Today I was reminded again how easy it is for obedience to disguise itself as faith. I got one of those familiar messages—the kind that tells you to fast for three days, pray for others, attend midweek meetings, show up early on Saturday and Sunday, and serve with all your heart. No one questions anything. You just do it because the instruction “came from above.” Questioning it feels like rebellion.
Looking back, I can’t believe how normal that once felt to me. I used to think sacrifice proved devotion. I would give my time, energy, even skip meals, all for something that now feels more like manipulation than service. Because when leaders say we should fast, it never really means they will. They hand the burden down to the volunteers—the unpaid, overworked, eager-to-please ones—and then cover it up with that line, “You’re serving unto God, not man.” That phrase has been used forever to make people give without ever expecting appreciation or fairness.
And as the year winds down, the pattern repeats. Churches everywhere start announcing “seasons of prayer and fasting.” December carries guilt for how the year went, and January brings financial strain. Right in between those two moments of weakness, people are told to pray harder, fast longer, and give more. It’s presented as spiritual renewal, but it often just feeds guilt and control.
I’ve seen how far this can go. A famous pastor in Nigeria died a few years ago, and after his death, stories came out—unspeakable ones—about how he lived behind the pulpit. Yet that same church was always in fasting seasons, always talking about holiness. Even here in Kenya, we’ve had our own horrors—people led into forests for extreme fasting, others told to sell everything and leap into heaven, never to return. It’s tragic. But at the root, it’s the same disease: obedience without question, devotion without thought.
Even the “loving” churches aren’t innocent. The ones that greet you warmly, that call you family. They’ll hold you close when you’re loyal, but the moment you start seeing things differently, you become a threat. When I left mine, word spread quickly—people were told not to talk to me, that I had “fallen away.” It’s laughable now, but back then it hurt. Because what they call love turns out to be conditional. It’s love built on control.
These days, when I hear of another fasting program or mountain retreat, I no longer feel guilty for not joining. I’ve learned that obedience without thought is not holiness—it’s surrender of self. I’d rather sit quietly at home, share a meal, think deeply, and live honestly.
Because once your eyes open, there’s no going back. You can’t unsee manipulation once you’ve recognized it. And maybe that’s the hardest kind of freedom—the kind that costs you belonging but gives you back your mind.