We were settling into a new routine using the Stockhill house as a base of operations in the Marondera-Wedza area. Now that we had adequate monthly support, we no longer needed to stay with other families who would also feed us. We had enough regular support that we could pay for our own groceries, petrol and repairs for our car, as well as taking on the financial support of Norman, Gibson and Charles.
We whirled through leading weeknight bible studies, speaking engagements to church groups and evangelistic meetings on farms and in schools. On most Sunday mornings I was the visiting speaker in churches within two hours drive from the farm. This often meant that we were back in Harare on Sunday mornings for these engagements. Aside from my skills as a bible teacher, we found ourselves in demand as worship leaders in churches that still seemed to be living in the 1800s. Guitar in hand, Pegi and I led these congregations into the 20th century using choruses and contemporary-style tunes based on the Psalms and the emerging light-rock Christian music scene.
Since three out of four weekends found us in Harare anyway for the ministry engagements, we started attending Sunday-evening worship at Rhema Bible Church. In 1985, Rhema was the leading predominantly white charismatic church in Zimbabwe. I have spoken about Rhema in some detail before [chapter 7 - Colorless Sunday Services]. At this point, Rhema clearly had the best music ministry in the country. Since the Sunday evening services were mostly spent worshipping in music and with only a short message from Tom Deuschle, we found it to be an energizing experience. It gave us a chance to exhale after the hectic week and prepare for the week to come.
I still had nothing but trouble listening to Tom’s teaching. He was untrained theologically and totally committed to the Kenneth Hagin “Faith” teachings. This included a strong dose of prosperity teaching (giving to get), confession (speaking things into existence), speaking in tongues (unknown languages of angels) and prophesying (“carnie-style” fortune-telling) with all the bells and whistles of the modern charismatic movement.
Tom had a decent sense of humor with a pleasant, though ineloquent speaking style. He didn’t sound like a preacher which worked in his favor as far as I was concerned. So, he was interesting, but just didn’t seem have a thorough working knowledge of the Bible, theology, church history or even world history. His messages centered on how to live a comfortable, prosperous and happy life as an individual. In order to demonstrate how to live a life blessed by God with financial prosperity, perfect health, male-dominant family relationships and free from demons and “the devil,” Tom regularly twisted non-contextual meanings out of obscure biblical passages and wreaked havoc with the consensus of two thousand years of Christian theological insight. He turned ignorance into authority as he delivered his message of “hope” with no basis in biblical fact.
Together with his wife Bonnie, whose vocal, song-writing and musical direction attracted large audiences, it was quite a show. But, it always seemed to be a show. The part of the show we liked was the music which was powerful enough to charge us up on a weekly basis in spite of Tom’s teaching and the crowds of sycophants who lusted for a “touch” from either of them. Tom had a way about him that didn’t let you just say “thanks” and be done with it.
He insisted in a strange and insinuating manner that you had to “recognize” him as the leader. There was no way to be a brother with Tom. He clearly saw himself as superior and anyone else who had any type of ministry gifting was either subsumed under his ministry or kept at arm’s length. He seemed to think that everyone else saw him as preeminent. We didn’t. We just liked Bonnie’s music. But, that was never enough for Tom. I previously recounted how upon our arrival in 1983, he assumed that we were looking to him to authorize us in ministry. Now that we had established our ministry without so much as a sneeze from him, we hoped that we could enjoy the Sunday evening respite while allowing the music to repair our battered souls for the coming week. But, that was not to be. As we sought teachers for the rural churches, we would discover that Tom had already “bought up the franchise,” but wasn’t doing anything with it! If we wanted to tap the resources of African teachers for the rural areas, we would have to ally ourselves with Tom. That, of course, meant that Tom had to be preeminent and take the credit.
But, that was still in our future. So, as we headed back to Marondera and our home on the farm, it wasn’t the sting of Tom Deuschle that we felt. It was the sting of a mosquito.
Pegi had suffered from migraines since high school. In 1985, most doctors seemed to think that migraines were the result of the inability to handle stress. We had only found one doctor in the States who seemed sympathetic when it came to migraines because he himself suffered from them. He prescribed a beta-blocker which gave Pegi some relief, but this was long before Sumatriptan was available to many patients. In Africa, we both suffered frequent rocking headaches that would immobilize us. Fortunately, there were strong over-the-counter pain remedies available. We would stock up on these on trips to South Africa.
One Saturday evening in Harare, we decided to visit the Christian Life Centre, another one of the predominantly white charismatic churches, where they were having a guest Bible teacher from the States. Typical of charismatic ministry, this man specialized in casting out demonic spirits. Anyone who was “afflicted of the devil” was to come forward, have hands laid on him or her and be healed of the satanic influence. People shoved their way forward. People were falling down “under the power of the Spirit of God” in front of the stage as the guest speaker and his assistants whacked people on the forehead and “prayed” for them. The auditorium was crowded, smelly and hot. We left after about 20 minutes, both of us with horrible headaches. Pegi’s headache seemed to lift once we got out in the fresh air, but mine hung on during the 2-hour drive to Marondera. My head was still pounding the next morning. In addition, I ached all over. It was obvious as I rolled around in bed or cowered on the floor in a corner of the room, that I was seriously ill.
The nearest doctor was 45 minutes by car in Marondera, but it was a Sunday and he would have to be summoned to his clinic from home. Pegi and Di Stockhill helped me lie down on the back seat of her car. I cringed and whimpered the whole 45-minute trip. Arriving at the clinic, someone called the doctor who showed up a half-hour later. I was sitting on a bench outside his clinic door in misery.
By this time, it was obvious to Pegi, Di and me that I had the symptoms of malaria. The common remedy is an injection of quinine. Ever since arriving in Zimbabwe, we had both been taking anti-malarial prophylaxis pills, but they did not prevent malaria—they only made it easier to treat if you got it! Well, I had got it! We just needed the doctor to examine me and inject me with the quinine.
It didn’t seem funny at the time, but the doctor was a real character. My beard was pretty long in those days. After all, I was living in “the bush” where clippers and barbers were not found. Every month or so, I would get a haircut and trim in Harare. But, the only doctor in Marondera had a really long bushy beard. He looked like Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top. I have to be honest, his appearance and kind of “dopey” manner didn’t instill much confidence. But, we all knew what to do. “Examine me and give me that shot of quinine!”
He took a my blood sample over to an ancient microscope that looked as if it had been thrown out by a 10th grade biology class. Examining the slide, he called Pegi over. He had found out that she was a registered nurse in the States. I think he was showing off just a bit for the first medical professional he had probably seen in years! He said, “Yes! Come over here and look here. It think I can see those polymorph thingies!” Pegi said, “Do you mean polymorphonuclear leukocytes?” Doctor Bushybeard said, “Yes! That is what they are called!”
I thought, “Oh just shoot me now . . . with the quinine.” He continued to diddle around with the slide under the microscope until someone said, “Well, can you administer an injection of quinine?” He seemed to wake up from his fascination with the polymorph thingies. He turned back to me as I lay their on the exam table, finally remembering that I was in the room! He said, “Yes, well, uh . . . We can give you a prescription for quinine tablets. The pharmacy is closed today, but we can call the pharmacist to come in and dispense the pills.”
So, the doctor left us to sit and wait for the pharmacist who showed up another 40 minutes later. An hour after that, I had taken my first dose and began a really uncomfortable week in bed with intermittent burning fever follow by bone-shattering chills. Not fun, but when I remember the doctor and the polymorph thingies, I smile and laugh.
On a more somber note, malaria is still the scourge of Africa. Sure, I was white, with white friends who could take me to the white doctor and call in the white pharmacist. For 95% of rural Zimbabweans, there is no car ride to the doctor, no doctor, no pharmacist . . . No nothing. Just the burning fever and the bone-shattering chills. And for the very unfortunate, there was cerebral malaria for which there is no treatment. And death. But that Sunday evening as I lay in bed tossing and turning waiting for the quinine to win the battle against the polymorph thingies, just a couple hours by car, in churches like Rhema, pastors told their congregations:
- “Give to God (their ministry) and God will bless you with riches!
- “Come forward and let us lay our hands on you and pray for you. You will be healed of all your diseases!”
- “Learn what God’s Word promises you. Then, just like God, speak those things into existence and they will be yours. You can have what you say! God promises you this.”
So people give their life savings to ministers and then are told that the reason they didn’t prosper was that they didn’t “hold to their confession of faith.” And millions are sick and dying. For some reason God won’t heal them! “They just don’t have enough faith!”
This is the obscenity of the “Faith” movement so prominent in charismatic churches today. It isn’t better in 2014. It is much worse. Even after the scandals of the last few decades, the institutional abuses of the Roman Catholic Church, the political subterfuge of the Southern Baptist Convention and the well-oiled machinery of the mega-churches, there are those who continue to paint a simplistic picture leading to dream fulfillment. They continue to proclaim, “You can have all your dreams. All you need to do is have faith . . . .”
Having recovered from the polymorph thingies, I was about to have a personal encounter the disease of the religion. Our triumph would turn to sadness as we came face to face with the reality of the Faith movement.
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