FROM MASS TO DEC — LAMENTATIONS OF A CATHOLIC –  ULENDO WA MTIMA WA MKATOLIKA

Bwezani Mbewe Writes:
FROM MASS TO DEC — LAMENTATIONS OF A CATHOLIC –  ULENDO WA MTIMA WA MKATOLIKA

I do not speak with anger.
I speak with a trembling heart.

Because Catholics are taught early:
pain is not always shouted
sometimes it is offered.

Sunday arrived the way it always does.
The bell rang without hesitation.
The altar stood unmoved.
Candles burned as if nothing had changed.

Yet everything had changed.

We walked into Mass carrying something heavier than prayer requests.
We carried confusion.
We carried silence.
We carried the ache of a name we love now wrapped in summons.

Alick Banda.

A name we know from blessings.
A name we have heard pronounce forgiveness.
A name we associate with peace.

Now spoken in corridors where peace is procedural
and truth is questioned line by line.

“M’mene muli moto, muli phulusa.”
Where there is fire, there is ash.

We know this proverb.
We grew up with it.
But knowing does not make the ash less painful in the eyes.

To the outside world,
this is a developing story.
To us,
this is pinchwa
a sharp, intimate pain that sits in the chest
and refuses to leave.

We are torn.
Not because we are confused about right and wrong
but because we are human.

“Mtima wa munthu ndi wakuya kuposa nyanja.”
The heart of a person is deeper than the sea.

How do you ask a Catholic to choose sides
when one side kneels before the altar
and the other stands before the law?

We believe in accountability.
Yes.
We also believe in grace.

We believe in the law of the land.
Yes.
We also believe in the law written on the heart.

From Mass to the DEC
what a painful road that is.

From “Let us pray”
to “Answer these questions.”
From incense rising gently
to files opening sharply.

“Chilonda cha mumtima sichioneka, koma chimapweteka.”
A wound of the heart cannot be seen, but it hurts deeply.

Look closely in the church today:
the old woman fingering her rosary more tightly than usual,
as if each bead is holding her together.

The catechist staring longer at the crucifix,
as if asking Christ to explain
one more time.

The youth, confused
wondering whether faith always comes with public humiliation.

“Mwana wa nkhosa akalira, mtima wa amayi umaphuka.”
When the lamb cries, the mother’s heart breaks.

The Church is a mother.
And today,
her heart is breaking quietly.

We are not blind followers.
We are not enemies of justice.

But we are Catholics,
and we know that carrying the cross
does not always mean guilt
sometimes it simply means burden.

“Katundu wolemera, umasweka pamodzi.”
A heavy load breaks those who carry it together.

That is why we feel it together.
Why the pain spreads from pew to pew.
Why even those who say nothing
are saying everything in their silence.

If you feel nothing,
I ask you gently
go to a Catholic Mass.

Sit through the silence after Communion.
Not the singing.
Not the sermon.

The silence.

There you will hear the real struggle.
There you will feel why Catholics hesitate to shout.
Why we lower our voices instead of raising fists.

“Mkango samalira pamodzi ndi mbuzi.”
The lion does not cry the same way as the goat.

Our grief is different.
Our faith has taught us patience,
even when patience hurts.

We are not saying the truth should hide.
We are saying the truth also has weight.

And as this nation watches,
as opinions harden and camps form,
we kneel and whisper:

“Mulungu amaona, ngakhale anthu akayiwala.”
God sees, even when people forget.

From Mass to the DEC,
a Catholic walks wounded
still praying,
still believing,
still holding the cross
even when the road feels unfairly steep.

And maybe that is faith:
not certainty,
but staying on the road
even when it hurts.

Mother Mary intercede for us.ez