This is the true story of a series of events that took place back in the mid-80’s in Little Rock, AR. I am sharing the details with you as a sort of confession. After all, I’ve been told that “confession is good for the soul.” I believe that my very soul was battered and bruised as I was associated with some heinous activities, done in the name of the Lord. The names I shall use are real. Because these are true facts, witnessed by more than a few people at the time of occurrence, I have no need to fear a suit for slander nor defamation of character. I am neither judge nor jury but I must believe that God will surely call the guilty to account for these crimes upon His children that were perpetrated in His Name.
As I stated, the story begins in the mid-1980’s. I was working in the Production Department at an independent UHF TV station in Little Rock when two others and I were approached to do some freelance work outside the station for a three-night televangelist’s program to take place in our Convention Center. The pay was good, very good, and the event did not interfere with our day jobs so Dan, John and I agreed to take on the project. I was to run sound while John and Dan were to run cameras. We arrived at the venue at the appointed time and met with the director. We should have turned on our heels and run with his first question.
After introductions and the slightest of niceties, the Director’s first question shot straight to the mark. He asked us, “Are any of you particularly religious?” As you might imagine, we three were a bit taken aback. Our best-shocked response was to tell him that two of us were Catholic and one was Baptist but we would be okay with whatever took place. I had no idea how sadly wrong I had been.
We began to get our instructions for the event and our eyes were further widened. John and Dan were told by the Director that, “sex sells.” He only wanted to see pretty ladies and handsome men on camera, dressed in nice clothes, showing bright smiles. He didn’t want to see shots of the common men or women. No video of country-looking people in overalls and jeans. I should remind you again that this was Little Rock, AR. The middle of a very agriculturally oriented state with people who were quite happy to be living a bucolic life. I like country folks. I like small towns. I was offended. The vast majority of the attendees would have been too. Again, we should have bolted.
The house filled to capacity. We were SRO (Standing Room Only) and a feeling of expectant reverence filled the hall. One could look about the crowd and tell that there were a lot of people that just wanted to be in the Presence, to witness something Holy, to see first-hand a miracle. Many of these people had brought every hard-earned dime they could put together to contribute to the work of God.
When the lights came up to reveal the star of the show the crowd received him with awe. W.V. Grant stood before this house in all his resplendent glory. I was no stranger to Mr. Grant. Our station aired his shows. I had already formed an opinion on his preaching. It should suffice to say that I believe he was not the man that the late Billy Graham was. I had always thought him to be more close to a snake-oil salesman. Not the kind of guy with whom I would entrust my salvation. I would come to find out that he was that and more (or less).
He knew how to work a crowd. I will give him that. He strode the stage like a cat. Before long he had his prey in the trap. The sheep were ready for fleecing. John and Dan were instructed to shut down their cameras and step away from the camera positions as Grant’s minions passed the KFC-sized buckets for collection. Grant wanted no videotape evidence of the plate (bucket) passing. I was beginning to feel really uncomfortable.
The collection ended and W.V. Grant set about the real work of closing the trap. The “healing” portion of the program was about to be staged. Low and behold, the Director gave instructions to the cameramen describing the “miracle” that was about to happen. He described in detail how the subject to be healed would react. Exactly how he/she would swoon. How and where he/she would throw their cane or crutches into the crowd.
I must stop here and say that I believe with all my heart that God works miracles and heals through prayer. I have witnessed it first hand (that is a story for another day). I do not believe that he tells a director in a production truck ahead of time exactly how it will transpire.
People came forward to be healed and with each one, the Director knew just how it would play out. The crowd was mesmerized. I was sick at my stomach. The trap had been skillfully set and closed on the unsuspecting prey.
Another collection was made. The same instructions were given to the cameramen. In fact, there were five, yes five, collections taken each night. I just knew that the Pulaski County Sherrif’s Department would be waiting for us when we left. These poor sheep, God’s flock, were being fleeced by a fraud. This swindler robbed these people as surely as if he held them at gunpoint. And I was not only a witness, I had been a coward and done nothing to stop it. To make matters worse, I came back for two more nights and the scenario was identical, right down to the people who were healed.
These needy souls, in search of a touch from God, came by the hundreds, by the thousands, to be nearer to their God who works miracles. Their faith drove them to the venue as surely as their cars brought them. They paid for tickets, for the privilege of being near His Holy Presence and they were violated, robbed by the very man from whom they expected great things.
I know that sin is sin and I have been told that there are no degrees of sinfulness. I have a bit of trouble with that. I have always seen someone who has raped a child, vandalized a church, or committed some other terrible crime against God to have committed a more weighty sin than say a shoplifter. I’m still working on that.
I make no excuses for my part in this sham. I can only say that I was not then the man I am now. This series of events actually helped to form the future Bill. I spent a lot of time in prayer in the days following. I spent much time telling God of my shame and begging to be forgiven. The telling of this story serves a couple of purposes. My conscience is finally clear, and maybe in the telling, someone else might not fall prey to this thief in preacher’s clothing.
( As a Post Script to this writing, in case you are curious, Grant’s shady character did catch up to him this side of Heaven. He was convicted of tax evasion and sent to prison after taking funds from his church in Dallas, TX to make a downpayment on his million dollars plus home there and never bothering to report the $100,000 as income. Upon his release from prison, he has returned to his “ministry.”)
I may be wrong but it seems to me that if we all followed this commandment more closely, the world would be a far better place. I was once asked by a new acquaintance if I was a minister. My best response was “not nearly often enough.” I was pleased by his confusion. Today, I would be overjoyed to be asked if I was a disciple.
