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Racism in the Vatican
Woe to you… whitewashed tombs!
You glitter in gold vestments,
swing incense in marble cathedrals,
chant Latin like sacred thunder—
but your silence
is louder than the bells of Rome.
Tell me, O Holy See,
why must the holiest of seats
remain the coldest to change?
Where is the Pope with skin kissed by the sun?
Where is the Cardinal whose accent echoes Kilimanjaro,
whose spirit dances with the Ganges,
whose roots pulse from the Andes to Soweto?
Are we not also made in God’s image?
Your pulpits once whispered prayers—
now they echo with centuries of chains.
You spoke of Christ’s body, broken for us,
yet broke the backs of those
whose only sin was a different shade of skin.
You sold blessings to slave traders.
You baptized ships
that dragged our ancestors into the Atlantic grave.
You placed your cross on their bodies—
but never in their suffering.
And now we sit in your pews.
We kneel beside you.
We chant your hymns.
But we are ghosts
in your white cathedrals.
The black priest walks in shadow.
The Asian bishop stands in silence.
They serve, but are never seen.
They preach, but are rarely heard.
They are welcomed—
but not embraced.
You tell us Jesus is white,
blue-eyed and blond like your artists’ dreams—
yet he was born under a Middle Eastern sun.
You gave us Abraham and Jacob
but erased Shaka, Nefertiti, and Ashoka.
How can we see God in ourselves
if every image looks like you?
O Vatican,
you cannot hide behind stained glass forever.
The truth seeps through like sunlight—
slow, persistent, blinding.
We are not bitter.
We are broken.
We are not rebellious.
We are awakening.
And with every tear we shed in silence,
a pillar of your sanctuary begins to tremble.
This is not hate.
This is heartbreak.
The Body of Christ is global.
And every limb matters.
You cannot proclaim unity
while exiling our identity.
The day is near
when the roof shall split—
and the wind shall carry the voices of the forgotten
into your chambers of power.
We do not wish to destroy you.
We long to redeem you.
But redemption will not come
until you cleanse your heart
as much as your altar.
Remember: The Church is not white.
It is every child of God
crying for justice.
Even from within your own walls.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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