The internet never forgets, but it loves a spectacle. Pastor Victor Kanyari, the man who once famously asked Kenyans to "plant a seed" of KSh 310, is trending again. This time, the flow of money has reversed—at least on camera. His "Miracle Money Service," featuring the distribution of cash to congregants, has ignited a fierce debate on social media about the ethics of modern televangelism.

The viral clips show a chaotic scene of jubilation as Kanyari hands out money. For a man whose ministry was nearly destroyed by investigative exposés, this pivot to "benefactor" is a fascinating, if cynical, rebranding exercise. But the court of public opinion is divided, with netizens dissecting his motives with surgical precision.

The Comments Section: A Battlefield

Kenyan social media, known for its no-holds-barred commentary, has not held back. One faction views the move as a desperate PR stunt to whitewash his past. "He is just returning a fraction of what he took," read a top comment on X. Others speculated on the source of the funds, linking it to his recent lucrative ventures on TikTok, where he battles other creators for digital gifts.

Conversely, a defensive line of supporters argues that Kanyari is doing more than most politicians. "At least he is sharing," one user posted. This sentiment reveals the deep disillusionment with traditional leadership; in a vacuum of service delivery, even a flawed pastor handing out notes becomes a hero to some.

• The Performance: The visual of cash bundles is a classic trope of the "prosperity gospel," designed to signal that the leader is a conduit of wealth.
• The Audience: Kanyari knows his demographic. He targets the struggling urban poor for whom a small cash gift is a significant event.
• The Rebrand: By moving from "taking" to "giving," Kanyari is attempting to rewrite his narrative from fraudster to philanthropist.

The Psychology of the "Giveaway"

Experts warn that such displays foster dependency and distract from the true tenets of faith. "It transactionalizes the relationship with God," says a religious scholar. "It suggests that grace can be monetized." But Kanyari has never been one for theological nuance. He operates on the visceral level of need and supply.

Whether this "Miracle Money" will restore his church to its former glory remains to be seen. But one thing is clear: Kanyari has mastered the attention economy. In an era where views and engagement are currency, he is arguably the richest pastor in town.