62 — “Sparks” In Our Ministry (Berlin, Wisconsin: Spring 1980)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next:  63 — The Brothers In Responsibility (Louisville:  Spring 1980)

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59 — In Uniform for Church? (Houston: May 1978)

It was not exactly the triumphant return that I had imagined when we first left Berachah Church for Rhodesia.  Even though Ken had assured me that we were “welcome,” I felt trepidation as we took seats near the back of the auditorium of 1500 gathered to listen to another one of Bob Thieme’s bible classes.  

We had been gone 14 months, but it seemed like a lifetime.  We were out of the war zone, but not free from the war that was raging in our hearts.  Since becoming a believer in Jesus during the summer of 1969, Berachah had been the center of my spiritual universe.    There were times before Rhodesia that I would wake up in a panic after dreaming that I somehow found myself back in Louisville or somewhere else where I could not attend that evening’s bible class.  This recurrent nightmare plagued me periodically during my first six years in Houston.  I didn’t fear death from combat--I feared missing bible class!  That is how important Berachah was to me.  My entire identity was tied up in that church.

The teachings of Thieme had liberated me from my LSD-inspired Hippie worldview.  Under his tutelage now for almost nine years, I was remodeled inside and out: liberal Jew to conservative Christian, antiwar protestor to military aficionado, political science major to military history buff, longhaired hippie to crewcut zealot, and skinny non-athlete to hardened soldier. 

However, the important changes had been those that had taken place in our year in Africa.  We had field tested Thieme’s bible doctrine lifestyle.  It failed the test, leaving us with multiple collapses in our worldview construct.  The collapses were personal, spiritual and political.  Bottom line?  Thieme’s bible doctrine, when put to the test, failed.  

So, although Pegi and I walked with the confidence that we had gained from our experience, we were very tentative as we carefully reentered the Berachah community.  Who could we trust?  Really, there was no one who had any real idea of what we experienced, the world we had just left, or the culture shock we were experiencing.

Of course, other than Ken and Jill Duckman, no one at Berachah knew that we had returned from Rhodesia.  Absolutely no one knew that we had been advised to leave.  I had to maintain the confidential nature of my orders from the Rhodesian Army chief of staff.  Technically, I was still a member of the Rhodesian Army.  I was not about to imperil the position of the Army in its attempt to remain neutral by blabbing my mouth in the US.  It is only now, three decades later that I am revealing the content of my discussions with Generals MacIntyre and MacClean.  I couldn’t even share the details with my best friend, Ken.  

So, as we attempted to reintegrate into Berachah, we had a balancing act in explaining our presence.  It was up to us to manage the information.  So, we simply explained that we had been released from our three-year commitment due to the change in government that was underway.  I am sure that there wasn’t a person in Berachah at that time who was even aware of the new transitional government that had begun the day we left.  If the Colonel was aware, he was in denial!  After all, he refused to believe what I reported even when I quoted the Rhodesian news media.  He was just determined to believe that Rhodesia was the “Texas of Africa” and that they would go down fighting to the last man before agreeing to black majority rule.

As I said, it was up to us to manage the information carefully.  So, the first few days and weeks at Berachah were okay for us from an acceptance perspective.  Of course, the Colonel didn’t even want to speak with us, so I don’t think we can say we were “welcomed” back!  

With the approach of  the Memorial Day weekend, Thieme encouraged all who had ever served in any military to wear their uniforms for the services and bible classes.  [All Berachah “services” were just bible classes.  On Sundays there were one or two hymns sung as well as the monthly “Military Communions” during which selected veterans served as ushers in full dress uniforms.]  

I decided that this would be a good time for me to wear my Rhodesian Army uniform.  Over that weekend, I wore my starched camo uniform with my hobnailed drill boots, my battle dress “blouse” with khaki shorts and knee socks--several different combinations.  My strange looking camo and black beret didn’t get as many looks as did the shorts and knee socks!  I think I also wore my dress green uniform as well.  I can’t remember now—I just remember almost slipping and falling on linoleum hallways in my hobnailed boots.

A few weeks later as I was entering the auditorium for a class, I ran into Roy Hurst who was on Thieme’s staff and had introduced me to the Rhodesian recruiting process (23 — Honeymooning in a War Zone).  He stopped me and gave me that funny demeaning sneer that always seemed to be on his face.  “Hey Jeff, I  got a letter from Eugene Wiseman this week.”  Eugene was the Rhodesian pastor who had ordained me into the chaplaincy.  He had finally shown up at Llewellyn Barracks as an Army Chaplain.  Since Gen MacIntyre had instructed me to leave without informing my chain of command, Eugene believed I was on leave.  “Eugene says that you are AWOL.”

Uh oh!  Now what?  I couldn’t tell Roy about my conversation with Gen MacIntyre.  I couldn’t tell him that the General had advised me that all records of my service would be destroyed.  

No Roy, I had permission to leave.  Eugene just hasn’t seen the paperwork.  After all, Eugene was late in taking up his post in Bulawayo, so we didn’t have time to chat before I left.  But, I didn’t report to Eugene.  I got my orders from HQ.

That was all I could say, but I could see that smirk was still there.  I was sure that Roy had already told Thieme that “unstable and unreliable” Jeff was a deserter!  I expected the hammer to fall and to be excoriated from the pulpit.  Surprisingly, that seemed to be the end of the matter, but it was also the end of our time at Berachah.  

You know, that was a good thing.  Since returning, our doubts about Thieme’s so-called scholarship had gotten worse.  I had begun correspondence courses in Greek and Hebrew.  I completed two years of Hebrew courses in three months and I could already see that Thieme’s “corrected translations” of the Hebrew scriptures were absolute nonsense.    Although his Greek was better than his Hebrew and I had only completed one semester of biblical Greek, I was already seeing significant errors in his translations which were the foundation of his teaching.

We already knew that the practical living piece of his doctrinal system was useless.  If his theology was based on inaccurate biblical translations, then his whole system was suspect.  Thieme and his staff might think poorly of me, but I had already lost most of my respect for him.

It was time to go!

Next:  60 — ♪♪ On Wisconsin, on Wisconsin ♪♪ Again! (Jan 1979)

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58 — Are We There Yet? (New York: May 1978)

Tears of joy began to fill our eyes as we saw the approaching American coastline.  The pounding in our chests that had begun as we left Salisbury changed to a comfortable rhythm as the wheels of the 747 touched down at JFK International.

After gathering our bags, we joined the lines of returning American citizens.  Much to my dismay, the person in front of us was another Rhodesian Army member whom I knew from my training intake at RLI.  When I left Training Troop to join the Chaplain Corps, he had gone on to become a medic in 2 Commando.  [He, too, was “officially” on his first year’s 30 day leave, but we both knew that neither of us would be returning to Rhodesia at month’s end.  If I had seen him in Rhodesia, I would have given him the “word” that the Army had advised us to leave.  Apparently, he had already heard.]

He had some difficulty speaking as his jaw was wired shut from an auto accident.  As such, he was relieved that I could be there to “speak for him” although that was the very last thing I wanted--to be associated with another American returning from Rhodesia.  To make things worse, he was carrying his army issue medic’s bag with Rhodesian Army markings and had his camo uniform on a hanger in a dry-cleaning bag!  

I really didn’t want to have a conversation with Customs and Immigration about my time in the Rhodesian Army or the uniforms that Pegi and I both had in our suitcases!  Amazingly, he breezed right through ahead of us without any problems or my help.  I don’t remember exactly what we gave as our reason for being in Rhodesia except that we had been on an extended honeymoon, which was a stretch, but true.  We, too, breezed through without any problems.

So, if the State Department really was on the lookout for Americans serving in the Rhodesian Army, they didn’t seem concerned that we had returned home.  Five years later, we would apply for new passports.  I received a follow-up questionnaire in the mail asking:  “When did you renounce your American citizenship and why?”  I responded that I had never renounced my American citizenship.  I had not been required to do so when enlisting in the Rhodesian Army.  Fortunately, my new passport was granted without further questions.

It is no surprise that the US government had our names.  Robin Moore had published our names and photos in 17 American newspapers.  He had introduced us to Newsweek’s Arnaud de Borgrave who had family members that had been victimized by terrorists in Rhodesia. De Borgrave was rumored to be CIA-connected. And then there was the chapter Robin had devoted to us in his 1977 book, Rhodesia.  Pile on the former Special Forces Colonel who worked for Robin in Salisbury whom I got to know at Robin’s home.  According to Robin’s 1991, The White Tribe, this Colonel was actually working undercover for the CIA at the time and had turned over the names of all the American soldiers in Rhodesia to the State Department.  The White Tribe states that Robin had been unaware of his CIA cover until this same Colonel tried to assassinate him in early 1979.

But we were home!  My size 13 feet were firmly on US soil and I had no intention of letting those feet march anywhere else ever again!  Of course there was a question as to whether Berachah Church in Houston was still our home.  We weren’t even sure if we would be allowed entry there since we had dared to disagree with Col Thieme and his political opinions concerning Rhodesia.  So, if not there, where did we belong--where was home?

I was feeling at a total loss.  Houston and Berachah had been my sacred center as a new Christian.  And, due to the extreme isolationist teaching of Thieme, I really knew nothing of the Christian life outside of Berachah.  Bible doctrine wasn’t working for us, yet we had nowhere else to go.  

My time in Rhodesian Light Infantry training had made it clear that my 28 year old physique was no longer capable of enduring grueling military training.  So, now a military career was totally out of the question.  I had previously considered the possibility of emigration to Israel to avail myself of dual citizenship as a Jew in order to serve in the Israeli Army.  Now I knew that I would not be up to it physically.   

Although I had become a believer in Jesus, I still clung to my Jewish identity.  At the time, I was ignorant of the conflict of interest that my Christianity presented to other Jews.  Consequently, I didn’t realize that my open Christian stance would prohibit successful aliyah (immigration) and absorption into Israeli life.  Nevertheless, what my religious insensitivity didn’t alert me to, my body did.  I had tried running recently and found that even though my leg had seemed to heal up nicely, my back would tighten and seize after the first few steps.  There was no hope of a military career for me, not even in Israel.

So, if not the military, what?  Well, my limited life choices as a Thieme-instructed Christian were two:  the military or the ministry.  My service as a chaplain had activated my interest in ministry.  It had also shown me that I had no idea what I was doing in ministry--I needed ministry training and lots of it!  I needed to start with Greek and Hebrew so that I could dig into the original languages and see what the Bible actually had to say for myself.

Catching a New York Airways helicopter from JFK would connect us with our TWA flight to Houston.  Even though we had two hours to connect (in those days that was plenty of time), we had two large suitcases and three large boxes which I could not carry from the American Airlines gate where our SAA flight had landed to New York Airlines gate in another wing of the terminal.  I flagged a porter who told me that he could not help me since it involved transporting baggage to another carrier.  I asked him if he could please do us a favor, promising to tip him well.

He was suddenly more than happy to help us and rushed us and our bags over to the other gate.  Now, I had made a terrible error in overtipping when we first got to Rhodesia [24 — Two eggs Boss? You sure?]  In this case, I definitely needed to be generous to this American porter who had come to our rescue--or was he just “working” us?  Saying that he couldn’t port between airlines seemed odd.  But because we were rushing to make our flight, I gave him all the US cash I had with me--a five dollar bill.  I had South African Rand that he could exchange at any bank, but he wasn’t interested in Rand.  Anyway,  I thought that a dollar a bag sounded generous compared to the five cents a bag that we tipped in Africa.  The look on his face told me that he expected four more of those five dollar bills!  Explaining that this was all I had, we left him a very unhappy porter.

Our helicopter flight stopped at the top of the World Trade Center to disembark some business travelers and we continued on to La Guardia.  We missed our flight, but found space on one an hour later.  Late that afternoon we arrived at Houston International where our old friends Ken and Jill Duckman met us.

We went back to the Duckman’s house and dug out some of the clothes that we had left behind.  I had never really expected to see those clothes again.  As we were unpacking, I turned to Ken and asked, “What have you heard?  Are we even allowed to come back to Berachah?”  Ken responded that he hadn’t heard anything negative about us from the Colonel and that as far as he knew, we were still welcome.  Well, we would see what “welcome” meant.

Next:  59 — In Uniform for Church? (Houston:  May 1978)

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49 — Balla Balla, Bulawayo and Matsheumshlope (Rhodesia: Oct 1977)

Balla Balla was the home of the Rhodesian African Rifles (RAR).  As we drove through the gate of this all volunteer black African unit, you could sense a crispness in the atmosphere that had nothing to do with the weather.  This was the most highly motivated unit in the Rhodesian Army.  Beyond the spit and polish, the unison of men drilling on the parade ground and the flourish of the swept-up brims of their headgear, you could feel the intensity of purpose that coursed through the base.  

These were Africans who had seen the truth.  They knew firsthand what the so-called “freedom fighters” of the ZANLA/ZIPRA forces of Mugabe and Nkomo did to the people of Rhodesia.  These men had witnessed the killings, mutilations, rapes and kidnappings in their own home villages.  Instead of cowering in the face of these atrocities, these men joined the RAR and became the most respected and feared of all Rhodesian forces.  (Even after the amalgamation of terrorist forces into the Zimbabwean Army, RAR was the unit that Mugabe called upon to put down rebellious former freedom fighters.  These were amazing soldiers.)

We observed troops drilling and had the opportunity to meet one of the newly commissioned black officers.  It was an impressive morning.  I remember thinking that these men were the future of Africa.  I believed that from these ranks would come leaders for the next century.  Unfortunately, that was not to be.  With the Lancaster House agreement that led to Mugabe’s election as Prime Minister, the fate of men such as these was sealed.  When their usefulness as soldiers was over, these men would no longer be safe in independent Zimbabwe.  They would have to flee for their lives.

One of the principles that Thieme had drilled into me was that “all freedom comes through military victory.”  Although I have since rejected just about everything that I learned from him as it relates to the spiritual life, this is one teaching that seems to hold true historically.  Yes, it is possible for people to gain freedom through negotiation and compromise.  However, history does seem to teach us that freedoms gained will always be tested on the battlefield.  It does seem that lasting freedom only comes through the sacrifice of those who are willing to risk all for the liberty of others.  

This is the world we still live in.  The nature of the battlefield may change as today’s struggle against political terror has shown us, but ultimately, our security and liberty are dependent on soldiers and policemen worldwide who risk their own lives that we may have ours.

I guess this is why I cannot help but respect the soldiers who fought in this forgotten war.  No, maybe they didn’t meet our standards of political correctness formulated in the safety and security of our borders.  Yes, sometimes blood rage led them to commit acts for which even they are ashamed.  Nevertheless, these are those who stood up in time of crisis to oppose forces whose overriding method was the maiming, killing and torturing of defenseless civilians.

These black men of RAR fought side by side with their white countrymen for the freedom to make their own political choices.  This is the purest form of altruism, or as a Galilean Jew once said, “Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13, NASB).

After visiting Balla Balla, we traveled on to Llewellin Barracks in Bulawayo.  Pegi and I hoped to find housing on the base. However, we were dismayed at the condition of the housing available to NCOs.  In a country where everyone had a well-kept lawn and garden, we were shocked to see homes surrounded by dirt instead of grass.  The interiors of the houses were even worse!

So, we borrowed Col Woods Peugeot and drove the 20 miles into Bulawayo.  Looking through the classified section of the newspaper, we found a beautiful little cottage in the suburb of Matsheumshlope (mats-zoom-shlohpyee).  If I remember correctly, this was Ndebele for “white rocks.”  And the home we found certainly fit that description.  Our two bedroom modern brick home was on the side of a hill.  Instead of grass, most of the property was comprised of huge boulders.  

The back yard had some grass for the five dogs we had accumulated by this time.  We had two Rhodesian Ridgebacks (Rebel and Sheba), a yellow Labrador Retriever (Dixie), a Springer Spaniel (Woola), and a tiny Cocker Spaniel (Groucho). 

The house in Matsheumshlope

Groucho overseeing his domain

Rebel with Woola

Pegi with Dixie

Groucho peaking out from the bushes. 

Not sure where Sheba was hiding!

 

We returned to Salisbury and the Army sent a truck and personnel to pack us for our move.  We crammed all five dogs into the back of our tiny Austin Mini station wagon.  The vet gave us sedatives for the dogs for the five hour ride.  We must have mixed up the dosages for the Springer and Cocker Spaniels.  While Rebel, Sheba and Dixie snoozed in the back, Woola was awake and perky for the whole trip.  It was as if she felt responsible to stay awake and watch over the others.  Groucho, the little cocker had to be held most of the trip as he couldn’t even hold up his own head.  Yep, we must have mixed up the dosages!

The hardest part of leaving Salisbury was leaving Langton, our gardener whom we had first met in Alex Park.  We had become friends, had taken in his younger brother and met his mother.  But Langton was Mashona and Bulawayo was the home of the Matabele, a Zulu offshoot tribe.  It would be lonely and dangerous for him to move with us.  [For more on my relationship with Langton, see 26 — A Rhodesian “Rebel” I Loved and 42 — From Death to Birth.]

We found Langton another job in Salisbury and said our goodbyes.  Years later, back in the US, we were watching a film about Steven Mbeko, a South African political activist who was jailed by the apartheid government.  It had been filmed in Zimbabwe.  There was a scene of men playing soccer in a field outside an African township.  The hills in the background looked like the ones where our home, Kalanyoni, had been.  As the scene played on, I swear I saw Langton!  He was one of the extras in the scene.  I can’t prove it, but I know I saw him.  You always recognize a close friend when you see him!

 

Next:  50 — "Muck" and Mire (Bulawayo:  Oct 1977)

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48 — Tea with the General (Salisbury: Sep 1977)

Moving from Salisbury to Bulawayo was interesting, but I was totally mesmerized by the thought that I was about to meet with the Army Chief of Staff.  To-date the highest ranking officer I had even seen was Lt Col Wood, my boss.  But, he was really just a preacher in uniform.  

As I walked in the door to Army HQ, I was totally intimidated.  A corporal directed me inside an office.  Entering, I found myself facing not one, but two officers.  Maj Gen Derry MacIntyre returned my salute and reached out to shake my hand.  Then he turned to introduce me to Maj Gen MacClean.  They were the joint chiefs of staff reporting to General Walls, the overall Rhodesian commander.

Gen MacIntyre invited me to have a seat.  Moments later a corporal entered with tea which the General poured for me!  This was crazy!  Just a few months ago, I had been a lowly recruit at RLI being ordered to attention by anyone (everyone) who outranked me.  Now I was having tea with two generals.  

Even today, I am still trying to get my head around this.  I am sure, at the time, I had no sense of how unusual this was.  I think there was a degree of evangelical overconfidence that this was to be expected.  After all, I was a servant of God--loaded with bible doctrine and a divine viewpoint of history--why wouldn’t a general want to talk to me?  As I sit here at my computer typing this, I regret how my bible doctrine-induced arrogance caused me to miss the value of this event.

I don’t have a record of what was said, but this is how I remember the conversation:

Padre, the reason we have asked you here this morning is to discuss a special assignment that Col Wood believes you are uniquely qualified to undertake.  As you know, we have quite a few foreign soldiers serving with us.  With the political situation evolving, we really need an ear to the morale of the foreign soldiers.  

We would like you to be our ears.  We want you to travel periodically and speak with foreign soldiers in RLI, Selous, SAS, Grey’s, and such.  Get a sense of their state of mind and report back to us.

The significance of this assignment didn’t sink in immediately.  But I was to have another meeting with the two officers a few months later.  Then I would understand, but more on that a few chapters from now. [See 54 — Tell Them to Go!]

For the immediate future, there were a thousand details to prepare for our move to Bulawayo.  First up was that trip with Col Wood to Balla Balla.  

Pegi and I slid into the back seat of Col Wood’s army green Peugeot 404 sedan.  The higher the rank, the better the vehicle.  Chaplain captains were issued the tiny Renault R5. As a sergeant, I got a Yamaha motorcycle.  

The best part of the trip to that point was the conversation with Col Wood.  In the six plus hours we spent in his car, we talked about his life as chaplain general, the war, his experiences as a Baptist pastor, and theology.  

As a disciple of Thieme, I often would refer to the original Greek or Hebrew of biblical passages.  Most people were suitably impressed with my apparent knowledge.  Wood, however, had taken several years of Greek in seminary.  He made some references to the dative and instrumental cases and I suddenly knew that I was in over my head.  

All I knew from my self-study under Thieme was vocabulary and limited grammar/syntax.  I knew what a dative case was.  I knew its function in a sentence.  I didn’t know how to identify a dative case.  I had never actually taken any Greek.  The only Hebrew beyond what I had learned from Thieme was the alphabet I had learned in a fourth grade Temple class.  When he wanted to discuss Greek or even theology more deeply, I realized that I was arrogant in my ignorance.  I was totally dependent on Thieme’s knowledge.  I could parrot what Thieme said, but I had no firsthand resources from which I could draw.  

I had already been wondering about the accuracy of Thieme’s theological applications to everyday life.  They clearly did not work “as advertised”!  What if the Greek and Hebrew I had learned from him was just as unreliable?  “Wandering” to Rhodesia was really causing me to “wonder”!

For the first time, it was my own shallowness that prevented a theological discussion from continuing.  And all this time, I had believed Thieme’s teaching that all one needed was “the constant intake of bible doctrine.”  Of course, by this, Thieme meant listening to him constantly.  Here I was on the theological firing line and I didn’t have any of my own ammo!  The best I could do would be to resort to the adolescent, “My dad can beat up your dad!”  Only in this case, it was “My pastor-teacher is smarter than you.”  

I think we were all relieved when, after a day of driving, we arrived at Balla Balla.  Col Wood had checked us into a small roadside hotel.  I really don’t remember it, but Pegi has very vibrant memories that “It was horrible!”  I felt the same way about my part of the conversations with Col Wood!  It was horrible!

Next:  49 — Balla Balla, Bulawayo and Matsheumshlope (Rhodesia:  Oct 1977)

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38 — Pistol-Packin’ Chaplain (Salisbury: March 1977)

One of the problems with having free reign over my chaplain’s duties was that I was new to everything:  the country, the Army, the ministry, the chaplaincy—I had no practical ideas about what I could or should do.  The Chaplain General, LtCol Norman Wood, was rarely in his office.  He and the other chaplain officers, were constantly on the go. 

The only person who seemed to take an interest in my development was another chaplain-sergeant who would occasionally stop by the office during one of his call-ups. Stan Hannan, (now a Baptist pastor in Florida), took on the difficult task of my chaplaincy education and development.  

As assistant chaplains with only the rank of sergeant, we were rarely called upon for the serious casualty notifications.  That was the sad duty of the officers who were ordained and, in theory, prepared for counseling in time of tragedy.  As assistant chaplains, we delivered the casualty notifications of illnesses and minor injuries that were unlikely to be life threatening.

Before venturing out on my own, I accompanied Stan for a casualty notification.  I remember riding out to the Hatfield suburb of Salisbury and standing at Stan’s side as he knocked on the door at the home of a soldier who had come down with some sort of food poisoning.  We knew that we were not bringing tragic news, but when the soldier’s wife saw us at the door with our purple and black “stable belts” (4-inch wide colored belts that signified different units), the blood drained from her terrified face.  We quickly assured her that her reservist husband’s condition was not life threatening, but it took a cup of tea and a 30-minute conversation to help her regain her equilibrium.

As we drove back to our office, Stan told me of how he had accompanied Col Wood for a casualty notification.  The woman had the front gate to her home locked and when she saw the purple and black belts on Col Wood and Stan, she passed out.  They could not reach her because of the locked gate.  The moral of the story:  You never know what to expect when you show up at someone’s door as a chaplain.

One thing that I was encouraged to do was to make hospital visits.  I made a few of these visits, but I was very timid about this.  I don’t know if I was intimidated by the protocol of the hospital itself, not knowing what to say to these wounded soldiers, or my own feeling of failure for not having completed my training and serving in combat.  I suspect it was the latter that held me back, but I rarely found time to visit.  To this day, I feel shame and regret about that one simple thing that I could of and did not do often enough.

Strangely, I didn’t mind the casualty notifications.  Maybe it was because I could masquerade as a “real” soldier when visiting family, but knew that my disguise would not work with wounded soldiers.

I covered up my own weakness and failure to push through the pain of my ankle injury by affecting a tough persona.  I talked the talk of soldiers, something I had picked up at Berachah Church, cursing so freely that Col Wood had to ask me to tone it down! 

Jeff, I know that in America you have some cigar-smoking, gruff-talking Christians.  But, the other chaplains here are not accustomed to that type of behavior.  If you could watch the language when you are in the office, that would be best.  It is alright for you to speak like that when with the RLI troopers, but tone it down here please.

I agreed to moderate my language, but there was more than language to my act!  Of course, all of the chaplains carried weapons.  This was a war that exempted no one.  I was issued a 9mm semi-auto pistol which I sometimes tucked into my stable belt as well as an “Uzi” submachine gun.  I was quite a sight on my camo-painted Army-issued Yamaha motorcycle, especially with  the Uzi strapped across my back.  I used to practice swinging my Uzi into action with one arm while controlling the clutch and throttle of my motorcycle with the other arm.  The Uzi had a really short barrel.  Good luck with hitting anything I was aiming at while riding!  My new RP corporal buddy at RLI named me “The Pistol-packin’ Chaplain.” 

    With only casualty notifications to keep me occupied during the day, I was getting bored.  I couldn’t just sit around the office all day reading my Bible or getting in theological debates with the other chaplain assistants doing their national service.  So, I began to reach out to those I had met who seemed to show an interest in bible doctrine.

I am not sure how we first contacted Dave and Kinny Phelps, but they had discovered Thieme’s books and tapes. They invited Pegi and me to their home for dinners and teas where we would talk about bible doctrine and Rhodesian politics. 

Kinny’s brother was a Member of Parliament (MP) and a founding member of the Rhodesian Action Party (RAP).  RAP positioned itself as the opposition to Prime Minister Ian Smith’s Rhodesian Front.  However, they were the conservative opposition to a conservative leader.  We quickly learned that there was no viable liberal opposition in Rhodesia.  The RAP saw Smith’s drift toward conciliation with the blacks as a departure from the standards by which he was elected and led the country to UDI (Unilateral Declaration of Independence) in 1964. 

Initially, Pegi and I found ourselves in sympathy with the more conservative stance of the RAP.  This was the first time we began to question the direction of the Smith government.  Although we were questioning his government from the “right,” questions led to more questions as we began to examine the assumptions that we had made in coming to Rhodesia in the first place.  We began to be disillusioned with the waning resolve and what we saw as compromising positions of the government and many of the Rhodesian people.

But, because questions lead to questions, this would eventually cause us to wonder about the entire Rhodesian endeavor, especially as we began to see evidence of real discrimination against the black African population.

Next:  39 — The Return of the "Wondering" Wanderer (Salisbury:  April 1977)

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