Dad, Don't be Jealous of my Miracle Mantle!

My Dad and I weren’t close when I was little, he wasn’t built to handle kids. He lived for Mom, and we were her charge.

An intellectual, Dad was a polite, reserved man, more interested in a New York Times crossword puzzle than any kind of kid stuff. We held common ground though, in that pleasing Mom was the key for both for us to be able to have a happy life. But he was no pussy. Although I never once heard him raise his voice, I knew that I didn’t want to

We did share a love for the TV faith healers and preachers though. We found them to be very entertaining, both of us in awe that people actually believed, that the con wasn’t obvious to all. Kathryn Kuhlman was one of the early ones, wrapped up in very sheer fabrics, flowing around her like wispy clouds, she looked like the bride of Frankenstein to me, but I guess for her, she was the bride of Jesus. Totally bat-shit crazy, Kathryn was one of the first born-again Christian, healing TV evangelists that Dad and I just howled over. She would spout gibberish wave her arm by way of introduction: “And now…Dino on the Piano!” Dino looked like he had been up all night tickling the ivories in some third rate Howard Johnson's Motel, doomed to a bad ending, out on the main drag. Something of a queen, he may have been the main drag himself.

There have been so many special ones, Robert Schuler and his Crystal Cathedral, Dad called him “Ole Smiley”. Jerry Lee Lewis’s cousin, Jimmy Swaggart, was the best at playing the piano and sobbing, even better after he got caught in a motel room, masturbating while a hooker stripped for him. Of course Jim and Tammy were among the greats, her with pounds of dark Clarabelle eye shadow dripping down her cheeks, wet from the inevitable waterworks she was so good at turning on and off, to nail down the sincerity factor. Apparently God encourages that, lots of crying…certainly it's a major part of the scam, anyway. These days, post Tammy, Jim sells “Real Estate in heaven” buy your mansion now, he’ll arrange it. I’m serious.

Dad missed out on Benny Hinn. Dapper and cutting edge Nehru jackets along with the uncanny ability to make large tumors disappear, as long as they were internal.\, he was good. A pimple on the nose? Not so much.

I know that Dad would have loved to hear Robert Tilton speak in tongues. “mahte row baka, koda basnda andanda de bosoto ke sodoebo”, but I doubt that he would have sent the requested “seed” money.

That’s what they all want, for their poor followers to “plant a seed” with the promise that God will reward the faithful. Your rent is due and you only have that $600. to your name? Send it to Prophet Peter Popoff, he’ll be sure to get it to God, and God will send you a financial windfall,But only if you have enough faith. Didn’t work? Guess you must have fallen short in the faith department. No worries, just try again.

These days, the ministries of Joyce Myers and Joel Osteen are huge. More mainstream and palatable, they preach a message of self-help, you know, “if it’s to be, it’s up to me”. Kind of like Anthony Robbins on Jesus. Osteen is estimated to be worth $40 million and lives in a 17,000 sq. ft. house. Joyce is at $25 million or so, but sexism exists in the church, as well as mainstream society. Equal pay for the same job is still in the future. I have to look at them and wonder about the big bumper sticker question though, WWJD?

Ultimately I believe that religion is crowd control and church is business. I know Dad did too but he never spoke with me about it directly. Mom may not have liked that. The church set itself up to to be the great arbitrator of guilt and forgiveness in order to better separate the masses from their money.
Few do it better than my personal hero, Prophet Peter Popoff. “a German-born American televangelist, fraudulent faith healer, and self-proclaimed prophet” Dad would have loved this guy.

“He initially rose to prominence in the 1980s, conducting revival meetings and hosting a nationally-televised program, during which he performed seemingly miraculous cures on audience members. After an electronics expert demonstrated in 1986 that his "divine" revelations were being fed to him by his wife via a wireless radio transmitter, Popoff declared bankruptcy the following year. He has since resumed his faith healing sessions "in a manner identical to his method prior to his exposure as a fraud", despite being exposed once again in 2007”

Other TV profiteers pull a Trump and divert attention by pointing to Popoff and saying "He's fundamentally evil, because he knows he's a con man." Of course, they’re not.

Anyway, I think of Dad when I interact with the Prophet. Early last year, I contacted his “ministry” online. Within a week, the letters started, graduated in their appeal for “seed money” to let God cure my ills, he and his marketing team were relentless. I admire the shit out of the structure. Along with the regular solicitations for seed money, I got holy water packaged in a fast food condiment sized clear plastic container. I wondered at the time if I put it on tender places, as I did with coke in the old daze, if it would have the same effect. (It didn’t.)

The man is a prince, and he’s never failed to be there for me, even after I ignored him for months. Always faithful (that’s the point, right?) he sent letters.

Here’s my latest. Peter (may I call you Peter now that we’ve been close for a few years?)

I got an uplifting letter, WITH BLUE INK, FROM PETER HIMSELF, HIGHLIGHTING AND CIRCLING IMPORTANT PASSAGES. I got a “Miracle Restoration Footprint” where Peter wants me to print the “seven things you want God to restore” I love that, he makes it so user friendly!

Best of all? I got a “Miracle Mantle” along with the admonition: “Do nothing with this MIRACLE MANTLE until you read my entire letter! Follow the divine instructions for a DOUBLE PORTION HEALTH & WEALTH ANOINTING” 

By now, Dad and I would be in full-swing retort mode, laughing our asses off. My mantle warns: “Failure to obey God could cause difficulties, failures, and a lack of GOD’S BLESSINGS in your life!”

Now THAT got my attention! I don't want to fuck with that stuff. Who knows, right? Maybe Peter has something to seriously think about in that last line on his napkin, er I mean, "Miracle Mantle".

Dad, I wanted to send you a picture of my Miracle Mantle and see what you think. OK, stop laughing and tell me. You ask: “Exactly what is the Miracle Mantle? Well, it’s a napkin. A napkin printed with a lot of Peter Popoff Cool Aid for the thinking challenged… Dad, you would love this shit…

This picture is for you, Daddio. BTW, got any seed money you could loan me right now?