The Other Cheek

Pat Robertson. Is he talking to God here or taking a crap?

Pat has been around a long time. Runs the 700 Club on cable TV, site of many miracles it is claimed, not the least of which is that, whenever he is on, a slot simultaneously appears in the side of the TV sets of all the true believers so they can slide their cash or checks for direct deposit to Robertson's account.

In the earlier days, as I recall, he mostly used to sit on a couch with some white woman and a Negro side kick and they would ask God to save the sinners, heal the sick, and send old Pat money. Harmless enough I thought, and in the great tradition. At least he put on a little show for the dough. In their desperate moments if people who needed an abscess removed or their blindness cured wanted to reach into their pockets and send what little they had to the short guy on TV, instead of suffering through the terrible (often worse) chore of submitting for heath insurance, that was OK by me. Pay for the pray.

If the believer's health problems were not benign, most of Pat's public prayers were. Lots of Jesus stuff, and holding hands on the set, eyes closed in the style. Laughable but only dangerous to the bank accounts of a relative few. Plus, for a moment it gave them a little hope. I am not sure what God's split was, and of course all the folks at home died, but Pat seemed to surely be doing fine. And that was what was IMPORTANT.

However, along the way, Pat seems to have forgotten the difference between being a middleman for God and actually being God Himself. A couple of years ago he took a momentary break from closing his eyes to asking that someone drop a nuclear bomb on the State Department. I am not certain why that would have been his target of choice, except that contributions from the boys and girls there had probably fallen off. Then a little while back Pat declared that feminists encourage women to kill their children, practice withcraft, destroy the capitalist system and become lesbians. If only they would also be willing to drop bombs on the State Department perhaps Pat would have been more forgiving.

Now, just a day or so ago, Robertson called for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. The healer in Pat sees this activity as a way to stop Venezuela from being "a launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism."

It's too bad Robertson has veered away, been diverted from his true mission---the one God handed off to him when He gave him the TV license. So many cancer victims, and amputees, and people with brain tumors will have to bide their time now, waiting, checks or cash in hand, for Robertson's return from saving the world at large. And what they don't have is time.

Maybe there is a way to get him back sooner. Safer. So let’s find a white woman and a Negro man, let's all join hands then, and pray. "Oh God, oh Jesus holy father, bring Pat back to us. I got a pile of ten spots here if you do."

Touch your warm TV screen, and can I have an 'amen.'