The Devil Goes Missing?

Deliverance: Theology, Practice, History

John Woolmer

• Publisher: Monarch Books
• Year: 2017
• eBook ISBN: 9780857217929
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Christian Ministry

A comprehensive how to guide for those involved in the practice of deliverance, providing a sensible and theological treatment of an area that is often over-sensationalised. The Devil Goes Missing? takes seriously the spiritual opposition to the Kingdom without giving it excessive credence. Covering areas such as generational healing, cultural considerations and inappropriate deliverance. The theological underpinning contains numerous examples and case studies and will deal with frequently asked questions. It includes a "how to" guide for those involved in the practice of deliverance. The book will be of enormous benefit to clergy, pastors and lay leaders of all denominations.

CHAPTER 1

A ZAMBIAN ADVENTURE

The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him.

(Psalm 34:7)

On the evening of Monday 11 May 1992, my wife Jane and I, together with a faithful band of helpers, arrived at the small village of Mutwe Wa Nkoko, deep in the bush in the Luapula province in Northern Zambia. It had been a long, dusty and uncomfortable drive. We were given a rapturous, typically Zambian, and utterly unforgettable welcome.

I was leading a SOMA (Sharing of Ministries Abroad) team. We were accompanied by the late Martin Cavender, then director of Springboard, Archbishop Carey’s flagship project for evangelism. His son Henry, a student at Kingston University, had come to make a film of our mission. We were accompanied by Archdeacon Tobias Kaoma, Agnes Mupeta who lived in nearby Mansa and was the leader of the important diocesan Mothers’ Union, and Martha Zulu who was the administrator and evangelist for Bishop Bernard Malango.

En route, we paid a courtesy call to the local chief. His household was in chaos, with sickness and considerable anxiety concerning a daughter who was about to give birth. We prayed for them all and gave some small gifts of food. About a mile from the village we were met by hundreds of dancing, smiling people. They had garlands of flowers to give us and greeted us, dancing as they sang, “Sangale sangale” (let’s be joyful). In the midst of a life-threatening drought, this was pretty impressive. We left our vehicle and joined in the fun. Clearly foreign visitors were unusual.

The village seemed quite small: a little church, a good deep well, a few houses (shambas) and, in the distance, a school whose roof had been blown off in a storm some eighteen months earlier.

Under the light of the brilliant African sky and the Southern Cross, we washed as discreetly as possible in steaming hot water, protected by a little stockade. Then there was a camp fire, which involved food, singing, drama, and much laughter. The main drama was about a man who tried to steal from his neighbour, but first he had to steal a bone from someone else to silence the neighbour’s dog! There was another about stealing a man’s wife – which felt distinctly close to the bone.

We went to bed happily and looking forward to two useful days of speaking, praying, and discovering the extent and effect of the drought. This was my second visit to Zambia. The first, two years earlier, had taken me to the old mission centre at Chipili. Mutwe was about four hours’ drive from Chipili. I think, because of the circuitous nature of the roads, we could have walked there in about the same time.

Chipili in 1990 had opened my eyes and renewed my faith. Peter Hancock, then the healing advisor for Bath and Wells, and I spent four days addressing a conference of about 2,000 people who were camping in the grounds around the old mission station. We heard a churchwarden give out a notice: “Tomorrow, brother and sisters, you are going to see signs and wonders – not performed by these men, but by Almighty God.” And that is what happened. We had four prayer teams. On two successive days we prayed for several hours. Many collapsed to the ground – shrieking as demons left them. Many professed faith or renewed their baptismal vows. There were healings – Peter saw two people with a blind eye healed.

On the Sunday, after a two-hour service and well over 1,000 communicants, we prayed for four hours. I was awaiting a hip replacement, but somehow was able to stand for that length of time with little pain. At the end, Jason Mfula, a local leader who had been Zambian High Commissioner in Australia, said, “You have brought us the water of the Holy Spirit – now the challenge is, do something about the village water supply.” I did my best and raised about £2,000 to replace a worn-out pump, which was used to bring water from the river (where thirty years ago the UMCA missionaries had shot the last crocodile) up to the houses and schools situated far above it.

The next morning in Mutwe, a crowd of about 500 gathered. We held a joyful service in the open air. After much singing and dancing, led by the exuberant members of the Mothers’ Union (clad in smart white turbans and blue chitengas – the brightly coloured, full-length skirts worn by all the women), I preached about drawing water from “the wells of salvation” (Isaiah 12:3). It seemed appropriate in a village whose deep, cool well was sustaining them in a time of drought.

It was all very quiet and good natured. Blue Charaxes butterflies danced from one great tree to another, providing me with a pleasant distraction. At the end of the morning, we invited people to join us for a time of prayer in the nearby church.

I was used to spiritual drama in Luapula, but nothing had prepared me for the ferocious battle that erupted. Tobias Kaoma, experienced in prayer and exorcism, was surrounded by a group of screaming women. The rest of us found that we only had to utter a word of prayer, or stretch out our hands in prayer towards someone, and they started to flutter their eyelids, shake violently, collapse to the ground, or even start slithering across the floor in a passable imitation of the local snake. Henry, the youngest member of the team, who had come as a late addition to make a video, made an understandably swift exit. He was terrified!

In the midst of this maelstrom, Jane, my wife, called me over and said, “Listen to this.” One of the woman, or to be more accurate the spirit that was speaking through her, said, “Go away. I am not leaving this person!” She was speaking in perfect Oxbridge English – Zambians normally speak English with a lilting, soft accent, but this woman’s voice was harsh and powerful – a good mimic of mine. We made little progress and retired for a simple lunch, somewhat bruised and chastened. It was one of the few occasions that prayers of deliverance didn’t seem to have much effect.

After a quick visit to a maize field, where I was shown the devastating effect of the drought on their crops, I returned to speak to the gathering crowd. Something was stirring within me.

Speaking against the local demons

It was not my normal style, but I felt convinced that we had to stand against the local principalities and powers – especially Masonda, the black snake spirit, and Malenga, the water spirit. Both these names came up frequently when we asked people what was troubling them. The black snake was probably the emblem of local witchcraft. It seemed likely that many of the local mothers sought protection from the medicine men while also bringing their babies to the church for baptism.

Before speaking, I made a public prayer against these two demonic powers – fallen angels in biblical terms. I then challenged the congregation to stop hesitating between two opinions; to choose Christ and to throw away all charms, fetishes, and potions from the local witchdoctors. The response was laughter – not the friendly, good-natured laughter of the morning – but hollow, sinister, mocking laughter.

I asked my great friend Archdeacon Tobias, who was a wonderfully enthusiastic interpreter, what was happening. He said, “They are saying – we have so little and now you are telling us to throw things away.” For a split second, I could sense their devastating logic. What right had I, a rich Westerner on only my second visit to Zambia, to challenge their culture and to tell them to throw away some of their most precious possessions?

The anger of God

Suddenly I was overwhelmed. For almost the only time in my life, I felt what I can only describe as the anger of God. The fact that I was an ignorant, visiting Westerner didn’t seem important – what mattered was that God was honoured, and that meant that the Demonic Powers had to be opposed. People had to make a choice. No longer could they oscillate between two opinions. Even now, years later, I find it quite awesome to write about that afternoon. I spoke – I have no idea what – firm, even harsh words. I have never spoken like that before or since.

When I had finished, I felt shattered. I felt that I had failed, going way over the top. I don’t remember much about the rest of the day. We had a session planned with Father James Chungolo, the local priest, and his healing team. I was so exhausted that I left Martin Cavender to speak to them, while Jane had a good session with the local Mothers’ Union, who are a tower of strength both spiritually and socially in rural Zambia. There are two women’s groups in the Zambian church – the Mothers’ Union who provide leadership and stability and the Veronicas who provide social assistance, especially to young mothers.

After another hard night on a mattress on the floor, with bats above, mosquitoes all around, spiders on the floor, and the possibility of snakes coming in from outside, I felt distinctly unenthusiastic about the dawning of Wednesday morning. At least our prayer group back in Shepton Mallet would have been praying for us during the previous evening.

The angel around the church

The next morning we began with a communion service in the little church. About 300 people were crammed inside. I tried to ignore a substantial wasp busying itself with building a nest behind the altar, close to where we were sitting. I was aware that I had nothing to say (an unusual occurrence as Jane would agree). I was grateful for the quiet rhythm of the Anglican Liturgy.

Eventually, it was time to preach. I even contemplated a little joke (Mfumu was the Bemba word for God; Mfubu was the word for a hippo!). I could still think of nothing to say. In desperation (or inspiration?), I asked Tobias Kaoma to give his testimony. Tobias was about sixty; his beloved wife, Prisca, had died only a month earlier at the age of forty-nine. Despite his very evident grief, Tobias had left his parish in Chipili to accompany us and to act as our leader, chief exorcist, and my translator.

Tobias’ eyes lit up as he testified to his conversion, his calling to the priesthood (when working as a head teacher), and about the day two years earlier when he had been spontaneously, and unexpectedly, deeply touched by the Holy Spirit.

I well remember that afternoon. A good friend of mine was speaking about the Holy Spirit. I, I am embarrassed to say, was falling asleep, only to be awakened by the sight and sound of Tobias leaping around and praising God in many different languages. I am ashamed to admit that my first unworthy thought was, “Here is a drunk Zambian priest.” But Tobias was transformed that afternoon. He was drunk – in the sense of Acts 2:15–21. The Holy Spirit filled him (Ephesians 5:18) in a most remarkable way. A quiet, unassuming, retired headmaster became a really powerful minister of the gospel. On another visit, the discerning Peter Hancock described him as the most powerful confronter of demons that he had ever met. Outwardly, he remained quiet, unassuming, and gracious. Inwardly, he was filled with power. His demeanour and character were those of one of the most Christlike people that I have met.

Tobias’ testimony was lifting everyone’s spirits but, while he was still speaking, a tall, dark lady glided out of the congregation. “Could I say something?” she asked. For a woman not even belonging to the Mothers’ Union to interrupt a visiting leader was culturally unheard of, but Tobias graciously and characteristically gave way.

The lady continued to glide slowly forward. Her face shone. Only once have I seen that sort of light on someone’s face.1

Her story was simple; its effect dramatic. As she spoke, her face continued to shine with what seemed to be a supernatural light. She spoke in Bemba, the local language. Early that morning, she and some friends had walked in the half-light from her village to the church. She and one of her companions had noticed a figure dressed in white following slowly along the path. While she peeled off into the bushes beside the church, the figure went round the other side. She and her companion then walked around the church expecting to see the person dressed in white. There was no one to be seen. The ground around the church is quite open, with a few trees and some shambas (Zambian huts).

The crowded congregation was deeply moved. Zambians do not wear white clothes. The Mothers’ Union welcomed the lady, and symbolically placed one of their turbans on her head. Everyone felt that she had seen an angel, who had been sent to cleanse the church from the battles of the previous day. It was, and remains to this day, the most obviously supernatural experience of my life.

The contrast with the futile battles of the previous day was remarkable; the whole atmosphere in the church was quite different. There was a sort of spiritual electricity in the air. It felt a little like the occasion in the Gospels where Luke writes, “The power of the Lord was with Jesus to heal those who were ill” (Luke 5:17). No one can conjure up these times; they are a sovereign gift from God!

I preached a simple evangelistic sermon. I asked those who would like to respond to stand up and come forward. Two young men stood, and then the floodgates opened. We prayed for about forty; then for another sixty, including the local headman. During all this time of prayer, only one demon showed up. The man concerned was taken outside (always wisest to take people away from the limelight – demons are exhibitionists and seem to gain strength when lots of people are around), and evil powers were banished quickly and silently! Then we continued in prayer for the leaders and for many others to be healed, released from any evil oppression, and to be filled with the Holy Spirit.

Lunchtime came. The Blue Charaxes butterflies2 were courting around the tree nearest to the church, but it was time to leave. We left with much sadness, but also with great joy and a feeling of “mission accomplished”.

We paid a return visit to the local chief. This time there was great joy here too. Two hours earlier, his granddaughter had been safely born, the mother was well, and other members of the household were better. We prayed and gave thanks for the little girl and retreated with an honoured gift – a live chicken, which entertained us during the long, dusty car journey by pecking at Martin’s trousers.

Soon afterwards, somewhat fired up by these experiences, we had a remarkable day in Mansa, the nearby provincial capital. A young woman brought from the hospital was lying in a side room in the church. She had been in hospital a month and had not walked for over a year. I saw her and mentally hoped that I would not be the one to pray for her. While I was preaching, Martin and Martha Zulu counselled her and prayed for her. They described her as like a “flower unfolding”. She walked out of the side room, down the aisle of the crowded church, and went to discharge herself from the local hospital while her astonished father opened his heart to the Lord.

A more sophisticated man, Douglas Mupeta, husband of Agnes, the Mothers’ Union leader in the area, asked for prayer for his stiff neck and arthritic knees. Nothing...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction
• Chapter 1: A Zambian Adventure
• Theological Considerations
• Practical Ministry in Today's World
• Spiritual Matters – The Past and the Present
• Postscript: Frequently Asked Questions
• Endnotes
• Scripture Index
• Index