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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

16 March 1985

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next:  A Triumphal Return

Where Is Home Anyway?

Since the Kariba Christian Centre was not working out for us, it really did make sense to consider a trip back home.  We were feeling torn.  We knew we needed to stay away from Wedza,  but had discovered that there just wasn’t sufficient infrastructure to support our ministry in Kariba.  Kariba was just too far removed from the rest of Zimbabwe.  If we wanted to reach the rural areas, we would need easy access to Harare where there was a large community of African Christians who could be drawn into our efforts.  

Our trips to South Africa every few months to renew our visitor’s visa also provided the opportunity to stock up on supplies that were not available in Zimbabwe.  International business sanctions had been lifted with the transition to Zimbabwe from Rhodesia in 1980, but the local economy was almost three decades behind.  [With Marxist rhetoric, it would probably take decades for 1984 Zimbabwe to catch up.  Of course, under Mugabe’s dictatorship, Zimbabwe’s economy was completely destroyed by 2000.  In 1984, one US dollar was worth three Zimbabwe dollars.  Before Zimbabwe abandoned its own currency in 2007, one US dollar bought 100 billion Zimbabwe dollars!]  We could visit the border with Zambia at Kariba for visa extensions, but there was nothing to buy in Zambia.  Their economy was in worse shape than Zimbabwe’s.  Driving from Kariba to Johannesburg, South Africa was a three-day trip.  From Harare, it was only 7 hours across the border to an air-conditioned motel, car spare parts, tuna fish, Nestle’s Crunch and Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Then it was a pleasant 5 hour drive to Johannesburg with more opportunities to fill up with petrol and KFC!

The morning before the last Mahombekombe meeting, my father phoned to say that he had suffered what might have been a small stroke.  He had always been 40-50 pounds overweight for his 6’3 frame, hadn’t paid attention to his health and was at risk for a heart attack.  My mother divorced him when I was six.  My relationship with him had always been bumpy, especially since he “had me” on on weekends and during summer vacations all the way through my school years.  

He had a sales job that kept him traveling between his second apartment in Houston to  Phoenix and Los Angeles most of the time. So, he was rarely around.  When he was in town and  made plans for me to spend the day with him, he was always several hours late.  I remember  spending entire Saturdays waiting for him.  This was long before cell phones and often, after being delayed all afternoon without calling, he would finally call in the evening to say that he wasn’t going to be by to “get me” after all.  I spent three six-week summer vacations with him during my junior high years.  These were business trips for him, but great vacations for me hitting all the western state tourist spots and making two trips to Disneyland in California.  I actually lived in the Beverly Hills Wilshire Sheraton Hotel for six weeks one summer.  My days were spent at the hotel pool while he called on customers.  Evenings we dined at famous restaurants and saw dozens of stage shows by Hollywood entertainers.  That was fun, except that he would drop me at the hotel after the show to go on a date with someone he met that night.  Despite his size, he was a handsome man with blue eyes.  Women were attracted to him.  The first significant evidence of this was his high school librarian when he was 16.  She showed him things in the library that were outside of the standard curriculum, if you catch my meaning.  Aside from his  success attracting women he was capable of making friends with anyone instantly.   Everyone liked him from doormen and waitresses to CEOs.  His problem was not starting a relationship.  It was in sustaining relationships.  Whether with me, his brother, his dates or three ex-wives, there was universal agreement that Marvin Wasserman did not know how to demonstrate his love in an ongoing relationship.

He had come from a poor Russian immigrant family.  His father, a housepainter, died from a heart attack when Dad was only 10.  He lived with his mother and older brother until he joined the Navy at the outbreak of World War II.  He was a “born” salesman, finding success in the jewelry business in the first few years after the war.  As such, he made a lot of money in the 50s and 60s.  Unfortunately, he seemed to think that the best way to show his love was to shower family and friends with gifts.  Hey, I’m not complaining!  I didn’t mind the gifts at all.  It is just that I would rather have his attention.  

Anyway, in the late 70s he suffered a number of financial setbacks.  By the 80s, he was living on social security disability after having declared bankruptcy in the 70s. Interestingly, our relationship improved dramatically once money was no longer his means of showing love.  Nevertheless, our relationship was still a bit bumpy.

We had already decided to make a visit to the States, but this solidified our plans.  I needed to see him before he had the inevitable final heart attack.  He and I had spoken numerous times about God and he had become seemingly more open to considering a relationship with Jesus.  Of course, I was feeling the pressure of the evangelical doctrine that everyone had to accept Jesus as savior, even the children of Israel.  Evangelical Christians take the “great commission” very seriously:

And Jesus came up and spoke to them, saying. “All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth.  Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”  [Matt. 28:18-20 NASB]

I felt that I had a responsibility to reach my father with this important message before he died.  And, maybe this recent mini-stroke would have awakened him to his need for Jesus.  

[Once again, as I reflect on this 26 years later, I understand what an unfair pressure this put on our relationship. And, of course, I no longer hold to that Christian faith perspective.  As a Jew, I value the moral and ethical teaching of Jesus.  I often remark the Jesus is my favorite radical reformist rabbi.  Also as a Jew, I value Christianity as the successful embodiment faith in God for the gentiles.  However, I have come to reject the traditions that arose in later generations transforming Jesus the Galilean rabbi and prophet into God.

The Christian dogma that posits their understanding of Jesus as the “only” way to God has recently come under scrutiny by some intellectually honest evangelicals.]  

I created a web page where I can discuss this and other subjects of interest with readers.  Visit www.ConfessionsofAWanderingJew.com to start the conversation.

We booked flights and arranged to have the money transferred from our bank in South Africa to the travel agent in Harare.  In preparation for our arrival, we began writing letters to churches and individuals we hoped to visit in America.

Norman made the long trip from Wedza-Harare-Kariba to plan with us before we left.  The work in Wedza continued to grow under his guidance with continued financial assistance from Dave Hess and Pastor Francis from the church in Domba Tomba outside of Marondera.  Knowing that Wedza was in good hands gave us the confidence that we could go away for a few months without the work fizzling out.

After dropping Norman at the bus for his return to Wedza, we got a call from the Centre’s switchboard saying that Tinos was downstairs with someone he wanted us to meet.  So, we headed downstairs to the lounge.  When we saw Tinos’ friend, we were shocked.  After all, this was deep in a sparsely-populated and little visited part of Zimbabwe.  But, there having tea with Tinos, was an Hasidic Jew with black coat and hat, tzitzit hanging from his waist and side-curls.

He was a 28-year old Australian Jew hitchhiking from South Africa to Somalia where he planned to meet up with his African fiancé who traced her descent from Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.  We had many things to argue about (I mean “discuss”) that afternoon, so I didn’t think that it was my place to tell him that there were no roads for about 700 miles of his hitchhiking trip!  He would discover that soon enough.

Tinos had been witnessing to him, trying to convince him that Jesus was the promised Jewish Messiah.  The Australian, Michael, was surprisingly open to discussion, but Tinos felt that he was out of his element.  That is why he had come to find me!  He was certain, that as a Jew myself, I would be able to make a convincing argument to Michael.

Michael was happy to take me on in the continuing argument (“discussion”) with Tinos.  Michael had been on a spiritual quest himself.  He was a “Wandering Jew” too!  In his wandering, he had even attended a Roman Catholic seminary for a few years.  He had extensive New Testament knowledge, and when it came to theology, he was much better versed in Christian thought than I was.  Of course, I had never been well-schooled in Jewish beliefs either.  So, I was worried that this guy might have me for lunch!  Well, that would be better than the Centre’s mutton!

During this period in my life, I was confident in my commitment to Jesus.  However, I had always been a bit intimidated by observant Jews.  It wasn’t that I thought that my position was wrong.  It was just that I did not have the training in Hebrew and the years of practice in theological debate is the heart of Orthodox Judaism.  

My Jewish background had made me comfortable with theological debate and argument.  Jews are taught to question everything.  This is the primary method of inquiry in the synagogue.  I had discovered that my Jewish tendency to question truth assertions and my inclination to debate or argue made me unwelcome in most Christian theological settings.  For most Christians, everything was settled.  For me, as a Jew, everything was subject to piercing investigation.  As if to illustrate just that point, later that afternoon, one of the visiting missionaries at the Christian Centre took me aside to upbraid me for “arguing” with Michael.  I explained to him that this is the Jewish method of intellectual discourse.  I don’t think he bought it.  I suspect it confirmed his stereotype of all Jews as argumentative troublemakers.

By 1984, this was my third encounter with a Jewish “authority.”  The first had been with my childhood rabbi, Chester Diamond in 1969 when I first became a follower of Jesus.  In that first encounter with a learned Jew, I had held my own, employing Psalm 22 and Isaiah 53 to make my case.  Rabbi Diamond was only the “assistant” rabbi back then at Adath Israel, and I don’t think he was prepared for the emerging Jewish Jesus movement.  [For more information on Jewish faith in Jesus, order my $9.99 eBook, Messianic Jewish Congregations:  Who Sold this Business to the Gentiles?  iPad/Kindle, Nook]  Later, I would encounter him as the senior rabbi at my mother’s funeral and again when writing my doctoral dissertation.  He and I were both better prepared to support our arguments then.  My second Jewish encounter was with the rabbi in Bulayawo during the Rhodesian War.  [“The French Would Sell their Mothers”]  I felt that I had handled myself successfully there as well.

Michael was not about to admit that my arguments were valid.  Frankly, I won a few, but I think he won more!  My basic argument concerned Jesus’ assertion that he was “the way, the truth and the life; no one comes to the Father, but through me” ( John 14:6 NASB).  So, he was:  (1) a deceiver, (2) deceived or (3) or what he said he was--the way, the truth and the life.  

Tinos ran into him again later.  While not admitting that I had won any points, Michael said that he believed he had been led to our meeting by God.  Tinos and I both interpreted that to mean that I might have gotten through to him.  More than likely, he saw God leading him there to help me find my way back to a Jewish path.  Thinking about it now, that was probably the case!

I had one other encounter of note before leaving for the States.  The morning before our flight out of Kariba, I met an African journalist who worked for ZIANA, the Zimbabwe news agency.  He was a born-again Christian who was stationed in Kariba.  However, he had been born and raised in a Jewish village outside Rusape.  There are several tribal groupings of African Jews in Africa.  The largest and best known was indigenous to Ethiopia.  The majority of these Ethiopian African Jews were rescued and settled in Israel (Operation Solomon). After finishing university and sometime after the end of hostilities, he had been presented with the gospel and become a follower of Jesus.  So, here we were, two Messianic Jews at the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe!

And now it was time to go home, but where was home?  Sure, Louisville was my birthplace as Houston was Pegi’s.  But, a few months into our marriage, we had made our home in Africa.  Now we were back and beginning to feel as if we really belonged.  Most of our ministry support was from South African and Zimbabwean Christians, white and black.  As we prepared for our trip to Houston and Louisville to connect with our birth and spiritual families, would we find the same kind of acceptance from our American spiritual family that we had from our African spiritual family?  Could we go home to the States, raise the support we needed and quickly return to our African home?  

The Kariba airport had one runway.  The weekly flight to Harare was in a two-engine propeller-plane reminiscent of something out of a 1950s movie.  Before we could take off, a Land Rover raced down the runway to chase off the elephants and zebra who were grazing on the grass at the sides of the tarmac.

A few days later, we boarded a KLM 747 in Harare. Our flight would stop in Arusha, Tanzania where we could see Mt Kilimanjaro in the distance, Khartoum in the Sudan, Vienna, and  Amsterdam.  After a 10-hour layover in Amsterdam including a boat ride through its canals, we once again boarded a KLM flight for the flight to Houston.

Tuesday, 18 September 1984

--After ten months in Africa, we are back where we started, but 3118 souls for the kingdom richer!

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

Too Much Mutton!

So here we were on our way again to Kariba.  This time it wasn’t a vacation, but a change of operating theaters.  As we moved into a tiny three-room suite at the Kariba Christian Centre, we were far too busy to think about what all of this meant for us as a couple in the greater scheme of things.  Today, however, as I read through my journal entries a quarter century later, I can see just how far we had wandered from anything we had known before.

Married 8 years, I was 35.  Pegi was 32.  For the last 15 years, my entire focus had been my spiritual growth as a follower of Jesus.  I had dropped out of university at 20 and never found a career path other than the hope of “full-time ministry.”  Yet, the unusual trail that had led a Jewish ex-hippie and his spouse to Africa did not resemble that of other missionaries.  I still had no formal biblical or ministerial training.  Nevertheless, I had pursued my goal with a single-mindedness and energy that makes me short of breath today!

Every day was packed with activity:  hours of intensive personal study, leading others in biblical studies, nighttime evangelistic meetings, one-on-one spiritual counseling and all the details of managing life’s details in a foreign country on little to no money.  A typical week included 2-3 nighttime outdoor evangelistic events to between 50 and 500 people, speaking engagements twice on Sundays as well as mid-week, 5-10 appointments with ministry workers, 4-5 daytime bible studies or schools of ministry, 5-10 personal letters to supporters, . . . We were really energetic!

We were also deeply entrenched in what is best described as charismatic ministry.  The first 10 years of my Christian wanderings had kept me firmly rooted in that part of evangelical life that viewed the expectation of “Spirit-filled” miracle ministry as highly suspect.  But, as Pegi and I had sought to live out our lives with effectiveness, we had found ourselves drawn to the claims of Pentecostal/Charismatic ministers as explained in Listen for the Music and Follow It.  Since arriving in Zimbabwe, our experience seemed to verify that non-charismatic ministries were uniformly unsuccessful.  They neither caught nor held the attention of the African populace whose indigenous religious sensibilities were accustomed to examples of “power.”  

Of course, music has always been at the core of my being.  The lively music that characterized the charismatic movement was quickly incorporated into our ministry.  Africans, too, seemed to have a strong affinity for music and responded readily to our ministry because of it.  African tradition also has an expectation of practical and powerful results from religion.  I never could accept the paradox of the spirit-filled and empowered ministry of Jesus and his disciples compared to the somber intellectualism of modern Christianity.  I had never been interested in the doctrine, dogma, tradition and authority of the historical Christian movement.  My interest was in the fullness of life expressed by Jesus and his Jewish disciples.  What Jesus and his disciples had experienced pulsed with life and truth.  That is what I wanted to experience!  So, I was drawn to charismatic present-day experience that claimed to be parallel to that of the 1^st century.

When we ministered with Felix or others who actively sought the “power of the Holy Spirit” we seemed to have immediate results.  When we encountered traditional ministry such as at the Chisipite Baptist Bible Church, the congregations were lifeless and unenthused.  We did note that much of what passed for charismatic ministry was seriously lacking in biblical fidelity.  It seemed to me that charismatics used the Bible as justification for activities that were clearly outside of any sound biblical context.  We sought to unite sound biblical exposition with the experiential power of the Spirit of God.  That desire on our part often resulted in unrealistic hopes.

We had adopted not only charismatic ministry, but also its vocabulary.  As I read through my journal entries, I am embarrassed by my own naiveté.  There are constant references to praying for miracles of healing, “confessing” ministry finances, attacks by Satan, victories over demonic powers and overly-optimistic estimates of how people have “given their lives to Christ.”  Here is an example that makes me dizzy just to read:

Kariba - Saturday, 8 September 1984

This morning we are really encouraged in the Lord and ready for a crusade tonight . . . .

--We arrived at the park in Mahombekombe only to find that the carnival was still there.  It was supposed to have finished on Friday night.  Also, there were traditional dancers and a film at the hall!  We decided to set up anyway!

Jeff and Tinos tuneup

We spoke to the foreman of the carnival and told him it would be okay for him to stay, even though we had permission to use the park.  We would set up next to him and he could turn off his music once we started.  He agreed and was helpful at first.

A rainy night in Mahombekombe

We began to sing with only about 20 children present, but after a few minutes there were at least 1000 people.  By the time we started the film [from a T.L. Osborn evangelistic crusade in the Philippines with tens of thousands in the audience and dozens of testimonies to miraculous healing], there were at least 1500.  

Just as we were about to show the film a town councilman showed up saying that we really didn’t have authority to be there.  We told him that we DID!  He said the foreman of the carnival had complained because we were there.  He had apparently become upset when we took his crowd away from him.

I stood my ground and said that as far as we were concerned, we had permission and we would not move.  The councilman relented offering us the town hall for tomorrow night and the rest of our crusade.  We agreed with that and went on with showing the film.

The devil had tried once again to stop the preaching of the gospel and once again had failed.  We had called his bluff and took authority over the situation.  

At least 300-400 raised their hands to receive Christ.  Allowing for the 200 we counted two weeks before, I would say there were about 200 new commitments.  That puts our total at 2897 [since our return in 1983].  We gave out about 1000 tracts and had the thrill of defeating the devil even though he had us surrounded--Praise the Lord!

Sunday, September 9

Tonight we set up in Mahombekombe in the hall.  It was very hot and about 150 came..  We sang and then I preached on Ephesians 2.  I had asked how many were born-again and it looked like everyone raised their hands.  

Afterwards, I gave an altar-call and one young man came forward.  After he prayed he said he could feel joy flooding his being.  We prayed for 3 sick people, one with TB, another with a deaf ear (who then asked what he must do to be saved), and another (who had been saved the night before) who was suffering from dizziness.  [He must have felt like I feel now recounting all of this!]  

Monday, September 10

. . . This evening in the park at Mahombekombe only 100-150 came.  Tinos preached, but 51 came to the Lord. . . .  We prayed for healing for about 20, several testifying to being healed.  

Tuesday, September 11

. . . At Mahombekombe park . . . About 150 of 500 responded (Total 3118) . . . .

Pegi was asked to pray for a woman with pain in her back.  After praying, the pain moved to her chest.  Pegi cursed Satan and the pain left.  This was important for Pegi since she saw that the Lord could heal through her without me there praying with her.  [Can you believe this stuff?  I shudder to think that this is what we were actually thinking at the time!]

--The amazing thing about this evening was how peaceful and orderly it was.  We didn’t have to rebuke the devil all night.  It was like Satan got tired and left us alone tonight.  [I seemed to have already forgotten about Pegi rebuking Satan as I jotted these things down before going to bed.]

So, at least from our perspective at the time, our ministry was successful and it seemed that we had made the right decision in moving to Kariba.  We had also begun to feel that we no longer needed the experience of Felix or someone else to guide us and pray for healing.  Neither did we seem to need the films any longer as several nights without them at Mahombekombe had shown.  We were gaining confidence in ourselves that the Lord was with us in ministry.

Life at the Kariba Christian Centre was not working out as expected.  Yes, Lester wanted us to be involved as “trustees” in its management as a rest stop for missionaries on furlough from Zambia.  Yes, we could use it as a base of operations to meet other missionaries and ministries with whom we could work.  Yes, we would be actively involved in ministry to exhausted missionaries in need of rest and relaxation.  Yes, we could cook meals and wash dishes -- What?  We were expected to work for free as kitchen help?

Yup, apparently by moving into a tiny un-air-conditioned suite of three rooms, we were expected to cook and clean.  I sure didn’t remember a discussion of this in the “You don’t understand that God has sent you” discussion!  And then there was the matter of the single small fan in our room.  Lester needed to give that to some other missionaries in another room.  We were expected to sweat it out in our room without the A/C that Lester had in his.  And now we wouldn’t even have a fan to keep the thick hot air moving?

And, what had happened to those nice meals that we had in the cafeteria the first two weeks we had visited?  Well, apparently, finances were running low since some of the missionaries refused to contribute to the cost of their room and board.  Even though Pegi and I were paying the advertised rates to stay there, we would pretty much have to live on a diet of mutton that had been donated by a local farmer.  There was no fruit, although the markets were overflowing.  We were short of bread, even brown bread.  We had limited supplies of eggs and milk.  I don’t remember any vegetables.  We had mutton for supper, mutton stew for lunch and although we didn’t have mutton for breakfast, all I remember is the smell of mutton with every meal.

Up until now, everyone we had met in Zimbabwe was incredibly giving and hospitable, recognizing that we were without regular financial support.  White Europeans and black Africans alike always had sought to share their best with us.  But, Lester and Peggy Seiler, who had significant regular support for themselves and the Kariba Centre ministry from America, were not willing to share.  We were paying for our room and board just like the other visitors at the Kariba Christian Centre, but for the privilege of helping out, we would cook, clean and eat rations.  This wasn’t going to work!

Pegi and I decided that this was a perfect time for us to make a trip back to the States.  While there, we could visit friends who were interested in our ministry.  Now that we had ample tangible success to talk about, we should be able to raise enough regular support to get the minimal transportation, equipment and operating funds so that we would no longer be dependent on hospitality.  The hospitality, except for the glut of mutton, had been wonderful.  But now it was time for us to be responsible for our own expenses and free up resources to support indigenous African workers.  With about US$2000/month regular support we could provide for ourselves and support others such as Norman and Tinos.  Maybe we could also help out other new missionaries who were just getting established.  Whatever support we raised, I was confident we wouldn’t have to eat mutton ever again!

Next:  Where Is Home Anyway?

Contrasting Hearts

After two weeks, it was time to head back to Harare.  We needed to hear back from Felix with regard to his commitment.  Whatever his decision, we had to make some sort of arrangements to continue the work in Wedza and especially at Matsine.

We couldn’t catch up with Felix, so I left him a letter assuring him of our love, and trusting him to make the right decisions as to his future in ministry.  While at his apartment, we ran into Charles Wekwete who had first introduced us to Felix.  Charles informed us that his fiancee, Needmore, was leaving for a five-year program of studies in Kiev, which was still part of the USSR in 1984.  We were concerned for her since the Soviet Union was not sympathetic to Christianity or any other religious faith.  Needmore wrote us regularly during her time in Kiev.  It was difficult, but she managed to hold on to her faith in spite of the pressure.  When she returned to Zimbabwe, she had outgrown Charles and they broke up.  We saw Charles again in Houston in 1987 just after Abi was born.  He visited us again in Louisville in 1989.  Today, he has a cleaning business in Nashville.

The next morning, we drove to Marondera stopping by to see Vic and Sherrie Stockhill at their ranch before going on to Lushington, but Dave and Jen were there visiting.  Vic’s brother Ivan shared ownership of the ranch.  Ivan and Di Stockhill had offered for us to move into their ranch house as Vic and Sherrie were planning to return to Australia.  

The Terrorized Heart

Vic was emblematic of many white Rhodesians who never could reconcile with the idea of black majority rule.  I remember several Bible studies that I led in which he was quickly angered whenever the subject of “loving one another” or treating all people respectfully came up.  During one study I had made a point about believing the best of people rather than focusing on their weaknesses.  I thought Vic was going to explode.  Of all the people I met who had stayed in Zimbabwe after Rhodesia, he was the most uncomfortable with the changes after white minority rule.  

I think we sometimes have to admit that there are things that impact us so deeply that we can never get over them.  Many religions, and Christianity in particular, often insist that we forgive.  While that is a noble goal, we sometimes trivialize the severity and depth of certain events.  Vic was fluent in Shona, spending years working side-by-side with African farmhands.  He wasn’t at the university or frequenting elite intellectual circles.  He was a rancher who engaged in daily sweaty labor with rural farmhands who were very different from him.  They were from two different worlds.  Their shared experience was in wrangling cows, harvesting feed, maintaining fences and outbuildings and except for the last few years, it had been in the midst of a horrible civil conflict.  

Vic and the African workers he knew lived in a hot zone. The Rhodesian Security Forces ruled the day.  Terrorist “freedom fighters” ruled the night.  Anyone who got caught in the crossfire died.  For Vic, the issue was simple.  What was best for the Africans was benevolent white supremacy.  He used all his resources to help the families of the workers on his ranch.  But, these simple farmhands weren’t ready to “run things” just because there was a black government.  His experience showed him that it would take decades, maybe generations for farmhands to become businessmen.  His every interaction with the unreasonable and arbitrary new regime caused his frustration to mount.  And Vic, like many other Rhodesians had seen things that revealed a sinister and often violent temperament in these rural people. Appropriately, he was frightened for himself and his family.  A single election in 1980 didn’t change the character of a people overnight.  Vic was terrorized by the circumstances.  And, he just hadn’t been able to get over it.  You can’t blame him.  It was a terrifying time for whites and blacks.  Not everyone is able to adjust.  I don’t think Vic was a racist.  I think he had PTSD.  It wouldn’t be until after the Gulf War of 1991 that anyone began to talk about the stresses of war and what it does to someone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We thanked Ivan and Di for the offer of the house, explaining that we were going to relocate in Kariba for a while to let things settle down and so that we would not imperil the ongoing work.  We would end up staying at the Stockhill farm the following year after all.  

Dave, Jen and Norman were not “thrilled” that we were leaving.  Nevertheless, they saw the sense in our new plans.  I think Dave and Jen also knew that our presence was complicating things as fewer and fewer white farmers were finding the Zimbabwe government helpful.  The attention we were drawing was negatively impacting them, although they would never admit that.  They had dedicated their lives to the spread of the gospel in Zimbabwe at considerable personal expense and with very real physical risks.  

The Loving Heart

During the war, Lushington was a security-fenced compound.  Their two children were an hour away at a boarding school in Marondera and only home on weekends.  The dirt road for the last few miles to Lushington and the single strip of tarmac to Marondera was subject to landmines and ambushes.  [See “Farm Life in a War Zone” for a description of my first encounter with Dave at Lushington.]

Since independence, Dave’s dairy farm struggled from week to week.  Diesel, parts for farm equipment, feed and all necessary components for dairy farming were in short supply and costly.  The banks were unwilling to take risk on an industry with both health and price regulations from an increasingly arbitrary and unreasonable government. In addition, aside from the responsibility that Dave had to pay, house and subsidize the 70 people who lived and worked on his farm, Workers’ Committees strictly controlled hiring and firing.  This was not a free-enterprise zone.  Instead, the government continually pressured white farmers to leave.  Farmers like Vic were only too happy to sell out and leave.  Nevertheless, even if you could get a decent price for your farm, you couldn’t take it anything with you when leaving Zimbabwe.  You got Zimbabwe dollars that were not eligible for exchange with any other currency.  About all you could take with you was furniture and your personal car.  This as not a new situation.  It was simply the continuation of currency regulations enacted during the white Rhodesian Smith government.  Zimbabwe, like Rhodesia before it, had very limited foreign exchange reserves.

But financial considerations didn’t impact Dave and Jen’s plans.  They had moved themselves from a prosperous life in South Africa to that farm in the mid-70s to be servants of the Lord.  Their motivation was to spread the gospel.  Just because the government had changed from white to black and the economy from free to managed, their mission and vision had not changed.

Jen on "our corner in Chicago - 2012

I often disagreed with Dave questioning his reasoning and judgement.  We had some heated discussions from time to time, both of us being strong willed.  The one thing you could never question was Dave’s heart.  Dave and Jen were the most loving, kind-hearted, giving people I have ever met. They sacrificed the entire livelihood, relationship with their children, grandchildren, siblings and parents to stay on that farm in Zimbabwe until the very end.  They took in dozens of strays such as Pegi and me, provided for preachers like Norman, built churches brick by brick with their own hands and always stuck a few hundred dollars in an envelope whenever someone left the farm.

I don’t think many have ever recognized what they did, nor has anyone publicly thanked them for their sacrifice.  Today, they are living with their daughter’s family in Australia, having been forced off the farm and out of Zimbabwe by an unforgiving bureaucracy and a devastated economy.  Both in their 70s, Jen still works two jobs as Dave’s health has declined.  Jen visited us in Chicago this last year.  Same Jen--still full of love.  She is now back in Australia with Dave.  Hopefully someone there will read this chapter and give them both a hug for Pegi and me.

  

Next:  Too Much Mutton!

You Don't Understand that God Sent You

By the time we arrived back at Lushington Farm, we were wrung-out emotionally.  It had been some roller coaster ride.  The week had started with vindication of our insistence that the rural areas were ripe for harvest.  After all, we had named our ministry “Africa Harvest Ministries” in anticipation of a bountiful harvest of souls for the kingdom of God.  Our tent, designed for 300 had accommodated crowds of over 1000.  We anticipated hostility and suspicion from police and political officials.  Instead, they had opened their homes and schools to us.  The Communist Party Youth Brigade provided crowd control without intimidation.  They had become some of our most enthusiastic helpers!  We now had congregations on five Wedza farms with Norman as pastor and needed someone to stay to disciple the crowds at Matsine.  Felix’s abandonment of the Matsine project had been the only disappointment as we approached that final Sunday.

My Sunday interrogation by the Ministry of Information 24 hours after Felix’s sudden departure confused me.  It wasn’t the interrogation and the threat of intimidation--it was the hollowness in the center of my chest that came from these two consecutive events.  I felt alone as if I were standing on the side of a high building with no one to keep me from tumbling over the edge.  You know, you always hear stories of how it is in times such as these that people experience the comfort and presence of the spirit of God.  I didn’t feel that at all.  I was shaken to the core.  Despite all the outward signs of success, I couldn’t escape the feeling that everything was quickly coming to its end in the same manner as we had collapsed our tent a few hours earlier.

Dave and Jen welcomed us back to the farm, but at some point in the coming weeks they received a call from the CIO (Central Intelligence Organisation) concerning our activities.  This organization was what had become of the Special Branch of the BSAP (British South African Police) during Rhodesia, having morphed into a sinister secret police group modeled on the Soviet KGB.  We didn’t find out about this until much later, but needless to say, it began to seem to all of us that this might be a good time to suspend new activities in Wedza.

We traveled back to Harare for a break from the pressure.  The following is an entry from my journal dated, Monday, 23 July 1984:

• Drove to Harare to return the tent. . . . .

• Went by to see Felix.  I tried to share with him our disappointment in his abandoning us.  He didn’t seem to understand and cried.  We don’t want to hurt him, but we must share this problem with him if we are to continue to work together.  I asked him to pray in the next week and then let us know what he believes the Lord wants him to do.  He must decide where his commitment is and let us know what he can be depended on to do.

• We spent the night at the Park Lane Hotel and just rested.  We wanted to be alone after such a turbulent few days.

During the next week, we touched base with our friends in the Harare-based ministries:  AEF‘s (Africa Evangelical Fellowship) Salisbury Evangelical Bible Institute, ‘SEBI’ (owners of the tent and source of some of the films we used), the Deuschles, Brooms and Silks at Rhema, TEAM (Evangelical Alliance Mission), YWAM (Youth With A Mission), Colin and Lynne Taylor, (Chisipite Baptist), and Ron Davies of Lifeline Ministries. We recounted the success of our Matsine meetings and growth of the work throughout Wedza.  Even though we needed to stay away for a while so as not to draw attention to ourselves and imperil the fledgling churches and the new believers, these other ministries had the human resources to build upon what we had started.  

They were all seemingly impressed with what had begun in Wedza.  However, with the exception of Lifeline, a literature ministry which was already supplying us with free discipleship materials and Bible study courses, none of them could be moved out of their comfortable lives in Harare.  Rhema was in competition with Christian Life Centre (CLC) and Faith Ministries to claim the largest mostly white congregations in Harare.  There was a core group of about 3000 white charismatic Christians who continually moved their attendance and financial support between these three white-dominated ministries.  [In 1986 we sought to ally Rhema-Harare, financing from Rhema-Johannesburg, instructors from AEF, Apostolic Fellowship and other independent ministries to rebuild SEBI as the Church Growth Support Centre, a Bible training school for pastors.]  

                                                                      ~~~

The final victors were the Deuschles.  Rhema would eventually distinguish themselves from Rhema-South Africa and Kenneth Hagin Ministries in the USA, becoming “Hear the Word” ministries founded and controlled by the Deuschles who built a US$4 million church and ministry complex with their ministry broadcast throughout southern Africa by satellite. Renamed again to “Celebration Ministries” www.celebrate.org, their dominance of the charismatic Christian movement in Zimbabwe cemented its role by giving President Robert Mugabe a controversial 2004 Z$30 million gift. Although, this gift certainly bought them some favor with the corrupt Mugabe and his ZANU-PF accomplices, it caused dissension in the Christian community. 

                                                                     ~~~

We found the greatest comfort in discussing our vision for reaching the rural areas with those based in Harare most able and likely to actually do something:  Shadreck, Ephael, Aggrey, Amos, Charles and, of course, Felix.  Norman was carrying the weight of ministry in Wedza all by himself.  Someone had to come alongside and build together with him!  Alas, it was not to be.  The foreign-supported ministries were hesitant to move beyond their current structures and “approved” strategies.  Since most of the African ministers were dependents of these white-dominated organizations, . . . well, you do the math!

Zimbabwe had become independent of white rule, but the community of Christians had not.  They still took cues, direction, governance and money from the West.  We were hoping to plant the seed of the gospel in African soil to see a harvest of African Christianity.  That would mean an indigenous, self-governing and self-supporting African church.  

There were two movements that could be considered indigenous and self-governing/self-supporting:  The Zimbabwe Assemblies of God (ZAOGA) and the “Apostolic” churches (mapostori - http://www.rtbot.net/mapostori).  

• ZAOGA was founded by “Bishop” Ezekiel Guti in 1960 as an African offshoot of the Assemblies of God (AOG). By independence in 1980, Guti’s churches numbered in the hundreds throughout Zimbabwe.  Today, under Guti’s leadership (http://www.fifmi.org/), they claim over 2000 churches in 106 countries.  During our time in Zimbabwe, 1983-87, ZAOGA was a closed society having little contact with non-members.  Although wildly successful, most Zimbabwean Christians (white and black) were suspicious of Guti’s governance in the style of a tribal chieftain.  If we linked up with them, they would just subsume the Wedza churches into their empire.

• The Mapostori (Shona for “apostles”) were also based on a tribal model, but had abandoned all contact with the larger Christian world.  Their leaders were modern-day prophets and apostles claiming direct divine authority.  In 1986 we attempted to form alliance with one of these “apostles” by providing Bible training for his hundreds of pastors and teachers.  More about that later, but our attempt was aborted when we lost our visas.

Still emotionally drained from our Matsine experience and not finding practical encouragement or support for the Wedza work, we decided we needed a real vacation.  We survived due to the hospitality of Zimbabwean Christians who continued to share the homes, vehicles and financial means with us.  We were still “in the hole” based on American support.  We had regular support of less than $150/month from the States.  However, our friends in Jonannesburg, Harare and Marondera continued to take care of us.  

We had met Nick Levy, another Jewish believer in Jesus, in Salisbury during 1977 who owned a dying used car business.  Although sanctions had ended in 1980, the fleet of cars available in Zimbabwe was based on imports from South Africa.  Most cars were pre-1964 and very expensive.  (I remember trying out a 1959 Jaguar sedan that he had on the lot in 1977.  The car was in wonderful condition and ran great.  The only problem was that there were no brake shoes available.  We drove it around the block at the speed of 15 KPH, spending half of the block trying to stop.  At one point I considered dragging my foot out the door to stop us!  The car was a steal at $600, but the only way to stop would be to run out of gas.  That didn’t seem practical.)

Car purchases in South Africa were difficult for Zimbabweans for two reasons.  First, Zimbabwe limited foreign exchange to several hundred dollars a year.  Second, important taxes were outrageous.  In 1987 we “gifted” Felix our South African-built 1965 Peugeot 504 that we had purchased for R3,500, about US$2000 in in 1986.  A Zimbabwean rancher paid the Z$1900 (US$600) import duties for him.

The after-market in parts for these ancient vehicles was even more expensive.  So, you can imagine how difficult it was keeping a car dealership going!  Anyway, our Jewish/Christian friend was still in business in Harare, but just barely.  We had recently renewed contact with Nick and he suggested that we get away from the craziness in Harare and visit the tourist resort at Lake Kariba on the border with Zambia.  He offered us the use of his vacation cottage there for as long as we needed it.  Some time at the lake sounded great!  It was a 7-hour drive from Harare.  That ought to give us some separation from all the turmoil of recent months.

The long drive to Kariba was a pleasant diversion from the traffic and congestion of Harare and even more sparsely inhabited than Wedza which was in the general direction of Mozambique and the coast.  Before the Marxist takeover of Mozambique in 1975, the port of Beira had been a major tourist destination for Rhodesians.  With Zimbabwe independence in 1980, the border reopened, but the roads were impossible to traverse.  So, during the height of the war in Rhodesia from 1975-79, the only resort town available to Rhodesians without traveling to Durban in South Africa was the small town on the Rhodesian side of Lake Kariba Dam.

This image was originally posted to Flickr by Rhys Jones Photography at http://flickr.com/photos/23676445@N00/396831697. It was reviewed on 10 December 2008 by theFlickreviewR robot and confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the cc-by-2.0.

The terrain was a bit desolate looking as we descended from the highlands of Harare (4000 ft) into the Zambezi river valley.  We saw few people, but plenty of elephants as we closer to Kariba.  On several occasions we had to pull to a stop while we waited for a herd of them to cross the road ahead of us.  African elephants are not like their more docile and domesticable Indian cousins.  Get too close and they will trample your car!

The final miles had us traversing switchbacks in the road as it topped out overlooking the lake and the small “Kariba Town” overlooking the dam.  It was beautiful and hot--just above sea level, Kariba is sticky-hot all year round.  We drove around a bit to see where the resort hotels, shops and restaurants were located.  As we headed toward the highest vantage point to view the dam, we noticed an old hotel.  It had a sign out front that read, “Kariba Heights Hotel.”  [Click on link to view a video of the hotel when it was built.]  Since we were in “vacation-mode” and wanting to forget about ministry for a few weeks, we decided to go inside for a meal.

To our surprise, the old hotel was now “Kariba Christian Centre,” a resort for missionaries based across the dam in Zambia as well as local Christian ministers and workers.  It was run by an American couple, Lester and Peggy Seiler.  Lester suggested that we take our meals there rather than shopping and cooking for ourselves while we were staying at Nick’s cottage.  We didn’t really know what to make of all of this as we had come to Kariba to get away from it all, but it couldn’t hurt to rest and relax with some other missionaries could it?  While we eating lunch with them, we ran into Rhoda Hess, the sister-in-law of Dave Hess in Marondera.  Dave and his family had grown up in Zambia where their parents were Brethren missionaries.  Frankly, Rhoda didn’t seem interested in talking.  Maybe she was as exhausted as we were!

Puzzled as to what this all might mean for us, we headed over to the cottage for the evening only to discover that it wouldn’t be ready for us until the following day.  So, we climbed in the car and went back over to Kariba Christian Centre to stay the night. The Centre had air conditioning in the rooms and that was a welcome break from the overpowering heat!  This was the first time we had encountered or needed air conditioning since first arriving in Rhodesia in 1977.  The air in Kariba was hot and thick enough to chew.  We wouldn’t be spending too much time outside during this vacation.

In the morning we joined about a dozen others for breakfast before departing to move into the cottage.  No sooner had we unpacked and settled down for tea at the cottage that Lester showed up at our door.  Inviting him in, the first words out of his mouth were, “I don’t think you are hearing God very well.”  Kind of a strange way to start a conversation with people you have just met.  Rather than taking offense at the abruptness of this odd statement, I asked him just what he meant.  He continued, “You don’t understand that God sent you here.”

I was beginning to wonder if we had made a mistake in coming to Kariba in the first place.  We weren’t getting much of a vacation.  Instead, we seemed to have walked right into a “Christian” hotel/ministry that was going through some real difficulties.  The meals had not been great.  We were used to plentiful meals at Lushington Farm or in the homes and restaurants of Harare.  The lunch had been a very salty and greasy mutton stew followed by a breakfast with eggs, but none of selection of fruit common everywhere else we ate.  The atmosphere at the Centre was not welcoming nor restful.  You could feel the stress in the air.  Something was going on there--something was wrong!

Lester told us that the Centre was struggling, needing refreshed ministry and leadership.  He said that he believed the Lord had brought us there, not for a vacation, but to establish a new base for our ministry.  He began to paint a picture of a place that needed the infusion of fresh vision and energy that we could bring.  He insisted that we stay in the Centre instead of the cottage and meet the local African ministers.  He also told us that the other couple that helped him run the place where struggling with the husband’s alcoholism and planning to move out.  When we had shown up there, he believed God was sending us as their replacements.

Well, that was a lot to swallow, especially as I was still digesting that greasy mutton stew!  But, we agreed to stay the week at the Centre and explore options.  With the heat, there was really nothing to do in this resort town anyway except to spend all day sitting in the cottage.  The town felt really deserted and lonesome.  There was no question of returning to Lushington and Wedza right now.  We needed to stay clear for a while.  The Harare ministries with the exception of Chisipite Baptist, had never opened their doors to us to allow us to become co-laborers with them, so there was nothing for us right now in Harare.  They were so focused on squeezing every dollar out of their American and South African donors that they saw us as competition.  And, of course, the door at Chisipite had closed unpleasantly.  

Over the next few days, we met with Sidney Moyo from YWAM who assured me that he knew some other African believers who shared our vision for reaching out into the rural areas.  We also met Tinos Sakala at the Centre.  He was already actively involved in ministering to Kariba township.   We hit it off with Tinos right away.  He was more than eager to work together to help us reach out from Kariba.

The traffic began to pick up at the centre too.  We had opportunity to talk with experienced missionaries, mostly from Zambia, with whom we shared our ideas about rural indigenous church growth.  We got a lot of good advice and support for ideas as being “on the right track.”  We also had opportunity to minister to many of the visitors.  Our fresh approach and crazy ideas seemed to encourage them.  We had wanted a vacation from ministry.  We were getting our vacation by ministering.  Each day we found ourselves more refreshed and stronger.  The A/C in the evening didn’t hurt either!

On the first Saturday (28 July 1984), we woke up “at peace” with idea of moving to Kariba to live and base our ministry out of the Kariba Christian Centre.  Feeling back to normal for the first time in months, we were open to wild ideas.  As we were having tea that morning, two busloads of secondary school students unloaded at the overlook in front of the Centre.  Seizing the wild opportunity, I grabbed my guitar.  Pegi and I went out and sang for them, passing out literature from Lifeline Ministries.  That afternoon, another busload of tourists unloaded a group of from an Ndebele (a minority tribal group from southern Zimbabwe related to Zulus) teachers’ college.  We sang for them eliciting another enthusiastic response.  There is nothing we liked better than ministering in music.  This had turned into an unusual vacation!  Whatever it was, it was working.

Next:  Contrasting Hearts

All Politics Is Local!

Okay, I feel like a sluggard when it comes to writing!  First, I skipped writing for almost two years for "excuses, excuses, excuses . . . ."  Then I wrote two posts and have more excuses for the last eight months. I could list the excuses, but that is boring--let's get back to writing.

I do have plans to get on with this on a daily basis.  I just won't be able to keep up with the pace of 1000 words/day as I was doing a few years ago.  My plans include finishing this history of my time in Zimbabwe over the next several months and publishing the story as an ebook during 2013.

Then, I will continue this blog as a forum for more current conversation.  Nevertheless, back to our story.

I should probably point out again that this is my own story.  As such, I am both hero and villain, depending on how I feel as I reflect on these events.  No doubt, many of my recollections are colored and even distorted.  I am certainly more objective than I was a few decades ago, but memories are funny things.  We remember what we remember.  And, what we remember is often wrong.  

I do have a detailed journal that I kept from 1983-86 as well as photos, letters and newsletters that I wrote from 1976-87 when we left Zimbabwe for the last time.  Of course, those represent my perspective that, although first hand, is completely subjective.  And, let's face it, I was one "confused puppy" wandering and wondering.  I am trying to be as honest and objective as possible, but I have read enough history to know that no history is truly objective.

So, if you share some of this history with me and your memory is different, that is okay.  This is what I remember, what I thought, think and continue to wonder about.

--------------------------------------

As I climbed into the cargo-bed of the MInistry of Information pickup truck, I was only a few minutes away from understanding former House Speaker Tip O’Neill’s quip that “all politics is local.”  The truck bumped its way up the road to Matsine town--a half block of buildings that included a small grocery and a few other shops.  I was escorted to a semi-circle of one-room buildings behind the shops.  The unpainted cinderblock buildings resembled one of those five-room motels that you still find abandoned off the rural highways of the American South.

I was “invited” into one of the rooms that had a few small work tables and chairs.  As I entered, I passed by a gathering crowd of about 30 people who were getting ready for some sort of local ZANU-PF political meeting out front.  Several of the women in the crowd gave me a smile and a wave.  They knew me from the tent meetings of the previous week.  

After being seated, I was introduced to a husky thirty-something man who identified himself as an official with the Ministry of Information.  It was unusual to meet African men who were not chronically thin.  Even if this fellow hadn’t introduced himself as an official, his round jowls and plump belly were enough to identify him as an African politician.  Only politicians were well-fed and had the leisure to be overweight!

He explained to me that the people outside and his reason for being here was to have a political rally for Prime Minister Mugabe’s ZANU-PF party.  The reason I had been “invited” was to make sure that what I was saying in my meetings was not contradictory to the spirit of these political meetings.

Africans in Zimbabwe were participating in government for the first time since the arrival of white settlers financed by Cecil Rhodes in the late 19^th century.  And, as is the case for those who have “found politics” for the first time, politics is sacred!  As a scholar in the field of comparative religions, I noticed few differences between between those who have found politics and those who have found God, spirituality, the Truth, the Path--you get the point.  Politics is hard to separate from religion because, for many, politics is religion!

In the mind of this official, what I was doing the same as he was.  We were both in the people-persuasion business.  And here I was, a foreign, white, former member of the hated Rhodesian Army drawing crowds of 200-1000 people.  I was a potential competitor, and an outsider!  

Mr. Wasserman, I have invited you here to discuss these meetings you are having.  What are you telling our people?

I replied that I was “sharing the gospel (good news) of Jesus and the kingdom of God.”  I also reminded him that we had permission from the Wedza Police Commissioner and the local ZANU-PF party and were using ZANU-PF Youth Brigade members as ushers.

Hmm . . .  We have heard of this “gospel” before.  Are you preaching the same “gospel” as Muzorewa?  If you are you will end up where he is!

This wasn’t good!  Abel Muzorewa was a Methodist Bishop and had served for a few months as the interim Prime Minister of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia in 1979.  He was currently in Chikirubi Maximum Security Prison for being a religious/political figure in opposition to Mugabe.  [We had returned to Zimbabwe in 1983 just after Muzorewa was imprisoned for suggesting an agricultural alliance with Israel.  He was accused of being a South African and Israeli agent.]  All of Mugabe’s competitors and many of his former allies had already been exiled, imprisoned or killed.  Only Muzorewa’s international profile kept him alive through subsequent imprisonment and exile.  He died in Harare in April of 2010.

To answer the official’s question, I launched into a 15-minute discourse explaining the “gospel” as I understood and taught it.  My theme was one that avoided Zimbabwe politics, focusing on the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, especially on God’s mercy and forgiveness.  I explicitly separated Jesus’s proclamation of the kingdom of God as being “heavenly” rather than earthly, quoting Jesus saying that his kingdom was “not of this world” and the reason why his disciples “do not fight.”

I further asserted that since I was a guest in Zimbabwe, that it wasn’t my place to enter the political discourse.  I was already in enough hot water, so I didn’t say this at the time, but I had learned my lesson about meddling in the political affairs of others during my first visit in 1977-78.  My first trip as a “Christian soldier” had not been helpful to anyone and left Pegi and me both dazed and confused as who we were and what our lives were all about.

The official actually took detailed notes as I talked.  I remember thinking that he would be reading my gospel explanation to others and hoping that this would lead to others responding to God’s love.  Today I realize how silly that was.

Ronald Reagan's reelection and our recent trip to the USA had exposed us to an increasing politicization of church life.  Our focus was on the way Jesus had lived, the compassion of his ministry to the poor and oppressed and the foundation of Zimbabwean churches that would reflect the 1^st century disciples of Jesus.  I had never been impressed with “establishment” Christianity.  In my Jesus Freak days I had called this “Churchianity” and was never able to reconcile modern church life with the New Testament period church.  

[Years later I would write my doctoral dissertation on the early Jewish-dominant church, hoping for a reemergence of that would serve as a vehicle for my own faith, published as Messianic Jewish Congregations:  Who Sold this Business to Gentiles?  Lanham, MD:  University Press of America, 2000.  An iPad ePub version will be available in September, 2012 from iTunes.  Kindle, Nook, PDF, iPad and other ebook versions are also available directly from me for US$14.99:  ConfessionsofaWanderingJew@gmail.com]

It seemed in my interest to point out that we had been so distressed by the political focus of churches when we were home in the States, that we had decided not to vote in that election cycle.  After all, we were living as guests in Zimbabwe and wished to remain politically uninvolved and neutral.  As we have related this story over the years, many have taken us to task for not voting in that election cycle.  Frankly, we didn’t have a dog in the Reagan v. Mondale fight and would support  and respect whomever the American people elected.  We were temporarily sacrificing our “right” to participate in earthly politics to focus on the establishment of the reign of God in human hearts in a foreign land.  You may not agree with the decision we made at the time, but you didn’t have to live with the consequences either!

I am convinced to this day that my apolitical assertion was what got me out of this dangerous situation, not my exposition of the gospel!  Once the official heard me say that we hadn’t voted, he closed his notebook and invited me to come on outside to observe the local political meeting that was already starting.

I was escorted out and given an comfortable seat near the front of the crowd that had now grown to about 200.  I was free to leave, but since I had come in the government truck, there would be no one to take me back down the road until after the meeting.

The meeting was characterized by speeches from local party notables, singing and chanted slogans praising Mugabe, the ZANU-PF Communist Party and government.  The chants were led by about twelve women, many of whom had waved to me earlier.  The leader would shout and the women, wearing dresses that were posters for Mugabe and ZANU-PF, would lead the crowd in choruses of response:

Up - up - up with Mugabe!  Down - down - down with Muzorewa!

Up - up - up with Zimbabwe!   Down - down - down with America!

All the while, the people were smiling happily at me, not in a menacing way, but seemingly saying:  “Look at us!  Isn’t this great?  We are doing politics.”  It reminded me of how children are so excited and proud when they accomplish something new.  I fully expected to be personally attacked, but it was as if they were doing this for my benefit.  They had been to my gospel meetings and were excited about being Christians.  And, as new Christians, they were showing off a bit for me out of respect.

I was thinking about politics internationally.  They were enjoying their new political freedom.  I don’t think they made the connection between their local Marxist practices and the geopolitical conflict between the West and the Communist Bloc.  Now, politicians and government officials clearly had another agenda, one that may have been sinister.  But as this local political celebration continued, it seemed amazingly similar to the our tent meetings celebrating God.  And, it was the same crowd!

About 45 minutes into the meeting, which wouldn’t lose steam for at least another couple of hours, Pegi and Norman arrived after their morning travels to farm churches around Wedza.  When they had returned to the tent, instead of finding me, they found that teenager who had been left in charge of our equipment.  He told Pegi that ZANU had taken me off.  Appropriately, she and Norman were frightened.  They were imagining me being beat up.  After all, that was not an unreasonable expectation.

As they approached the crowd, others pointed out where I was seated.  As they joined me, I explained that we were free to leave and all was okay.  But we all three left shaken.

The feeling was similar to that of having a near-miss on the highway.  At the moment, you feel above it all and are strangely objective as you swerve to get out of the path of impending danger.  It is about two minutes and two miles down the road that you are suddenly shaken by the reality of your own near demise.  By the time we had driven the mile or so back to the tent, we were thoroughly shaken.  Yes, we could go ahead and have our planned afternoon meeting, but I just felt like getting the hell out of there!

We cancelled the planned meeting, brought down the tent and piled it into the back of the truck.  Within the hour were on our way back to the Hess Farm.  And within a couple of days we were on our way to the other end of Zimbabwe, Lake Kariba.

Next:  “You Don’t Understand that God Sent You”