As the son of a preacher man, I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the “return unto the ground” of pioneering televangelist Oral Roberts on Tuesday.
I reference my Daddy because, during my childhood, he had me convinced that a Roberts hellfire and brimstone crusade was must-see TV, much as Hanna Montana is for kids today. No doubt regular readers of this weblog can tell that I’m still dealing with the psychological trauma this caused….
In fact, in his prime, Roberts had millions of people worldwide believing that he had the same power in his hands that enabled Jesus to heal the sick and even raise the dead. Ironically, it was his faith-healing shtick that gave me a unique opportunity to challenge my Daddy’s reverence for this religious crackpot.
It happened in my 20s, by which time I had become a bona fide apostate. At the time, early 1987, Roberts made an international spectacle of himself (and of the Christian faith) by proclaiming on TV that God would “call him home” if he did not raise $4.5 million by a date certain to complete construction on his City of Faith Medical Center, a $250 million monument to himself that only a megalomaniac like Saddam Hussein could possibly appreciate:
I’m asking you to help extend my life… We’re at the point where God could call Oral Roberts home in March.
You’d think that the contradictions inherent in this fatuous pitch would’ve caused anyone in his right mind to tune this huckster out. But Roberts made quite a show of informing his faithful suckers that they not only spared his life but gave him an extra $3.5 million – presumably to help him maintain the jet-set lifestyle to which he (and his religious spawn who preach the patently perverse “prosperity gospel [of] the more you give me, the more God will bless you”) had become accustomed.
Indeed, it was in this context that I simply asked my Daddy:
Why Deke, if you believe that Evangelist Roberts is the faith healer he claims to be, do you think he needed $250 million to build a medical center?
He summoned his endless reserve of righteous indignation to accuse me, for the umpteenth time, of doing the work of the Devil, but he never answered my question. More importantly, though, he never spoke so reverently about Oral Roberts ever again. Not surprisingly that $250 million manifestation of Roberts’ holy delusions was (fore)closed in 1989.
That said, I am acutely mindful that my Mummy, whose serene spirituality tempered my Daddy’s rabid religiosity, always admonished me to never speak ill of the dead. But I know she’ll forgive me (as she invariably did – with a wink and a smile) if I show mercy now by noting that there’s really nothing else worth mentioning about the legacy of this man who was little more than a religious snake-oil salesman.
Except that, despite Roberts using His name in vain, the Lord really blessed him with longevity, not calling him home until he reached the enviable age of 91. So, despite likening him to a classic Tartuffe, I suppose I should wish him well … wherever the hell he ends up!
Farewell Brother Roberts
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