Prophets at the table, people in the dust: Where is the Church now?
By Dr Lawrence Mwelwa
I WAS told of a devastating reality playing out in places like Chawama, Misisi, Kaunda Square, Kuku, and the forgotten corners of this nation. A mother spends two days without food, and when her child cries, she does not respond with porridge, but with prayer—because that is all she has left. Young men roam from funeral to funeral, not to grieve, but to survive. They follow the dead because the living have failed them. They wait at the graveyards not for closure, but for a chance at a meal. They jump into funeral vehicles from places like Chunga to Chawama just to end up at a house where nshima is being cooked for mourners—and there, they eat, not as guests, but as ghosts in their own country. And then they walk, for hours, back to places called home, though there is nothing there.
We are now at a place where someone kills a dog to eat—and not out of malice, but desperation. And the police arrest him. In Southern Province, this is a cultural taboo. But in every culture, hunger is a curse. Yet the one who breaks the taboo is not the one who steals national resources or hikes the price of fuel or delays mealie meal in the depots—no. The criminal is the hungry man trying to survive. Woe unto you who are at ease in Zion! (Amos 6:1)
But where are the prophets? Where are the bishops clothed in sackcloth, not designer suits? Where are the apostles who should be weeping, not feasting? Where are the shepherds who should smell like sheep, not State House leather? Where is Bishop Joe? Where is Bishop Bilon? Not the Bishop of comfort, but the Bishop of the cross. Not the prophet of access, but the prophet of truth. The people are asking, not because they hate you, but because you once stirred hope—and now you’re silent while their hope dies.
Instead of entering Chibolya, they enter corridors of power. Instead of walking the dusty roads of Kalingalinga, they are chauffeured to press briefings. They stand on pulpits polished by political funding and hold microphones passed down from party operatives. They no longer speak from heaven—they echo the voice of power.
Let them remember—Jesus, the Christ, did not dine with emperors. He was born in a manger, not a mansion. He walked with the poor, not the powerful. He multiplied bread for the hungry, not contracts for the connected. He sat with fishermen, not financiers. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him… yet he carried our pain and bore our suffering (Isaiah 53:2-4). And He never mistook the temple for a throne.
How dare you walk among the poor once a year with cameras behind you and call it ministry? How dare you accept titles and favors while the people eat bones boiled in sorrow? How dare you say “God will provide” while you sit at tables with those who have robbed the storehouses?
This is not a time for eloquence. It is a time for sackcloth. Let the bishops tear their garments again. Let the apostles weep again. Let the prophets descend from their high places and go down to Misisi and see what God sees. If your gospel cannot feed the hungry, rebuke the wicked, or restore dignity to the broken, then what gospel is it? If your ministry cannot see injustice, then you are blind. If your altar cannot address inequality, then it is an idol.
“Cry aloud, do not hold back; lift up your voice like a trumpet; declare to my people their transgression,” (Isaiah 58:1) says the Lord. But what do we hear instead? Laughter, applause, invitations to banquets. And the people suffer in silence while the Church sings in air-conditioned sanctuaries.
This is a rebuke, not from man, but from heaven. If you feel no pain in this season, then ask yourself: Are you still spiritual? If you do not tremble at the condition of your people, then ask: Do you still carry the Spirit of Christ? For the Jesus we follow overturned tables, not for gain, but for righteousness. He did not wine and dine with Caesar. He took a whip and drove out corruption from the house of God.
To every prophet at the table—rise from your seat. The people are in the dust. Return to the place where your mantle was first given. Your silence is not neutrality—it is betrayal. Your comfort is not blessing—it is blindness. Let justice roll on like a river, and righteousness like a never-failing stream (Amos 5:24). Let the true Church rise—not the institution of titles and ties, but the body of Christ that bleeds with the people.
The Spirit is grieved. The land is crying. The poor are waiting. Will the Church remain silent?
