“Kalanyoni” -- The Call of the Bird

What a wild ride to get back to Zimbabwe! Last minute ticket purchases, 18 hours in the air, almost three days on the train without a change of clothes, the hurried taxi ride to airport Customs, the delayed baggage coach, the hurried shopping spree--then finally rest and refreshment at the Jameson. We had a 30-day visitor’s visa and a few contacts from Stan Hannan. Now what?

After lunch we rented a car and drove out the Bulawayo road. We wanted to drive by the Tredgold estate that we had rented in 1978. We were never quite sure why Sir Robert had named it “Kalanyoni,” the call of the bird. Maybe it was eucalyptus trees and their scent that had attracted various species of birds, or maybe it was his prize-winning aloe gardens. For us, Kalanyoni was our fondest memory or our time in Rhodesia. We regretted leaving it when we were transferred to Bulawayo.

What had been miles of grass and bush on the road to Kalanyoni was now a bustling township with hundreds of cement-block one and two room homes for thousands of African residents. We turned down the old farm road that led to Kalanyoni hoping that the beautiful thatched roof residence had survived the war. [Picture from 1977 before township was built.]

The long driveway up the side of the hill to the house had been moved, but the row of eucalyptus trees still lined the old path, now overgrown with grass. We could see that the thatch roof of the main building--the house was still there! Maybe it was still available for us to rent!

As our rental car climbed the new driveway, we saw the familiar aloe gardens and, then, there it was--Oy! Someone had painted the whitewashed walls an odd pastel yellow! That was odd, but the place was intact.

We climbed out of our car and introduced ourselves to a European woman who was watering some flowers. She and her husband had purchased the estate from the Tredgold family a few years before. So, we wouldn’t be able to rent it again, but she allowed us to look around for a few minutes.

It was no longer the majestic residence of the former governor and high court magistrate. The place was not in very good repair and her color choices inside and out made the place look small and dingy. It was sad. We would discover that Kalanyoni’s condition was reflective of the aging and decay of Rhodesia in the new Zimbabwe. The basic structures were intact, but the “shine” seemed to be fading.

Kalanyoni in 1977 -- In 1983, the new owner had painted over the white with an ugly yellow! Left: Rear veranda. With some American friends from the RLI. Right: Front entrance. Our Austin Mini is parked out front.

This was a surprise to us as we had hoped that the lifting of international sanctions against the old Rhodesian regime would lead to greater prosperity for whites and blacks alike. To the contrary, the stores seemed to be less well-stocked than when we left in 1978. Sanctions were lifted, but the value of the Zimbabwe dollar had already dropped 70% and the few new appliances and vehicles that were available were out of the reach of the all except the very rich.

Tourism had not rebounded after the end of the war and consequently, Zimbabwe was just as desperate for foreign currency as had been Rhodesia. The US dollar and South African Rand were heavily traded in the black market at more than twice the bank exchange rate. The Zimbabwe government was constantly pursuing black market exchanges of property, vehicles, precious metals and gems. White farmers who wished to emmigrate to South Africa were not allowed to take their farm equipment with them, neither were they allowed to sell their property in exchange for anything other than Zimbabwe dollars. And, of course, Zimbabwe currency was worthless outside of Zimbabwe.

As missionaries, we eschewed any of these schemes. We exchanged our US currency at the bank receiving Z$3.00 for each US dollar. [Today, one US dollar is worth over 12 billion Zimbabwe dollars.] Sadly, we would encounter a number of Christians who were using various schemes to finance their ministries. We just didn’t understand how they could reconcile proclaiming the truth of God while being financed by illegal means.

Even worse, what kind of example was this for the African Christians? Is it any surprise that today we all get internet solicitations from Africa offering us participation in fraudulent exchange schemes? Usually, these come from Nigeria or Kenya, but just last month, I received an email from a Zimbabwean “businessman” offering me 80% of a 10 million dollar estate if I would just “facilitate” the banking arrangements.

The seeds that would grow into the full-fledged human catastrophe that is Zimbabwe today were already taking root in 1983. Unfortunately, some of those seeds were planted by American missionaries.

With tears in our eyes, we left Kalanyoni to the birds that still called to us from the eucalyptus trees. As we were driving back towards downtown Harare, we saw a strange sight--a white man hitchhiking! Hitching a ride was common in Africa, but this was the first time we had seen a white hitchhiker. Maybe he was a tourist like us?

We offered him a ride only to find out that he was actually a Zimbabwe resident. “John” was a born-again Christian who invited us to visit his church on Sunday. He attended one of several prominent charismatic churches in Harare that ministered primarily to whites. Stopping for tea at his house, he explained that there were three large white charismatic churches in Harare: Rhema Bible Church (pastored by American missionaries Tom and Bonnie Deuschle), Faith Ministries, and the Christian Life Centre.

We had seen an ad for Rhema’s service in the local newspaper and were planning on visiting it the next morning for Sunday services. Hearing this, John became animated about his “doctrinal differences” with Rhema. Apparently, the Deuschles had founded it with the help of Rhema-Johannesburg in association with Kenneth Hagin ministries in Oklahoma. We had visited that South Africa mega-church the Sunday previous while we were in Johannesburg. It’s American-style ministry was identical to what we had experienced in the Word of Faith movement in the US. We had enjoyed the contemporary style worship, but also had serious questions about their “faith” teachings.

Apparently, Rhema in Zimbabwe had become a cause for major divisions in local Christian community. Well, we were just visitors and sought to become familiar with all those serving God in Zimbabwe. We agreed to visit Christian Life Centre for Sunday evening services.

So, we had been back for less than 6 hours and were already impacted by controversies in the Christian community. In order to clear our heads, we decided to drive out to our first home in Alexandra Park. Maybe our retired friends, the Petherams, still lived next door?

Alexandra Park at least, looked no different than the last time we had seen it. The Petherams were home and we spent the afternoon catching up with them. The whole time we had lived next time them during the war, we had never had a discussion that touched on religion. Of course, now that we had returned as ministers rather than warriors, we discovered that their own son was actively involved in his own evangelistic ministry in South Africa. Due to the currency restrictions, they were unable to support his ministry, but asked us to join them in praying for support from some interested South African Christian businessmen.

Alexandra Park rental home in 1977. The previous renter had let the grass grow too long. After trying to tackle it myself, I gave up and hired a full-time gardener. Pegi with Rebel in Alex Park in 1977. The Petherams lived next door.

Returning to the hotel that evening, we considered the first day’s results. We had met an African Christian while shopping for clothes, been introduced to the major white ministries in Harare and made connections with a South African evangelistic outreach. Not bad for a Saturday! What would Sunday bring?

Next: Colorless Sunday Services

By Train from Johannesburg to Harare

Ilha do Sal (Salt Island) hadn’t changed in the five years since our last visit.  The two-hour refueling stop off the coast of Africa was still barren sand.  We were greeted by the same humorless soldiers and guard dogs.  We were locked in the same room in the terminal.  The same ceiling fans slowly circulated the hot dry air and the air-conditioning was still not working.  

I gazed out the locked and smudged windows at the heat shimmering off the tarmac and the Aeroflot plane parked a few hundred meters from our South African Airways 747.  That hadn’t changed either.  Of course, in Zimbabwe, that was one of the big changes.  Soviet, Chinese, Cuban and North Korean aircraft now frequented the airport in Harare (formerly Salisbury) welcomed by their fellow Marxist, Prime Minister Robert Mugabe.

The reality of what we might face in Zimbabwe troubled me.  Yes, Amos had assured us that we would be welcomed in Zimbabwe, but Amos was in Louisville and seemed to have lost any interest in returning to his home.  Of course, before leaving the States, we had contacted the Zimbabwe Embassy with regard to our return.  I had honestly explained that we originally travelled to Rhodesia to fight against the establishment of the current government, but that I had a change of heart and wanted to return to share the Gospel.  There was no point in fabrication.  If any of my military records remained, they would find me out.  I had been told by the Army Chief of Staff that all records of foreign soldiers would be destroyed, but I couldn’t minister the truth of God if my presence was based on a lie.  

The embassy had confirmed that we were “welcome” to travel to Zimbabwe.  They suggested that we apply for a “resumption” of our previous residency in Rhodesia.  The tone of their reply was very encouraging.  Informing us that we would immediately be granted a visitor’s visa at the border, they recommended pursuing the residency application once we were in Africa.

The plane’s air-conditioning was a welcome relief.  As I settled into my seat for the final eight hours of our flight, my worries submerged as I drifted back to sleep.  The next thing I remember is awakening as the pilot announced that we were approaching the African coast.  I awakened Pegi.  Her migraine had finally lifted.  We made our way to the lavatory to change into fresh clothing for our arrival at Jan Smuts International Airport in Johannesburg.

The 747-400 touched down at 6:00 pm local time on Friday evening on December 2^nd, 1983.  We cleared customs and checked into the airport Holiday Inn.  South Africa was just as we remembered it:  the signs in English and Afrikaans, the beautiful blue African sky, the cool evening breeze with fragrances of the local flora, the mix of European, African and Asian foods, and even the odor of the local petrol produced from coal shale.  All the odors were fragrant reminders of the Africa we so dearly missed.

We started phoning acquaintances now living in South Africa whom we had known from Rhodesia.  Dave and Kinny Phelps came to the hotel to greet us.  Kinny’s brother had been a member of parliament in Rhodesia.  Over coffee, they invited us to stay in their home during our time in Johannesburg.  

During our time at the Phelps’ home, Eugene and Thora Wiseman dropped by.  Eugene had “ordained” me into the Rhodesian chaplaincy as pastor of Gatooma Baptist Church in 1978.  He was pastoring a small Baptist church in the Johannesburg metro area.  

Eugene gave me Bill Dodgen’s telephone number.  This was sure to be interesting!  I had made an idiot of myself in my dogmatic opposition to Bill’s pentecostal beliefs.  Because of the rift between us, Col Wood had moved me from Salisbury to Bulawayo when he retired as Chaplain General to be replaced by Bill Dodgen.

In the intervening years, I had completely flip-flopped on my position with regard to “gifts of the spirit.”  I now sought to develop my own spiritual gifts in ministry, especially with regard to healing and dealing with demonic influence.  To my surprise, Dodgen had also changed in his ministry.  He left the Apostolic denomination and was pastor of a small non-charismatic Baptist church.  He was friendly and “cheered” to hear about my new charismatic explorations.

Eugene took us to the train station and utilized his Afrikaans skills to get us ticketed and our bags checked for the almost three day trip.  Stan Hannan met us before we boarded and he too assured us that “the doors of ministry in Zimbabwe [were} wide-open” for us.  He gave us a list of contacts in Harare as well as a cash gift for the trip.

We said our farewells and climbed aboard the Zimbabwe Railways coach.  The brass plates in the coach cars still said “Rhodesia Railways” and there was an “RR” etched in the window glass.  Independence had begun the name change process, but there was only so much that could be accomplished in the three years since 1980.

As we settled in our train cabin, we “wondered” how strange and how sad was all of this!  All of our Rhodesian friends seemed to be prospering in South Africa, but their new lives were dim reflections of “their” Rhodesia.  They were uniformly encouraging of our return.  Nevertheless, it was a melancholy sendoff as they knew that there was no longer a place for them in their own homeland.

As the train began the long trip through Bophutaswana on its way to Botswana, we watched the African countryside flash by.  As we slowed to passed through the train stations of the rural countryside, various “hawkers” would approach our windows offering us fruit, sandwiches and drinks.  The food and drink on the train was excellent, but we happily availed ourselves of the periodic refreshment, especially as we were reacquainting ourselves with the always smiling, local populations.  It was beginning to sink in that we were really back in Africa!

We were still fighting off jet lag, so as evening approached, we were happy for the porter to turn down our bunk beds.  It was hot, especially as we moved north towards Botwana and the border of the Kalahari desert.  

We had checked most of our bags into the porter’s coach

keeping just two suitcases with our cooler clothes in the cabin.  When I opened our cases, I was surprised to see that Eugene’s conversation with the porter in Afrikaans had left us with our heavier winter clothes in our cabin!  We had nothing cool to change into, not even a change of underclothes.  We were destined to spend two and a half days in the same clothes.

We had an uncomfortable night trying to sleep in the very short bunk beds.  I am 6’2 and Pegi is 5’7--both too tall to be able to stretch out!  In addition, we found that opening the cabin windows allowed in diesel fumes from the locomotive along with our fresh air.  Ah, the adventure of it all!

We were visited in turn by customs officers from Bophutaswana, Botswana, and finally entered Zimbabwe on Friday, December 9^th.  The train stopped in Bulawayo for a few hours.  We decided to take a stroll around downtown and found an outdoor restaurant to have our first cup of tea in Zimbabwe.  

When we had lived in Bulawayo in 1978, it was lonely.  The once bustling trading center of Rhodesia had already experienced an exodus of residents.  But, we were troubled with how much more deserted it was now.  There were few, if any whites on the streets and the once “manicured” city park and gardens were showing signs of neglect.  It was depressing and frankly, just a tiny bit frightening.  

Upon exiting the train station, we passed a crippled African who was panhandling.  I felt guilty about not stopping to drop a few coins in his can and pray for him.  So, on our way back, we looked for him, but he was gone.  I had missed my first opportunity to reach out and help someone in Zimbabwe.  I made a silent promise to myself that I would not be so preoccupied that I would pass up such an opportunity again.  

The next morning our train pulled into Harare at about 9:00.  The customs officer had forgotten to clear our luggage when we stopped in Bulawayo.  I would have to take a taxi to the airport to clear customs since there was no customs officer at the Harare train station.  So, I sent Pegi ahead in a taxi with our two bags of winter clothes to the Jameson Hotel.  I climbed in another taxi for the 30 minute ride to the airport.  We had to hurry as the train station would close until Monday within the hour!  I cleared customs at the airport, returning to the baggage car just a few minutes before 10:00.  By this time, all the bags had been unloaded.  Ours were not there!  Apparently, during one of the car and engine changes in Bulawayo, the baggage car with our luggage had been connected to a train that would not arrive until Monday morning! 

When I finally got to the Jameson, Pegi was already showering in anticipation of my arrival with our first change of clothes in three days.  The only thing we could do was get dressed in our travel-weary clothes and hit the stores before the closed at noon.  We hustled over to Greaterman’s, a department store and purchased several changes of clothes to get us through the weekend.

The sales clerk at Greaterman’s was an African Christian.  Hearing our story of our arrival, she personally welcomed us to Zimbabwe as missionaries and invited us to visit the church she attended.  Well, so far so good!

After changing into our new clothes, we treated ourselves to lunch at the Sandawana Room Grill in the Jameson.  The Sandawana Room had been the location of my first meal in Rhodesia and a weekend favorite during our Rhodesian days.  It would remain our favorite place for the rest of our time in Zimbabwe.  For us, the Jameson was home in Africa.

Next:  “Kalanyoni” -- The Call of the Bird

Back to the Jameson Hotel

Let’s talk about miracles. Most people of any faith tradition have no problem attributing miraculous events to their founders. This is true whether it is Moses, Buddha, Rama-Krishna, Muhammad or Jesus. Even beyond such religious pioneers, seminal religious figures are encapsulated in the miraculous. Roman Catholics must have miraculous attribution to be recognized as a saint. Shiite Ayatollahs communicate with the 12^th Imam who went into “occultation” in the 9^th century. Taoist supernatural practioners of martial arts “fly.” The Dalai Lama is the reincarnated divine.

For Christians especially, Jesus’ ministry was marked by numerous spectacular miracles. His apostles continued this pattern and according to the gospels, Jesus promised that all of his disciples would be capable of the same:

Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto my Father. (John 14:12, KJV)

For missionaries, the modern term for an apostle (sent one), the miraculous is a proof of divine legitimacy:

The things that mark an apostle—signs, wonders and miracles—were done among you with great perseverance. (2 Cor 12:12, NIV)

Since I believed that the gospel accounts were “history” and not just mythology (sacred story), it was no problem for me to believe that as a modern day apostle, I could expect to see some element of the miraculous in our ministry in Africa. This was 1983 and I had been a believer in Jesus for 14 years. I had already experienced what I believed to direct divine intervention in my life on numerous occasions.

I hadn’t healed the sick or raised the dead, but neither had I been acting in an apostolic role. I had encountered what I believed to be evidence of demonic or occult activity. On those occasions I had experienced what I believed to be direct manifestations of God’s intervening power on my behalf. In fact, my first encounter with Jesus Freaks had included a close encounter with what I believed to be a demonic presence. (See my comments about the “great white light of the void” in “Part II - Jewish LSD Freak Meets Jesus Freak.”)

Pegi and I were on our way to Zimbabwe where the supernatural was part and parcel of everyday life for the African population. We felt very strongly that we needed to be able to face and back down the local practitioners of African Traditional Religion or we would not get a hearing for the message of Jesus.

Of course, American television was overpopulated with self-proclaimed Christian wonder-workers. Everyone knew of Oral Roberts who had founded his own university, medical school and hospital based on his ministry of healing the sick. We thought that he was a con-artist, but we couldn’t deny that the miraculous was a modern possibility. So, as we searched out a new church home, we also sought “power” for our ministry.

Once again, it was about what worked. As we began to listen to various proponents of miraculous ministry, we intended to test it out for ourselves. If it worked, we would use it. If it was just emotional imagination, then we would discard it. At least, that sounded like a sober approach! What we were to discover was that the proponents and followers of this “charismatic” ministry style were not as sober in their approach. Oy! We had a lot to learn about religious superstition among evangelical Christians.

Because we were already “on our way” to Africa as we began to explore charismata, we weren’t committed to any camp within the charismatic/pentecostal tribes. That freedom made it a little harder for us to “fit in,” but protected us from the shackles of dogma. So, as we experimented with the miraculous, our primary focus was always on the message of Jesus. Consequently, we were successful in ministering to charismatic, non-charismatic, and even anti-charismatic groups. Well, more of that later, as the story of our time in Zimbabwe unfolds.

We left Louisville the day after my 34^th birthday, Nov 21^st, 1983. We flew to Houston where we stayed with Pegi’s parents and visited some of our former Berachah friends.

My Jewish friends, Ken Duckman and his wife, Jill, who had joined me to sit under Thieme’s ministry in Houston after meeting in Madison in 1970, had also stopped attending Berachah Church. It was good to renew our friendship after our four year absence. They were not affiliated with any church group now. Thieme’s ministry had this effect on many people. Because he asserted his own authority as the right pastor-teacher and presumptuously insisted that other pastors and theologians were not good students of the Word, those who finally rejected his ministry had no where to go.

We had reserved a flight on South African Airways to Johannesburg for Dec 2^nd. Although we had not raised the $25,000 we had hoped for, our new home church had committed to raising the $4000 we need for round trip tickets. (In order to enter South Africa and Zimbabwe, we needed return tickets.) We had a little over $1000 in Travelers Checks and an Amex card. We were full of “faith” that the Lord would raise the necessary monthly support once we got to Africa. We trusted our new home church to live up to their encouraging words when they held a special service for us to “send us out as missionaries.”

On the morning of Dec 1^st, I called Arnold, our ministry representative in Louisville (another Jewish Christian who was a member of our new home church). He and his wife had volunteered to handle our stateside ministry affairs for our newly incorporated 501 (c) 3 charitable organization, Africa Harvest Ministries. Arnold was supposed to collect the $4000 from our home church and deposit it in our account so I could purchase our tickets.

When Arnold told me that no money had been provided by the church--not one cent of the promised $4000, my “faith” crashed. I had been so confident that the Lord would provide! And the church had promised. We had been major contributors to the church during our six months there, giving several thousand dollars to various ministry needs. I gave a large portion of my theological library to the pastor. We had even donated our newly paid off car to the church for a couple in need. We could have sold the car to pay for our plane tickets, but chose to “plant a seed” for our own ministry needs at the urging of the pastor. We were supposed to leave the following afternoon and couldn’t purchase the tickets!

I was so troubled that I completely broke down and began to have chest pains. Pegi came to my side and prayed for me, rebuking the chest pains in the name of Jesus. Now, I know this all sounds silly, but the pain left and my spirit revived. Of course, this was an emotional breakdown and emotional response to her intervention on my behalf. But, those pains were real, no matter what their cause. The relief of the pain and despair was just as real to me then. Call it emotion, call it a miracle--I don’t care, it was what I needed at the time and it worked!

Composing myself, I called Arnold again only to find out that six of the “brothers” in the church were on the phone right then raising the needed money. We interpreted this as a proof of the Lord’s faithfulness in spite of the failure of my own faith. We confidently purchased our tickets on Amex, trusting that by the end of the month, the money would be available to the ministry to pay the bill. Yeah, I know--that was a huge risk, but we didn’t see it that way. To us it was just a matter of the Lord undertaking on our behalf. We had the commitment of the church, the commitment of the six brothers who were working on our behalf, and renewed faith that the Lord would provide for us.

After a tearful goodbye with Pegi’s parents and a goodbye punch in the ribs from Ken Duckman, we boarded our flight. We both slept most of the 17 hours. This wasn’t quite the same as our last trip when we had celebrated our honeymoon and were awarded a bottle of champagne by the flight attendant. We were exhausted emotionally and physically from the events of the last 24 hours. But we were on our way, literally “thanks to the Lord.”

We would stop in Johannesburg for a few days visiting old friends from Rhodesia now in South Africa and gathering the essential supplies for life in Zimbabwe. From there we planned to board the Zimbabwe Railways train that would take us on the two and a half day trip from Johannesburg through Botswana, to Bulawayo and finally to Harare (formerly Salisbury) where we had reserved a room at the Jameson Hotel. For us, the Jameson was “home” in Africa.

Next: By Train from Johannesburg to Harare

Listen for the Music and Follow It

As a teenager, I played guitar in a rock ‘n roll band.  During the summer months I would find other other rock groups by walking outside and listening for the sound of drums and guitars.  You could just follow the music to a garage or outdoor party where another band was playing.  That is how we found one another as musicians.

I always had a love for music.  My mother played piano and was an avid listener to pop radio.  She had a huge collection of albums that included classical, jazz, broadway and big band.  When rock ‘n roll began to hit the airwaves in the 50s, she would always find it on her car radio.    My father had a beautiful voice and could have been a professional as had my Uncle Herman for a time in the 40s.  But, my father lacked discipline and struggled with remembering lyrics.  

I got my love of music from both of them and my mother started me on piano, but I just couldn’t suffer through the discipline of daily practice.  I wanted to play, not study.  I could sing very well and my father wanted me to take voice lessons, but I really didn’t want to study voice either.  I needed something to capture my interest and give me a goal to suffer the discipline of study.  

Rock ‘n roll was just what just what I needed.  The songs were totally captivating and required only a rudimentary knowledge to play.  I began taking guitar lessons and soon was in a neighborhood band.  We learned everything by listening--there was no written music.  You just followed the music that you heard.

In 1983, following the music led me to a new home church.  I had stopped listening to rock music in 1970 after becoming a part of Berachah Church.  After all, music was the key element of the hippie subculture that I was separating from in those days.  And, since Col Thieme was an avid proponent of Big Band music from the 40s, I got rid of all rock albums.  

Okay, so by now you are thinking, “What does this have to do with church?”  

We were looking for a new home church--a community of believers who would think about and support us when we returned to Africa.  The only way we knew to find a church was to start visiting some.  So, every Sunday morning we would visit a new church that seemed to hold some promise.  Since we were looking for a church that focused on “doing” rather than just study of the Bible, we widened our search beyond the traditional denominations.  

One Sunday morning, we entered a traditional looking church building and took a seat in one of the pews.  The strange thing was that there didn’t seem to be a pulpit.  Instead, the entire stage area was packed with drums, guitars, horns and electronic keyboards.  It looked like the setup for a rock band!

A few minutes later, a group of guys in their early twenties took the stage and began playing instrumental rock music.  Then, they began singing what sounded to me like rock ‘n roll, but with Christian lyrics.  One of the guitar players, who seemed to be the leader began speaking about music as a means of reaching into the hearts of listeners.  He denied that rock was “of the devil” as claimed by so many preachers.  Instead, he asserted that Christians needed to take back God’s invention of music and use it to spread the Gospel.

This made perfect sense to me, and anyway, I was really enjoying the music!  The concert lasted over an hour and there never was a sermon--I guessed his comments about praise and worship in the vernacular of rock ‘n roll was the sermon for the day.   Well, I was sold!  Maybe we had found a new home?

We returned the following week and the rock equipment still occupied the stage area, but this time there was a pulpit in the middle.  After about 20 minutes of congregational praise and worship to rock music, a gray-haired pastor took the pulpit.  It turned out that this was a former Baptist congregation that was now “charismatic.”  We had been to a few charismatic services and had seen some of the television ministries that focused on miracles, signs and wonders.  Although, we were open to the reality of miracles in the present day, we were extremely skeptical of its proponents.  

But, this church and its pastor seemed to be different.  They seemed to genuinely believe that faith in God could result in miraculous intervention today just as in the time of Jesus.  Well, that sure was a focus on “doing” more than “being” wasn’t it?  Maybe after 13 years of accumulating biblical knowledge, I could benefit from some practical experience in the miraculous?  We had “tested” Thieme’s doctrine to see if it worked.  We could certainly test this charismatic doctrine and find out for ourselves.

We were heading back to Africa where belief in the supernatural was a strong element of culture.  Jesus had to deal with a similar culture in his day.  If Jesus needed to know how to handle the supernatural for his ministry, then it wouldn’t hurt us to know how to deal with the supernatural in ours.  

But even more important to us was finding a community who would pray for and support us while we were overseas.  And the people at Trinity Church seemingly took us in as their own immediately.  They adopted us and we adopted them as our new church home.  And even if Pastor Rod’s messages were not a tour de force of biblical exposition, the music was great!  [Today, contemporary music is part of most Christian services, charismatic and non-charismatic, but in 1983 it was very unusual.]

We had followed the music to a new home church.  Would we be able to follow the music to a church home in Zimbabwe?

Next:  Back to the Jameson Hotel

Tired of Waiting

In the 60s, the British Invasion group, the Kinks sang a song “Tired of Waiting” expressing frustration with a girlfriend’s indecision and lack of commitment.  The refrain says, “I’m so tired, tired of waiting . . . tired of waiting for you.”  Pegi and I were getting tired of waiting for Amos and Rose Moyo.  They were the couple from Zimbabwe who had sparked the flame of our desire to return to Zimbabwe.  

The plan was to travel with them after he finished his courses at the Boyce Bible School of the Southern Baptist Seminary.  Of course, after he finished his program at Boyce, and as his student visa was about to expire, he entered a four year program at Berea College (two hours from Louisville).  It was clear that they had no intention of returning to Zimbabwe in the near future.  Like so many who had come before them, they were becoming permanent students.  Instead of a vision to reach his own people with the Gospel, Amos was now focused on making a place for himself in the US.

I don’t blame him for becoming enamored with the American way of life, especially as he was being supported by a professor from University of Louisville who had taken the two of them in as their own children.  They provided their living expenses and bought them a car.  This professor and his physician wife opened their hearts to the Moyos.  They just didn’t understand that their generosity would be a temptation too great to resist.  After a few years of living comfortably, why would any sane person want to return to Africa where he had lived in a one room hut as Amos had.  To make matters worse, Amos became unfaithful to Rose and they ended up divorcing.  The last I heard (1987), Rose was living with the professor and doctor and attending the University of Louisville.

Well, if you have read much of my story, you know that once I get up a head of steam about a direction, I need to get moving!  And when Amos suggested the possibility of a return to Zimbabwe, Pegi and I began making plans to leave ASAP.  We knew that it would take about a year to find a base of financial support for our return.  Obviously, the Zimbabwe Army wasn’t going to pay our airfares this time!  

But, we were going, with or without Amos.  We just needed to finish up some local commitments and raise the $25,000 that we felt we would need to travel and get settled in Zimbabwe.  We also hoped to raise about $2000/month support for our missionary efforts.  

Of course, the very idea of us “going off to Africa with Brother Amos” was the epitome of a fool’s errand to Bro. Akeroyd.  The other “brothers in responsibility” were equally appalled that we would do something so risky, although they didn’t have the courage to say anything to us.  But Bro. Akeroyd had no such reticence.  

One afternoon Bro. Akeroyd dropped by for a “chat.”  We were thrilled, as it was the first time in our two years in “The Meeting” that he had actually visited us at our home.  But, when we discovered that he was coming without Mrs. Akeroyd, we knew that this must be “Meeting" business.  

He told us that we were making a poor choice to “run off to Africa.”  He believed that the right thing to do was for us to stay in Louisville and just raise a family.  He was opposed to overt evangelism, rather preferring using one’s influence to win people to the Lord.  I understood his perspective and had many problems myself with the nature of evangelism and the activities of traditional missionaries.  Nevertheless. I felt that the reason the meeting was stuck at a total of 25 people after 25 years was that there was no outreach at all.  Sometimes you just have to climb out of your own comfortable way of life and lend a hand to someone who is struggling.  That is what I saw as our purpose in traveling to Africa--to lend a hand to those who were struggling to find their way to God.

He became very stern and uttered his judgement that if we were to continue on in this fashion that we would fail miserably resulting in unbearable strains in our marriage.  He assumed that this was only my idea, that Pegi wasn’t as convinced as I was that the Lord was the one calling us to Zimbabwe.  I was shocked at how little he knew of us after two years.  The thing that made (and still makes) Pegi and me such a good match is that we both have the same crazy ideas!  We are soul-mates in every way.  I guess he didn’t have that kind of relationship with his wife.

Anyway, we were saddened by his ultimatum that we accept the authority of the brothers in responsibility and abandon our plans.  It just meant that we would abandon the Meeting and the brothers in responsibility.  We live our own lives and make our own decisions.  No one makes our life decisions for us.  We make our own and live with the consequences.  As I sit here today writing this, it still steams me that he and the “brothers” would have such gall and that they could be so deluded to think that they had any type of authority over us.  That was just insane!

We had been frustrated with the Meeting for awhile now.  They were so inward focused.  They had gone so deep into their spiritual lives that they had withdrawn from other Christians and seemed to have withdrawn from normal life itself.  Some of them, including the Akeroyds were lovely people--that is, when they weren’t spending their time trying to adjudicate the lives of others.  Their had dug so deep “in the things of the Lord” that they had buried themselves in their own pseudo-spirituality.

Once again, we were focused on “doing” more than “being.”  It was all about what worked in real life.  We had left Thieme because his doctrines didn’t work in everyday life.  Now, we left the Meeting because their social-spiritual doctrines were too insular.  Once again, I was feeling the Jewish tug that what you do is much more important than what you believe.  How you live is the real validation of what you think.  

We planned to leave for Zimbabwe in about six months, but first we needed to find a new church home.  

Next:  Listen for the Music and Follow It

A Brother from Zimbabwe

Louisville was the last place I ever thought I would live again.  After all, it was the home that I had happily left in 1967 for University of Wisconsin.  It was the place of my parents’ divorce, my pleasant, but uninspiring childhood, and -- well, you know how you feel about where you grew up!  In leaving and staying away from Louisville, I was creating a new and meaningful life for myself.  Louisville represented everything that was tired and meaningless to me.  Somehow, a return to Louisville represented failure.  Yet, here I was resettled in Louisville a dozen years later.  

To my surprise, Louisville was a pleasant place to be now that I was an “adult.”  I was certainly different than the 17 year old who had left.  In 1967, I was a Eugene McCarthy supporter (McCarthy ran for president on an antiwar platform), opposing the Vietnam War.  Now I had only recently returned from my time in the Rhodesian Army.  When I left, I was girl-crazy--now, I was happily married to Pegi.  I had left as the product of a Reform Jewish mother and Orthodox Jewish father--now I was an evangelical Christian having founded and pastored a church for a time.

Of course, the reason for returning to Louisville was to pursue my spiritual quest by participation at the “Meeting at the Y.”  Everything else was a corollary to my spiritual pilgrimage that had taken me from Madison to Santa Cruz, Houston, Rhodesia, Houston again, Madison again, Neshkoro, Berlin (Wisconsin), and now back to Louisville by way of DC.  

Once back in Louisville, we settled in a small and inexpensive apartment, followed by several other apartments and a rental home in just a few years.  During one of these moves, my mother showed us the pages of address changes that she had for me in her address book.  According to her records, we averaged more than one move a year!    [This pattern has continued to the present day, however since returning from Singapore in 1999, we have been averaging three years per address.  No wonder my back is always sore--all those boxes and all those moves!]

Since the only marketable skills I had were in sales, I took a position with Radio Shack in one of their Computer Centers.  This was 1980 and the only personal computers available in those days were the Zenith-Heathkit, Apple II, and Radio Shack Models II and III.  The first computer I sold was a RS Model III for $999.  It had a whopping 4K of RAM--yes, that is 4K, 4096 bytes of memory!  Data storage was by means of a cassette recorder and cost an additional $50.  Soon afterwards, I sold my first “business” computer, the Model II.  It sported 64K RAM and an 8” floppy disk.  I think it sold for around $3000.

There wasn’t much software available for personal computers in those days.  Mostly, there were a few games, early versions of word processors, spreadsheets (Visicalc), and some very elemental accounting programs.  If you really wanted to do anything with a computer, you had to learn to program in BASIC.  In spite of being a total novice with computers and struggling to learn programming, I was very successful in sales.  Because of my success, I was given my own computer store within an existing Radio Shack store.  

But, I was miserable in this sales role.  I was totally dependent on walk-in traffic for sales leads and though a leader in sales, I wanted out!  I just didn’t like working for a large corporate monolith that constantly changed its support policies.  I continually found myself making support commitments to my customers that Radio Shack would abandon.  This made me look and feel like a liar.  And, if you think you need support for your computers today, you really needed support back in 1980-81.  The machines just didn’t work right!  And if you weren’t a teenage computer whiz, you were in trouble.  

I found a couple of teenage whizzes that I could send to the aid of my customers.  Radio Shack didn’t like that I was giving these kids an opportunity to make a little cash while helping the customers that the corporation had abandoned.  Nevertheless, it was the only way that I could keep my commitments to my customers.  But, I could see that I did not have a future with the company, so I enrolled in evening classes at University of Louisville towards a degree in Business.  Quitting Radio Shack a few months later, I started my own business to write software for the newly introduced IBM PC. 

With my own business, I could tailor-make applications for my customers, contract with teenage whizzes, and depend on IBM to support their hardware.  This was a much happier arrangement for me.  I could back whatever hardware or software I sold.  However, this was just my day job. My primary focus was still spiritual.

By now, Pegi and I were fully-engaged members of the “Meeting.”  We both felt that our spirituality was deepening and that we were maturing in our “walks” with the Lord.  I was still devouring books by Christian writers and had completed detailed studies of the Bible.  We were comfortable and enjoying our lives.  Pegi was developing her skills as a surgical nurse with a specialty in Open Heart and we were feeling like “real” adults.  

Our happiness was shattered when when had a miscarriage.  For the first few years of our marriage, children had been out of scope.  But now that we were settled happily in Louisville, that all changed--yet with the tragic result.  Somehow, after the miscarriage, we just weren’t satisfied with all we had attained personally, professionally or spiritually.  The quest that had started our wanderings began to drive us both in a different direction.

We had gone deep in our spirituality.  We were deep enough!  We wanted to make a difference in the lives of others.  It was no longer good enough to make a pleasant life for ourselves in Louisville or anywhere else.  Our study of the Bible had led us to the most basic of Jewish principles (although we didn’t understand the Jewish element at the time), that faith must have action.  As Yakov, the brother of Jesus had said, “Faith without works is dead” (James 2:18-26).  

Although the meeting was composed of fine and committed Christians, they held to themselves aloof and seemed to look down on “organized” Christian outreach or activities.  Everything had to be under the leadership of the Spirit of God.  Consequently, human leaders were disregarded.  So, we had gone from Berachah were only Thieme was qualified to be our leader, to the “Meeting at the Y” where no leaders were allowed!   This didn’t sit well with us.  As we began to interact with Christians in other churches, we found ourselves in conflict with Mr. Akeroyd and the “brothers in responsibility.”  

Sure, we could have become active in any number of outreaches to the sick and needy in Louisville, but the sun broke through the clouds of confusion and despair on one Sunday morning when a couple from Zimbabwe (formerly Rhodesia) showed up at “The Meeting.”  They were in Louisville on student visas for him to study at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.  For us, their arrival reignited the embers of Africa which were smoldering in our hearts.  We immediately became fast friends, when one day he said:  “Jeff, I believe the Lord wants you and Pegi to come back to Zimbabwe with us when we are finished at seminary.  God needs you in Zimbabwe.”

I can’t say that this caught me off guard as I had secretly been “wondering” about the prospect of a return to southern Africa.  However, I was surprised as I couldn’t imagine that we would be welcome in Zimbabwe.  Both Pegi and I had been members of the Rhodesian Army that had fought against the current Communist government under Robert Mugabe.  After all, my name had been on the list for liquidation as a foreign soldier and a chaplain only a couple years before.  There was no way they would grant us a visa, and even if they did, would we be safe?

“You would be welcomed back in Zimbabwe.  When Mugabe became Prime Minister, he announced a policy of reconciliation encouraging whites to stay in the country.  He said that all who stayed were considered ‘Zimbabweans’ and there were to be no retributions.”

Our “wandering” hearts were stirred.  Suddenly, there was only one thought in our minds:  How soon can we go?

Next:  Tired of Waiting

The Brothers In Responsibility

I hadn’t been to Louisville in a long time.  My parents still lived there as did my step-brother and younger step-sister.  My mother was happy to see us.  She had been relieved that I had abandoned drugs when becoming a Jesus Freak, thrilled with my marriage to Pegi, again relieved when we returned from Rhodesia, and now there was this slight prospect that we might decide to move to Louisville because of this church group.

Of course, when we left Madison the previous week, it was only for a short vacation.  But, with all the time we had to talk in the car, we had come to see that our time with the Berlin Community Bible Church in Wisconsin was over.  There just was no way for us to survive financially any longer.  It made sense to relocate in Louisville.  Pegi could work at one of the local hospitals and I would be able to find some sort of sales job, maybe even returning to the life insurance business.

But first, we had to see if this church group founded by the son-in-law and daughter of T. Austin-Sparks would be a good home for us.  Richard and Patty Akeroyd lived only a couple of miles from where I had grown up.  Moving to Louisville from DC to give direction to the fledgling church group, he had found employment as a professor of French literature at the University of Louisville.  In his two dozen years as the leader of “The Meeting” as it was called, they still numbered only about twenty.  But, we weren’t seeking validation in numbers.  We were looking for a church that met on what we considered to be New Testament “grounds.”  This would be a church with a plurality of leaders--no senior pastor or paid ministry.

“Brother and Sister” Akeroyd as they preferred to be called, were gracious and friendly--polar opposites to the strange people we had met in DC.  He was more than happy to recount the history of “The Meeting” in Louisville, including the controversies that led to  a split more than a dozen years before that lessened their numbers from a hundred to the current twenty.  The issue had been church governance, the Akeroyd’s preferring unpaid ministry and a plurality of elders under the “brothers in responsibility.”  Currently, “Mr. Akeroyd” as he was called by most of the others in the fellowship, was no longer serving in responsibility.  He had stepped down to allow three local men to take the governance as “brothers in responsibility.”  Akeroyd continued to teach, but shared that role with the other three.  

The other “brothers” were a psychologist and two high school teachers.  In principle, it was possible for anyone to speak or teach in the gatherings, but the three brothers and Akeroyd were the common speakers.  There was a Bible study hour before the main teaching service in which anyone could contribute.  The three plus Akeroyd were still the primary participants, but others including women and occasionally Mrs. Akeroyd would contribute during the Bible study.  

Women speaking was a change from what I had been used to.  This was the first time I had encountered Evangelicals who permitted women to teach.  The Meeting’s take on this was that they “ministered” under the authority of their husbands.  It was actually a surprisingly pleasant experience.  Mrs. Akeroyd, especially, had a gentle wisdom that opened new avenues of understanding.  Even Pegi, who is intensely shy about this kind of thing, was emboldened to speak on a few occasions.

On this Sunday morning, we joined them at the St Matthews (suburb of Louisville) YMCA.  Chairs were placed not in a semi-circle, but in a horseshoe shape.  I never did quite understand the significance of the horseshoe instead of a circle, but they were very particular that the folding chairs be set up “just so.”  

The first hour was for Bible study and began with an impromptu prayer, usually by one of the 3+1.  That person would then read the preselected passage for the day and the discussion would begin after a moment of silent courtesy allowing for someone to start.  The theory was that the meeting was being led by the Holy Spirit, but in reality, it was just strong familiarity with one another and learning to read the signs when someone wanted to speak.

The second hour began with hymns called out by number from a British hymn book.  If Bro. Akeroyd was there, he would usually lead the unaccompanied singing.  I found the Bible study and the teaching that followed it to be very deep and satisfying.  For the first time ever since leaving Berachah, I was not the “expert.”  I found it exhilarating to be able to sit back and listen to the very real and in-depth thoughtful commentary on the texts.  The 3+1 had no theological or ministry training, but brought forth compelling spiritual insights.  I am pretty sure that I kept my mouth shut that first Sunday, but on subsequent Sundays, I found that my comments were appreciated.  I never did jump in to lead one of the teaching hours during the couple of years that we participated.

Needless to say, we thought we had found our spiritual home at last.  Surprise!  It was in Louisville of all places.  Who would have ever thought that I would find spiritual meaning and fulfillment in the hometown that I thought of as the source of an empty Jewish upbringing?

Two weeks later we had closed up shop in Wisconsin and moved to Louisville.  Would my home really become my spiritual home?

Next:  A Brother from Zimbabwe

“Sparks” In Our Ministry

There is something about a spur of the moment car trip that always clears my mind. As we travelled from Wisconsin to DC I began to get some perspective. I had come a long way in my thinking. I was no longer tied to Thieme--I didn’t even listen to any of his new bible lessons on tape. I wasn’t ready to throw out thousands of pages of notes that I had taken while studying under him, but neither was I motivated to refer to them.

I had spent the last couple of years reading the Bible for myself, referring to the Greek and Hebrew where appropriate. I was no longer a disciple of anyone other than Jesus. I was benefiting from dozens of teachers, historians, theologians--most of whom were long dead. Of course, that was a problem in itself. Just as I had “tested” Thieme’s teachings during my time in Rhodesia, I really needed to test out these deeper life truths before I could wholeheartedly recommend them to the members of our congregation. Since the authors were deceased, at the very least, the prospect of interacting with some living practitioners in DC was promising.

Arriving in Gaithersburg, Maryland, we met the family that ran the Christian book ministry. I expected to meet some older and wiser Christians practiced in a deeper walk with Jesus. Nope, they were just plain strange! He was one of those people with a funny smile, as if he had some sort of secret that he just couldn’t tell you. He distributed all these books on discipleship and death to self, but didn’t seem to want to discuss any of the ideas in those books. She was focused on health through vitamin supplements and could not stop talking about this or that herbal remedy. What did that have to do with Christianity?

That evening we attended a home bible study with the other members of “The Fellowship” in the DC area. It reminded me very much of my Jesus Freak days. We sat in the living room on chairs or pillows on the floor. We sang some Christian choruses accompanied by a guitar. That was followed by a round-robin discussion of the biblical text. Of course, I was happy to contribute to the discussion, but it was as if I was some sort of enemy as a “pastor” and my comments were just kind of ignored. They didn’t have a pastor or any living teaching authority. As a matter of fact, they didn’t even seem to have any leaders. This really was like my days as a Jesus Freak.

All in all, Pegi and I enjoyed the fellowship, but were more interested to see what would transpire on Sunday morning with the larger group. Supposedly, there would be some “elder” Christians in attendance.

On Sunday, they met in an elementary school in downtown DC. The folding chairs were placed in a circle with no individual having a place of prominence. We sat on the second row of chairs as I had no intention of contributing to the discussion this morning. I just wanted to see how they handled things without a pastor or leader of any kind. At starting time, people suddenly got quiet and then one person called out the title of a hymn. Another just started the singing acappella with the rest chiming in--not necessarily on key! Then someone else called out another hymn followed by an awkward silence before someone else began praying out loud.

Another awkward silence was followed by one of the front row occupants calling out a biblical text and beginning to read. He then began discussing the passage with a voice of authority. After about 15 minutes, he went silent and another front row speaker chimed in. This went on for about an hour before someone called out another hymn and we adjourned.

This was definitely different! There were refreshments afterwards and I made an effort to chat with those who had taken the leadership speaking roles in the service. Once again, they all had that funny secret smile as if I was just totally uninitiated in the ways of Christ. These were not the living examples of a deeper walk with God. They were just self-righteous weirdos who had enshrined their own opinions as theological truth.

Pegi and I were about to make a mad dash for the Wisconsin border when we heard that the family that had founded this “meeting” 25 years earlier were now in Louisville, my home town. He was a college professor and she was the daughter of T. Austin-Sparks, the recently deceased British pastor and author who seemed to have the best grasp on the deeper life truths. On the spur of the moment, we decided a trip to Louisville to meet this couple and visit their “meeting” might hold a better prospect of meeting someone who was actually living-out the “Deeper Life” principles.

The prospect of spending another night in the home of these strange people was freaking Pegi and me out. We announced our intention to leave for Louisville the next morning and to get an early start, we would check into a nearby Red Roof Inn. It was only $36 and worth every penny to get some distance from this very odd people!

On the road again, we once again tried to clear our minds. What had we just experienced? This didn’t seem to be anything like what Sparks had written, nor was the Washington meeting similar to what I had read of Plymouth Brethren meetings. Okay, they operated without a pastor, but where was the “plurality of elders” that gave direction? Rather than having a plurality of leaders, they were “leaderless.” They claimed to be led by the Holy Spirit, but it was clear that a few egos dominated. Was there anyone out there who really was living out the New Testament model of the early church?

Well, even if the Louisville meeting was flawed in the same way as the DC meeting, at least we would have the opportunity to meet some “older” Christians who had participated in the vibrant ministry of Sparks in London. At this point, I didn’t really care about a New Testament local church model as much as I wanted to meet some mature Christians. At 29, I was tired of being the “elder” Christian. I didn’t want a dictator like Thieme--I just wanted a spiritual mentor/advisor to whom I could go for advice and counsel.

Next: The Brothers In Responsibility