99 — Thoughts On PTSD

Over the July 4th weekend (2014) I received an email from a gentleman who had stumbled across my blog while researching PTSD.  He had been reading Alexandra Fuller’s, Scribbling the Cat:  Travels with an African Soldier.  Her book recounts stories of veterans of the Rhodesian war.  He asked me for my thoughts on PTSD based on my experience in Rhodesia:

I found your blog trying to get background on events, news, and historical accounts of the conflict in northern Mozambique. I am reading Alexandra Fuller's book dealing with your compatriots who served in the RLI. The book is good, and likely some if fictionalized. As someone who experienced those conflicts, I am curious if you have read this book and found it to be accurate of what appears to be the PTSD issues many of these veterans are facing years later. Looking back, I don't have the experience of being born there to draw upon or growing up there. I find it remarkable someone like yourself made the journey, and now is in academia of all places. Best regards. I'll try to read more of your blog later. 

While responding to his email, I thought to include these thoughts as an addendum to discussions of life in the army during the Rhodesian War.  You will find the discussion as you page down to the end of the chapter 46 — “Paranoia Strikes Deep.”

98 — Time to Ponder

My bout of malaria put a halt to the whirl of activity that had come to characterize our life.  I needed to rest and recover my strength.  It was no picnic for Pegi either!  Like most males, I am a grumpy bear when I am ill.  Besides caring for me as I tossed and turned in bed, as I recovered I drew on her even more than usual to generate the activity and momentum that we lost.  This was before the development of the first laptop computers.  We had made it our habit to write personal letters to all contributors.  We did this on a portable battery-powered typewriter that we had purchased during our visit to the States.  Since Pegi was the better typist, and I was too weak anyway, she spent several days cranking out letters.  We also had a monthly newsletter to produce and that would require a trip to Harare to use Mike Marsden’s NCR microcomputer and mimeograph machine.  

For about a week, our only activity was writing.  This led to a great deal of time for thought.  It became clear that we could not continue to chase back and forth between rural Wedza and Harare.  It was great to have a place we could call our own on the Stockhill farm, but it was just too far from all our lines of communication in Harare.  The most pressing problem was developing leaders for the rural congregations.  This couldn’t be done in the rural areas.  We had to draw on the larger, more established ministries in Harare for leaders.  It was easy to gather a crowd in the rural areas.  We had proven that all you had to do was show up with the intent to minister and plenty of people would come.  Once you have gathered a crowd, what would you do with and for that crowd?  Our answer was teaching, but for that you needed able teacher-leaders.  Such are not created overnight, but are the result of long-term commitment and growth.

We had attracted a few young men who were willing to move to the rural areas and had tried to put them under Norman’s tutelage, but Norman was not a teacher of teachers.  What I had to teach them was really too advanced.  My skills were in biblical exposition not in the basics of rural congregational life.  It was hard to find teachers for the rural areas.  Realistically, you have to wonder “why” someone would want to leave the comfort of urban living and relocate to the most basic of living conditions.  Felix had made many overtures about ministering in the rural areas, but was unreliable to even stick around overnight as his life was in Harare.  [See 87 — “But You Were Invited?”] 

From time to time, I had held week-long “schools of ministry” for young men who had already been identified by their pastors as leadership material.  I knew from previous conversations with Tom Deuschle that he was somewhat interested in the growth of the rural church, especially if it were under the purview of Rhema.  He was not personally interested in rural ministry, nor ministry to black Africans in general.  However, he did want to be perceived as a mover and shaker in Zimbabwean ministry.  His ministry focused on the prosperous white community.  But, it was hard to explain to his financial backers in America how ministry in Africa would be only to white faces!  It occurred to me that Tom would be eager to validate himself to his supporters by participating in an effort to organize an ongoing school of ministry for African leaders.  This school would train pastors and pastoral candidates and equip them to serve Zimbabwe and the surrounding nations of Malawi, Mozambique, Zambia and Botswana.  This would differentiate him from prosperous mostly-white Rhema-Johannesburg which considered Rhema-Harare a subsidiary.  

Once I had my strength back, we drove to Harare with the express purpose of proposing to Tom that we somehow align our efforts.  Now, this was long before we had experienced Tom’s duplicitous nature.  Yes, we had some uncomfortable encounters with him that I recounted previously [see 96 — “Those Polymorph Thingies”].  But, we were still naive when it came to working with others.  We gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, assuming that other Christians really did sincerely care about “reaching the unreached” more than polishing their own resumes.  

We spoke with Tom and shared our “vision” of training leadership for rural areas.  It was our hope that we could bring several ministries together in a common effort.  Surprisingly, Tom was not only open to our proposal, but already had some plans in place.  He had recently obtained the lease to the Salisbury Evangelical Bible Institute from the Africa Evangelical Fellowship for $1/year.  

SEBI, as it was known, was a campus in the Highfield township of Harare.  Highfield was a high-density township that bordered the industrial area and had housed the Africans who had labored in the medium and heavy industries of the former Rhodesia.  It was close to Harare’s city-centre and had a fully-developed road and utility network.  Before independence in 1980, it had been the only place in the city where Africans could own property.  The campus consisted of cement buildings with tin roofing which circled a large open area:  a two-story dormitory that could house up to forty, a block of five classrooms and office, five one-room apartments for faculty, a kitchen/cafeteria and a toilet/shower facility. 

Pegi and I had visited SEBI several times before.  We borrowed their projector and films before we obtained our own.  We also rented their tent for our Wedza campaign.  In addition, several of the staff had assisted us in Wedza.  The A.E.F. which owned and ran SEBI was an African-led pentecostal denomination.  Started by missionaries, the church leadership and properties were turned over to its membership with the retirement of the missionaries.  It was a tiny denomination that composed a handful of churches and the once thriving bible school had only four or five students.  The campus was not in good repair.  AEF did not have the funding to keep it going.  The buildings had leaky roofs, needed some repairs to the plumbing and a coat of paint.  Most of all, they needed students!

Tom proposed creating a “school of ministry” that would draw upon the populations of Zimbabwe and neighboring countries except for South Africa.  1985 apartheid South Africa was a whole different story and was outside Zimbabwe’s sphere of influence.  For Tom and other missionaries, South Africa was a major source of funding.  Eventually, Tom would solicit Rhema-Johannesburg for R1000 (US$500 in 1985) to finance the rehab of the school.  

AEF would still participate in the school, but Tom would select the teachers from ministries allied with him as well as some of the current instructors from AEF.  The AEF instructors were really taking a step down.  They were once again under white supervision.  I was to be dean, lecturer, and project lead.  Tom would be the school president, but uninvolved in the day-to-day affairs.

As dean, I would be an unpaid member of the Rhema staff.  It became my responsibility to recruit students, supervise curriculum, manage budget and rehab the campus.  Although I was responsible for implementation of the curriculum, there were certain classes that Tom insisted be taught to reflect his connection with the Faith Movement.  SEBI was already a pentecostal institution, so miracle ministry was already an emphasis.  For Tom, the most important additions would be classes on prosperity (giving with an expectation of bountiful rewards) and confession (speaking realities into existence)—the two main emphases of Kenneth Hagin of Rhema-Tulsa.  

I was troubled with how both of these doctrines were applied.  Tom picked his close friend, Peter McKenzie (Church Team Ministries International, http://ctmiworld.com/eng/library/peter-mckenzie/), to teach “faith and confession.”  I volunteered to teach the class on prosperity to try to give it some biblical context.  I was already feeling pressure over the prosperity teaching.  My home church in Louisville, John Osteen’s Lakewood Church in Houston and all churches with the Rhema name insisted that those associated with them adhere to this teaching.  

Tom Deuschle, as a graduate of Rhema Bible School in Tulsa, strongly adhered to the “faith and confession” distortion of biblical teaching on giving.  This asserts 10% tithing as a minimum expectation.  Once this minimum was met, the Christian could expect God to pour out blessings and prosperity as the rain falls from the sky.  Indeed, the more one gave, the more blessing and prosperity one should “expect.”  Since such a believer has this faith expectation of God, he or she should “confess” that prosperity with their lips and thus manifest the prosperity into reality.  This confession message was the primary emphasis of Kenneth Hagin, the founder of Rhema.  He had made his career ripping Mark 11:22-24 out of its context and reconstituting it as the elementary principle of the Christian living.  I quote from the King James Version here as it is Hagin’s preferred translation:

Have faith in God.  For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe those things he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.  Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.  (Mark 11:22-24 KJV emphasis mine)

This idea of “having what you say” is the core of “faith teaching.”  It puts humankind in God’s class of being as a creator.  The thinking is that when God created the heavens and earth in Genesis chapter 1, the means was speech—the Word of God.  Jesus is the “Word incarnate” (John 1:1-3).  As such, it was Jesus as the Word who spoke creation into existence.  Since we are created in God’s image and likeness, believers in Jesus have the incarnate Word indwelling them by the Holy Spirit.  Therefore, when Christians speak by faith, they are godlike creators.  Each faith-spoken utterance creates reality.  Faith speaks healing, success, well-being, blessing and prosperity.  When combined with the appropriate giving at or above the minimum tithe level, the person of faith creates reality by speaking just as Jesus, the incarnate Word, did at creation.  According to this teaching, if you are not prospering, indeed if you have any needs at all, it is because you have not met the minimum tithe and/or are not “believing and confessing.”

If you are theologically and biblically untrained this all sounds plausible—it even sounds exciting!  What could be better than being “like God” as a creator?  Of course, the downside would be that you can also bring negative things to fruition by having the wrong confession—speaking the wrong things, things that are not of faith.  Then you are at the mercy of Satan and his fallen angels who seek to defeat the purposes of God.  If the believer is working at cross-purposes with God by engaging in defeatist speech, the result can be disastrous.  No wonder so many who adhere to this doctrine find themselves obsessed with what Satan (the devil) is doing.  They try to remedy the situation by rebuking devilish powers.  They spend most of their effort speaking defensively against Satan rather than trusting God.

The Faith Movement is not limited to the Haginist Rhema associates.  Hagin’s teaching, further distilled by his son, Kenneth Hagin, Jr., is only the most clearly defined of a long line of pentecostal/charismatic preachers of the 20th century.  Most find their patriarch in Smith Wigglesworth (1859-1947), a British plumber turned faith healing evangelist who is credited with numerous miraculous healings.  Other influential faith healers include John G. Lake, Aimee Simple McPherson, William Branham, Oral Roberts, T.L. Osborn, Kathryn Kuhlman, Jack Coe, and A.A. Allen.  More recent faith practitioners include Americans Pat Robertson, Jim and Tammy Faye Baker, Marilyn Hickey, Kenneth Copeland and Benny Hinn as well as Derek Prince (UK), Reinhard Bonnke (Germany), and David Yonggi Cho (S. Korea).

I had never been comfortable with pretty much any teaching about giving from Christian leaders.  My earliest exposure to the concept of Christian giving had been at Berachah Church, Houston in 1970.  Col. Thieme, the pastor, had insisted on a literal interpretation of the New Testament on the subject which asserted “free-will” giving over any rule or standard.  Actually, this made sense to me and still makes sense today.  The argument is as follows:

• Tithing, as taught in the Hebrew scriptures, was part of the constitutional makeup of the nation of Israel contained in the Mosaic Law.  
• As such, the 10% (“tithe”) was to be set aside for the support of the Levitical priesthood and their families.  
• The tribe of Levi had not received ownership rights to any of the land in the land of Canaan upon conquest.  
• In addition, Levites were not to have any trade or means of support.  
• They were functionaries in the religious ritual surrounding the Tabernacle in the desert and later the Temple in Jerusalem.  
• The infamous, “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse that their may be food in My house . . . ” (Mal 3:10 NASB) refers not to the New Testament church budget, but to the storehouse of the Levitical priesthood.
• Therefore this has no relation to Christianity or church budgets.
• New Testament giving has no formula, neither was it to be directed to a special class of religious functionaries.
• New Testament Christianity rejects the entire Mosaic sacrificial apparatus administered by the Levitical priesthood since Jesus is understood to be the fulfillment of the sacrifices with his death by crucifixion.
• The New Testament considers every believer in Jesus to actually be a priest, thus obsoleting the need for Levitical specialization.
• Jesus himself gives no commands with regard to giving other than to “sell all you possess and give to the poor . . .” (Mark 10:21 NASB)
• Paul explains that the New Testament idea of giving is to be determined by the individual “as he may prosper” (1 Cor 16:2), based on what “he purposed in his heart” (2 Cor 9:7) or an individual’s “own accord” (2 Cor 8:3).
• Even as an “apostle to the gentiles” Paul was uncomfortable with receiving gifts for his own support in ministry.  Instead, he availed himself of his trade as a tent-maker to support himself and those associated with him in ministry.  Such a limitation did not seem to inhibit his productivity.  (2 Thess. 3:6-12)
• This is what Thieme and numerous other modern Christian scholars refer to as “grace giving.”  As such, it meets the Pauline assertion that “God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Cor 9:7).

Growing up Jewish, I had never considered any of this.  If I understood anything at age twenty, the beginning of my wandering, it would have been a vague understanding of giving to support the ancient Levitical priesthood.  After all, I was descended from the tribe of Levi by my mother and father!  But, I knew that Levitical ritual was no longer a functioning reality.  Any remnant had been lost with the destruction of the 2nd Temple in 70 C.E., followed by 2000 years of diaspora and annihilated in the Holocaust.  

My only reminders of Levite heritage were carried in my mother’s maiden name (Levy) and the musical gifts passed on to her, my father and his brother, my Uncle Herman.  But, if we relied on our Levitical musical heritage for income, it was only as musical professionals!  My uncle sang with a “big band” in the 1940s.  My mother used her ear-training on piano to direct and produce musicals from her high school years until her late 50s when emphysema and cancer from her pack-a-day habit first weakened and then killed her as it had done her mother before her.  My father had a fantastic voice and was often invited to sing in nightclubs.  Sadly, he struggled with remembering lyrics.  This prevented him from exploiting his gift.  [It seems I inherited my parents’ musical gifting.  I got my mother’s ear for music and my father’s voice.  My voice has deteriorated over the last dozen years through disuse.  I never was a rock singer.  My voice works better with popular music that does not require screams, grunts and groans!  In my rock group, Rage Against Age, I sing background, but these days I can’t sing beyond a baritone’s range.  Most rock songs, even background vocals, require a pretty high voice.  This was no problem in high school.  I can’t even think that high today!  My father couldn’t remember lyrics—I never even hear them.  I seem to get so swept up in the melody and arrangements of songs, that I pay no attention to lyrics.  There are songs we do in the band that I have been listening to and playing for over 50 years.  Yet, I have no idea what the lyrics are.]

So, how was I to teach a class on prosperity?  I wasn’t sure.  If we were going to associate with Rhema, Lakewood Church, our home church in Louisville and others who believed so strongly in this teaching, I felt pressured to try to understand it better.  I figured that if I made the systematic and thorough study of giving and prosperity that teaching a class would require, I was certain to come to an understanding that I could teach.  I would be able to temper the extremes with accurate biblical exposition and I would expose myself to a deeper understanding of something that might be the essential weakness of our ministry.  

We were doing much better financially than two years earlier when we had arrived with $1000 and no ongoing prospects for support.  Although we didn’t think that tithing applied, we budgeted 10% as a reasonable giving level.  We gave 10% of our income to our Louisville church based off of income received in the USA.  Because of foreign currency laws, we couldn’t transfer monies received from South African and Zimbabwe sources back to the States.  So, we gave 10% of that to Rhema in Harare.  In addition, we supported Norman Kalilombe in Wedza with a gift of Z$100/mo which amounted to more than 10% of our African income.  We spent the majority of US$2000/mo total from all sources on ministry expenses.  The lion’s share of those expenses were related to transportation.  Fuel was five times the cost in Zimbabwe than the USA in the early 1980s.  We had been given the use of a car while at Chisipite.  Later, the Hess family loaned us their pickup to use, often including complementary fuel from the farm supply.  We drove a decade-old Datsun followed by a Peugeot 404, both of which needed constant repair and expensive parts that were often not available in Zimbabwe.  Until this time, we had few expenses for housing as we lived as guests a month at a time since 1983.  This usually included most of our meals as well.  We adopted the suggested patterns of praying and confessing our prosperity.  We really tried to make this stuff work.  We even prayed a special blessing on our post office box each time we drove past it!  But, we really didn’t need this for ourselves.  We wanted more to be able to help others.  

So, we were doing our part—why weren’t we prospering at the level that the faith and prosperity teachers suggested as the norm?  I felt that the level of prosperity offered as an inducement to giving was disingenuous.  It seemed to cater to the “love of money” which Jesus himself had called “the root of all kinds of evil.”  After all, how much material bounty did someone need anyway, especially someone involved in service (ministry) to others?  If you could provide for your family at a society-normal level, I would think we would all be grateful.  But, prosperity teachers, Tom included, seemed to understand an opulent lifestyle as a badge of honor.  And, those who did not have “in abundance” were somehow deficient in faith.  It is similar to the way economic conservatives see themselves as heroes while viewing those in need as deviant.

From our perspective, the economic differential between ourselves as westerners and the average Zimbabwean black was difficult enough to deal with.  We had a monthly income of US$2000 when the average urban Zimbabwean might earn less than Z$100/mo (US$30 in 1985).  Rural Zimbabweans earned even less.  How do you bridge that gap without your material wealth becoming a stumbling block?

So, if it was hard enough to for me to relate to the average African on a financial level, how could I teach this subject to African student?  And how would that student teach his/her congregation?  We had already struggled this at Chisipite.  We had seen how that Pastor Morgan had become embittered and indebted trying to lead the African congregation. [79 — “Overturning the Rhodesian Paradigm in the Church”]  

As I previously mentioned, experience had led me to be skeptical of the faith and prosperity teaching, especially as it seemed to be taken to such an extreme.  Pegi and I really tried to get this to work for us.  We jumped into this feet first. But, after dog-paddling to keep our heads above water, our minds continued to work.  As we had with Thieme, Akeroyd, and every other teacher who asserted their truth, we tested their teachings by trying them.  If something didn’t work, then we took it apart and examined it for flaws, errors, misconceptions and deception.  Teaching the subject would force me to examine it in detail.  My hope was that I would find the flaws and correct them for myself and my students.

We convinced ourselves that we could trust Tom and Bonnie.  They seemed to reach out to us, not only to include us in their lives and ministry, but as friends and confidents.  Tom listened to me and seemed to value my input.  He gave me carte blanche to rebuild and operate the school.  We would finally come up with the odd name, “Church Growth Support Centre.”  Tom wanted to avoid the titles such as bible school, seminary, ministry training or anything that would discourage participation and attendance from various ministries and denominations.  The idea was that it was to be a support centre (British spelling) for all who participated.  Tom had a mailing list of 500 churches in the surrounding countries.  I composed a letter and sent out a mailing under his name inviting them to send us pastoral candidates.  Within a month, we had refurbished the campus and began classes for our first 12 students, half of whom were from outside Zimbabwe.

At the same time, Pegi and Bonnie became close.  Bonnie had always seemed to be what most people would call “artistic”—gifted, but troubled and plagued by depression.  Pegi’s gift for empathetic listening seemed to endear her to Bonnie.  We both joined Rhema’s music ministry, Pegi supplying background harmonies and a wicked tambourine while I played my 12-string guitar and occasional vocals.  Tom and Bonnie were popular choices for weddings, Tom as the preacher, but especially Bonnie with vocals and piano.  Pegi and I soon found ourselves invited to do special numbers at these weddings.  There was one song in particular, “From Glory to Glory,” that was constantly requested of us.  We began to find our Saturdays as busy as Sundays as we integrated into the Rhema Bible Church community.  As this music ministry and the school continued to develop, so seemingly did our relationship with Tom and Bonnie.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that there were more serious issues at Rhema-Harare than distorted prosperity teaching or charismatic excesses.  There were serious character issues that surrounded Tom and Bonnie—issues that would crush lives.  We would be part of a long history of “close friends” who would find themselves as somehow displeasing the Deuschles.  This wouldn’t be fully manifested until after another trip back to the States.  Upon our return, we wouldn’t even be able to get 10 minutes time with Tom, much less continue to minister together with him.  We would not be crushed, but that doesn’t mean that we weren’t deeply hurt.  But that would be a year distant.  For now, everything seemed to be going in a positive direction.

97 — This Is Ridiculous!

My intentions to get back to regular writing so boldly asserted on Independence Day in 2013, lasted one week!  I wrote chapters 94-96 and immediately fell out of the habit again until today, June 16, 2014.  However, the reason for my inactivity has not changed.  I do not look forward to recounting the events of 1985 and following. But, it is something that I must do for several reasons.

Over the last four years I have taught 32 class sections on various subjects related to world religions.  My three decades struggling to find my way in a Christian-dominant context provide vibrant examples to which my students can relate.  My “wanderings” and adventures engage my students.  Often, I actually assign readings in this blog.  I would rather use myself as a negative example or the “butt” of the joke than to point to the failures of others.

I have some hope that you are finding something of value in these musings.  I continue to write with you in mind.

My grandson, Aiden, will turn seven in October.  I am the currently the only father figure you has in his life.  He is already a strong reader and we are buddies.  But, he probably won’t find this interesting until I am not around to explain it all.  I want him to understand his grandfather.  Ultimately, I am writing this for him.

I need to do this for myself.  It is time I come to grips with the events of my life.  When I was writing the first eighty chapters, each day was a learning experience.  I miss that.  I need that.  I don’t know how much longer I will have to write all of this down.  I hope to live into my nineties—as long as I can still have a vibrant and meaningful life.  Yes, I have some pretty serious pain problems with my back, but that doesn’t stop me from teaching four days a week and playing 4-hour gigs with a guitar hanging on my shoulders!  Neither of my parents made it past the age of 67.  I am about to turn 65.  My mother killed herself with her pack-a-day habit.  My father never took care of himself, was overweight from his mid-twenties and had too many late-night kosher salami sandwiches for his weak heart.  I lived a healthy lifestyle until about 13 years ago when back problems significantly limited exercise.  Add the crazy cold weather of Chicago and the bad habits built around my job at AT&T where I worked 10-12 hour days, and the weight has begun to hang around my mid-section.

For the first time in four years, I don’t have a summer class to teach.  We moved apartments in downtown Chicago a few weeks ago and are finally unpacked.  I now have until the end of August to get back into the daily habit of writing and exercise before classes begin in the fall.  We will see how this goes!

96 — Those Polymorph Thingies

We were settling into a new routine using the Stockhill house as a base of operations in the Marondera-Wedza area.  Now that we had adequate monthly support, we no longer needed to stay with other families who would also feed us.  We had enough regular support that we could pay for our own groceries, petrol and repairs for our car, as well as taking on the financial support of Norman, Gibson and Charles.  

We whirled through leading weeknight bible studies, speaking engagements to church groups and evangelistic meetings on farms and in schools.  On most Sunday mornings I was the visiting speaker in churches within two hours drive from the farm.  This often meant that we were back in Harare on Sunday mornings for these engagements.  Aside from my skills as a bible teacher, we found ourselves in demand as worship leaders in churches that still seemed to be living in the 1800s.  Guitar in hand, Pegi and I led these congregations into the 20^th century using choruses and contemporary-style tunes based on the Psalms and the emerging light-rock Christian music scene.

Since three out of four weekends found us in Harare anyway for the ministry engagements, we started attending Sunday-evening worship at Rhema Bible Church.  In 1985, Rhema was the leading predominantly white charismatic church in Zimbabwe.  I have spoken about Rhema in some detail before [chapter 7 - Colorless Sunday Services].  At this point, Rhema clearly had the best music ministry in the country.  Since the Sunday evening services were mostly spent worshipping in music and with only a short message from Tom Deuschle, we found it to be an energizing experience.  It gave us a chance to exhale after the hectic week and prepare for the week to come.

I still had nothing but trouble listening to Tom’s teaching.  He was untrained theologically and totally committed to the Kenneth Hagin “Faith” teachings.  This included a strong dose of prosperity teaching (giving to get), confession (speaking things into existence), speaking in tongues  (unknown languages of angels) and prophesying (“carnie-style” fortune-telling) with all the bells and whistles of the modern charismatic movement.  

Tom had a decent sense of humor with a pleasant, though ineloquent speaking style.   He didn’t sound like a preacher which worked in his favor as far as I was concerned.  So, he was interesting, but just didn’t seem have a thorough working knowledge of the Bible, theology, church history or even world history.  His messages centered on how to live a comfortable, prosperous and happy life as an individual.  In order to demonstrate how to live a life blessed by God with financial prosperity, perfect health, male-dominant family relationships and free from demons and “the devil,” Tom regularly twisted non-contextual meanings out of obscure biblical passages and wreaked havoc with the consensus of   two thousand years of Christian theological insight.  He turned ignorance into authority as he delivered his message of “hope” with no basis in biblical fact.

Together with his wife Bonnie, whose vocal, song-writing and musical direction attracted large audiences, it was quite a show.  But, it always seemed to be a show.  The part of the show we liked was the music which was powerful enough to charge us up on a weekly basis in spite of Tom’s teaching and the crowds of sycophants who lusted for a “touch” from either of them.  Tom had a way about him that didn’t let you just say “thanks” and be done with it.  

He insisted in a strange and insinuating manner that you had to “recognize” him as the leader.  There was no way to be a brother with Tom.  He clearly saw himself as superior and anyone else who had any type of ministry gifting was either subsumed under his ministry or kept at arm’s length.  He seemed to think that everyone else saw him as preeminent.  We didn’t.  We just liked Bonnie’s music.  But, that was never enough for Tom.  I previously recounted how upon our arrival in 1983, he assumed that we were looking to him to authorize us in ministry.  Now that we had established our ministry without so much as a sneeze from him, we hoped that we could enjoy the Sunday evening respite while allowing the music to repair our battered souls for the coming week.  But, that was not to be.  As we sought teachers for the rural churches, we would discover that Tom had already “bought up the franchise,” but wasn’t doing anything with it!  If we wanted to tap the resources of African teachers for the rural areas, we would have to ally ourselves with Tom.  That, of course, meant that Tom had to be preeminent and take the credit.  

But, that was still in our future.  So, as we headed back to Marondera and our home on the farm, it wasn’t the sting of Tom Deuschle that we felt.  It was the sting of a mosquito.

Pegi had suffered from migraines since high school.  In 1985, most doctors seemed to think that migraines were the result of the inability to handle stress.  We had only found one doctor in the States who seemed sympathetic when it came to migraines because he himself suffered from them.  He prescribed a beta-blocker which gave Pegi some relief, but this was long before Sumatriptan was available to many patients.  In Africa, we both suffered frequent rocking headaches that would immobilize us.  Fortunately, there were strong over-the-counter pain remedies available.  We would stock up on these on trips to South Africa.

One Saturday evening in Harare, we decided to visit the Christian Life Centre, another one of the predominantly white charismatic churches, where they were having a guest Bible teacher from the States.  Typical of charismatic ministry, this man specialized in casting out demonic spirits.  Anyone who was “afflicted of the devil” was to come forward, have hands laid on him or her and be healed of the satanic influence.  People shoved their way forward.  People were falling down “under the power of the Spirit of God” in front of the stage as the guest speaker and his assistants whacked people on the forehead and “prayed” for them.  The auditorium was crowded, smelly and hot.  We left after about 20 minutes, both of us with horrible headaches.  Pegi’s headache seemed to lift once we got out in the fresh air, but mine hung on during the 2-hour drive to Marondera.  My head was still pounding the next morning.  In addition, I ached all over.  It was obvious as I rolled around in bed or cowered on the floor in a corner of the room, that I was seriously ill.

The nearest doctor was 45 minutes by car in Marondera, but it was a Sunday and he would have to be summoned to his clinic from home.  Pegi and Di Stockhill helped me lie down on the back seat of her car.  I cringed and whimpered the whole 45-minute trip.  Arriving at the clinic, someone called the doctor who showed up a half-hour later.  I was sitting on a bench outside his clinic door in misery.  

By this time, it was obvious to Pegi, Di and me that I had the symptoms of malaria.  The common remedy is an injection of quinine.  Ever since arriving in Zimbabwe, we had both been taking anti-malarial prophylaxis pills, but they did not prevent malaria—they only made it easier to treat if you got it!  Well, I had got it!  We just needed the doctor to examine me and inject me with the quinine.  

It didn’t seem funny at the time, but the doctor was a real character.  My beard was pretty long in those days.  After all, I was living in “the bush” where clippers and barbers were not found.  Every month or so, I would get a haircut and trim in Harare.  But, the only doctor in Marondera had a really long bushy beard.  He looked like Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top.  I have to be honest, his appearance and kind of “dopey” manner didn’t instill much confidence.  But, we all knew what to do.  “Examine me and give me that shot of quinine!”

He took a my blood sample over to an ancient microscope that looked as if it had been thrown out by a 10^th grade biology class.  Examining the slide, he called Pegi over.  He had found out that she was a registered nurse in the States.  I think he was showing off just a bit for the first medical professional he had probably seen in years!  He said, “Yes!  Come over here and look here.  It think I can see those polymorph thingies!”  Pegi said, “Do you mean polymorphonuclear leukocytes?”  Doctor Bushybeard said, “Yes!  That is what they are called!”

I thought, “Oh just shoot me now . . . with the quinine.”  He continued to diddle around with the slide under the microscope until someone said, “Well, can you administer an injection of quinine?”  He seemed to wake up from his fascination with the polymorph thingies.  He turned back to me as I lay their on the exam table, finally remembering that I was in the room!  He said, “Yes, well, uh . . . We can give you a prescription for quinine tablets.  The pharmacy is closed today, but we can call the pharmacist to come in and dispense the pills.”

So, the doctor left us to sit and wait for the pharmacist who showed up another 40 minutes later.  An hour after that, I had taken my first dose and began a really uncomfortable week in bed with intermittent burning fever follow by bone-shattering chills.  Not fun, but when I remember the doctor and the polymorph thingies, I smile and laugh.

On a more somber note, malaria is still the scourge of Africa.  Sure, I was white, with white friends who could take me to the white doctor and call in the white pharmacist.  For 95% of  rural Zimbabweans, there is no car ride to the doctor, no doctor, no pharmacist . . . No nothing.  Just the burning fever and the bone-shattering chills.  And for the very unfortunate, there was cerebral malaria for which there is no treatment. And death.  But that Sunday evening as I lay in bed tossing and turning waiting for the quinine to win the battle against the polymorph thingies, just a couple hours by car, in churches like Rhema, pastors told their congregations:

• “Give to God (their ministry) and God will bless you with riches!
• “Come forward and let us lay our hands on you and pray for you.  You will be healed of all your diseases!”
• “Learn what God’s Word promises you.  Then, just like God, speak those things into existence and they will be yours.  You can have what you say!  God promises you this.” 

So people give their life savings to ministers and then are told that the reason they didn’t prosper was that they didn’t “hold to their confession of faith.”  And millions are sick and dying.  For some reason God won’t heal them! “They just don’t have enough faith!”

This is the obscenity of the “Faith” movement so prominent in charismatic churches today.  It isn’t better in 2014.  It is much worse.  Even after the scandals of the last few decades, the institutional abuses of the Roman Catholic Church, the political subterfuge of the Southern Baptist Convention and the well-oiled machinery of the mega-churches, there are those who continue to paint a simplistic picture leading to dream fulfillment.  They continue to proclaim, “You can have all your dreams.  All you need to do is have faith . . . .”

Having recovered from the polymorph thingies, I was about to have a personal encounter the disease of the religion.  Our triumph would turn to sadness as we came face to face with the reality of the Faith movement.

95 — On with It Already!

Our first return from Africa to the States in 1978 had left us with a rush of conflicting emotions.  We had gone to Africa with dreams of playing a role in the rescue of an endangered civilization.  We were escaping the pending doom with a sense of relief that we had a national home to which we could return.  Yet, we didn’t know what awaited us at home.  My dreams of a career as a freedom fighter were quashed.  We weren’t “feeling the love” in Houston either.  Rather, we despaired of finding friendship upon our return much less a new career.

This time we were flew out on the wings of 10 months of intense activity.  With less than a thousand dollars to our name, no entry visa, no contacts in-country, no reliable promise of support, no expectation of finding employment, no idea what we would face when crossing the border, and with only a reservation at the Jameson Hotel, we had established ourselves in ministry and valid our theory of ministry in a foreign culture.  

That was something!  And we knew that it had only been a beginning.  Now that we had regular supporters in the States, we felt comfortable purchasing a car in Johannesburg, South Africa.  We didn’t have much money, but managed to find an ugly yellow, but serviceable 1975 Datsun for R600 (US$250).  It ran and it the brakes worked.  What else could we ask for?  It was our own car—not borrowed!  And, we didn’t have to push it to start it!  We stocked up on a few other supplies and set out on the 12-hour drive to Harare. 

Before returning to the States, we had set ourselves up in Kariba for future ministry.  Even as we had left, it was obvious that Kariba wasn’t going to work for us.  So, after a short visit to Kariba, we returned to Harare linking up again with Felix.  Shortly thereafter, we returned to Wedza.  After a stay with Dave and Jen at Lushington Farm, we accepted Di and Ivan Stockhill’s offer from the previous year to live in their spare ranch house.  [Chapter 90 - “Contrasting Hearts”]

The house was a cement block ranch-style house with two bedrooms and a tin roof.  It was painted white on the outside and white on the inside.  The floors were plain gray cement.  It was basic, clean and more than we had hoped for.  Located on the Stockhill cattle farm, Di and Ivan had lived her during the war.  When Ivan’s older brother Vic left for Australia, Ivan had moved into the more nicely-furnished main house.  So, now we had a car and place to live.  It was time to get back to work!  

We had already established a small church meeting among the workers on the Stockhill farm, but it was being serviced by Norman who had a circuit of 5 farm churches that he bicycled to.  Occasionally, Norman caught a lift with a passing farmer, but we was obvious that we needed to train a group of men to serve as pastors for the growing congregations.  Each congregation needed someone who could live on the premises rather than providing visiting ministers each Sunday.

With that in mind, we made several trips to Harare to meet with ministry leaders who might be able to delegate some young pastors to the Marondera-Wedza area.  I could give them Bible and ministry training as well as provide a level of initial supervision and support.  We sought out the major ministries that were interested in offering opportunities to young African Christians to engage in rural ministry.  Rhema (Hear the Word) didn’t have a “vision” at that time for African work at all.  They focused on building their membership of Europeans (whites).  I had always thought it strange that the three dominant charismatic ministries in Harare (Rhema, Christian Living Centre and Faith Ministries), saw their primary ministry as being to whites.   Each of them claimed memberships of 1000-1500 people, 99% of whom were white.  Yet, they lived in a black African majority country.  Their paradigm of ministry hadn’t changed since the war.  They were still planning and ministering as if the white minority still ruled.

Faith Ministries, at least, had a higher proportion of black African members.  I always found dealing with their leadership team a bit “oily” because of their affinity for “Shepherding.”   Shepherding was a fairly discredited approach to church government in charismatic circles.  It posited a multiple pastors for congregations—a very New Testament idea.  However, the control each pastor had over his flock of 10-30 “sheep” was oppressive.  The Shepherding Controversy in Britain and the USA had almost destroyed the early charismatic movement in the 70s.  Charisma Magazine’s Jamie Buckingham along with Bob Mumford and Derek Prince survived as leaders, but at a great cost to the congregations.  Faith Ministries implementing of shepherding always left me with a queasy feeling in my stomach.  That is why I call it “oily.”

Nevertheless, because Faith Ministries had multiple house churches with pastors and pastors in training, they were willing to allow Charles, one of their young pastor candidates, to travel with us to Stockhill farm.  I had met Charles a month earlier at an evangelism meeting amid 20,000 onlookers at Rufaro Stadium in Harare.  We also found a couple of other workers who came from other backgrounds.  Norman took the others under his tutelage.  Pegi and I took Charles who moved into the spare room at our ranch house.

Charles seemed to be well-versed in the Bible and spoke both English and Shona well.  We began to be concerned when he seemed to resist leaving our house to actually go out an spend time with the farm workers.  Sure, he was a city boy and this was a cattle ranch.  Being with the workers meant walking in the inevitable cow pie.  It also meant drinking tea and eating around wood fires, meeting in lantern-lit huts and hanging out with illiterate laborers.  But, that is what he had signed up for!  We probably needed to give him more time to adjust.  At least, that is what we thought.  Maybe he was having difficulty relating to the workers who lived in huts while he slept in a nice bed in a European-style house?  Would he consider moving out into the worker’s compound?  Nope!

Before I could really pursue it further, I came down with malaria.  That wasn’t any fun, but there is a funny story to go with it.

94 — A Triumphal Return

When I first titled this chapter (September, 2012), it was a reference to our American visit (Sep, 1984) after success in the African mission and our confident return to Zimbabwe (Jan, 1985).  As it turns out, I have finally returned to writing again after a third hiatus in on July 4, 2013—almost 10 months later!  So, I guess another “triumph” is that I am finally writing again. 

So, what is my excuse this time?  I could make a case that I have just been too busy to write ever since starting to teach at Harper College in August 2009.  Of course, I used that excuse  along with getting serious about my rock group, (www.RageAgainstAgeBand.com), twice before.    There are always “reasons.”  I no longer had my  journal as an outline, so maybe it was some sort of writer’s block?  

Just yesterday I finally realized that it wasn’t teaching, the continuing activity with the band, my aging body, writer’s block nor even the three days a week I am spending with my 5½-year old grandson this summer.  I lack enthusiasm to tell this story.  The central elements of story, though vital at that time, are no longer interesting to me.  In fact, I am a disappointed  with the quality of my thinking at the time.  

At the time, my life seemed exciting, each day inflated with “meaningful” activities, or so I thought.  Pegi and I often remarked, “If we never accomplish anything else, what we have already done is more than what most people get to do in a lifetime!”  That shows just how small our world had become.  We were so certain that we were in the center of God’s plan.  Every detail of our lives had meaning and value.  You might say that such a perspective is wonderful, and, from one perspective it was.  Three decades later, we have a very different perspective.

As I reflect on it now, the story of my wanderings follows a line from my Jesus Freak days in the late 60s to increasing success in ministry through the mid-80s.  This linear progression would eventuate in my doctorate in 1997.  I was finally fully-accredited as an authority in evangelical circles with episodic success in church ministry and missions.   The beginning of 1998 would find me as a denominationally-supported missionary and seminary professor in Singapore.  My career path seemed to finally take flight.  But, my path would no longer be linear.  The experience in Singapore would bring me full-circle back to a Jewish spirituality and, in the process, deflating the “triumph” of 1984.

As I have related events up until now, I have been careful to treat Christians and Christianity with the positive feelings that I had at the time.  Most of my critique has been in the realm of personal introspection, blaming myself for anything less than ideal.  I think I have candy-coated things a bit.  If I am going to tell this part of the story, I will need to leave out the sugar. 

Since the prospect of really “calling the plays as I see them” today is what kept me from moving forward, let me be clearer.  Today, I have moved to a place in which I can no longer be called a Christian, Messianic Jew, follower of Jesus or Jesus Freak.  I don’t deny that I could have been characterized by all of those labels at one time or another.  But, that is no longer me!

As a professor of world religions, I see two major components in any faith tradition:  the people of faith and the religious system itself.  I have found that most “people of faith,” whether Christian, Jew, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist or whatever — are surprisingly pleasant.  It is systematic religion that seems to be the major actor in division, power-mongering, hate-generation and war.  

I have never been a fan of “religion” itself.  That may sound strange coming from a professor of religion, but, the more I learn about religion, the more uncomfortable I become with it.  In 1994, while completing my Master of Divinity, I declared my intention to pursue a doctorate in world religions.  I remember my professor at the time,  Jim Chancellor, warning me that most people who follow that path become skeptics of religion in general.  At the time, I thought that insight into other belief systems would allow me to probe more deeply into the thoughts and motivations of non-believers.  My theory was that this would make me more persuasive in evangelism.  I suppose the theory was correct, but I found that my educated introspective probing had an even greater impact.  The more I learned about other faiths, the more weaknesses I exposed in my own.  When I finally began to teach others about religion, I became my best student.  The more objective I became about religion and faith in general, the more objectionable my own became.

Still, I generally consider myself a person of faith, and find myself in sympathy with those who live according to their own faith perspectives.  However, I also find myself in general agreement with agnostics and others who deny religious absolutism.  

My Jewish religious upbringing was unfulfilling in my youth and, although I strongly identify with being Jewish, I have always resisted much of the Jewish religious system, authority structure and tradition.  As a young Jesus Freak, I was totally disinterested in historic Christianity, what I referred to as “churchianity.”  Up until this point in the narrative (1984), I had found little in the various forms of Christian organization to commend it.  In addition, I found even less personal acceptance from any Christian organizations.  I was always under suspicion as a Jew.  Systemic Christianity seemed to have two paradoxical views of me:  a “true Jew” and a “stranger.”  

Christians were often thrilled to meet a Jewish believer.  I was a descendant of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and a follower of Jesus.  But, since I had not been “born” a Christian, but had only been “born-again” as a convert, I was not to be trusted.  I was an “outsider.”  The Hebrew scriptures speak of the children of Israel as “strangers in a strange land.”  Christianity had co-opted the place of privilege in the kingdom of God and saw Jews as “immigrants” without a valid citizenship by birthright.  To be truthful, I harbored my own doubts about the authenticity of my Christianity.  What I felt on the inside seemed to be so different from what I saw in others.

Many Christians had a fascination with me as a Jewish follower of Jesus, but would not grant me full legitimacy.  Even my thoughts and perspectives concerning the Hebrew scriptures and the teachings of the early Jewish followers found in the New Testament, were often dismissed as defective.  There is no question that my perspective and belief system differed radically with that of just about every Christian I encountered.  I never was comfortable with Christian explanations of the Trinity and the deity of Christ.  The historical rationale for church leadership espoused by most denominations was nonsense to me.  Most significantly, the rationale for the canonicity of the New Testament as the “Word of God”, equally authoritative with the Hebrew scriptures, became increasingly difficult to accept.  I began to appreciate just how historical and cultural context modified truth perception.  The religious thought police could not admit that there was any value outside their own myopic perspective.  To even consider that there might be intrinsic value contained in other faith traditions was heretical. 

During my doctoral studies, I enrolled in a seminar to research the history and methodology of Christian evangelism.  This was in 1996 and I had already begun working on my dissertation which was to include a section on the history or Christian evangelistic efforts directed toward the Jewish people.  I was tasked with presenting a research paper on Roland Allen, a missionary to China at the time of the Boxer Rebellion.  

Allen was a powerful advocate for indigenous self-supporting churches.  I had come to a similar position during my time in Zimbabwe (1983-87).  Allen, an Anglican, did not agree with the Baptist teaching concerning the eternal security of the Christian believer.  This doctrine taught that salvation, once obtained, could not be lost—even in the case of the greatest personal failures.  Rather, Allen took the warnings of Jesus concerning “sons of the kingdom being cast into outer darkness” seriously.  He, like a vast number of Christians, took this to mean that it was possible to lose one’s salvation through gross misdeeds.  This motivated Allen to encourage churches to ensure the continued discipleship of new believers so that they lived lives consistent with their Christian beliefs.

As I continued with my presentation, another graduate student interrupted to accuse me of being sympathetic with Allen’s view on this.  This student was seeking appointment to the Baptist mission board as I was.  He declared that I should be removed from consideration as a seminary teacher for the mission board, accusing me of “heresy.”  Now, this guy took himself a bit too seriously, as it was unheard of for someone to be accused of heresy for researching the views of someone else.  But, this student didn’t like me.  He suspected me of not really being Baptist, which to him was equivalent with being a “true Christian.”  The professor leading the seminar corrected him for his outburst.  I tried not to laugh out loud at him.  I found out later that he had filed a formal objection to my appointment with the mission board.  Crazy isn’t it? 

I had been completely committed to the doctrine of the security of the believer since my Jesus Freak days in the 70s.  But, I begun harboring serious misgivings with regard to it based on reading the New Testament.  It was clear that Jesus was not in agreement with Baptists!  Nevertheless, I had not expressed that opinion as my own.  It was Roland Allen’s.  But the thought police didn’t like me.  They suspected me of all kinds of defective/heretical thoughts.  After all, I was a Jew.

If I had it to do all over again, I would have let the thought police keep me from being appointed to the Baptist seminary in Singapore.  But, that is for a later chapter.  For now, this will suffice as an example of the deconstruction of my Christian worldview.  That deconstruction contributed to the construction of my new ever-expanding “world”-view.  To this day, I continue to wander through this multiverse of thought.  I allow the appreciation for diversity in thinking that I have discovered over time to color the black and white preprinted outline of my life to which I had been exposed in the early 1970s.   

So, as we examine my triumphal return from the African “mission field,” I will turn a more critical eye on religion in general and on evangelical Christianity in particular.  My intention is neither to prove or disprove the central truth claims of any faith tradition.  Rather I continue to tell my own story as a Jew as I wander through my sixth decade.

The End of the Journal -- Not the End of the Journey

We have come to the end of the journal that I kept beginning with our return to Zimbabwe in 1983.  I suppose there are many reasons that I stopped writing; I could blame lack of motivation, laziness, just being too caught up in the fast-paced details of life.  I suspect that the underlying reason was a certain disillusionment with how events were playing out.  

By this time, I had a well-established construct in my mind of what was supposed to happen.  After all, we had jumped through all the hoops to gain credibility for our African mission.  Upon arrival in 1983, we had no prospects for success based on education, training, finances or contacts.  All we had was $1000 and the assurance of one Zimbabwean 23 year old (Amos Moyo) that we would find personal and governmental acceptance, even in light of our participation in the former Rhodesian security forces.  But, in the short time since arriving in 1983, we had ample ministry success by evangelical standards and had every reason to believe that we would find  American enthusiasm for a properly financed ministry during our visit home.

Well, we were well received and managed to scrape together a manageable level of dependable support during our four months in the States, but I still seemed to lose interest in recording the daily details.  We arrived in Houston on 18 September 1984.  The next two weeks spent with Pegi’s family were agonizing.  Her mother seemed to be sinking into new depths of her hatred of me.  Needless to say, it was uncomfortable.

The only happy times during our two weeks in Houston were related to our “chance” meeting with John Osteen, pastor of Lakewood Church.  He arranged a meeting with Bill Dearman, the head of his missions ministry who suggested they might be interested in supporting us.  [They began financial support 18 months later.]  We also reconnected with our old friends, Ken and Jill Duckman, whom I had known from my early Jesus Freak days in Madison.  Ken was also Jewish and I met him just as he was himself beginning to get interested in Jesus.  They had also joined me in Houston at Berachah, remained friends with us throughout the time that we were disowned by Col. Thieme and his sycophants, and were now regular supporters of our African adventure.

Our ministry account now had $1,200 in it.  Our Louisville “home” church had finally begun to deliver on their original promise of support.  We decided that we would fly to Louisville on October 2^nd.  After spending time with supporters in Louisville, we planned to travel to New Hampshire, Toronto, Florida and finally to Atlanta to visit supporters before returning to Africa.

My next journal entry is a diagonal line with the comment, “I decided not to keep a journal while we were in the USA.”  The next entry is 29 January, 1985 with our arrival in Johannesburg, South Africa.  Entries continue until 12 February with a month hiatus until 16 March 1985, the last entry.

Certainly, a lot happened between March, 1985 and May, 1987 when we left Zimbabwe for the last time.  In fact, that two year period was the seeming highpoint of our lives.  It included the vindication of our approach to ministry, the foundation of a school of ministry for pastors together with Tom Deuschle of Rhema, Africa Evangelical Fellowship and several other ministries, as well as the birth of Abigail.

Why no journal?  My last entry related a nightmare that centered on a subconscious sense of failure.  Everything looked great.  Subconsciously, I knew something was seriously wrong.  It turned out that it was more than “something”--there were many things wrong.  Sensing that, I just couldn’t write.  I couldn’t give expression to my thoughts in writing.  In many ways, I didn’t want to start writing and admit that things were not “as advertised”!

Looking back on this a quarter-century later, I see the significance of that crazy dream.  I have appended it here:

16 March 1985

I have missed writing now for a month and there is much to relate, but I was awakened this morning by a terrible dream . . .  I was in New York and picked up by Ken Duckman at the airport.  

He was buying four apples, but only had a grocery store credit card for Houston and no cash on him.  I gave him $20 and said he could repay me with a check.  We then got in each of our cars to drive to my place in New York.

While on the freeway, he passed me and I thought, “He knows New York better and will lead the way.”  Then I fell behind him in the traffic.  I was driving a large old model green Buick just like the rust-bucket my father had been driving when last I saw him in Louisville.  And, like my father’s old car, mine began to overheat and malfunction.  I pulled to the side of the road sobbing that this car couldn’t break down!  It was all I had.  Suddenly, I was in a “flop house” alone, crying in misery for the failure of my life.

--I awoke and told Pegi.  She said it sounded as if I was overcome by the thought that I might be a failure like my father--my deepest fear.

Of course, I wasn’t failing on the surface.  In fact, it seemed as if things were going our way--finally!  I was beginning to sense the disassembly of the world-construct that would take place over the next 15 years.  The new millennium would find me on a very different path for my wandering.  That new path would not be the Christian one that I had followed since 1970.  So, the next chapters will take us through the most dramatic and exciting events of our lives:

• 1985 - surprising success for our work in Zimbabwe 
• 1986  - birth of Abigail
• 1987 - resettlement in the USA 
• 1989 - success and dissatisfaction in business
• 1991 - passing of my mother, enrollment in graduate theological studies
• 1992 - passing of my father 
• 1994 - begin Ph.D. studies in World Religions
• 1997 - dissertation, graduation and move to teach in Singapore
• 1999 - return to USA, move to Chicago to pursue teaching/writing
• 2000 - publication of Messianic Jewish Congregations, dismissal of Christianity and return to a Jewish lifestyle and spirituality
• 2007 - Call me Grandpa:  the birth of my grandson, Aiden Levi Wasserman 
• 2008 - Rage Against Age - rediscovery of my love for classic rock
• 2009 - back to teaching World Religions

So, as you can see, there is a lot to discuss.  I hope you will keep up with me as I continue to wander down the path.  I have no idea where it will all go, but look forward to the journey.

Next:  A Triumphal Return