Hand Waving and Air Dancing

You see them everywhere these days. Images of them adorn billboards and banners all over the continent. Judging by their appearance, you would be forgiven for thinking they’d be right at home at a Dangote or Virgin executive meeting. Crisp suits with elegantly patterned ties and pocket squares, shiny shoes, sharp haircuts, manicured hands. They go to a lot of effort to convey an air of success. Judging by the crowds they attract, convey it they do.

They are Men of God, charismatic preachers who minister through signs and wonders after the spirit of the biblical book of Acts. They offer miraculous healing, they profess prophetic knowledge, and they promise prosperity… in exchange for a seed.

They are liars.

To clarify, this is not an attack on preachers in general. There are many who genuinely do live according to their beliefs. Disagree with them though I may, I have no cause to question their integrity. The specific crop of pastors I address here is another story. 

Shepherd Bushiri is one such pastor. According to his ministry’s official website, he has representations in seven African countries, namely his native Malawi, South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, Tanzania and Ethiopia (this last one jars a little, geographically speaking, but stranger things have happened).

I invite you to browse that site, paying close attention to the statement on the main page and comparing it to the blog post titled Why Some Get Healed and Others Not. See if you can also spot the glaring inconsistencies in The Story of the Dead Boy Coming Back to Life.

What brought Bushiri to my attention, though, is a couple of videos of him performing “miracles”. In the first, he claims to be able to capture images of the family of an audience member “in the spirit”… on an iPad. Because those could never have pictures stored in them. Hilariously, one unfortunate camera angle brings the whole house of cards down. You can slow things down to clearly see why.

The second video was of him walking on air. I won’t elaborate; just wear a mitten on your dominant hand (the facepalm will be brutal) and watch it.

While the videos Bushiri uploaded basically debunk themselves, others of his ilk have been exposed by third parties. Peter Popoff is a televangelist and a “faith healer” who claimed to be receiving direct revelation from God about various people attending his services. An investigation revealed he was actually receiving radio transmissions from his wife and associates backstage, who were reading from the audience’s prayer cards. After many denials, Popoff came clean and issued a heartfelt apology to his flagging following before retiring from the public eye... until recently.

Despite years of requests by different parties, Benny Hinn has been unwilling to provide independent verification of the many “healings” that take place at his crusades, nor has he been willing to address the multiple instances in which his staff were seen to deliberately prevent the seriously ill from making their way to the stage.

These are men and women with a massive, international following. They draw crowds wherever they go, because people long for rescue from their troubles, and they, the people, believe these preachers to have a direct line to the ultimate power in existence. No price is too high for them to gain divine favour. To them, the Man of God is never to be criticised or questioned, and anybody who dares think otherwise is obviously being used by the devil (see comments on the above videos).

But why would a man with a direct line to God resort to (rather bad) prestidigitation? What does it say about that man’s own faith in this God when he actively and deliberately lies to his congregants? If he happens to believe in the power he claims to serve, does he then think that power requires deception to win hearts? If not, I wonder what his actual goal is.

Never mind.

Clerics have every right to be rich. I’d even say I have no problem with them living off donations of their flock. My problem is with them taking advantage of people’s desperation by using deception to ensure compliance. That is the epitome of dishonesty. That is the height of faithlessness. And it has real, devastating consequences.

People have ignored medical advice in favour of faith healings, to tragic effect. Others have experienced financial setbacks because they believed that the way to a better life lay in giving to the church (read “to the pastor”), believing God would repay them a hundredfold, rather than actually having some sort of investment plan. Believers hoping to get a job or a spouse will typically stand while the Man of God prays over them, touching their foreheads and binding whatever evil spirit is held responsible for the bit of misery in question… but no word on how the believers can actually achieve those ends. If things don’t happen, it’s because the people didn’t pray earnestly enough, or because they doubted, or because their seed was insufficient. Never mind that they’re struggling to secure their children’s school fees. Never mind that their medication money helps pay for the “parsonage”. No, it can’t be that the man at the pulpit is full of crap; that would seriously hurt attendance and, more importantly, the bottom line.

So, just as the God they preach is blameless, and therefore all kinks are the doing of fallible mortals, these preachers are almost equally blameless when things don’t go according to the plans they lay out. They build themselves up as secondary messiahs, causing their flock to swear by them only, to believe every utterance, to eat grass on command and to literally be stepped on. That sort of dependency is the one thing keeping scrutiny and exposure at bay. And that is basically what I hope one day will vanish.

Anyone following a religious figure should embrace healthy scepticism. I don’t advocate turning your back on your faith; simply realise the person you follow is a mere human, with all the attending trappings, as suggested by the many scandals regularly peppering the press. Claims of the ability to tap into the supernatural should be met either with demands for testable evidence or with the entertained indifference we give stage magicians, who have the honesty of admitting they are fooling us.

One Year

In typical dream fashion, I find myself in the thick of a lecture I know has been going on for a while. The lecturer, a woman, has instructed us to collect something or other from the front. Having done so, I head for my seat, checking my phone and that’s when the commotion occurs.

A high-pitched yelp, a flash of light and a shutter sound all happen in a split second. A few people run away and I see one of my classmates clutching her chest.

“What happened?” the lecturer asks her.

“Someone pinched my boob!” the student replies. “They took a picture!”

Coolly, the lecturer turns toward me, still standing there, phone in hand.

“Was it you?” she asks.

“No, madam.” It is plain she doesn’t believe a word of it.

She grabs my phone, backs up a few steps and asks where the picture folder is. I tell her there are three different ones.

“This is what happens when you are a porn addict,” she says disdainfully.

I bristle inward but maintain a civil exterior. “Should you find any porn on my phone, you are free to keep it.”

She’s game. And since she says she needs witnesses, she somehow hooks up my phone to the projector.

“So do you often molest women and keep pictures as trophies?” she asks, navigating to the first picture folder. The students laugh. I say nothing.

The first picture appears on the huge canvas. It’s my mom and dad, holding hands.

She scrolls through the twenty or so family pictures, exits the folder without a comment and moves to the next.

The first picture in this one elicits a triumphant smile from the lecturer. It’s a picture of a woman wearing minimal clothing; just a training bra and body shorts. Her toned body glistens with a sheen of sweat. As the lecturer notices the dumbbells the woman holds in each hand, her smile wilts. She gives me a calculating look as she scrolls to the next picture. Fitness enthusiasts appear mid-workout one after the other. The male figures elicit sighs from the women in attendance, and vice versa. The various captions leave no doubt on the nature of the pictures.

Exiting the folder, the lecturer goes “So you want to look like one of them, huh? Just so you can land one of the ladies?”

“Please do not enter the last folder, madam.” I say, face blank.

The triumphant smile returns. The class jeers. “And why not?” she asks with the smugness and bloodlust of a gladiator asking his opponent why they should be spared.

“You may have already decided I am a despicable person, but opening the last folder will make you one in the eyes of everybody here.”

Whispers break out in the lecture hall. She gives me another look of disdain and opens the last folder.

I hold my breath and let my vision go out of focus. A deathly silence falls. I know the number and order of the pictures in the dream, because it is the same number and order in waking life.

A young girl, with short-cropped hair, large eyes and her tongue sticking out. She is clearly too thin. She looks right at the camera from her bed.

The same girl, seated on a chair. It’s obvious she is being held up only by the straps visible across her chest. Still, she smiles.

The same girl, sitting against her brother’s chest. Still smiling.

The same girl, lying on her back, perfectly still, perfectly straight, hands on her belly. Dressed in an ornate white dress, white stocking, white gloves, and white hat. Eyes closed. She is not sleeping.

The next three pictures depict the same scene from different angles.

The last picture is of a small coffin being lowered into the ground.

I wordlessly take my phone and return to my seat.

The dream jumps to the end of the lecture, as I get out and try to disappear. My lecturer intercepts me.

“I am sorry,” she says. “I did not know.”

I say nothing.

“I feel horrible,” she goes on. “How can I make it up to you?”

“Bring her back,” I say, walking away.

I wake up.