By the Independent Political Correspondent
Wednesday, 22nd July, 2026
It was a Sunday like any other—choirs in perfect harmony, congregants dressed in their finest, and hope hanging in the air like incense. Then came the sermon. Not the kind that comforts the afflicted, but the kind that confuses them.
At the pulpit stood a high-powered, sharply suited, and unmistakably well-connected “man of gold”—charismatic in delivery, unwavering in tone, and, one might say, generously blessed by proximity to power. With the confidence of a man who has clearly never queued for mealie meal or calculated transport fare twice before boarding a bus, he declared: “There is no wind of change. The people are happy.”
One could almost hear the collective gasp—though it may have been mistaken for a cough, carefully stifled.
Because outside those polished church walls, Zambia tells a different story. It is a story of citizens wrestling with a relentless cost of living, where a simple grocery list reads like a luxury catalogue. It is a story whispered in hushed tones about corruption that walks boldly in daylight, unbothered and well-dressed. It is a story of shrinking spaces—where freedom of expression feels increasingly like a privilege granted, not a right guaranteed, and where the right to associate depends suspiciously on who you associate with.
Yet here was the Bishop, thundering reassurance that all is well. No wind. No change. Just continuity ”divinely endorsed”, apparently by this man who shares in the spoils and plunder of the national cake.
One wonders which Zambia he inhabits.
Perhaps it is a Zambia where fuel prices are stable, where jobs are plentiful, where dissent is welcomed, and where governance is spotless. A Zambia where the only inflation is in the volume of praise songs, and where the only shortages are of humility among those who claim to speak for both God and the people.
But for the ordinary citizen, that Zambia is as fictional as a sermon without an offering.
The real concern, however, is not merely the sermon—it is what it represents. It signals a troubling trend: a segment of the charismatic Church appearing less like a moral compass and more like an echo chamber for power. When the pulpit begins to mirror the podium, when sermons begin to sound like state briefings, something sacred is lost.
It is not reckless to question such declarations; it is necessary.
For when a Bishop who is entrusted with guiding souls and speaking truth, insists that citizens are content in the face of visible struggle, it raises an uncomfortable possibility: that proximity to privilege has dulled the sensitivity to pain. That the “brown envelope” has quietly replaced the prophetic voice.
History is not kind to institutions that trade conviction for convenience.
And the electorate—contrary to the Bishop’s confident proclamation—is not asleep. Beneath the surface, conversations are happening. Choices are forming. Patience, while admirable, is not infinite. The idea that citizens can be indefinitely persuaded by sermons that contradict their lived reality is, at best, optimistic; at worst, deeply misguided.
Because sooner rather than later, ballots will speak where pulpits have fallen silent—or worse, misleading.
And with that moment will come not just a change in leadership, but a recalibration of trust. The “city fatherhood,” as some might nostalgically call it, risks being replaced—not out of rebellion, but out of necessity. When leadership—spiritual or civic—loses relevance, it is not overthrown; it is simply outgrown.
To the pastors and Bishops of Zambia, a gentle reminder: your calling was never to comfort the powerful at the expense of the powerless. A nation that calls itself Christian does not do so by declaration alone, but by the integrity of those entrusted to guide it.
Salt, as scripture reminds us, is meant to preserve and to give flavor. But when it loses its saltiness, it becomes indistinguishable from the dust beneath our feet.
The citizens, it seems, are already searching for seasoning elsewhere.
As for the wind of change? Perhaps it is not absent. Perhaps it is simply blowing outside the Bishop’s window—while inside, the curtains remain firmly drawn. We wish you luck man of Gold as the jury is out and August 13 will deliver the peoples verdict.
