Democracy, once heralded as the apogee of human governance, now trembles beneath the edifice of its own contradictions. Nations that trumpet liberty from their parliaments and congresses betray the very covenant of justice upon which democracy is founded. Ballot boxes have become sarcophagi of broken promises; elections, grand rituals of disillusionment. Jeremiah’s lament pierces through millennia: “They have healed the wound of my people lightly, saying, Peace, peace; when there is no peace.” (Jeremiah 6:14).
From Abuja to Washington, from Paris to Manila, the dirge is uniform. Citizens go to the polls (if at all), not with faith but with fatigue; they emerge not with hope but with hunger. Democracies are bleeding credibility while their leaders intoxicate themselves with the wine of deceit. In Jeremiah’s idiom, they have forsaken the fountain of living waters, hewing cisterns of corruption that cannot hold integrity. Democracy without righteousness is a hollow chalice—ornate on the outside, barren within.
In glaring counterpoint, the Cross towers as the ultimate tribunal of justice. At Calvary, divine jurisprudence rendered its immutable verdict: truth and mercy were not negotiable, they were reconciled. Where democracy has become an echo chamber of power, the Cross remains the altar of self-emptying sacrifice. Pastor Chris Oyakhilome once observed, “The tragedy of politics is when men enthrone lies and dethrone truth.” Jeremiah, the weeping prophet, would nod in fierce agreement. For the Cross still resounds with a solemn message: no polity can endure where repentance is scorned.
The metaphors of this democratic malaise are vivid. Politicians unfurl party banners, but citizens unfurl empty cupboards. Highways are commissioned with applause, yet villages languish in darkness. Democracy promised bread but delivered gravel; it promised dawn but delivered dusk. In the idiom of Nigerian wisdom, it is like a masquerade adorned in splendour but hollow of spirit—dancing loud, but void of meaning. Jeremiah stood at Judah’s gates to decry such charades, his voice drowned by revelry until Babylon arrived with chains.
Yet there remains a salvific pivot. The Cross summons nations back to covenant, back to consecration, back to conscience. Juanita Bynum has said, “The altar is the womb where nations are reborn.” And indeed, only an altar of truth can midwife the rebirth of democracy. Jeremiah wept not out of weakness but out of foresight; he saw ruin approaching a people drunk on falsehood. Today, nations must find seers again—voices unbought by partisanship, unbowed by thrones, unwavering before the Cross.
History’s verdict is consistent: civilizations collapse not first in constitution but in conscience. Rome’s demise was not the ballot but the bacchanal. Nigeria groans under corruption not for lack of legal codes but for lack of moral fibre. America trembles not at foreign ballots but at domestic betrayal. Jeremiah’s admonition remains thunderous: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Jeremiah 6:16). The ancient path is not populism—it is the Cross.
The Cross is supra-partisan. It transcends Democrat and Republican, APC, ADC, and PDP, Tory and Labour. It is the eternal constitution where governance is sacrifice, not self-aggrandizement. Bishop David Oyedepo once warned, “A nation cannot be cured by corruption and yet hope to be whole.” Democracy has vomited its own bile because it was fed on falsehood, enthroning thrones without altars, institutions without integrity, rituals without reverence.
Thus the final paradox emerges: democracy may collapse beneath its hypocrisies, but the Cross cannot be dethroned. Jeremiah’s tears remind us that nations perish when truth is trivialized. The Cross, however, testifies that nations can be redeemed when humility bows before sacrifice. What democracy has failed to preserve through rhetoric, the Cross can resurrect through righteousness. Until leaders transcend ballots and bend to the Cross, democracy’s anthem will remain a dirge rather than a covenant song.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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