morbid curiosity

Beginning a new job is always daunting and my first days at the Ministry of Education, Sport and Culture was no exception. Meeting work colleagues, going over the job description, establishing expectations and groundrules for my service were all standard procedure. My office was very simple, a desk, phone and a couple of chairs. During the first few days I recall sitting at my desk with very little to do except arrange my chairs in different locations of the office. I received a call from my boss telling me, without explanation, to lock my door and stay inside. This I promply did, waiting with the company of my furniture for what may happen next. There was a slight panic in my mind, but this was put at ease by the voice of women singing in the corridors outside my office. This continued for a few minutes until curiosity got the better of me and I opened the door. There, sitting on the floor, lined up against the far walls of the corridor, were women of various ages, singing a shona chant over and over. As I walked down the corridor and out towards the stairs it became clear that the women had gathered on the floors above. Nothing appeared threatening and I wandered donstairs towards the ground floor to see what was happening. On the stairs I met one of the ministry civil servants who prompted me to move outside the building. As we exited a group of security trucks were gathering in the street out front, and riot police in full regalia quickly formed a semi-circle around the entrance to the building. I stood transfixed at what was unfolding before me and was curious to see how the scene would play out. My colleague grabbed my arm and pulled me away towards a crowd gathering down the street. As we ran I heard a whistle blow and turned to see the riot police enter the building. Moments later droves of women came running out onto the streets, screaming. The less fortunate ones were kicked or beaten with truncheons across the head and body. The riot police followed the women up the street, firing tear gas to prevent them from returning or gathering again en-masse.

When it was all over the crowd dispersed and I returned to the Ministry building. The floors were already being mopped clean from the blood tarnished stains. A colleague from the finance department had a bleeding wound to his head from a stray baton. His suit and tie had done little to protect him from the mob which had a job to do upon entering the building.

I was told later that the women had been widows of soldiers who had lost their lives fighting for independence, which came in 1980. The widows had been promised compensation but had received little or nothing in the ensuing years. They had come to protest, to get some answers and ensure that their husbands sacrifice had not been forgotten. In the State run newspaper the next day there was a small article about the protest the previous day. It stated that the women had gathered but had ended peacefully after talks with the police! What the hell was I doing in a place like this?

heading south

I was well prepared to leave for Zimbabwe, or so I thought. An alpha course, bible studies, prayer meetings, morning and evening worship sessions all behind me during the last year, I was well stocked to head south. Rob had become a particularly strong mentor, inviting me to his home weekly to study the bible, pray, and try to apply all this faith stuff to my life. I was all set to travel to Uganda to work as a physical education teacher across three or four schools, but all that changed when a position opened up in Zimbabwe which they considered a better fit. This was the chance to work at a national level within the head office of the Ministry of Education, Sport and Culture, working alongside the Curriculum Development Program and the Sport and Recreation Commission. When VSO approached me about this I thought it beyond my capacity, but the more I pondered on it the more exciting the prospect became.

Leaving my parents at the airport was emotional. My older brother Nigel also came to see me off. He was working in London at the time and we had re-connected during the interview process for VSO after years of estrangement. Staying at his flat turned out to be a turning point as we chatted into the wee hours, eating brie on toast and sipping a bottle of cheap red, reflecting on life's opportunities. The healing of this relationship, which has since become a close friendship, is genuine icing on the cake stuff. At the airport that evening Nigel gave me a cross he had been wearing around his neck. I took it and kept it close, trusting in it for some mystical power of guardianship in the days ahead. I thanked God as I walked stepped onto the plane. No turning back now. I thought about the life I was leaving behind - the rugby club, the school, the career plan, and a girl I had become very fond of in the church back home. If I looked brave on the outside as we took off from London, it was merely a facade.

News from Harare on the day we traveled was not good. Tanks had been brought onto the streets to quell gathering mobs protesting commodity and transport price hikes, a shape of worse to come in the decade ahead. When we landed in Harare myself and the other volunteers were driven to a hotel outside the city to begin our orientation until things settled down in the capital. The first night in the hotel I couldn't sleep. The other volunteers all seemed to be made of the 'right stuff' for VSO, but there in my bed, tossing and turning to the sound of Africa outside the window, I wasn't so convinced of my own metal. The next morning at breakfast I felt like a misfit. If someone had offered me a ticket home I would've taken it in a heartbeat. At dinner later in the orientation process I asked our trusty VSO field officer, what the tell tell signs were for volunteers leaving for home early because they couldn't hack it. "Usually it's the people who ask that question" was his response. Cheers!

When the orientation was over and all the volunteers parted for their respective placements around the country, I headed into my first day at work in the Ministry, downtown Harare. As I walked into the city the tallest building had a flashing neon sign at the top which advertised daily flights to London. "Come on Adrian, you tried this volunteering business and it wasn't for you - head off home and get your life back" were the taunts in my mind each day as I walked in to work. In the end I would extend my stay in Zimbabwe beyond the customary two years to stay a further year. Testimony not to my inner strength, or the incredible set of people and experiences around the corner, but to God's continued grace which sustained me during the highs and lows of life in Zimbabwe.

a new start

These blogs will describe critical challenges that my 'theological' thinking has undergone in the midst of my travels. I believe my theological learning has only been enriched by the encounter with other Christians and people of other or no faith. On that Christmas eve I expeienced something deeply profound. Forgiveness!  I knew little of the meaning of grace or of complex of soteriological theories, but I felt a release from deeply entrenched burdens within. With it came the realization that someting new was beginning - that I had the chance to become the person I thought it was not possible to be. And I had done nothing to earn it, other than to turn up at church under false pretences. There can be no excuse for self-righteousness in the midst of recalling God's grace. I'd been slapped in the face of my soul with a force that awakened life within me. I now had faith - now, my quest was to understand.

A cinical friend told me later that this was just a part of growing up. Fair point, but inadequate to understand the experience of that evening. I was also cautioned by an tearful objector scarred from bitter Irish religious conflicts that forgiveness is more complicated than having a slate wiped clean. Certainly! Wounds take time to heal among those who have been trampled along the way. (Forgiveness remains a sensitive issue, and I am at present investigating the concept of power and forgiveness, an interesting study which I'll share more at a later date. Any publishers can contact me at any point if interested!)

Things changed at the rugby club. My car had been spotted outside church both on Sunday mornings and evenings for several weeks. I hadn't really shared what was going on with many people as I was still trying to make sense of my new bearings. I had stopped going out with the boys after games, and this was duly noted during a dressing room enquiry. There were two reasons  deemed worthy of going to church. One was the mandatory commitment to attend services prior to getting married in the church building. The second was the quest for dating a cute girl whose preference was for church rather than the local pubs.  As I sat between two of the players in the dressing room the court began. I confessed that something had changed and I was exploring a different path. I received a couple of light hearted punches to the ribs, ones which I could never admit to hurting. Interestingly in the pub at a later date one of the chaps asked me about why I didn't want to party like I used to, and I began to articulate in basic ways how I wanted something different. By the end of the evening more than twelve had joined in the fringes of the conversation to hear my first ramblings of a testimony.

Sometime later Rev. Paul Gardener spoke from the pulpit of the church, preaching that we had gifts to be used in the world. I remember vividly thinking to myself at the end of the sermon 'what good is a physical education teacher in Africa?' Not sure where Africa came into the equation, other than the images portrayed annually in the media during 'chidren in need' benefit drives. Surely Africa needed engineers, doctors, folks with worthy skill sets, not those with the ability to teach how to curve a free kick. Later that week I had an appointment to see the Headteacher at school. I arrived in his office and he received a phone call. With nothing better to do I picked up a copy of the Times Educational Supplement to continue my exploration with promotion. There, in a half page spread, was an advertisement calling for 'Physical Education teachers to volunteer in Africa'. I chuckled at the comic timing and thought the minister would be amused. But I left the office and phoned them directly. I had to at least go through the motions of following this lead, even though there would be no chance of going through with it.

Only months later I was on a plane to Zimbabwe as a volunteer. I quit my job after proclaiming my new commitment to follow Jesus Christ in school assemblies (without a cool leather jacket!)

a finding

Things had been going pretty well for me for a while. I played rugby for Winnington Partk Rugby club and we had a good season. That year we did particularly well in the then name Heinekan Cup, and made it through preliminary rounds to play WASPS in the latter stages of the competition. For a small town team this was a big deal, generating lots of outside interest and much local hype. Running out onto tthe field the day of the game should have been a real highlight, and in many ways it was, despite the heavy defeat at the hands of the ruthless English champions. A concussion picked up early in the game meant that I don't remember much of what actually happened. Good sense would have said to come off the field, but my senses had been knocked into next week. But I do remember the feeling of loneliness which enveloped me as I stood and looked around the stands. There I was, with family, friends and many of the kids from the school in which I taught, not to mention the teammates I had become so close to over the years. Surely not a place for a sense of loneliness. Over the coming weeks I put this feeling to the side and we carried on up to Christmas that year playing our games, winning some, losing some, but always having an overly festive post-game celebration. One morning after an away game with a sore head and aching body, I drove teammates home and passed a small country church that had just started it's morning worship. I had a strong desire to go in, but drove on.

A couple of weeks later my girlfiend and I split up. It was, as these things generally are, an emotional time, and we decided it be best not to contact each other again, for fear of falling back into the numbness of togetherness interspersed with moments of comfort in being together. She broke the rules on Chrismtas eve and called me to ask if I wanted to go with her to church. Of course I did, to see her again. I would have gone to the pub, to the riverwalk, but the church was as good as anywhere. Walking into the service, surrounded by people I didn't know, I felt at home - somehow filled. It wasn't the candles of the candlelight service, the carols, or the decorations which moved me, although these set the perfect stage for my being cut to the heart. The jerk who came to our school to do assemblies was there leading the way from the pulpit. At the end of the service, despite the number of people who had gathered, Rob seemed to make his way directly to me to greet me. He mentioned an Alpha course open for all those with questions or an interest in learning more about faith in Christ. The date was etched into my memory and I knew I would attend. I stayed for mince pies and mulled wine and really enjoyed the person I was that evening. I had been to church before, but part of a traditional upbringing in the Anglican Church and as a choirboy. But that was a long time ago and this was different. I had been moved in the core of my being. Things had just changed in my life forever, and I had no clue what was happening!

beginnings

This was supposed to be a book - I'm sure that's what they all say. I'm writing this blog for myself really, in an attempt to piece together experiences that have shaped me over the last several years. In broad terms they will be theological reflections of an incredible journey, which has took me from England to Zimbabwe, the United States to India, and from Scotland to South Carolina. Becoming a Christian prompted a frightening desire to work as a development officer with Voluntary Service Overseas (VSO) - a set of experiences which led to a rapid deconstruction and reconstruction of my theological perspectives, which had developed all too neatly (niaively) back home. I left for Zimbabwe with a 'neat' answer for everything - came back needing Seminary to clear my head and ask different questions - questions which took me to India, to doctoral theological studies in Edinburgh, and on to South Caroliona. But that's getting ahead of myself.

This is about beginnings, a conventional but apt pace to start. I worked as a physical education teacher at a school in the North West of England and really loved the job. It's what I had wanted to do since my teenage years so it was a fulfilment in itself. I was quite successful in my coaching, especially in Rugby. My teams generally did well - county champions with the second best team I ever coached, runners up with the best. After six years working in Cheshire it was time to make a change - either promotion in my current school or in another. Went for one tour of a school but pulled out before the interview. Head of year at my present school would be more responsibility and a little more money, but the feeling of expanding my horizons beyond high school teaching was buried deep inside.

One thing I particularly disliked about my school was the morning assemblies, especially those which involved the priest from the local church. He would stand there in a leather coat and try to be far too cool for one in his profession. His message, no matter how creative he was, always made me cringe, a fact not missed by anyone who noticed my rolling eyes. If any of the kids had a follow up question during our tutorial sessions I would not try to hide my cinical observations. But all that was soon to change, and the jerk who led our assemblies would soon become a key player in my journey of faith.