My Holy War With the Trinity Broadcasting Network
I watch a lot of television. As an unabashed fan of the cathode
ray tube, I am proud to say that the great invention of our century
is my loving confidant, my surrogate mother, my angelic savior.
I identify with families of the early 1930's who would sit around
their brand new television, watching the test pattern for four
hours, breaking only for a three-minute dinner. Unlike many TV
addicts however, I generally avoid "quality" programming. Many
TV apologists will list their beloved shows when attacked by book
elitists -- a string of PBS shows, "Meet the Press" episodes,
and the occasional "X-Files" clip. Fuck 'em. I prefer low-brow,
check-yer-brain-at-the-door, popcorn television. I actively seek
it. Why own a Zenith 31" screen when you refuse to enjoy the technicolor
fruits of Charo on "The Love Boat"?
Throughout my years of nursing from the teat of television, I've
always been fascinated by the 24-hour programming of TBN -- The
Trinity Broadcasting Network. Any casual viewer of cable TV has
bumped into this vast treasure at least once. The haven of televangelists
worldwide, TBN is the mothership of Christian broadcasting, eschewing
glossy production values, intelligent commentary, and good taste.
TBN has become the Holy Grail of TV for me, containing all of
the trashy elements of television that I so adore.
However, I have never actually watched an entire day of TBN. It
may seem like masochistic behavior, but last week I reasoned that
I, the willing and intrepid voyager into the land of fundamentalist
rantings, should guide you, the voyeuristic reader, through the
jungle of warped logic and haystack hair. I assumed that I would
be able to withstand nine hours of TBN. I was wrong. What follows
is a detailed diary of my adventure, which shows a man's descent
into pure madness.
9:00 A.M. -- Armed with my remote control, three packs of cigarettes,
and a pot of coffee, I switch the TV on, flipping immediately
to my test subject. The screen is filled with a large female face,
blubbering about how Jesus delivered her from her heroin addiction.
This woman has approximately seventeen pounds of makeup on her
face, and is wearing a dress that a Vegas showgirl would reject
as too glitzy. The rhinestones embedded into the gown occasionally
catch the studio light, thereby rendering me temporarily blind.
Looking at this wonderfully tacky lady, I wonder to myself just
how show got involved with heroin in the first place. Did she
cop in seedy downtown Tennessee with that dress on? Did she score
at the prayer breakfast meetings, tying up with her religious
cronies? Suddenly, the Flaming Lips' chestnut "Jesus Shooting
Heroin" runs like a skipped record in my mind. I think to myself,
maybe there's something here I'm missing. This isn't your average
ex-junk abuser. Maybe God did turn her around. Hmmmm...
The rest of the hour is filled with other testimonials, each more
dramatic than the next. Women escaping from abusive relationships
and men turning from a life of glamorous crime, all with the Lord's
help. The show plays out like an old episode of "Queen For a Day,"
with the most pathetic story receiving the loudest applause from
the assembled crowd. I notice early on that Christians tend to
be receptive to theatrics. An equation leaps into my head: moving
story = moving of the spirit. I believe that this theme will be
repeated throughout the day.
10:00 -- The ringmasters of TBN now appear of my television. When
Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker were ousted from the ranks of the PTL
Club, the centerpiece show of TBN, the powers-that-be had to find
replacements. Three years ago, they found a husband and wife team
that bore a frightening resemblence to the fallen duo. The new
stock are virtual clones of the earlier version, down to the husband's
Spray-On Hair and the wife's tendency to weep at the mention of
the Lord's name. The show begins with an interview with a spokesman
for the NRA, who spouts an odd hybrid of the usual gun-nut rhetoric
and rambling fundamentalist nonsense. "You know," our trigger-happy
friend says, "the Lord intended us to protect our familes from
the ravages of evil everywhere, and it is our God-given right
to protect them in any way possible. We need guns." Uhh, yeah.
The Jim-and-Tammy clones nod in vigorous approval, then pray for
Congress to relax gun control laws.
The wife is then seen in a pastoral garden, weeping uncontrollably
about Jesus. She walks with the camera just ahead of her, at times
appearing that she will run smack into the lens. Just like her
earlier doppleganger, her mascara runs like the Rio Grande across
her face while she tightly grips her Bible as if a production
assistant possessed by Satan would snatch it out of her hands
at any moment. Strangely, this maudlin segment annoys me. Maybe
there's a limit to how much of this I can take. I break my rule
and switch channels to "Family Matters," where I can find respite
in the comedic stylings of of everyone's favorite 37-year old
high school nerd, Urkel.
Noon -- After "Family Matters" came "Mama's Family," and damned
if that show ain't just full of hi-larity! I couldn't tear myself
away from it, but at noon, I knew that I had to tune into my favorite
program on TBN, "This Week in Bible Prophecy." Hosted by the fraternal
team of Tim and Larry LaLonde, this wonderfully paranoid show
highlights the past week's world events and ties them into biblical
prophecy, explaining in every episode how the earth will soon
implode. If you salivate over the paranoid rantings of "The X-Files,"
I encourage you to tune into TWIBP. The LaLondes are masters at
turning seemingly irrelevant events into worldwide catastrophes
that have already been predicted in the Bible! There was a drought
in Wyoming last week? Eek! It's in the Book of Ezekiel! Bob Dole
played Scrabble with kids on the campaign trail? It was prophecied
two thousand years ago! "Mission: Impossible" broke all opening
day box office records? Jesus is coming tomorrow!!
They also have an interesting fascination with technology. Anytime
an advancement in made in computers, it is a sign of the end of
time. Now, I went to Sunday School, and I don't recall any mention
in the Book of Revelation about how the leap from 14,000 baud
modem speed to 28,000 baud modem speed is the cue for the Four
Horseman of the Apocalypse to start thundering down from the skies,
but maybe that was in the Dead Sea Scrolls. The LaLondes seem
awfully convinced of this in this episode though, so maybe they
know something I don't.
Fear seems to run this program. Today's show focuses on the evils
of Catholics. I'm a little petrified of Catholics for my own reasons,
having been educated at a Jesuit school, but these guys find new
and exciting ways to dread the Order. Larry LaLonde explains how
the Pope controls everything like the Wizard of Oz behind his
green curtain, and good ol' Loopy Larry even alludes to John Paul's
connection to the World Band and the Illuminati, the cornerstones
of classic paranoid nutball thinking. He then preaches on the
dangers of ATM machines and how they will eventually lead to The
Mark of the Beast, a pseudo-UPC barcode imprinted on every human's
right hand, containing every bit of personal information for the
government to view on demand. This too, according to the LaLonde
family, was foretold in the Word of God! I can feel myself getting
sucked into this. They speak with such authority that my childhood
Christian youth leader's rants are now spinning through my head.
Gotta get outta the house. Must reconnect with society for one
minute.
12:30 P.M. -- Just had lunch at the local taco stand. Overheard
a conversation between two fundamentalists about the end of the
world. They're everywhere.
1:15 P.M. -- Ah-hah! Benny Hinn in on! Of the current crop of
faith healers, Benny Hinn is King of the Invalids. Mr. Hinn is
bedecked in a glimmering blue sharkskin suit which, according
to him, "reflects the Glory of God!" Amen, brother. Holding court
in a hall the size of the L.A. Forum, Benny invites the sick to
hobble onstage for dramatic healing. This is a beautiful example
of the modern-day freak show, with faithful sycophants streaming
onstage afflicted with horrific disorders that are only listed
in 19th-century medical books. A paraplegic is wheeled to Benny,
who speaks the Holy Words and lays his hand on the lame one. The
man, who previously had no control of his legs, leaps out of his
wheelchair, singing and dancing the joys of Jesus. He is then
led off stage, presumably left to crumple into the fetal position,
writhing in excrutiaing pain and cursing Hinn's bodyguards for
lifting him out of the damned chair in the first place. This,
of course, would all take place off camera.
This goes on for two hours, with Benny getting increasingly giddy
with his P.T. Barnum powers. At one point, he merely approaches
a blind woman, who immediately falls backwards into the arms of
the hovering Holy Goons. She gathers herself off the floor, stands
near Benny again, and falls back into the attendants. This continues
for five minutes, with Mr. Hinn laughing maniacally at the situation.
Fellini himself could not think of a more surreal atmosphere.
After two hours of this though, I'm starting to look at my ingrown
toenail and am wondering if Benny could heal me too. Maybe I should
donate my meager income to his mission work. Ingrown toenails
hurt, dammit! It's an epidemic!
3:00 P.M. -- This is getting to me. There's a horribly disfigured
man on the screen now. He's preaching about how God saved him
in Vietnam. He was a young G.I. when a landmine blew half his
face off. The Lord sent an angel and rescued him. I don't think
the winged minion of Jesus did a good job, because this guy looks
scary. I believe I'll call him "God's Mistake." He's reading from
the Book of Job, who was put through the wringer by Yahweh, and
explaining that if God can help Job, he can help anyone. I think
I'm going mad. I can barely understand this guy because the words
are sort of falling out of his mouth without any consonants. It's
all vowels. I guess it's hard to enunciate with you have no lips.
4:00 P.M. -- Must...continue...readers...are...counting...on...me.
Now there's another faith healer on. He's talking with young woman
who used to be a prostitute. She lived in Farmington, Indiana.
Do they have prostitutes in Farmington? Did she hold hands for
twenty bucks? Maybe a peck on the cheek for fifty? I don't know
anymore. She says Jesus saved her from a life of decadence. Sure,
okay. I'll buy it. This all looks the same to me now. Everyone's
happy; everyone's been saved. Whee.
5:00 P.M. -- Oh look...hee hee...another preacher...hallelujiah...more
haystack hair...yippee...more Botany 500 suits...oh joy...more
gilded couches...amen...out-of-tune singing..."We're full of His
Word, why aren't you, friend?"...Jesus loves you, pal...I think
I'm going to kill someone now.
At precisely 5:37 P.M., I ran screaming from my house, decapitated
a goat, put its bloody head over mine, rent my clothes, and danced
naked down Santa Monica Boulevard, chanting the Black Mass and
hailing Satan. I had to decompress, you understand. After bathing
in the blood of a local transient, I went home worn out, poured
myself a cognac, and giggled along with "Full House" and those
cute Olsen twins.
Don't watch TBN alone.