A Tale of Two Phone Calls

There was something about Wedza.  Maybe it was just rural Africa itself, but Pegi and I found ourselves at peace at the Hess’s farm.  We were out of the pressure cooker of competing ministries that was Harare--no competition for who had the best Sunday service, music group, attendance, or financial support from the US or UK.  There were no doctrinal disputes over charismata nor denominational traditions.  

The rural areas were so hungry for attention that we were welcomed by Christian and non-Christian alike.  Since the war, when mission stations had often been centers of activity for the “freedom fighters,” there had been little evangelistic ministry.  A few Methodist schools and Catholic clinics survived, but they were Christian in name only.  Although it was a totally different setting, people didn’t think any more about the name over the door than when one enters a Methodist, Catholic or Jewish hospital in any city in the US.  The name over the door only signified the denomination of the founding donors.

The charitable infrastructure in Wedza was in shambles.  The source of finance and energy was coming from the ruling ZANU-PF party.  On the surrounding white-owned farms, the charitable infrastructure was wholly dependent on the benevolence of the white farm-owners.  

The white farmers were nominally Christian, but committed Christians such as Dave Hess were few and far between.  There was a small group of white Christians who worshipped on Sundays in Marondera, about 45 minutes by car from Dave’s farm.  Ministry responsibilities were shared with Dave shouldering most of burden.  There were two Australians who ran a cattle farm about 30 minutes from the Hess Farm.  Together with Norman, we held a series of evangelistic meetings on their farm that led to a regular Sunday afternoon worship service.

Ministry on a Wedza farm

Sunday worship in Marondera

Soon, the excitement started to spread from worker to worker and farm to farm about what we were doing.  I don’t think it had much to do with our music or my teaching.  I think what caused the excitement was that we were genuinely concerned for the welfare of the African population.  Anyway, there was no competition for attention out there--show up and you had an attentive audience.  We showed up while so many others scrambled for prominence in Harare.

We found ourselves drawn more often and more strongly to Wedza as the weeks went by.  At the same time, we were less and less happy hanging around Harare and Chisipite Baptist.  After several months of alternating Sunday speaking responsibilities with John B at Chisipite, the congregation still couldn’t seem to make up its mind about calling a pastor.  

Out of the blue, their founding American missionary-pastor returned.  Of course, he was looking for a paycheck!  Rather than make a commitment, the congregation decided to use all three of us.  Now that was just a waste of resources.  Why have three people ministering to the needs of less than 50 people?  It seemed to us that it was time for us to move on and maybe even move out to Wedza where we were really needed.

The Two Phone Calls

The phones in Zimbabwe didn’t work very well.  The phone lines were old and the switching system was ancient.  Sometimes, your phone would just stop working for months at a time.  Even in Harare, you just couldn’t count on getting through by phone, so people were accustomed to just dropping by to say "hello."  There was always some hot tea and biscuits, if not a full meal available to visitors.  Phone service in the rural areas was even worse.  Dave Hess had a “party line” that he shared with several other farms in the area.  To get his own private line would require stringing a new cable at a cost to him of Z$7000.  

Phone Call One:  We were staying with Alistair and Sylvia Forbes in Harare during this time.  As were were considering what to do about Chisipite, we were thrilled that the ringing phone was actually for us!  It was Colin Taylor asking if we could drop by for the meeting in his home on Wednesday evening.  We happily agreed.  We always enjoyed his Wednesday evening youth group meetings where we typically helped Colin by leading the young people in singing.  

Walking in the door, we were surprised to see that none of the young people were there.  Instead, there were about 15 adult members of Chisipite.  We had just walked into a doctrinal ambush.

Apparently, while we had been ministering in Wedza, John B had been continuing to sow seeds of hatred and mistrust.  Most of the 15 adults were there to hold an inquisition into our beliefs with regard to charismatic spiritual gifts.  Never one to pass up a speaking opportunity, I was only to happy to expound in detail on the Bible’s teaching on the subject, my own experiences, and the lines of investigation that I was currently making into the subject.  

There wasn’t much they could say to counter my biblical arguments.   To me it wasn’t even really an issue of whether signs and wonders were valid ministry or psychological support mechanisms.  To me the real issue was respecting one another as fellow God-followers.  I used the opportunity to scold them for their suspicion and distrust of charismatic Christians, especially those from Rhema.  Either we were Christians or not--there was no room for discrimination one against another over differences in these doctrinal matters.  

After 45 minutes of give and take, it was clear that we had won the day.  However, the atmosphere of subterfuge was disturbing.  Here were a group of Christians who had it in their power to really make a positive impact for the kingdom of God and they were spending their time murmuring and criticizing.  We had had enough.

Pegi and I looked at each other, smiled and stood.  I picked up my guitar and walked out  announcing that we were resigning from all ministry responsibilities at Chisipite.  

Phone Call Two:  The next morning, I called Dave Hess in Wedza.  Telling him of the evenings events, he reiterated his invitation for us to come live on his farm and minister in Wedza.  A few hours later, we had moved into a cottage next to the main farm house.  What a relief to be out of that cauldron of competition and suspicion!

The cottage at the Hess Farm

Next:  The Tobacco Road

Taking Our Show On the Road

Our outdoor meeting was a small success compared to the claims of major ministries. But, it was a start, and not bad for a couple of independent operators who had very little support from the USA. That’s right--very little support! The promises from our Christian “supporters” at home remained unfulfilled. Yes, we had managed to raise the $2400 to pay for airline tickets, but that had been the end of it. If it hadn’t been for the hospitality of our Zimbabwean hosts, we would have nowhere to stay and nothing to eat.

How could we hope to compete for the attention and support of American Christians, especially when those who had promised to assist us refused to communicate with us. We wrote letters every day to our “friends” at home to no avail. We heard nothing. The week following the outdoor meeting at Chisipite, we finally received a package of mail from Arnold and Mary, the couple who had volunteered to run our American ministry affairs.

With great anticipation we opened the package to find several enclosed letters. None of it was good news. There was no news of additional support from our home church, nor from the 150 people on our mailing list to whom we had been sending monthly newsletters with personal notes to each. Instead, there was a note from our “pastor” saying that they would “consider supporting us in the future if there was good fruit from our ministry.”

Pegi and I realized that there was just no way to compete with the American television evangelists. How did our news of 27 converts stack up against the sensationalist claims of of tens of thousands “saved” in sports stadium venues. Nope, we would let the international ministries compete for American support. We only needed food, transport and a roof over our heads. Zimbabweans were more than happy to provide that kind of support as we ministered together with them to promote the kingdom of God.

Every day was a new opportunity for us to be co-workers with Zimbabweans to advance the kingdom of God. Each week we visited St Mary’s township where I led a bible study for about 30 women. Felix had personally introduced us to many of the local African ministries. We had invitations to speak in Harare churches every weekend and most Wednesday evenings. Although Chisipite was still making up their minds about a permanent pastor, they kept us busy in ministry to both the European and African congregations.

On Thursday mornings, I led a “school of ministry” for a half-dozen young men associated with the Chisipite African congregation. I believed working with small groups of motivated believers was the most effective way to not only spread the gospel message, but also to teach those who could in turn “disciple others also” (2 Tim 2:2). After all, Jesus had turned away from the multitudes to work with 12 men who in turn would change the course of religious history.

But, it was time for us to get out of Harare to the rural areas with their large “unreached and unchurched” African populations. Dave Hess had invited us to minister on his farm in Wedza. Felix had grown up in Wedza, so we decided that we should take our “show” on the road to Wedza first.

Two weeks after the Chisipite meeting, Felix, Pegi and I piled into the Alfa-Romeo that had been loaned to us and headed for Wedza. Our actual destination was the Hess farm, but Felix wanted us to see his childhood home first. As his father had passed away, Felix was the owner of a small group of brick and thatch rondavels. The property was outside of the Wedza business district on a hill top.

With Felix on the road to Wedza.

We left Harare about 8:00 am, arriving in Wedza about 9:30. The tarmac ended just past the Wedza bus stop, about 5 miles from Felix’s place. No sooner than we had turned off onto a dirt road that Felix saw a lone woman sitting in front of a large boulder. He had me stop the car. We got out and approached the woman who looked to be in her early sixties. As Felix spoke to her in Shona, he told us she was deaf.

Making signs to her, he asked her if we could pray for her healing. She seemed to understand, bowing her head and closing her eyes. Then he turned to Pegi and me and instructed us to lay our hands on her and pray for her to be healed. Now, we had never done anything like that before! We were open to the possibility of the miraculous, but were personally skeptical. We had been to countless “healing” services, never seeing a verifiable miracle.

Felix insisted that God would heal her, so we placed our hands on her head and meekly asked God to give her back her hearing. After a couple of minutes, when it was evident that nothing had happened, we backed away. Felix approached the woman and spoke to her softly in Shona. She turned and replied to him in Shona, attesting that she could hear again for the first time in years.

Well, we were surprised--we never expected anything like this! So, was she really healed or not? There is no way to know for sure, but she sure seemed happy about the turn of events. Felix sat down with her and shared the story of Jesus with her. A few minutes later, she was praying herself inviting Jesus to be her savior. So, maybe she had only been partially deaf, or not deaf at all. Who knows? But, did it really matter? What seemed to matter was that she was pleased and now claimed to be a member of God’s kingdom. To me, that is all that really counted.  


This was the first of several instances in which people claimed to be healed either as a directly or indirectly associated with our ministry. At the time, we remained skeptical, but began to report these "miracles" in our newsletters as this seemed to be what many of our "supporters" expected in the way of "good fruit," especially our American charismatic friends.  We will discuss this as we begin to travel "The Tobacco Road."

About another half mile and the road became impassable. We got out of the car and walked for about 15 minutes to Felix’s homestead. Taking in the beautiful scenery for a few minutes, we headed back to the car and arrived at the Hess farm just before noon.

Hiking the trail to Felix’s home in Wedza.

The view from Felix’s place in Wedza.

Pegi teaching at Hess Farm with Norman interpreting.

Pegi with Norman and the kids at the Hess Farm.

After lunch Dave took us down to the worker’s compound where his 30 farm workers and their families lived. Once there, we met Norman Kaliombe. Norman was Malawian-born and his father had been a Baptist pastor. For the last few years, Norman had been working on Dave’s dairy farm. But, when Dave discovered that Norman had graduated from a bible school, he took him off dairy duties and paid him as a full-time minister to the other workers. For the last few months, Norman had been leading bible studies on surrounding farms.

He, Felix and I became instant friends and began discussing how we could begin evangelism and planting churches on each of the farms bordering Wedza. Norman was a quiet man and proficient in leading studies. He welcomed Felix’s evangelism skills and my ministry instruction. Before the afternoon was over, we had plans in place to reach a large portion of Wedza with evangelism, church "plants" and ministry training.

As a beginning, Norman gathered all the women and children for a spontaneous bible lesson from Pegi. She quickly put together some visual aids. After she, Felix and I led off with some Shona choruses, she taught her first class in Africa.

This show was on the road!

Next: A Tale of Two Phone Calls

Hold the Rain!

The day finally arrived for our first organized attempt at evangelism. We had tied 50 large posters to trees, placed 200 smaller ones in store windows, and passed out 1000 hand bills. Our borrowed PA system was in place and we had placed about 50 chairs in the lawn in front of Chisipite Baptist Church. We had no idea how many people would attend. We had picked a Saturday afternoon as this was a time when most domestic servants had time off. And since Chisipite was a “white” neighborhood, the only African participation would be from domestic workers in the area.

Below: The banner faced the main road into downtown Harare. The church building is behind the trees.

Playing my 12-string guitar, Pegi and I joined Felix in the Shona choruses he had taught us. As we sang, a small crowd composed of Europeans and Africans from the Chisipite congregation took their seats. The church property was surrounded by a waist-high chain link fence. Behind that fence, near the lawn where we had gathered, were about 100 - 150 African onlookers. Some were singing along with Felix. Others waited patiently for the preaching to begin. However, they would not pass beyond the fence onto the church property. It was almost as if that tiny fence was an insurmountable barrier.

There was something about the reputation of that church that made Africans feel unwelcome. Of course, we didn’t have time to consider all this. We were focused on getting through our program to the all important preaching and “altar call” for people to come forward and pray to receive Christ as ‘Lord and Savior’.

Left: Forbes family with whom we were staying.

Right: Felix preaching to the brave souls who entered the church property!

I don’t remember the content of Felix’s message. What I do remember is directing Felix not to have an “altar call.” I was concerned that the crowd would not come past the fence. So, I told Felix to instruct people to pray to receive Christ right where they were standing. [I had always been uncomfortable with the psychology of the altar call. I felt that the pressure of public attestation interfered with the right to privacy and confused faith with outward signs. To my way of thinking the outward sign was the water baptism that would come subsequent to faith.]

Once people had prayed, we invited them to join us at the church building for few moments of counsel with one of the church members. We were happily surprised to see 27 people come past the fence and attest to their new faith. We were also passing out free Shona bibles to the new believers and anyone else who wanted them. Pegi went to the microphone to announce the free bibles and was suddenly caught in a crush of people who clamored forward. We distributed over 100 bibles in just a few minutes.

Probably the silliest thing we did that day had to do with rain. Since we were holding the meeting outside, I had been very worried that an afternoon thundershower would completely wash out our meeting. Just after Felix finished his sermon, it began to sprinkle and dark clouds threatened to interrupt at the most critical juncture--the invitation to pray to receive Christ and entrance into a relationship with God. So, I got together with a farmer from Wedza who made the three hour car trip to assist. We asked God to hold back the rain! To my total surprise, the rain stopped almost immediately, the clouds parted and the sun began to shine.

That was great, right? Well, yes in a selfish way, as it kept us dry that afternoon so that we were able to talk to those 27 people. But, I began to fret over the next few days when the rain showers didn’t resume. I began to worry that, in stopping the rain for my own needs, that somehow I had made the the years of drought conditions more acute. It was silly to have prayed like that and even sillier to worry. What I didn’t realize was that it was the end of rainy season anyway! That is why the rains didn’t resume--rainy season was over. I think I had begun to be subconsciously influenced by my charismatic friends who believed that Christians could perform all kinds of signs and wonders. I was only kidding myself, but I didn’t get the joke until some years later.

So, rain-stopping silliness aside, what had we accomplished? One thing was certain that all the frustration, all the difficulties, and all the opposition from John B, Morgan and others who felt that we were just crazy Americans, paled in the face of the overwhelming success of that day’s ministry. The next day, at the Sunday afternoon service, there were 17 of the 27 new believers in attendance with their families. That almost doubled the size of the African congregation.

The steam had just gone out of the opposition and we were buoyed in our confidence. Even if we never got a dime of support from America, even if the Baptists wouldn’t have us as a pastor, even if Rhema and the other charismatic ministries didn’t share our vision for African ministry, and even if immigration sent us home,--even anything, we had accomplished something of eternal value for the kingdom of God! We had been instrumental in introducing 27 people to faith in the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. No one could take that away from us.

Of course, over the years I have wondered about those 27 people and the nearly 5000 others who professed faith in response to our ministry from 1983-87. Especially as I came to see more holes in the theology of Christianity, I worried about what we modeled for those new believers.

After all, I no longer consider myself a Christian, but have returned to a Jewish spirituality. So, was the teaching we did of any value at all?

After considering this question for two dozen years, I have come full circle in my thinking. Yes, we introduced them to a loving and compassionate God. We modeled acceptance and a life of simple trust in God’s character. There is nothing wrong with that. Indeed, set the Christian doctrine aside, set the Jewish or Muslim doctrine aside. It is still all about putting your trust in the same God as did Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Jesus and countless others throughout the millennia. As Martha Stewart would say, “That’s a good thing!”

Next: Taking Our Show On the Road

79 — Overturning the Rhodesian Paradigm in a Church

Chisipite Baptist was on the outskirts of the city. It was also on the outskirts of the vibrant life that Christians were experiencing in the centrally located ministries such as Rhema, Christian Life Centre, Faith Ministries and Family of God. Even mainstream denominational churches were experiencing a bit of a rebirth in Harare as they became multiracial.

You would assume, therefore, that Chisipite would be excited at the prospect of holding an evangelistic event on their grounds. There was excitement, but not of the kind for which we hoped. Instead of anticipation of dramatically expanding the size of the African congregation, there was disinterest on the part of the white congregation except for the three deacons. John B attempted to marginalize me by asserting that I was only interested in the African work. For that reason, he should become the senior pastor and leave me to work only with the African congregation. John was thinking like a Rhodesian. In his mind, it was still up to whites to oversee the affairs of Africans. The African pastor, Morgan, should have reveled in the increase in his responsibilities and focused on preparations for evangelistic effort. Instead of taking an active role in a series of events that would conceivably improve his status and income, he joined John B in a scheme to defame me with the white congregation.

While Pegi and I were hanging posters and passing out handbills, John B and Morgan went behind the deacons’ backs to organize a meeting to “examine” my beliefs. It was their contention that since I was friendly with people from Rhema and was working with Felix who believed in praying for the healing of the sick, that I was a “threat” to Chisipite. John and Morgan asserted that Felix had even “spoken in tongues” during a Sunday afternoon service in the African congregation. Somehow, this endangered the future of the congregation.

Fundamentalist Christians often suffer from an irrational fear of “tongues” or any kind of charismatic ministry. As a new Jesus Freak, I had been warned to “stay away from Charismatics and Pentecostals . . . they are dangerous!” During the nine years I was associated with Berachah Church and RB Thieme, I embraced that fear. I was to discover during my own “charismatic” period from 1983-87, that the source of the fear was its illogic.

Faith itself is extra-logical. Faith cannot be rationalized, deduced or formulated. As, the scholar Rudolf Otto explained, faith is “another way of knowing.” It is not subject to the mind. It is “other.” Although I can narrate the events that have surrounded my own experiences of “faith,” I cannot explain them--no one can. Miracles, signs, and wonders also seem to defy rational explanation. That is what makes them “a wonder.”

When apparently rational people encounter unexplainable events, they have two choices. They can either believe in their reality or dismiss them. For the average evangelical, the seemingly miraculous ministry of speaking in tongues and healing was rejected. Unable to “believe” in their reality, many evangelicals dismissed such charismatic ministry as illegitimate. For those evangelicals, such as John B, who saw themselves as “guardians of the true faith,” charismatic ministry was not only invalid, but a dangerous heresy that would pollute the true character of a ministry. In such a mindset, in the manner of generations of inquisitors before them, John B and his camp followers sought to expunge the cancerous heresy from the body of Christ.

If the inquisitor can’t understand it, it must be dangerous. Therefore, the carriers of this vermin must be themselves purged. Of course, you probably recognize that such an attitude is not confined to matters of faith. Turn on the news and listen to the self-appointed guardians of truth who populate the cable channels as they decry anything that they themselves cannot rationalize. For them, it makes no difference if the subjects are political parties, social issues, foreign affairs, immigration, economics, education, etc. It seems that whatever they can not understand must be evil!

It was pretty clear that Pegi and I were not understood by John B, Morgan and their willing followers. A special meeting was called to discuss our collusion with Felix, “the evil tongues-speaker.” We declined to attend our own lynching! Instead, we continued our preparations for the upcoming evangelistic events.

Afterward, we heard this interesting anecdote. The so-called “tongues” that Felix was accused of uttering had happened on a previous Sunday. Felix had been interpreting for me into Shona. In his excitement, sometimes he would stutter just a bit as he searched for the correct interpretation of my American experience into something that made sense to a largely uneducated group of domestic servants. It was this stuttering as Felix got stuck between English and Shona, “Uh, uh, the, the, . . .” that Morgan and John assumed was “tongues.”

Of course, Felix often prayed in a so-called “tongues prayer language,” but would never do so in the role of an interpreter. The concept of a special prayer language is an indirect concept inferred from Paul’s writings. Many Pentecostal/Charismatic Christians vouch for its validity nonetheless. Interestingly, the original purpose of “sign” of tongues in the New Testament in Acts 2 was actual interpretation of the gospel message into languages other than the local Aramaic dialect. In that case, Jewish disciples of Jesus were speaking to the gathered Jewish Diaspora in Jerusalem for the Feast of Pentecost. These Jewish disciples spoke to diaspora Jews in their own native dialects, dialects of which the speakers themselves were ignorant. So, if somehow a miracle had happened that would have given Felix the interpretation to this African audience of my experience as a diaspora Jew, such a role reversal would at least be interesting!

There was nothing of interest in Felix’s stuttering, except for John B and Morgan as they searched for a way to stop us from ministering at Chisipite. They were right about one thing, however, we were seeking to overturn the current paradigm for ministry at Chisipite. We sought to inject life into a dying church. We taught both the white and black congregations how to praise and worship God using modern music. We replaced dusty hymnbooks with freshly mimeographed chorus sheets. I employed enthusiastic teaching, freely moving away from the pulpit into the congregation. Instead of speaking in third person monologues, I shared personal experiences and directly engaged the listener, often drawing the audience into the discussion.

Instead of a sleepy Sunday experience, Chisipite began to vibrate with activity. Attendance increased at all services and consequently, people began to give sacrificially. I discouraged the tired practice of tithing. Instead, I encouraged “giving from the heart.” In short order, the offerings increased as people freely donated their time and resources for the furtherance of the kingdom of God. To me, the most significant change would be for the African congregation to break free from the Rhodesian paradigm of control by the whites.

As the date of the Saturday evangelistic event approached, Morgan decided to leave the ministry. Actually, it was leave or be fired. After the aborted attempt to oust us, Morgan found himself the focus of his own congregation’s attention. Although we had counseled him not to borrow money from his congregation, things had only gotten worse. In addition, he had begun a side business of questionable morality. Members of the African congregation told the white deacons that they were no longer happy with Morgan. They expressed their willingness to participate in the financial support of their own pastor, but not if that pastor was appointed by the white congregation. They wanted Morgan to leave. He had been hired and appointed over them by the white congregation. They wanted to be involved in “calling” a pastor whom they could trust. When faced with the ultimatum to subject himself to the governance of his own congregation, Morgan decided to leave the ministry.

With Morgan gone and John’s subterfuge “on hold” for the time being, it was time to demonstrate that Jesus was still “alive” at Chisipite Baptist Church.

Next: Hold the Rain!

The Beginnings of Ministry

Armed with another 60 days on our visitor’s visa, it was time to get serious about doing something! We had traveled thousands of miles, dealt with seemingly endless anxiety concerning our visas, been both welcomed and dismissed by other ministries in Zimbabwe,--it was time to make hay while the visa sun still shined.

First the Taylors had welcomed us, making a place for us in their guest room and at their dinner table. Now, we were staying with Alistair and Sylvia Forbes, the second of the three deacons overseeing the Chisipite Baptist Church. The third deacon, Allen West, actually lent us a car to drive for several months. Talk about Christian hospitality!

The Chisipite congregation was regularly inviting us to lead Sunday worship and speak. They were still “considering” their options for a permanent pastor, but were giving me all the ministry opportunities I desired. I began alternating responsibilities with John B for the Sunday morning services. That left me free every other Sunday to visit other congregations.

I began working on a regular basis with the African pastor and his congregation. [John B wasn’t the least bit interested in African ministry.] The African congregation was composed primarily of the domestic servants of the white congregation and a handful of domestic servants from the surrounding Chisipite suburb.

The pastor, Morgan, was working under the old Rhodesian paradigm. He was paid about the same as the domestic servants in the congregation, around Z$30/month. He made his home in a small cottage on the church grounds. This, at least, was nicer than the quarters provided to domestic servants. Of course, Morgan was chronically short of cash. African pastors must be able to feed the constant stream of visitors who come to them for counsel as well as meet the needs of his own family.

I intervened on two fronts. First, I sought to negotiate a raise in his salary from the white congregation. I also hoped to encourage the congregation to begin making donations to the church for his support. In the Rhodesian paradigm, Africans would typically place one cent in the offering each week. Although I didn’t accept the teaching of tithing, (one tenth of income for the support of Israel’s Levitical priesthood), for Christians, I did believe in giving from the heart. One cent was what a parent might give to a child to drop in the offering. Treating Africans as little more than children was part of the old Rhodesia. In Zimbabwe, each adult should behave as a fully enfranchised citizen. It was time to start supporting their pastor as adults. That meant giving from their hearts--more than just a ceremonial penny.

Stuck in the pay scale of Rhodesia, Morgan’s income was not sufficient. As a consequence, he had resorted to all kinds of schemes to supplement his income, including selling goods to and borrowing money from his congregation. Consequently, the 15-20 people who attended on Sundays viewed him with suspicion. There was no way they were motivated to give him anything more than a few cents.

The leaders of the white congregation balked at the idea of increasing Morgan’s pay because he really did little more than speak on Sunday afternoons in his role as pastor. I understood their concern and had witnessed Morgan’s inactivity. Well, let’s give him more to do by increasing the size of the congregation! It was time to organize an evangelistic effort on behalf of the African church.

In consultation with Felix, who by this time had resigned from Family of God in order to be a full-time evangelist, we began planning a Saturday afternoon outdoor rally on the grounds of the church. Pegi and I would assist Felix in leading the Shona choruses. I had my guitar and we had both learned a number of Christian choruses in Shona. Felix would be the speaker. He would speak in English with simultaneous interpretation into English by Alex, one of the members of the Chisipite African congregation. Felix explained that urban Africans preferred to be spoken to in English at a public event. Since English was the white man’s language, it still carried a certain authority. The Shona interpretation would be key however. Without the interpretation, most of the crowd would not understand the finer points of the message.

The “crusade” as we called it, based on Billy Graham’s evangelistic crusades, was a month away. [This was long before I had my Ph.D. in World Religions. I was totally ignorant of the pejorative meaning of the word “crusade,” especially for those of the Muslim faith. Oy, there was so much of which I was ignorant! If you ever write your own memoirs you will know what I mean.]

To carry this off, it would require a lot of ground work. It wouldn’t do just to set up a PA and start preaching! We would need to spread the word in the Chisipite suburb. One of the members of the congregation who owned a printing company donated multicolor posters which could be placed on trees and in windows of shops. In addition, he printed up 1000 handbills for distribution to advertise the event. After a number of abortive attempts, we finally secured a PA system from Africa Enterprises that was sufficient for our needs. We had to borrow a couple of microphones from Rhema and another borrowed PA was just not powerful enough to use outdoors.

You would think that a single meeting on the grounds of an insignificant Baptist church located in an insignificant suburb of Harare would attract neither attention nor opposition. We had very low expectations for this event. After all, it was our maiden attempt at evangelistic ministry. And, the small white congregation of 50 was hidden in a suburb that was a good 20 minutes’ drive from downtown Harare. There was no nearby African township. The only Africans in the area were domestic servants. We really had no hopes of more than a couple of dozen people showing up.

This was not going to be a significant event in the history of the kingdom of God. It was really just a trial run for us. As a consequence, we had no idea of the troubles that would plague us, the opposition to the event that would be mounted and the resistance we would face, not from unbelievers or “the Devil”, but from members of the Chisipite congregation.

Next: Overturning the Rhodesian Paradigm in a Church

Fun and Games with Zimbabwe Immigration--Again!!!

After my two-day career as a programmer in Zimbabwe, it was time to visit Immigration again.  We were coming to the end of our extended visitor’s visa.  Frankly, I was tired of the conflicting “stories” I had received from the Zimbabwe Consulate in D.C., the low-level clerk at Immigration when we first arrived, the daughter of the Chief Immigration Officer, and everyone else who claimed to hold the keys to our future in Zimbabwe.

To be fair, Zimbabwe was in a confusing swirl of constantly changing policies as the Rhodesian Front had given way to first Zimbabwe-Rhodesia and now Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.  It was just three years since the transition from white minority rule to black majority rule.  Significant white flight had left government ministries and businesses without experience at all levels.  There had been a war after the “war” in which Mugabe’s Mashona armies laid waste to the Matabele supporters of Joshua Nkomo in southern Zimbabwe.  In addition, the Rhodesian-financed Renamo guerillas who had fought against Samora Machel’s communist government in Mozambique had been raiding the eastern border areas.  

Former members of the disbanded Rhodesian Light Infantry were now fighting side by side with former terrorists in the new Zimbabwe Army.  The Rhodesian African Rifles had been used to subdue “rebellious” Matabele supporters of Nkomo before being themselves disbanded.  The Zimbabwe Air Force was also merged with pilots trained on aircraft in Soviet-bloc countries.  

Both whites and blacks sought to ignore a century of white hegemony and 15 years of bush war.  Unfortunately, some of the emergency war powers enacted by Ian Smith’s government were now being used against white Zimbabweans to establish black dominance.  Bishop Abel Muzorewa, the prime minister of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia (1979) was imprisoned in the maximum security Chikirubi prison.  He had been critical of Mugabe.  

There was an undercurrent of fear among blacks and whites which surfaced whenever Mugabe’s armored motorcade drove through the streets.  All cars immediately pulled to the curb as his armored Mercedes sped past.  He was escorted by trucks bristling with the automatic weapons and wild glare of 5 Brigade soldiers whose reputation for brutality had begun with their North Korean instructors.

Farmers and business owners had to get permission from the Workers’ Committee before they could dismiss an employee.  Although the government continued to maintain a free-enterprise style economy, Marxist rhetoric dominated the political discourse.

For the demobilized white members of the Rhodesian Security Forces, jobs were scarce as they were for unemployed whites in general.  There was an understandable effort to give preference to black job candidates.  Nevertheless, the discrimination against whites engendered greater insecurity and increased emigration, especially to apartheid South Africa. 

And then here we were, former members of the Rhodesian Army, trying to get permission to work as “missionaries.”  Even the role of the missionary was confusing.  During the war, many missionaries had been tacit supporters of the guerrilla forces.  Now, many of the missionaries seemed to be sympathetic to the ways of old Rhodesia, especially Americans influenced by Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell.  There was no way that Immigration could know that we were apolitical.  Indeed, since most missionaries were American and all but a handful were white, there was justifiable suspicion as to what our real “mission” was.  

As a recruit to the Rhodesian Army in 1977, I was suspected of being a CIA operative.  In 1983 Zimbabwe, I was now suspect as a missionary CIA operative.  Is it any wonder that we kept getting different stories at Immigration?

Anyway, a face-to-face discussion was warranted.  I wanted to talk to someone directly to explain exactly what we needed to do to stay in Zimbabwe.  

We took our place in the queue behind a fifty-something African-American dressed in a dark suit and tie.  As we waited, I struck up a conversation.  He was originally from Philadelphia and had been in Zimbabwe for several months as the head of a large humanitarian relief agency.  He too was seeking a five-year residence permit, having gone through several cycles of visitor visas by traveling back and forth to his office in New York.  He was frustrated with the same confusing morass of advice and regulations.    More importantly, every return trip to New York was draining much needed funds for relief work on the border of Zimbabwe and Mozambique.  [South Africa was not a good option for visa return trips if you were not white in 1983.  Mandela was not released from prison until 1987.]  

I listened as he spoke with the clerk behind the counter who demanded a copy of his university transcripts before considering his application for residency.  My American friend replied that he would have to contact his 80 year old mother to see if she could find the copies and ship them to him.  Otherwise, it would take more than a month to get transcripts from the schools themselves.  If his mother couldn’t get the transcripts to him within the week, he would once again have to return to New York.  He told the clerk:  “If I have to go back to New York, that means that we place the 3 million dollar school building project on hold until I get back.”

Unfazed, the clerk dismissed him and turned to me with a snippy “Next!”

I handed over our passports and asked for another 30 day extension on our visitor’s visa.  Mulling over our documents, he informed me that an extension would require authorization from a senior officer.  He instructed me to come through to the back and have a seat to speak to his superior.  Actually, this was what I was hoping for--someone who could hear my story and tell me exactly what I needed to do.  I was hoping that we would not be forced to return to the States--we couldn’t afford that.

After about 30 minutes, I was ushered into the private office of a black officer who actually offered me a cup of tea!  That was a pleasant change from the officiousness of the clerk.

I poured out my heart to him, telling him the whole story of my having come to Rhodesia five years before, my discomfort with the discrimination and segregation that I had seen, and my desire to share the kingdom of God with rural Zimbabweans.  After hearing of my frustration with the confusing information that I had received, he extended our visas another 90 days.  

Then he gave me a tip.  You know, you don’t have to have a residence permit to stay here in Zimbabwe.  As long as you are not taking employment in Zimbabwe and get your finances through gifts to your ministry, you can stay here for up to six months at a time as a visitor.  And, it is not necessary for you to go back to the States.  You can just go to South Africa for a week and then come back on another visitor visa.  Then, if you are offered employment by a church or mission organization, you can still apply for residency while you are here as a visitor.

As I left his office, I couldn’t help smiling.  Somehow, the Lord had brought me together with a sympathetic official.  I wondered if he were a Christian.  I knew that Felix’s Family of God ministry had touched the lives of many of the new African urban elites.  There was just no way to know for sure, but I was reassured that we had not erred in telling the whole truth of our original intent to fight in the Rhodesian Army and the change of heart which had led us back to Zimbabwe to work with those we had previously sought to destroy.

We were finding that the truth was more powerful than prejudice or a history of bad blood.  It was as if the mercy in our hearts caused others to be merciful to us--not a bad basis for ministry!

Next:  The Beginnings of Ministry

Computer Programmer or Pastor?

I had a job!  NCR computers confirmed that their chief personnel officer had returned from holiday and approved my immediate start as a programmer.  Not only did this mean that our financial woes were over, as this job would provide a good salary and a company car, but that my residence permit was certain to be granted.  After all, this had been the advice received from the Chief Immigration Officer’s daughter who had vetted me for the the NCR position.

My work would finish each day at 4:00 leaving weekends free to minister in the rural areas.  The NCR job made Chisipite’s torturous pastor search path irrelevant.  They were also considering a young local bible school graduate in some sort of ministry role with the white congregation.  I wasn’t at all interested in having this young kid hanging around questioning my every move. 

John B. was a somber and recently married novice in ministry.  He had no practical or life experience and was what you would call a “legalist.”  Legalist is a religious term applied to self-righteous, judgmental, self-appointed arbiters of all things Christian.  Legalists hold to a literal interpretation of religious dogma, insisting that any deviation from their own understanding is heresy.  John’s dour-faced, critical opinions voiced his disapproval at every opportunity.  He did not care about the African congregation.  He had the typical white Rhodesian attitude of racial superiority.  

He and his sadsack wife took every opportunity to criticize Pegi and me.  According to them, we were typically over-enthusiastic Americans.  John, with the wisdom acquired in a six month bible school course, determined that we were  American usurpers, spiritually suspect because we were “friendly” with people from Rhema.  And, John would whisper, “You know they fellowship with charismatics!   If Jeff is allowed to minister at Chisipite, he will bring in charismatic heresies.”

Well, he was right about one thing, we did fellowship with charismatics.  We tried to befriend anyone who considered themselves followers of God.  And with regard to Rhema, we loved their upbeat contemporary praise and worship.  It was in the same style to which we had been drawn in Louisville and was the reason that we had become members of a “charismatic” formerly Southern Baptist church.  

[Music has always had a strong impact on me.  I have a special affinity for Classic Rock and play guitar in a Woodstock Era “cover” band, Rage Against Age.  Just last week, Pegi bought me a poster that reads, “Music is what feelings sound like!”  Praise and worship allows the worshipper to express feelings in ways that go way beyond simple words.  For me, the melody is more important than the lyrics.  In fact, my wife and daughter both tease me because I never ever hear the lyrics of a song.  The melody and chordal arrangement always overpower the words for me.]

Colin Taylor, one of the three “deacons” responsible for governing the church, was the de facto youth pastor.  On our first visit to his home, he had Pegi and me lead the youth group in some contemporary choruses that we had learned from our “charismatic” church experiences in the States.  Colin, who himself played guitar and usually led the singing, liked this fresh approach over singing century-old hymns.  On the following Sunday, I conducted the Sunday morning service.  Pegi and I printed up sheets with the words to the choruses and led the adult congregation in praise and worship before my sermon.  

It was as if someone had shined a floodlight on this tired white congregation.  They sang with enthusiasm, joyfully pouring out their hearts to God.  Fifteen years of bush war, a new African-led government, and the pressure of its Marxist agenda was temporarily moved aside in fifteen minutes of simple and heartfelt worship.  

The only ones who did not seem to be enjoying themselves was one unhappy couple in the back, John and his wife.  For the time being, they withdrew to their whispering.  They would cause us as much heartburn as they could over the next six months.

Reporting to NCR for my first day of work, I spent some time with Personnel filling out the requisite employee forms.  Most important was finalizing my application to Immigration for my residence permit.  It was taken straight over to the Immigration Ministry for processing.  After a short tour of the office, I was introduced to my desk, some co-workers and the computer system that needed my attention.

Back in Louisville, I had written a suite of accounting and inventory software for the newly emerging IBM Personal Computer.  There was very little in the way of packaged software for these “personal computers” in the early 80s, so I found a niche market creating customized software for small businesses.  

Jeff and Danny - Computer Solutions (1983)

Pegi with a tip for the “master” programmer!  (1983)

NCR had developed a personal microcomputer for bank tellers.  It was programmed in BASIC using an approach very similar to the one that I had developed for the IBM PC.  The person who had coded the program for the teller micros had left Zimbabwe for Great Britain soon after the transition to black majority rule.  Consequently, my job was to maintain and expand the Teller PC’s functionality.

I spent my first day pouring over the instruction manual for the hardware.  Tomorrow morning, I would print out the code and begin to trace out the various loops and conditional steps as well as the interface with the mainframe computer.  

This first day was a very different experience for me.  Not only was I in Africa, but I was working for a large corporation.  I had always either run my own small business or worked in sales.  I had never been a cog in corporate machinery.  For me, this new job was pressure-free as I need not concern myself with sales, marketing, nor expense management.  I could just come to work for eight hours each day and go home.  This was easy!

We were staying at the Taylor’s home for a few weeks, and my first work day being a Wednesday, that meant another youth group meeting in the Taylor’s home after supper.  Once again, we led the praise and worship, drawing even closer to the Taylor family and the young people from the congregation.  

After the kids left, Colin asked if I would speak every other Sunday at Chisipite.  I was only too happy to agree.  He also forwarded a request from the African pastor to speak to the African congregation on this coming Sunday afternoon between the morning and evening white services.  And, of course, they wanted us to lead the praise and worship at all three Sunday services that week.  For the African service, Felix agreed to come lead the Shona choruses that we had only begun to learn.  Felix would then be the interpreter for my message.  Energized by all this good news, I got a good night’s sleep for my second day at NCR.

Felix leading praise and worship at Chisipite.  Pegi at bottom right.

Thursday morning I went straight to my desk to begin my analysis of the programming of the teller microcomputer.  I had not done much programming in BASIC, preferring instead to use a structured programming language.  In those early days of microcomputer programming, nothing was documented.  And since microcomputers had not yet found corporate acceptance, those who programmed them tended to be independent-minded and unschooled in standard protocols.  Working on micros was an art rather than a science.  And BASIC left everything up to the artist.  

As a successor “artist”, I was totally dependent on documentation by the original programmer to unravel the mystery of his/her coding.  In this situation, there was no documentation!  That meant I had to unearth the meaning of every variable in every line of code.  It was like trying to solve a crossword puzzle where the clue 12 across was a nine letter word for “aspdgiuegoellke in the fernettenasabig” and no clue as to what “aspdgiuegoellke” or  “fernettenasabig” were!

After a few hours of tracing out loops, I could see the basic patterns, but I was beginning to get a headache from the impossibility of the task before me.  I asked my co-workers for documentation.  They weren’t aware of any.  I checked and rechecked the hardware manuals--no help there!  I rifled through my desk and found a few notes that made even less sense than “aspdgiuegoellke in the fernettenasabig”!

Well, it was time for lunch--maybe nourishment would help me unearth the mystery.  Returning from lunch, my manager asked me to stop by his office.  He told me that Immigration had already replied and that they would not even consider my application unless I returned to the USA to file it!  He handed me a check for two days work and told me that they had been ordered by Immigration not to continue my employment.

The sudden change of fortune surprised NCR and especially the daughter of the Immigration Chief.  Apparently, he was now sharing his authority with a recently appointed member of the ruling ZANU-PF.  The last thing this ZANU official wanted was to approve the application of a white foreigner.  In his mind, I was stealing an opportunity from a Zimbabwean black.  No matter that there was no black Zimbabwean who had the requisite training or experience to do the job--they sure didn’t want an American to get the job!

Actually, I was relieved.  Even a steak at lunch had not alleviated the frustration of facing that mysterious code.  I could not imagine the constant agony of trying to unravel someone else’s code for forty hours a week!  I hadn’t come to Africa to be a programmer--I had come to Africa to serve the Lord.  Felix was right--maybe I should actively pursue the position at Chisipite.  Now, it seemed I had no choice.

I was confident that the congregation would choose me over John B.  I had heard him speak on a Sunday evening--Oy, it was empty and boring.  Pegi and I had led the congregation in worship, so they were primed for his message.  It was, well, he didn’t really have a message.  It was just a poorly crafted sermon that he had probably written for one of his bible school classes.  The congregation had to be wakened from their stupor at the end.  Sad, very sad indeed.  They really did need us!

But what about this requirement that we return to the USA before applying for residency, even with a letter of employment?  

Next:  Fun and Games with Zimbabwe Immigration--Again!!!

Darkness and FOG - Confessions of a Wandering Jew

After touring the apartment, we walked a few blocks with Charles to the apartment home of his pastor. A knock on the door opened into a sitting room with at least a dozen twenty-something African males and females sitting on sofas or on floor cushions. A couple of places on the sofa were cleared for us. Once seated, we were served cups of milky tea and buttered bread slices. Neither the pastor nor his wife were home, but the apartment was bustling with conversation with a constant flow of traffic expecting “Pastor Felix” to return at any moment.

While we waited, we were introduced around the room. We met Charles’ fiance. She was soon to leave for Kiev for university. There were several young men and women who worked in various business offices downtown, Felix’s brother who was a detective with the Harare police, Sparks-a former ZANU-PF Political Commissar, and a tall gentleman who had recently returned to Zimbabwe from some specialized pilot’s training in Moscow. He was one of the most highly trained African members of the new Zimbabwe Air Force, having received his MiG 23 training during the war. This was my first direct encounter with someone from the ZANLA/ZIPRA forces that I had come to Rhodesia to fight in 1977.

As the introductions circled the room, I noticed that the young man seated next to us was holding his right leg straight out in front of him. It was apparent that he had lost his leg and was still becoming accustomed to his artificial one. I asked him where he lost his leg, not wanting to ask him “how” he lost it. I assumed that he had stepped on a land mine during the war rather than losing it in a vehicle accident. He answered, “In Mozambique.” That told me that, he too, was a former freedom fighter in the Communist forces that I had joined the Rhodesian Army to fight five years earlier.

My mood darkened a bit as I realized that we were sitting in the midst of a potentially hostile crowd. These were the citizens of the new Zimbabwe. They represented the emerging urban African middle class and certainly would not be very sympathetic to someone who had come to their country five years before to support white minority rule! When was Pastor Felix going to return? I was worried that these young Christians from Family of God (FOG) might be in a fog with regard to their relationship with whites and especially white Americans who had supported Rhodesia. Could they still be recovering from the fog of war? Could there be dangerous darkness lurking in the fog of FOG?

But, no sooner that these worries darkened my spirit, the fog was dispelled by the amputee. Turning to me and reached around to hug me as a “brother in Christ” welcoming us to Zimbabwe. Then, the MiG pilot came over and started up a friendly conversation and showed me the handshake that had been used by supporters of the freedom fighters. We found that this handshake was now the greeting common to all African Zimbabweans. You shake normally, then reach up and grasp around the thumb, and then return to the standard handshake. Shaking everyone’s hand in this manner, we were suddenly members of the family.

It was as if the sun shone through my dark mood and the fog was burnt away. We were accepted--even loved!

The front door opened and there was Pastor Felix who came straight over to us with a huge smile on his face. Somehow I knew that we were to be best friends, partners in a common cause--long lost brothers reunited. It made no difference that five years before we would have been enemies. Two followers of the Lord hugged each other.

A few minutes later, Felix’s wife, Spiwe returned from a her day working at a local bank. She and Pegi found themselves instant sisters. A new family had been born. Two American members of the “family of God” were united with Zimbabwean members of the “Family of God” ministry.

Right: Felix and Spiwe Mukonwengwe

The apartment was overpopulated now that more of Felix’s congregation dropped by at the end of their work day. Everyone wanted to speak with Felix about something. Felix grabbed me by the hand to go for a walk. [In Africa, African men often hold hands while walking. It is a symbol of male friendship.]

We were gone for close to an hour as Felix and I got to know each other. After hearing my story, including my reasoning for having come to Rhodesia as a soldier, Felix poured out his heart’s burden for the unevangelized rural masses. His ministry had been focused on the urban centers. He and his co-founder of F.O.G., Andrew, now had churches in Harare and Bulawayo with memberships of over 7,000. Felix had been the primary evangelist with Andrew as the senior pastor once the churches were established.

Right: Jeff eating sadza with Felix and Spiwe

In recent months, as the ministry had prospered financially, Felix had become concerned with the way Andrew was managing the ministry bank accounts. Felix wanted to begin to establish new congregations in the rural Communal Lands (the former Tribal Trust Lands), where 70% of Zimbabwe’s population resided in 1983. Andrew was spending the majority of FOG’s money on his own lifestyle and was dogmatically focused on trying to maintain his status as pastor of the largest urban congregation in Zimbabwe. Andrew was building his own kingdom. Felix wanted to build God’s kingdom.

Right: Felix, Pegi, Sparks and wife

By the end of our walk, it was obvious to me that Felix needed to leave FOG to Andrew and free himself from ethical problems that Andrew seemed to be creating for the ministry. Of course, to leave FOG was to leave his ministry-paid apartment, car, expense allowance and salary. Since we had only recently done something similar in leaving our American careers to come to Zimbabwe, I felt confident in assuring Felix that the Lord would provide.

In fact, since Spiwe had a good salary from the bank, the extra money that he received from FOG was just spent on taking care of the dozens of people who literally ate all of their meals at his apartment. His car was constantly being used to transport his congregation members around town.

The bottom line was that Felix could not get free to minister in the rural areas as long as he was tied to the urban ministry of FOG. He was known as “Pastor” Felix, but he did not see himself as a pastor. He saw himself as an evangelist whose calling was to find lost souls and guide them to the kingdom of God.

As I shared my thoughts with him, Felix shared his own similar concerns for me. Although he saw the potential of having a secular job with NCR, he felt that would keep me too busy on weekdays, not leaving enough time to make an impact in the rural areas. He said that a secular job would be fine if I wanted to minister in urban Harare, but if I was to really reach the rural areas, I needed to be full-time in ministry. And since I needed a “job” to satisfy Immigration, he was supportive of my accepting the pastorate of Chisipite Baptist Church.

He felt that my duties with Chisipite would be mostly on Sundays and that church would be a good platform to reach out to the rural areas on weekdays.

It was food for thought for both of us.

Next: Computer Programmer or Pastor?