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?

Fun and Games with Zimbabwe Immigration

We returned from our Wedza trip relieved that things seemed to finally working out for us.  It all began to make sense.  I would go to work at NCR solving our financial and immigration problems.  The Hess farm would be our base of operations in the rural areas.  

A couple days before our Wedza trip, I was asked by one of the leaders of Chisipite Baptist Church to speak at one of their Sunday services.  Chisipite, a white suburb of Harare was in the process of searching for a new pastor to replace the American missionary who had started the work a decade earlier.  This would be my first speaking engagement since our arrival.  I would speak at the “European” service in the morning as well as at the African service that afternoon.  The pastor of their African church, Morgan, would interpret for me.  There was a possibility that they might ask me to be pastor.

At the time, I was leaning more strongly toward the NCR job.  After all, that job would leave the weekends free to get to the rural areas.  And, I really didn’t come to Africa to be pastor of any congregation, especially not a white one!  However, we did need a church home in Harare, and we were feeling uncomfortable with Rhema’s emphasis its own worship services and lack of interest in the local African population.  On the other hand, Chisipite at least had an African outreach ministry on its premises and had a sincere interest in bible study.  

Since the Silks would be returning from their holiday in South Africa, our most urgent task had become finding a new place to live.  We couldn’t rent an apartment until I had an offer of employment to satisfy Immigration.  I was confident that the NCR job would come through, but we were waiting on final approval from the chief personnel officer who was still out of the country.  Rhema had another place for us to housesit and were anxious to get us out of the Silk house guest room before they returned from vacation.  All of this house hopping would stop with the NCR job offer and the subsequent residence permit.

We hitched a ride into town to check on that house sitting opportunity, stopping first at the offices of Africa Enterprises.  Africa Enterprises was a mission organization specializing in evangelistic efforts to the African population.  Chris Sewell, the local director, invited us to participate in outreach efforts in Chinoi and Karoi.  He also suggested that there might be a full-time staff position with them for me in the next few months.  That was encouraging, but I really was leaning more and more away from “full-time” paid ministry.  It would be so much better for me to have a secular job and devote my free time to ministry.  A full-time ministry position always seemed to monopolize the time and energy in the constant effort of raising funds.

Encouraged that we now had several opportunities for ministry after only two weeks in the country, we dropped by the Rhema office to get directions to our new “home.”  We were shuttled off to a side office as Tom was “too busy” to see us.  One of his many ministry assistants advised us that the couple from Rhema who had made this offer had “a change of plans” and Rhema didn’t have anything else for us.  It was almost as if Rhema was losing its patience with us and our unsettled immigration status.  Could it be that they sensed our discomfort with their monochrome vision of ministry and didn’t want us around?  Had our vision for African ministry implied some sort of criticism to which they weren’t open?  Well, I wasn’t sure what was going on--it just meant that we had no where to go!  A quick phone call to Colin Taylor, our contact at Chisipite Baptist, resulted in an immediate offer for us to stay in his home “anytime.”  

Relieved that we would not have to spend our dwindling cash reserves on another hotel stay, we decided to spend the rest of the day looking around Harare for apartments.  This thing with Immigration was plaguing us.  We couldn’t make any firm plans until we had our residency status sorted out.  We would have to keep bouncing from home to home until we got permission to stay in the country longer than 30-60 days.  We couldn’t rent yet, but we could at least look and begin to get a feel for our future housing options!  

The classified ads in the Herald showed several apartments within walking distance of downtown.  We made an appointment to meet the rental agent at one of the apartments in 30 minutes’ time. 

It was a beautiful day as we walked the seven blocks to view the apartment.  The Jacaranda trees were in their full purple bloom.  A gentle morning breeze accompanied us down the sidewalk.  It just felt be good to be taking a positive step!  

Since our first trip to Immigration, when we had been abruptly “denied” in our residency request, everything was tentative.  Our unsettled residency status kept us off-balance.  We just couldn’t allow the constantly changing requirements from Immigration to torture us.  It seemed that the best way to dispel the clouds of uncertainty was to assume success and continue taking positive actions.  We had trusted the Lord enough to get us this far--certainly, the Lord could handle the small detail of residency!

Right:  Charles Wekwete from F.O.G. - Family of God

About a block from the apartment we passed a young African man wearing a Christian t-shirt that said, “Worship Jesus with FOG.”  We stopped to speak with him for a second.  It turned out that “Charles” was a member of a local church,  “Family of God” known by the abbreviation, “FOG.”  He knew the apartment that we were going to see and escorted us to its door.

We toured the apartment.  It had two bedrooms, two baths, a nice kitchen area with appliances and a large lounge (living room).  It looked out on a small garden.  It would be an ideal location for us, but the agent wanted an immediate commitment.  Without a final resolution on our residency status, there was no way we could make such a promise.  So, rather than encouraging us, the whole episode made us greater urgency to finalize our status with Immigration.  We were more frustrated than before!

Leaving the apartment, we walked back the same way we had come.  Charles was waiting for us.  He invited us to come with him to meet his pastor whose apartment was just two blocks away.  

Next:  Darkness and FOG

The Road to Wedza

So, after less than two weeks in Zimbabwe, we were a bit dizzy from the roller coaster ride of experiences.  Ministries in Harare were self-centered and seemingly disinterested in the 80% of the population that lived in the rural areas.  The English-speaking churches were overwhelming white.  For the most part, they seemed more interested in personal charismatic experience than in the gospel of message.  For the white Christians, their lives were little different than what we had seen five years before in Rhodesia.  The only difference was that now they no longer had to endure rationing and military call-ups.  

The churches we visited seemed totally disinterested in us a visitors.  They didn’t take notice of us or any other visitors.  Rather, the focus was on the pastor and the ministry around the pulpit.  The charismatic churches were the most oblivious to the needs of the audience.  The ministers would “prophesy” and announce that “someone here needs healing for their back” or the like.  Unknown tongues were interpreted to tell of various problems that “someone” was having.  Those people were encouraged to come forward for healing, deliverance from demons, or “to receive an annointing from God.”  This was done through the laying on of hands and long lines of supplicants would wait their turn in front of the pulpit as the pastor walked by and pushed them on the forehead so that they fell back into the hands of waiting ushers.  It was all kind of silly, but seemed to be of utmost importance to those ministering.

I “wondered” how that with all these supernatural “gifts, signs and wonders” that no one ever heard from God about our crying personal needs!   At the time, we were open to the possibility that these spiritual gifts could be real.  It would take us quite a while to finally close the door on the possibility of reality in charismatic ministry.  However, we were quickly discovering that this was self-deception on the part of the ministers at best.  At worst, it was showmanship and snake oil sales.  

Our experience with Zimbabwe Immigration was stranger indeed.  The embassy in D.C. had encouraged us with regard to our residency applications.  Of course, as soon as we got to Harare, our request had been abruptly denied.  Within 24 hours we had contact with a senior Immigration official assuring us that our residency would be approved as soon as we had a job.  And now, I was only 10 days from a formal job offer from NCR computers.

We had traveled to Africa on the flimsy financial promises of our home church and were quickly running through the last of our $1000 in travelers checks.  Fortunately, for all their obliviousness to our personal struggles, the Zimbabwean Christians were incredibly hospitable to us.  But with the job from NCR, it seemed that our personal financial crisis was about to be over.

Nevertheless, we felt incredibly alone.  We hadn’t come back to this country to enjoy the lifestyle.  And yet, as hospitable as the local Christians were, they were resistant to our overtures to participate in ministry to the African population.  They seemed to see us as “competition” for the same ministry dollars that they were feverishly trying to raise from outside Zimbabwe.

As we got closer to December 25^th, both headaches and minor illnesses kept us at the Silk’s house.  I think all the travel and emotion had begun to catch up with us and we just needed some downtime.  I spent most of this time in Bible study and reading the Christian literature in Howie’s library.  He had dozens of books from leaders of the Word of Faith movement whose elder member was Kenneth Hagin.  I was shocked at just how poorly his books were written and at his total ignorance of the biblical text.  I quickly discovered that he and the other leaders of the Pentecostal/Charismatic movement were uneducated country preachers whose sole claim to fame was their “claim to fame”!  It was scary how ignorant they were of the Bible.  They were no more literate than the Pentecostal preacher from Appalachia whom I had met during that 1970 Madison snowstorm.

This was the leading light of the Word of Faith movement?  Oy!

I can’t remember how it happened, but we had received an invitation to visit a dairy farm in Wedza.  The owner was a Christian and his wife, (Dave and Jen Hess), who had moved there from South Africa in the early 70s, had kept the farm intact through the war.  We just needed to get away from Harare and the monochrome English-speaking churches.  A trip to the rural areas sounded perfect.

We splurged and rented a car for the three hour trip.  As we left Harare, the dark mood that we had settled into seemed to lift.  A half hour outside of Harare, our flagging spirits revived.  The craziness of the last few weeks was left behind.  After a couple of hours, we turned off the main road at the small town of Marondera.  I had been through here during the war when the town was still called Marandellas.  

Here, the two lanes of tarmac turned into one.  The trick was that you would drive down the center on the tarmac until traffic came at you from the other direction.  Then you would pull off to the side (left) and pass each other with two wheels on the tarmac and two in the dirt.  This worked fine for the approach of most vehicles.  However, when being approached by a rural bus, it was best to pull all the way into the dirt.  Many of the rural buses had damaged suspension and kind of came down the road at you almost sideways!  It was best just to get out of the way.

We came to a fork in the road.  The single lane of tarmac headed off to the left toward the Wedza communal town center.  We took the dirt road to the right to get to the Hess farm.  This looked strangely familiar too.  I seemed to remember traveling this same road when I had accompanied Bill Dodgen out here during the war.  Of course, on this trip, we no longer had to worry about mines buried in the dirt!

About 45 minutes later we pulled turned off this main (dirt!) road onto another dirt road that was in pretty bad condition from the recent rains.  This was the road that led to the Hess farm.  As the owner, he would have been responsible for grading and maintaining it himself.  This too seemed very familiar.  When we turned through gate in the security fence and parked in front of the main house, Dave walked out to greet us.  He was the same farmer I had visited in 1977 with Bill Dodgen!

Of course, he didn’t recognize or remember me.  I had just been there for tea while Bill spent time with him talking about their common church concerns.  Also, back then, I had just been another sergeant in camo.  Now, I was in civilian clothing and bearded.  But, Dave hadn’t changed at all and I remembered his beautiful home overlooking the Wedza valley.

Top:  Main House - Hess Farm in Wedza

Center:  Bungalow that would become our home on the farm.

Below:  Dave and Jen Hess

We spent the day eating and conversing with him and his extended family who were there for the New Year’s holiday.  Dave’s parents were from Chicago and he had grown up as a missionary child in Africa.  Jen’s brothers were there as well, both of them pastors.  One was ministering in their home country of South Africa.  The other was serving as pastor of a church in my home, Louisville.  That church actually met in the building that had been my childhood synagogue.  [Ah! Now I remember!  We had met Jen’s brother in Louisville.  He had given us Dave’s contact information in Zimbabwe.]  

There were two other pastors enjoying the afternoon there that day.  Both had been in the regular Rhodesian Army, one as a Selous Scout, the other as an instructor at RLI when I had been in training there.

It turned out that Dave had moved to the then Rhodesia, not to farm, but to minister to the rural African population.  He had bought this old dairy farm as a means of support and center of ministry.  He shared a similar vision to mine.  He wanted to train African Christians on the surrounding farms.  In turn, they could evangelize their coworkers and eventually serve as pastors of the farm churches.  [These large white-owned farms had worker populations of 60-150.  The workers and their families lived in what was essentially a rural village on the farm property.]

Dave and his brother Jim had grown up in the Plymouth Brethren church.  That meant that I finally had someone with whom I could talk Bible.  Especially after the biblical ignorance that we had encountered with the Word of Faith crowd at Rhema, this was a relief.

Dave walked us out as we left late that afternoon.  He gave us an open invitation to come live at his farm and minister together in Wedza.   We could come out here on weekends after each week at NCR.  What an exciting prospect!

As we climbed into our rental car for the trip back to Harare, there was an envelope taped to the steering wheel.  In it was a note from Dave and Jen formally inviting us back and Z$100.

What an afternoon!

Next:  Fun and Games with Zimbabwe Immigration

Hitchhiking in Zimbabwe

Thanks to the hospitality of the Silks and Rhema, we had drastically reduced our daily expenses. Aside from not having a hotel bill, most of our meals were provided by the Silks or other Zimbabweans who invited us into their homes. Even more expensive than the hotel was the rental car which we returned after just two days. The Silk home was a 20 minute drive from downtown Harare where I had scheduled job interviews. This meant that we took taxis, but more often, ended up hitchhiking.

Just as it has seemed strange to us on Saturday, when we had picked up John as he was hitchhiking, I am sure it was unusual for Zimbabweans to see white people on the side of the road seeking rides. Africans waited in groups on the side of the road for “pirate” taxis. These unlicensed drivers would stuff as many as 7 people in a car or even more in the back of a truck for the “going” fare of 40 cents. Although technically illegal, the pirate taxis were the most affordable means of travel other than the inadequate bus system.

We stayed away from the pirate taxis as we didn’t care to be sit in someone else’s lap! And just as we were finding Zimbabweans hospitable in food in lodging, so were they in giving us rides. Hitchhiking turned out to be an excellent means of making new acquaintances which often led to a dinner invitation.

The day following our unhappy trip to immigration, I hitched a ride into town for an 8:30 am interview with NCR Computers. During the course of my screening interview, the human resources manager asked about our residence status. I told her that whole ugly story to which she replied, “Not to worry. My father is head of Immigration. Once you have a job offer, especially if you get one from us, you will have no problem getting a residence permit. Give me your passports and I will have your visitor visa extended for another month. “

Wow, this had to be the Lord’s intervention on our behalf! As I walked out of the NCR building, it felt as if my feet weren’t even touching the ground. I seemed to float to a nearby restaurant where I met Pegi to celebrate. After attending an afternoon Bible study at Rhema, one of their staff members gave us a ride back to the Silk home.

The next morning, I splurged and took a taxi for my follow-up interview at NCR. I was offered a job contingent on the approval of the chief personnel officer who was expected to return from “holiday” in two weeks. Aside from the obvious benefits of insuring my residence permit, the job paid nicely and included a company car. Since cars were the most expensive single purchase in Zimbabwe and petrol was close to US$5/gallon, this was really good news!

I would work weekdays from 8:00-4:00, sorting out issues with some of their Z80-based computers. Since I was familiar with the Z80 CPU and the programming was done in BASIC, this wouldn’t be beyond my skill level. Most importantly, with weekends free and the use of a car, I could minister freely in the rural areas outside Harare. We wouldn’t be consumed with raising funds from American Christians, nor would we be totally dependent on the hospitality of Zimbabwean Christians. We could play a meaningful role in the local economy and devote our free-time to training African pastors.

All we would need was for other local ministries to allow us to come along side and help. And who would refuse the help of self-funded workers?

Over the next few days, we made every effort to meet as many of the local ministries as possible, especially those who were actively involved in African evangelism in the rural areas. We could already see that there was plenty of evangelistic effort in Harare. There were hundreds of churches and at least a dozen organizations that were focused on spreading the Christian witness to the surrounding townships. There were several Bible schools and ministry centers that were equipping both whites and blacks for urban ministry.

Left: On the road to Wedza. Mid-1984

Strangely, we found few, if any, who took any thought of the largely unevangelized and unchurched millions in the rural areas, especially in what had formerly been the Tribal Trust Lands (TTLs). Maybe this was a hangover from the 15 years of warfare that had been centered in the TTLs. Whites seemed to be reluctant to even visit areas such as Wedza, the large rural district 2 hours northeast of Harare. This was understandable as only those in the Rhodesian Security Forces or white farmers ever had reason to visit those areas prior to independence in 1980. [During our week-long ministry visit to Wedza later in 1984, several people remarked that it was the first time in memory that they had seen whites there other than Security Forces or nearby farm owners. This was a bit of hyperbole as one of the local secondary school teachers was a white American female. Nonetheless, it reflected a feeling of neglect from white Zimbabweans.]

The former TTLs, now self-governing Districts, were now organized according to Marxist principles. The District Commissar was the chief police officer. He worked in tandem with the local ZANU-PF (Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front) Communist Party leaders. This was enough to scare away most white visitors. We would have some “interesting” experiences with the Commissar and local ZANU-PF officials in Wedza the next year. You will read about that in a later chapter.

Left: Sleeping in the rural areas = Bad Hair Days!

However, it was odd that the local African ministries seemed disinterested in the rural areas. After all, the rural areas contained the largest populations. The only significant ministries that operated in the rural areas were ZAOGA (Zimbabwe Assemblies of God-Africa) and the Mapostori (an indigenous church of self-proclaimed “apostles” and prophets). Both these groups freely adopted tribal customs (such as polygamy) and elements of Traditional African Religion. Both reached large populations, but were held in suspicion by the western-oriented evangelical Christians (black and white).

[Actually, these indigenous churches were following the same pattern followed by early Christians when the Gospel message moved out of Palestine to southern Europe. It was in Europe that early Christianity abandoned its Jewish garb in favor of local traditions that included belief in three supreme deities (later to be known as the Trinity). The wholesale adoption of Roman religion amalgamated with the Gospel message is what become modern Christianity. Differences over primal religious perspectives concerning the role of efficacy of ritual (sacraments), the deity of both Christ and Mary, the relationship of the Holy Spirit to the other members of the Trinity, and differences in Greek and Roman culture, resulted in Western Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches.] For a fuller development of this theme, see Chapter Two of my 2000 publication, Messianic Jewish Congregations: Who Sold this Business to the Gentiles?

In December of 1983, I was firmly planted in the evangelical perspective. I had a “burden” for the rural Africans. My desire was to train indigenous pastors and evangelists who could win converts and gather them into rural self-supporting churches. Alas, I would find little support for such an effort among the major ministries in Harare.

Next: The Road to Wedza

“A Whiter Shade of Pale”

I claimed our “wandering” luggage from the train station and filled up two tiny R-4 Renault taxis for transport back to the hotel.  When we arrived at the Jameson Hotel in 1977, I had tipped at the 20 times the local rate.  This time I was generous, but not foolish.  After all, generosity was part of our “testimony” as Christians.  As “ambassadors for Christ”, there could never be a time when we were “off-duty.”  

We had volunteered to serve as soldiers in an invisible, but real spiritual conflict.   In 1977 we had been soldiers in the visible conflict here.  Then, we could remove our battle gear for some rest and relaxation.  The spiritual conflict did not allow us that luxury.  Indeed, we were discovering the most significant events to be the small and unplanned ones.  We made more contacts shopping and touring on Saturday than we had in two churches services on Sunday.  It would serve all public figures well to remember that how you are when you are off-duty is the real you.  

We were on our way to meet with Rhema’s pastor, Tom Deuschle at his ministry office near downtown Harare.  We had loved the music and the general atmosphere at Rhema on Sunday morning, but were deeply troubled by the pale white congregation.  I wanted to discuss our vision for reaching the African population and training African pastors.  Apparently, Tom believed that we were seeking his financial support.  That got us off to an odd start!

Before we could even introduce ourselves and our vision for ministry, he told us that he didn’t have any “staff” positions.  Instead, we should submit ourselves to his authority for six months.  Then he would consider “sending us out” from his church!

Whoa, hold on!  We sought neither his financial support nor his spiritual authority.  We were simply looking for a local church that we could attend on the rare occasion that we were in Harare on a Sunday.  We fully expected to develop our own financial support base and believed that we were already working under God’s leadership.

I guess he probably had dozens of would-be missionaries arriving on his doorstep looking for support.  So, his reaction was understandable.  Nevertheless, we found it strange that he saw his own ministry as so central to the work of God in Zimbabwe.  Once he understood that we sought neither his money nor his permission, we were able to move on to other subjects.

I asked him about his vision and why it seemed that Rhema was ministering primarily to whites.  His answer was that he believed this was his calling.  He said that he hoped to include black African ministry at some point.  We didn’t know it at the time, but we would later become involved in beginning Rhema’s ministry to train African pastors.  Although our participation with them would be short-lived, a look at their website today seems to indicate that they have indeed found a way to minister to the emerging African urban class in Harare as well as in other cities in southern Africa.    Without a visit, it is difficult to know whether their internet claims are real or just advertising.  I would welcome comments and correspondence on this.

My experience in 1983-87 would suggest that their vision was more Rhodesian than Zimbabwean.  We had a bumpy relationship with Tom and Bonnie during those four years.  At one point, we believed that we had become close friends and true comrades-in-arms.  Even today, our hearts still ache for them.  What we believed to be a “special” relationship was fatally wounded by that first reaction that Tom had to us.  I don’t think he ever understood that we were not there to gain his support.  And, I don’t know that Tom ever understood our burden for the rural areas where the majority of Zimbabweans lived in the Eighties.

Nevertheless, Tom had been hospitable, arranging for us to house-sit for a month in the home of his youth pastor, Howie Silk.  Howie and Michele Silk had been on the Rhema staff for a little over a year when we met them that afternoon in 1983.  Howie was Rhodesian-born while Michele was from South Africa.  We only had a few minutes to chat with them before them left for vacation in South Africa, but were instantly attracted to Howie’s sense of humor and Michele’s hospitality.  It was amazing, but reassuring that they would let us live in their home for a month, having never before met us.  I mean, would you open up your house and leave it in the hands of foreigners whose only claim was that they were fellow-Christians?  That took great compassion and ironclad faith in God.

This was not the last time we would find refuge in the Silk’s home.  It was their hospitality and that of six other families who would make it possible for us to live in Zimbabwe rent free for almost two years.  In each case, these Zimbabwean Christians opened their hearts and homes to us time and time again.  If not for them, we could not have afforded to engage in ministry or even stay in the country.  Not only did the Silks and others house us, they also fed us and provided their domestic servants to care for us.  This was an amazing gift to us and our ministry which is unique in my almost 60 years.

Other Zimbabweans would make cash donations that freed us to fuel the cars and trucks that they made available for our use.  One family actually donated a second home on their ranch to us to use for as long as we needed it.  This was not limited to well-to-do white Christians.  We received cash gifts from a number of African believers as well.  One, whom you will meet in a later chapter was a former terrorist officer.  Now the headmaster of a rural boarding school attended by the children and grandchildren of former communist freedom fighters, he and his teachers who were themselves former members of the ZIPRA/ZANLA forces, fed us, made regular cash donations, bought me a  new three-piece suit and named a school building after us.

The generosity of the Zimbabwe Christian community towards us was mind-boggling.   

Of course, not everything was sweetness and light!  As happy as the Christian community was to have us, the  Ministry of Immigration seemed determined to force us to leave.  After getting settled into the Silk home on Monday, we paid a visit to the Immigration Office on the next day, Tuesday, 13 December 1983.  We expected good news on this, our fourth day in Zimbabwe.  

However, we got the unnerving news that our application for residency had been denied.  When we asked about next steps, the clerk told us, “Your residency permit has been denied and it is final!”  This so caught us off guard that we were dizzy.  I couldn’t believe that it was all over so suddenly.  I was completely demoralized.  Pegi managed to keep her wits about her and helped me file a letter of appeal.  After all, we still had 3 ½ weeks left on our visitor’s visa.  She found out from the clerk that we could get our permit reconsidered if we found employment in the country.  

I had already made some appointments for job interviews with local computer companies, so after collecting ourselves, we went down the street for a job interview with ICL Computers.  During the interview, I found out that all residency applications were automatically denied without a written job offer.  Well, that was a relief--our situation wasn’t unusual at all!  

Next:  Hitchhiking in Zimbabwe

Colorless Sunday Services

During all our 18 months here during the war we had never attended a Sunday church service!  That was the result of both my Jesus Freak skepticism of organized Christianity which gained intensity with the exposure to Thieme’s cult-like teaching that cast aspersions on other pastor-teachers.  I had conducted a few Sunday morning services for recruits while in Bulawayo, but had never visited an organized church meeting.

One of the many changes during our five year absence was our conviction that the local church was central to our spiritual growth.  We had to find a “home” church before leaving for Africa.  And although we came to Africa to start churches, we hoped to find a Zimbabwe congregation which could serve as a home base.  Since we expected to be actively involved in evangelism and teaching ministry day-in and day-out, we hoped to find a Zimbabwe church home where we could receive ministry and be refreshed.

I wasn’t looking for a pastor to be my spiritual mentor.  Rather, I hoped to find someone to be my spiritual peer--a comrade-in-arms.  I considered ministry itself to be a form of warfare--spiritual warfare.  At this time in my life I was very conscious of what I believed to be a grand cosmic war between the forces of good (God/angels) and evil (Satan/demons).  

Yes, I really did believe that there was a devil who was fighting against God.  Satan was an unfortunate preoccupation for those in the Charismatic movement who tended to live in a dualistic universe.  Illness and bad fortune were typically ascribed to the Devil.  Healing and good fortune were ascribed to God.  Pegi and I were disturbed by this preoccupation with Satan and demons in many of the charismatic Christians we met.  Yet, as I read through my journal entries from this period, I am shocked to see just how preoccupied I had become with Satan.   I will spare you, the reader, and translate most of this into saner discourse!

Before leaving Louisville, we had subscribed to the Zimbabwe Herald newspaper.  We regularly examined the religious section trying to familiarize ourselves with the local churches in Harare.  It was there that we had first seen the mention of Rhema Church. [After a “fallout” with Rhema-South Africa and Kenneth Hagin Ministries, the name changed to “Hear the Word” and recently “Celebration Church”].  Since we were familiar with the “Word of Faith” movement in the States and had been attracted to the music of American churches associated with it, we decided to check out Rhema first.  

Rhema’s Sunday services were held in a rented auditorium and every one of the 600 seats was quickly filled that morning.  For the 15 minutes before the official start of the service, a pop-rock worship group consisting of piano, guitar, bass, and drums played quietly in the background.  The service itself began with rousing praise and worship for about 20 minutes.  It was followed by a sermon given in a conversational tone by the American missionary pastor, Tom Deuschle.  I later learned that his wife, Bonnie, had been leading the praise and worship from the piano.  They sang an assortment of choruses, some of which we knew from our time in the States and others which had been imported from Rhema-South Africa.  

We were very impressed with the music.  Music always had a strong influence on me.  Although there was nothing “wrong” with pastor’s message, something disturbed me.  After the service, we introduced ourselves to him.  Tom was about five years younger than my 34 years.  When he heard we were staying at the Jameson Hotel, he immediately offered to find us a place to stay with someone in his congregation.  We appreciated the offer of hospitality, especially since we couldn’t rent a home until we had worked out our visa issues.

[Pictures:  Jeff and Pegi outside Mt Pleasant Hall for Rhema service-1983, Rhema Worship Service-1985, Jeff & pregnant Pegi as part of Rhema Praise Band-1986]

That evening we visited the Christian Life Centre recommended by our hitch-hiking friend, John, from the previous day.  This church also had several hundred people in attendance which was impressive for a Sunday evening service.  They had a co-pastoring arrangement which we found interesting.  One of the two pastors was an American, but neither seemed to care that we had come to visit.  Maybe it was the nighttime venue, but the musical worship here seemed darker and less lively than Rhema’s.  Once again, the message was fine, but something was troubling me about this place too.

As we drove back to the hotel, it hit us what had troubled us--it was the “colorlessness” of both church services.  There were few if any black Africans.  We had seen only one in the morning at Rhema and didn’t notice any black faces that night at Christian Life Center.  These were ministries that seemed focused on the tiny (but prosperous) remaining white population.  In 1983, there were less than 100,000 whites in the midst of a sea of 7.5 million black Africans.  Apparently, it was still “Rhodesia” in the large charismatic churches!  This would at least be understandable if these were older “survivor” denominational churches.  But, these were churches that had been founded in the last few years since end of the white Rhodesian regime.  More significantly, they were churches focused on evangelism, filled with the recently born-again.  How could they ignore the huge and needy black African population?

We would ask Tom Deuschle that very question when we met with him the next morning.

Next:  A Whiter Shade of Pale