Chapter Six

“One of the Finest Investigative Reporters in the World”

On a dank Sunday night in March, 1983, I stood on a rain-dampened tarmac outside a hangar at Baton Rouge’s Ryan Airport and impulsively embraced Brother Swaggart. After learning that I was working on a documentary about his organization, he invited me to travel with him to Hampton, Virginia to see his good works first-hand. Watching the televangelist in action was a one-of-a-kind experience.

His three day crusade in Hampton was comparable to a rock concert. At each service, he filled the 10,000 seat Coliseum to capacity with true-believers, near-believers, and curiosity seekers. Whatever money they put in collection plates was a bargain. Jimmy provided both entertainment and spiritual nourishment. At the conclusion of sermons when the first chords of Softly and Tenderly, Jesus is Calling sounded, scores of people marched forward to dedicate and rededicate their lives to the Lord.

Following Sunday’s final service, I half expected to hear an Elvis-like “Jimmy has left the building” announcement as he made a quick getaway in a limousine parked inside the coliseum. Within an hour, we were airborne on his private plane, chomping on Wendy’s hamburgers that were picked up on the way to the airport. I was impressed. Embarrassingly so.

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“I’ve really enjoyed being with you,” I mumbled after landing in Baton Rouge. Impulsively, I gave the former holy-roller tent preacher a big hug. My face flushed as I recalled acting like a star-struck high school girl.

I was not the hugging type. But Jimmy succeeded in making me his friend, the whole point of inviting me to tag along. “John, I’m just so very happy you could travel with us,” he said after my rapturous display of affection. “We live in a glass house and I want you to look closely at what we do.  I don’t expect a puff piece, but be fair in what you report.”

“Of course I’ll be fair,” I said, reciting the investigative reporter’s mantra. I already knew my definition of fairness was considerably different than his. And so did Jimmy.

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Even before I reported a single word about his ministry,  Swaggart warned followers of an apocalyptic assault. “This man who is supposed to do this thing about our organization told me, ‘I’m not evangelical. I don’t believe in being born again. I don’t believe in any of this stuff’.”

Then, in a raspy voice that got louder with each syllable, he addressed me directly. “You talk about fairness and honesty. You don’t even know what fairness and honesty is. You don’t believe in God. You don’t believe in the Bible. You don’t believe in the Word of  God. You don’t believe in nothing. Professing to be wise, you’re a fool.”

It was very strange, indeed. His first question to me when we met related to my spiritual background. I told him I was a retired wino, who sneaked into a Presbyterian church on a semi-regular basis. He seemed happy that I wasn’t a full-fledged pagan. But his assault on my ways, holy and unholy, indicated he didn’t like Presbyterians, or ex-drunks, or he was a liar.

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Moments before admitting sins against God, family and his dedicated followers, he paused to speak to his “old nemesis,” as he described me.”I love you, John. And in spite of our differences, I think you are one of the finest investigative reporters in the world. And I mean that.”

It sure plucked my heart strings. Until the bizarre confession, I didn’t realize Brother Jimmy considered me a world class investigative reporter. Nor did I know he loved me. For four years, he did a good job of concealing his true feelings. Presumably, terms like  “snake” and “reprobate” were meant as expressions of love. Sort of like the pet names that are part of the intimate rapport between loving couples.