Of the rapid proliferation of pastors in Zimbabwe
Of interest is the frightening number of babies with milk on the nose that sprout everywhere and promise heavenly bliss to those who believe. They speak as if they hold the key to the celestial kingdom in the sky. Their voice is the voice of God, they say
ASTORY I picked up in Gweru about the wry comments of a Chinese national regarding Zimbabweans and their ethos goes something like this: Zimbabweans . . . too much sleep, sleep, and pray, pray.
While this may seem offensive, perhaps it isn’t that outlandish if we introspect objectively about our lives. Too many people are seeking instantaneous solutions to problems and too many people speak in terms of “manifesting” and “manifestation”, whatever that means. I suspect that too many people go along with too many absurdities because they are not brave enough to be critically different.
Many years ago the Standard Two Oxford English reader in this country had the story of a conman known as Abdul. As with all conmen, Abdul was characteristically lazy but supremely creative. So when the times were particularly trying for him Abdul hatched a plan to fleece gullible villagers of some of their hardearned money. To achieve this he did the unthinkable and the community could not help but notice the phenomenon. He did some real work — something quite alien to him — and actually sweated for a change.
Over several days Abdul built a hut, roofed it and fitted a door on. Thereafter he began an interesting routine that the villagers were soon buzzing about. Each day, Abdul unlocked the hut, went in and closed the door behind him. After each suitable interval on different days he came out of the hut with a beatific smile on his face. This was just too much for anyone to ignore. The adage that says curiosity killed the cat went unheeded. They just had to know what was going on and what was behind that closed door.
Abdul whispered to a few of his compatriots about the angel that had come to visit him and how anyone willing to pay for the privilege could also see this messenger from heaven, but with one word of caution; any sinner who went in would not be able to see the angel. The first few villagers gave Abdul some money and one at a time they were allowed to go in and see the angel. With no exception each person who went in said they had seen the angel. Dear reader, would you have wanted to label yourself a sinner by failing to see what everyone else was seeing?
News of the visitor from above spread like a wild fire and Abdul made a killing! Although they say a fool and his money are soon parted, when it comes to apocalyptic issues human beings can sometimes be so singularly obtuse. This is despite what Jesus says about the end of time:
“Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.
But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven
But my Father only,” (Matthew 24: 35-36).
Many pious people from across the ages have tended to ignore this solid piece of advice. In so doing such people have laid themselves open to all sorts of manipulation and deceit from would be men of God. These men and women of God are a practical illustration of the Shona saying about getting fat on the sweat of fools. This is made easy by a nation that has by and large ignored the Latin maxim: Laborare est orare — to work is to pray. A nation fixated on “minana” — miracles!
In general, many Zimbabweans appear not to have a work ethic and because of this, we tend always to be on the lookout for deals — something dazzling and awe-inspiring. Something that defies logic and the laws of science. The quest for miracles has become an integral part of most discourses. This unhappy develop- ment speaks of a saddening lack of understanding that only when real work is done can anyone ever reap anything.
Together with all these strange things we have seen a rapid proliferation in the numbers of men and women of the cloth. New churches and so-called ministries have sprung up with regular monotony. Their names are often quite outlandish and bereft of humility and moderation. Where we used to see posters advertising the shows of musical bands today’s walls and trees are plastered with glamorous posters of well-groomed prophets and prophetesses whose only claim to fame is the absurdity of what they say they are capable of. They neither foretell nor forth tell anything that’s not obvious and their reading of contemporary events is more than suspect. And sometimes they fail to foretell looming tragedies closely aligned with their activities.
We live in a time of peculiarities and sensational claims. Of interest is the frightening number of babes with milk on the nose that sprout everywhere and promise heavenly bliss to those who believe. They speak as if they hold the key to the celestial kingdom in the sky. Their voice is the voice of God, they say.
It used to be said that Nigerians boasted that if in Lagos you threw a stone into a crowd you would most likely hit a doctor or an engineer and so on. In our case it might not be too wild to say if you do the same in Zimbabwe today you are likely to hit more than just a few pastors, prophets and prophetesses. Their faces are the faces of “loving couples” oozing with an aura that glistens from glossy posters and expensive newspaper pages. The fashion-conscious wives of the crowd-seeking religious gurus have an affinity for photo shoots that is a marvel.
While the fear of the Lord is said to be the beginning of wisdom, it is amazing how those who claim to have such wisdom are getting increasingly younger and younger. These young old men and women have the answers to everything. They are mentors, coaches and motivators and they have it all figured out. There is a formula for everything and where experience cannot be vouchsafed for they plead inspiration and anointment.
Given that there are no known and proven tests for the authenticity of claims of anointment, and given that you cannot reconcile faith with empiricism most followers of today’s ecstatic cults would, more than anything else rather raise their arms to high heaven and shout their prayers in hoarse frenzied voices as if God is deaf. When this happens the din can be quite deafening.
I bet my sweet life that practically every week, if not every day, some seer or other publishes some kind of heavenly manual that “sells like hot buns” and is said to be a necessary addition to one’s reading material. Nine times out of ten there is nothing phenomenally new or even engaging in any of these instant self-publishing ventures whose shared characteristics are the poor editing, the mixed metaphors, infelicitous language registers and the elegant variation of bombastic pretenders.
Miracles do happen, yes! But only for those who plan for them and make sure that they have unquestioning followers to assure them of a regular bounty and unprecedented largesse when days are dark for everyone else. The gods of these chosen few are always smiling on them and they hardly ever want for anything. (LEAVE AS IS)
If you stop and think, you might find that the world is not what you think it is. You then start asking a few questions of a liberating nature. We probably all know of some village “sage” or other and how he or she promises something akin to the elixir of life. You are supposed to become fabulously rich overnight and all your cups are supposed to be running over with natural goodness and splendid wealth. But there is always a catch. This generous person is usually poorer than a church mouse. A case of the blind leading the blind?
In a certain small mining town there was once a clown and a practical joker, a man who called himself Sibanda. His hilarious and apparently impromptu jokes were often quite discerning. One day aboard a chicken bus and after noticing the presence of a number of teachers on board, Sibanda said to applause that the worst thing for anyone to ever become is being a teacher.
Teachers, he said, were the greatest liars of all time. They tell you about Australia without ever having set foot on that vast island. As I say this I can’t help reminiscing about the antics of “Dave Allen at Large” and how he often prefaced his skits with a wry piece of humour, something like, “God help me if He doesn’t have a sense of humour.” Being a gentlemen I will not swear. Nevertheless I find it difficult to avoid wondering just a little if Sibanda’s quip does not include men of the cloth.