69 — “Kalanyoni” -- The Call of the Bird (Harare, Zimbabwe: Dec 1983)

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 [41—Hugged Instead of Slapped]. We were never quite sure why Sir Robert had named it “Kalanyoni,” the call of the bird. Maybe it was the 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 of 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. 

View from Kalanyoni in 1977 before township was built.  Our house was below and to the right (out of frame).  You can see our neighbor across the road to the left.

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 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:  Front entrance in 1977

Right:  Rear veranda with some American friends

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 wealthy.

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 on 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 (2009), one US dollar is worth over 12 billion Zimbabwe dollars.] Sadly, we would encounter a number of Christians who were using various exchange schemes to finance their ministries. We just didn’t understand how they could reconcile proclaiming the truth of God while being financed by illicit 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 previous Sunday while we were in Johannesburg. Its 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 door to 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

68 — By Train from Johannesburg to Harare (Southern Africa: Dec 1983)

Ilha do Sal (Salt Island) hadn’t changed in the five years since our last visit [57 — Finding out for Myself].  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 arrived.

Once reboarded, 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, South Africa.

The 747-400 touched down at 6:00 pm local time on Friday evening, 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 had 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 [38 — Pistol-Packin’ Chaplain].  Over coffee, they invited us to stay in their home during our time in Johannesburg.  

The Phelps Family

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 [43 — Farm Life in a War Zone].  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 pass 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 Botswana and the border of the Kalahari desert.  

It was a wintery December when we had left the USA, but in southern Africa December was  summer! 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 6’1 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 (Saturday), our train pulled into Harare at about 9:00 am.  The customs officer had forgotten to clear our luggage when we stopped in Bulawayo the day before.  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 am.  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 they closed at noon. We hustled over to Greaterman’s 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 [24 — Two eggs Boss? You sure?].  It would remain our favorite place for the rest of our time in Zimbabwe.  For us, the Jameson was still home in Africa.

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

67 — Back to the Jameson Hotel (Louisville: Nov 1983)

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 be 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 “Jewish LSD Freak Meets Jesus Freak.”)

Pegi and I were on our way to Zimbabwe where the belief in 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 religious superstitions 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 miraculous “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 first trip to Africa 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.

 [See 24 — Two eggs Boss? You sure? and [https://www.crestahotels.com/hotels/zimbabwe/cresta-jameson]

Next: By Train from Johannesburg to Harare

66 — Listen for the Music and Follow It (Louisville: 1983)

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 teenage 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 singer as had my Uncle Herman for a time in the 1940s.  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 through the discipline of study.  

Rock ‘n Roll was 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 available to us.  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 my 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