church-endorsed politics has yielded oppression rather than freedom, scarcity rather than godly abundance.

For all this involvement with the Church, little of the Church is seen in their leadership. They seek power from the Church—whose Lord, though powerful, chose to serve. They stand in pulpits—but never confess their sins. They kneel in prayer—but govern without mercy. They quote the Bible—but silence justice. Their public religiosity does not translate into private righteousness. In Kenya, it seems, a politician can insult, oppress, loot, and betray the nation—but walk into church on Sunday and still receive applause, not rebuke. The altar has become a soft landing spot for the unrepentant. This contradiction should disturb us deeply.