Holy Shit!

Never has that seemed like such an apt description.

The first thing that caught my attention at the Billy Graham crusade were the protesters, screaming that god hates faggots, that Billy is the surest road to hell. You know you're in an alternate universe when Billy Graham is accused of being too liberal.



Graham's defenders were not in short supply. "I rebuke you, Satan!" screamed one man, his face flushed with crimson.

From the moment I stepped off the 7 train at Shea Stadium, it was like being swept up in an ocean current. The people came in wave after wave and I, nervously eyeing my watch, tried to fight my way through to the press table.

It was just minutes until the program was scheduled to start and it seemed like I would drown in the whirl of humanity before I had secured a life vest (otherwise known as a press pass).



And then, as if from the heavens came my savior, in the form of a volunteer from a church in Orange County California offering to escort me to the press area. And just like that, the crowds parted like the Red Sea, and I was ushered across the grounds at Flushing Meadow to the check-in table.



Say what you will about evangelicals, but this is one dedicated bunch. Eyes closed, arms raised up to heaven, swaying to the music, accepting of the word, rapturous in ecstatic communion with Jesus. Personally, I can't even begin to fathom it, but for these dudes, it's the real thing.




One of the early speeches was from Billy Graham's finance minister. It reminded me of how often at the beginning of Yom Kippur, after one of the most stirring prayers in all of Jewish liturgy, the service is interrupted to auction off synagogue honors, much like cattle is sold at a county fair. The finance guy offered a lengthy exegesis on the crusade's finances, even promising a full and public audit to be published in that iniquitous rag, the New York Times. He read from Corinthians - he who sows generously will reap generously, or some such thing. And in case the message wasn't clear, he told worshippers to be sure and offer more than they do to their local parish. Billy Graham will accept cash, check, and all major credit cards, and will even offer a receipt for tax purposes. All in all, a rather seamless (and crass) marriage of the spiritual and the material.

Then comes the rock n' roll. The Latin band Salvador, who had a hit with that insufferable pop-tart 'How far is he-eh-ven?', also had one of the most memorable lines of the evening. "You know," said the lead singer, "if you can't tell by looking at us, we're Latin." Then came Christian superstar Steven Curtis Chapman, winner of like a gazillion Dove awards and possibly the whitest white man to ever pick up an electric guitar.

We were then treated to a testimony from Mel Graham, apparently the black sheep of the Graham clan. A slim, tanned, white-haired southern gent, Mel was apparently a godless real estate developer who tended to drink too much until, in a conversion eerily reminiscent of George W's, on one dark night he let Jesus into his heart. These people make it sound so easy.

Finally, it was time for the big man. Graham, hobbled by prostate cancer and other infirmities, gripped his walker and, with son Franklin's help, made his way to the podium to cries of "Thank you Jesus" and "Glory, Glory, Glory". Graham's sermon, if you could call it that, was funny and light, a sort of rambling old man with a lifetime of stories to tell. The climax came at the end, when he invited all who wished to come forward and dedicate their life to Jesus. It was an astonishing, and highly choreographed, affair. Although I was practically in awe of the whole spectacle, the emotions of the faithful were unmistakable. Virtually everyone who gathered up front had tears in their eyes as they pledged their lives to Jesus.



"You've come to Jesus," Graham intoned. "He loves you. He forgives you. Can you think what he suffered for you?"

The only moment that made me genuinely uncomfortable came at the very end, when the MC introduced a representative of "god's chosen people." And thus came forth Mitch Glaser, who confessed to growing up a nice Jewish boy just a mile or so away in Queens. "Thank you," said Glaser to Graham, "on behalf of Jews who have come to know their Messiah through you."

Glaser then offered a closing benediction, beginning with the Hebrew words avinu shebashamayim, our father who art in heaven. My stomach convulsing, I quickly made my way out, towards the subway, back towards my city, possibly the last outpost of secularism left.