If God betrays Uganda, we should suspend Him
This season, which was once (I suppose) a time of profound anticipation and great spiritual satisfaction, is now for most Ugandans a time for superficial fun, gross consumption and naked profiteering.
Perhaps that is all right with us, as long as we consciously accept some of the less desirable rewards that come in the bargain; the morning hangovers; the disruptive socialisation; the road accidents; the post-indulgence regret; the empty pockets after, for some.
Because the season has a powerful histo-mythological theme, the mortal birth of an immortal ‘Son of God’, the roguishness of the religious profiteer is naturally more intriguing than that of an ordinary merchant or circus conjuror.
We expect the ordinary business operator to be after profit. And the honest conjuror admits with a wink that he is not really a magician, but a dexterous trickster. In this season, both can make serious money.
In contrast, the religious entrepreneur claims that he is not after profit. He claims that the money is for doing God’s work.
Also, unlike the circus conjuror, God’s man claims that he is a real magician, performing miracles in the name of Jesus.
Through the year, the religious operator generally collects his money from prayer gatherings and in one-to-one arrangements where the client pays a pastor, rather like a witchdoctor, for personal spiritual attention and miraculous happenings. He often also solicits donations from organisations that link their success to divine favour than to mortal effort and sheer luck.
But in the end, the money the religious operator gets smells as good as that earned by the merchant or the circus conjuror, and it brings him the same comforts of life.
Now, the goods; where are the goods the client pays for?
The merchant generally delivers the goods paid for. They may be unnecessary, substandard or even harmful goods. But after the client has been persuaded to buy, he is appropriately served.
Similarly, the circus conjuror delivers the tricks he promises, even if it is something as drastic as cutting off someone’s head and putting it back.
In contrast, it is very difficult to point to an event or an achievement that was indisputably the direct result of an intervention by a priestly utterance; moreover, at a time when clients (or believers) are blatantly asked to spell out very specific needs and to give substantial amounts of money in special envelopes before an equally special prayer is uttered to make God respond; that is, at a time when miracles have clearly become a market item.
As we close 2017, some of our more prominent preachers are openly pushing the government to pump money into end-of-year mass prayers for the country’s wellbeing.
In a country where fraud is almost the main business of government, such a dubious public expenditure is possible.
However, with or without taxpayers’ money, it is high time we struck a credible deal with God.
For 15 years now, Uganda has had those annual mega prayer exhibitions and cash envelopes. But every year seems to bring more national decay and more lies about the next big divine intervention.
Here is the deal: The country is now sliding into fascism. If God does not clearly and unequivalently save us by 30 June, 2018, we suspend Him.
Prayers are to be restricted to private homes. After five years, we will review His case. We will compare the records and decide whether to restore Him, extend His suspension, or commit Him to the graveyard where we have buried many other gods.
Mr Tacca is a novelist, socio-political commentator.
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