The Evangelists: Boys Will Be Boys

By Robert G. Griffen

Garrett & Dave Gantry are small-time con-men. In this first volume, they encounter sociopathic killers, corrupt lawmen, and an assortment of other colorful characters as they work their way toward the long con opportunity of a lifetime as Liberal Televangelists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert G. Griffen
• Release date: Mar 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310596742

Robert G. Griffen

Robert Griffen was born and raised in Portland, OR. He graduated from Jefferson High School in Portland and received his BA in Sociology from Columbia University in New York. He is the only White student to receive a Master of Divinity from Johnson C. Smith Seminary at the Interdenominational Theological Center of Atlanta University in Atlanta, GA. He was ordained to the ministry in 1977 by the Presbytery of the Cascades (Western Oregon) in the United Presbyterian Church, USA. Griffen is the eldest of three siblings with a severe case of Eldest Son Syndrome, making him personally responsible for things over which he has no power (World Peace, Hunger in Somalia, The War in the Middle East, Global Warming...). While he does not walk on water, he does swim well and periodically performs minor miracles (not enough to qualify for Sainthood). Griff has eclectic tastes in food, music and friends; and has an appreciation for new and different things and ideas. He has a low tolerance for intolerance and deliberate ignorance, and cannot abide a bully. He has an odd sense of humor (just nod and smile when he tells a joke), enjoys the outdoors (who doesn’t?!), and is a skilled photographer (just ask him).

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The

Evangelists

Book I:

Boys Will Be Boys

Robert G. Griffen

Copyright 2014

Published by Gryphon Graphyx

Portland, OR

Introduction

In the mid-50’s, my brother and I used to wake up early on weekend mornings and turn on our parents’ black & white TV and wait for cartoons – or anything interesting to come on. In those days, no station in Oregon was broadcasting 24/7. Instead, they came on around 7:00 AM and were off the air by 10:00 PM. If we turned on the TV too early, there was nothing but static for sound and black & white visual static on the screen.

We would sit watching and waiting for heaven knows how long (with the sound off so we would not wake up Dad or go nuts ourselves) until an actual test pattern would appear. My favorite one had the profile of an American Indian in the center circle – like the one on a nickel. There was also an array of other circles, lines, numbers, and the identifying call letters of the station we were watching (one of only three stations in Portland, at the time). The noise of static was upgraded to an obnoxious, ear-piercing tone. We knew this because we would turn up the sound to find out and turn it back down again to keep from waking Dad.

After what seemed forever, an announcer would welcome us to another broadcast day and let us know that they were properly licensed by the FCC and to whom we should address comments. The pattern would disappear to be replaced by a video of the American Flag waving in the wind and the National Anthem playing.

On Saturdays, Captain Kangaroo would come on next… or Howdy Doodie, or Andy’s Gang or Mighty Mouse. But on Sundays, there was no such luck. On Sundays we got Oral Roberts!

Rev. Roberts would broadcast tent meetings where he would faith-heal people. He would babbling some sort of gibberish while shaking their heads so hard their brains might come loose. He would push their forehead with the palm of his hand when he was done, and they would collapse backward into the arms of the waiting Faithful.

My brother and I thought this was the second or third funniest thing we had ever seen. We were too young to fully appreciate what was supposed to be happening, and there was no analysis or criticism based upon a mature or sophisticated intellectual or spiritual awareness. We got it that people were there to be healed by God. And we both thought it was a big fake. Even a 10-yr old boy, interested only in cartoons on Sunday morning, knows the smell of manure. We did not yet understand how very desperate those folk were or how very evil it is to give them hope and then snatch it away along with their money.

I believe that Healing and other Gifts are legitimate. There is a long history of healing, speaking in tongues, prophecy and miracles in the Hebrew, Jewish, and Christian traditions, after all. And none of these traditions has a corner on supernatural phenomena. Moreover, there are people whose integrity I know and whose judgment I trust; who have witnessed supernatural events in a variety of religious and cultural contexts. I believe them. I don’t presume to explain how such things happen; especially according to our ideas about what is rational, reasonable or scientific. I do believe they happen.

How to tell the real thing from the phony is the issue. And fakers abound. They have been running cons on people of faith for millennia.

Do I think Oral Roberts is a con man? Definitely!

The uncle of a friend of mine used to work that con with Roberts back in the old days. My friend described some of the details of the business-end of that business and some of the tricks of the trade. The man and his crew should be in jail.

But that is another can of worms.

___________

More recently, some friends of mine and I were discussing the nature of current religious cons… from Reverend Ike (1970’s) to Jimmy & Tammy Faye Baker to a legion of televangelists spewing forth all varieties of theological vomit with occasional gems of truly useful wisdom thrown in the mix to legitimize them. Many prosper, living luxuriant life-styles, by draining the fortunes of hard working people who seek solid answers to life’s questions. More often than not, the answers they propose are just so much smoke. But these are charismatic people who will say what people want to hear (right or wrong is of no consequence), and who are skilled at charming out of The Faithful their adoration and their money.

Jeeze! Said one friend, We should start our own church! We could make a fortune! The comment was tongue-in-cheek, but we all responded similarly that it would be nice to have some money for a change.

The conversation descended deeper into fantasy.

Imagine Liberal Televangelists.

What would that look like? I asked.

Well… YOU! …preaching what you preach when you have your own pulpit ...Only on TV.

Who would watch?

"People who AREN’T watching those BS artists! And maybe some who are. Some of them have got to be tired of all that Bible-thumping!" said a second voice.

Well… I DO use the Bible, you know, but…

Not like those guys! You don’t pretend it dropped from Heaven, whole and complete, absolutely the words of God, continued the second.

Well… yeah, that’s true, of course, but…

And you pass along your seminary education, chimed in a third voice. You tell people WHY something is the way it is. You give‘m background and history and…

Thanks. I try, but…

…and you don’t let the tail wag the dog, interrupted the first. Some stuff just doesn’t matter, and you say so,

I suppose, but…

And you won't cheat anyone!

Yeah, but...

BUT WHAT?!?! shouted all three.

"But I don't want to…

I don't have access to the media. I don't have the connections or capital. And the world doesn't need another Prophet starting yet another church. Besides, there would just be a shit-storm of controversy between the Fundamentalists and me. Who needs it?

You sound like Jesus debating whether to go up against the religious establishment.

Well... I'm not Jesus. And look where it got him! Besides, I'm too old for that shit!

There was a moment or two of silence as we each wondered how the conversation turned from a joke to a semi-serious proposal that we actually become Liberal Televangelists.

Shit, Griff! You should write a book!

____________

So here it is! …One of four unplanned volumes. I say unplanned because what began as a relatively simple, one-volume story (about two half-brothers setting up a con on the ring-leaders of A Religious Right TV Station) got off its leash and took on a life of its own. Some of the supporting characters are more interesting than our heroes, Garret and Dave. The story line has take twists and turns that I never expected. I have been lucky not to fall off!

Indeed, this effort has become so disorganized that Book II may make it to print before Book I does. I still have only a vague notion about Books III & IV. (Hell! For all I know, there may be others waiting in the wings that I have no idea about, yet.)

Oh! and one other thing: The town of Holder, OR, is the invention of David N. Crabtree, author of Hold Out. His is a Holder in the not-too-distant-future, in a United States that no longer has religious freedom, free speech, or laws against unreasonable search and seizure, because the Religious Right has taken over. In that day, there is prayer in public schools, however. It is required.

Ya' happy?!

Nowhere to Go But Up

Dave Gantry awoke around mid-morning to the sound of his brother heaving up his guts into an old brown-stained toilet. They had partied hearty the night before in an old flea-bag motel on a crumbling scrap of Route 66 somewhere in New Mexico. The sunlight forced its way through dirt-covered windows and shredded curtains straight into his face. The light itself seemed as filthy as the windows. It felt like sand in his eyes. His head pounded, his mouth tasted like two-day-old road kill, and his eyes hurt so much he could not stand to open them. He moved only enough to get the sun out of his face. The TV was on, and some religious nut was ranting about Jesus and the end of the world. That made his head hurt even more.

Your DAW-TORS-a… ah’ WHO-WAS-a! Your SONS-a… ah’ WHOWA MASTAS-a! And you’a AWL goin’ to HAY-ell-a… unless you re-PENT-a… and BAYEG-a forgiveness-a in the NAY-am-a of CHEESE-SAUSE-a!

An old whore from the night before was sprawled on the floor, face-up and naked, in a puddle of her own vomit and urine. She had an assortment of tattoos which may have been very appealing when she was young and firm. Now they were only misshapen ink stains on a bloated, sagging body, distorted by years of neglect and abuse. Whatever they may have been in the past, now they served only to accent her derelict condition. A pile of pink clothes, all silk and lace, was balanced on the old TV set, safe from the mess on the floor.

Her snoring sounds like a moose in heat, thought Dave, as he groped for something to cover his ears. Her guttural noise and the evangelical clap-trap erupting from the TV pounded through his hangover, aggravating his headache, and he thought he might just go nuts.

Garrett Gantry appeared in the bathroom door, wiping his mouth with his forearm. His face was gray and his eyes were red; even into their light blue irises. His receding blonde hair and red beard were greasy; matted down on the left side