Walila Mvula, Walila Matope: The Case of Clergy in Politics
By Bishop Dr Peter Lungu
Email: [email protected]
There is a certain grief that settles in the chest when you watch a man you once revered descend into the very fray he once stood above. For over four decades, Dr. Nevers Sekwila Mumba was not just a televangelist; he was a fixture of hope. His voice reached across the globe, his name carried weight, and his ministry touched millions. To see that same man—now writing articles debunking JJ Banda—is not just frustrating. It is heartbreaking.
The ancient prophet Jeremiah understood this pain. In Lamentations, he cried out: “How has the gold become dim! How has the most fine gold changed!” (Lamentations 4:1). The lament is not over ordinary metal; it is over something precious, something that was supposed to be incorruptible, now tarnished. Gold does not lose its virtue on its own. It loses its lustre only when it is rubbed against baser elements—when it is dragged through the mud.
And that brings us to the Chewa proverb that captures this moment with unflinching accuracy: Walila mvula, walila matope.
He who cries for rain must also cry for mud.
The Uncomfortable Truth About Politics
Let us be clear: this is not about whether Dr. Mumba is right or wrong in his exchange with JJ Banda. That debate is a distraction. The real issue is far more fundamental. It is about the nature of politics itself.
Politics, everywhere in the world, has never been a smooth sell. It is not a clean game. It is a contact sport played in the arena of public opinion, where opponents do not merely disagree with you—they seek to diminish you. They dig into your past, question your motives, caricature your character, and reduce your life’s work to a footnote in their narrative.
When a common citizen enters this arena, we expect the mud. When a politician enters, we know the mud is part of the job description. But when a man of God enters—a man who has spent decades standing on the moral high ground—the mud does not merely dirty him. It confuses the flock. It creates a dissonance that shatters the very foundation of prophetic authority.
The Chewa elders, in their timeless wisdom, knew this. They knew that rain is a blessing, but it comes with a cost. If you pray for the downpour, you must prepare your feet for the slush. You cannot stand on the dry ground of the pulpit and simultaneously wade through the political swamp, expecting to remain spotless.
The Loss of Prophetic Distance
What made Dr. Mumba “gold” in the eyes of many was not just his eloquence or his reach. It was his distance. He stood apart from the tribal divisions, the partisan battles, and the petty squabbles that consume Zambian politics. When he spoke, he spoke from a moral perch that was uncontaminated by the need for votes, alliances, or political survival.
But that perch is gone now.
Once a cleric engages in personalized rebuttals, they no longer speak to the political system; they speak within it. They are no longer the conscience of the nation; they are just another player on the field. And in that field, JJ Banda—love him or hate him—is a master of provocation. He knows that to drag a man of God into the gutter is to win half the battle, because the man of God loses his greatest weapon: his moral authority.
This is not a statement about Dr. Mumba’s intentions. His intentions may be noble. He may genuinely believe that he is bringing godly leadership to the political sphere. But intentions do not shield you from the laws of political gravity. The moment you step onto that stage, you play by its rules, not the rules of the pulpit.
The Zambian Precedent: Two Models
In Zambia, we have seen clergy navigate this treacherous path in different ways. Two models stand out.
Model A: The Dual Role.
This is the path Dr. Mumba appears to be on. The cleric tries to maintain both ministries—the pastoral and the political. The result, almost invariably, is a conflict of interest. The pulpit becomes a campaign platform. The congregation becomes a political constituency. Sermons begin to sound like manifestos. And the line between the Kingdom of God and the kingdom of this world blurs until it disappears entirely.
Model B: The Total Shift.
This is the rarer but arguably more honest path. Leaders who left ministry entirely, understood that politics is a jealous god. It demands total loyalty. If you enter it, you must lay down the pastoral robe and pick up the political shield. You stop preaching on Sundays and start campaigning on Saturdays. You stop being a spiritual father and become a political leader. There is a painful clarity in this model—a recognition that you cannot serve two masters..
My considered view aligns with this latter model. Clergy who enter politics should consider stopping all pulpit activities and concentrating on one thing. Not because they are less spiritual, but because they are more honest. Politics is not a side hustle. It is a full-time immersion into the mud. And the congregation deserves a shepherd who is not also a partisan warrior.
The Forgetfulness of the Rainmaker
The real tragedy in the Walila Mvula proverb is not the mud itself. The tragedy is the forgetfulness.
The cleric forgets that they prayed for the rain. They stand in the mud, looking surprised, perhaps even offended, that their robes are stained. They wonder why the world is attacking them, why their integrity is being questioned, why their past is being excavated. But the Chewa elders would simply shake their heads and say: “Munalila mvula? Tsopano mulila matope?” (You cried for rain? Now you are crying about the mud?)
The rain of political power, influence, and office is a heavy downpour. It comes with floods of criticism, storms of controversy, and rivers of reputation damage. You cannot pray for the one and complain about the other.
The Hard Question
So, we are left with a difficult question for Dr. Mumba and every cleric who harbours political ambitions:
Are you using politics to serve your ministry, or using your ministry to serve your politics?
If the answer is the former, then the church is a tool, and the Gospel is a means to a political end. If the answer is the latter, then perhaps the honest path is to lay down the pulpit entirely and serve the nation as a citizen, not as a shepherd.
The congregation watches. The nation watches. And in the watching, there is a quiet lamentation: “How has the gold become dim!”
A Final Word to the Cleric
To the man of God who reads this and feels the pull of politics, hear this counsel:
The world does not need another politician who used to be a pastor. The world needs more pastors who are willing to remain pastors. The prophetic voice is valuable precisely because it is outside the system. Once you are inside, your voice blends into the noise.
The Chewa saying is not a warning against rain. It is a warning against naivety. If you must enter politics, enter with your eyes wide open. Know that the mud will come. Know that your reputation will be attacked. Know that your ministry will suffer. And if you are willing to pay that price, then go—but go completely. Leave the pulpit behind. Let someone else preach. You are now a soldier in a different army.
But if you are not willing to pay that price—if you still want to be seen as the gold, the voice, the prophet—then stay out of the mud. Stay on the high ground. Let your distance be your power.
Because once you step into the rain, you must also step into the mud.
And there is no amount of theology that can wash it off.
Walila mvula, walila matope.
(He who cries for rain must also cry for mud.)
The author is a Zambian minister of the Gospel who believes that the Church’s prophetic voice is best preserved when it stands apart from partisan politics. This article is offered as a pastoral counsel to fellow clergy navigating the temptations of political power.
