A clean white suit, cream pair of shoes and similarly silk white undies are the today's dress code of the men of cloth as they stride the podiums extolling the good living edicts we need abide by. By the end of the sermons, it is to extol the good of feathering the nests of the cloth's men and their women so that our way to heaven may be eased.
The superb churches have parking bays respredent of world Obamas. From the outside, these houses of worship compete favourably against mega buck monoliths of Goldman Sachs' standards, and a few might come out even grander. But the inside is often the winner. For not even the NYSE or the FTSE markets shine as well.
Complain not if your doe doesn't go to the wonders. Complain not if your cash no longer lines the wonder-wear- sorry- underwear of your bishop's or pastor's lass knickers. Complain not if your sweat no longer fuels the saint's limo.
Only cast your eye to Golgotha- that Hill without the City wall. Survey that and remember what happened that Friday. It was a desolate day that saw no grandeur. But it was the source of salvation. Not the good old Solomon's Temple. Not the magnificent synagogues. And definitely not the present day worship cities and celebration centres and sanctuaries and temples and mosques and healing schools and power houses and whatever we erect in competition with other congregations to attract from the outside- physical- and not from within- the spiritual.
Do you need to wait until Sunday to seek God? No! Your hour of prayer on the bus is your shrine for salvation. Your bed too is. You bench during lunch hour is. For, all those centres we worship are physical. Bishops/Drs/Prophets/Pastors/ Deya and Wanjiru and Muiru and Rai and you will leave your holy house behind; and so will you the devout church member.
All that you will need across the great chasm will be the wondrous cross.
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