Saints and Sinners: The fall of American preachers
We used to put them on a pedestal. Then, one by one, they began to fall off their elevated perches. Like Humpty Dumpty after his great fall, “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” couldn’t restore the once-revered clergy to their places of honor in American life.
There was Jim Bakker, an Assemblies of God minister who headed the Praise the Lord TV network. He went to prison for soliciting funds for a missionary project and then using the money for something entirely different.
There was Jimmy Swaggart, caught in the company of a lady of the night. Copious tears could not win back his former admirers.
There was Oral Roberts who became the subject of a blockbuster book, “Give Me That Prime-Time Religion” (Dutton/Plume, 1979), written by the former producer of Roberts’ show, Jerry Scholes.
The jacket of the book proclaimed: “Roberts wears $500 suits and drives $25,000 cars and enjoys a million-dollar home in Palm Springs, Calif., and is a member of an ultra-posh country club which he joined when memberships still cost only $20,000.” (All prices quoted are pre-inflation. Double that — at least — to get today’s equivalent.)
Scholes, who also told his story on the TV program, “60 Minutes,” called Roberts “one of the most egotistical men to ever breathe free air.” He said his old boss had an uncontrollable tempter and that his wife sometimes hid his car keys to prevent him from driving off in a blind rage.
Then there was Marjoe Gortner, the one-time boy evangelist who grew up to be something of a religious swindler. He blew the whistle on himself in the documentary, “Marjoe,” an expose on his rise and fall as a church tent preacher.
Those who saw the documentary said he was a scoundrel. And that he was. But he had charm and charisma galore. “Marjoe” left me with the impression that the people he had fooled would hear him gladly again, even after his confession that it was all an act. Gortner did what he did for selfish reasons — or in other words — for money. But people would say they got their money’s worth; they felt the Spirit.
It isn’t that hypocrisy in the pulpit was unheard of before the day of the modern televangelist or the priestly misconduct scandal now rocking the Catholic Church.
Sinclair Lewis’ novel, “Elmer Gantry” (Signet Classic, 1978), is a story of a rollicking evangelist who exploits the faithful with his fire-and-brimstone sermons.
Lewis sets the tone on the first page: “Even more than his bulk, his thick black hair and his venturesome black eyes, it was that arousing baritone that captivated the congregation. He could make ‘Good morning’ seem as welcoming as a brass band and uplifting as a cathedral organ.
“But of one duty he was never weary: of standing around and being very impressive for the benefit of lady seekers. How tenderly he would take their hands and moan, ‘Won’t you hear the dear Savior’s voice calling, sister?’ And all of them — spinster and misunderstood wives alike — held fast to his hand.”
The books ends with Gantry in prayer: “He turned to include the choir and for the first time he saw there was a new singer, a girl with charming ankles and lively eyes with whom he would certainly have to become acquainted. But the thought was so swift it did not interrupt his prayer:
“‘Dear Lord, thy work is but begun. We shall yet make these United States a moral nation’ — as he contemplated one more time the new choir singer’s ankle.”
George Plagenz is a syndicated columnist.