K
Kickin' Ass and Takin' Names
Guest
Bill Sizemore, a reporter for The Virginian-Pilot, probably knows as
much as anyone about Pat Robertson and his multi-million dollar
empire, having covered him for years and regularly breaking stories on
everything from his outrageous statements to his murky business
dealings.
Recently, Sizemore penned an insightful and informative profile of the
Religious Right icon for the Virginia Quarterly Review that not only
chronicles Robertson's rise to fame and wealth but also serves as an
excellent example of the sort of pieces Sizemore has done on Robertson
over the years, which helps explain why Robertson hates him so much.
I spoiled Pat Robertson's birthday.
I know, because he told me so.
On March 22, 2007, the day he turned seventy-seven, the televangelist
and I sat eyeball-to-eyeball across the corner of a long table in a
dark-paneled conference room at the Christian Broadcasting Network's
cross-shaped headquarters in Virginia Beach. Also at the table were
two CBN lawyers and the editor, publisher, and lawyer from the
newspaper I write for, the Virginian-Pilot. We had been summoned for a
tongue-lashing over a story I had written about Robertson. It was a
vicious piece, full of lies, he fumed--and what's more, I had
consciously timed its appearance to ruin his birthday. He demanded a
retraction, a correction, an apology. If he didn't get it, he implied
none too subtly, he would sue.
"You guys are as crooked as a snake," he sputtered. "I'll have you all
in depositions for the rest of your life."
Sizemore explains how Robertson, son of a US Senator, set out to be a
"sophisticated New York swinger," only to jettison the lifestyle in
pursuit of the "prosperity gospel," the idea that believers will be
rewarded financially for their faith in God ... and, more importantly,
their monetary donations to his servants such as Robertson.
The piece chronicles Robertson's early days of speaking in tongues,
casting out demons, fighting off Satan, and warding off hurricanes
through his purchase of a bankrupt TV station in southern Virginia
that eventually became the behemoth Christian Broadcasting Network.
Along the way, Robertson developed close ties with now-disgraced
evangelist Jim Bakker and slowly began transforming his growing
ministry into a political force that culminated in his failed run for
President in 1988 and the eventual birth of the Christian Coalition.
Sizemore also lays out Robertson's shady business practices, noting
how raised money for his charity Operation Blessing by promising to
provide aid to the victims of the genocide in Rwanda in 1994 ... and
then proceeded to use the operation to mine for diamonds in the
Democratic Republic of Congo [formerly Zaire] for the benefit of his
for-profit African Development Company. When Sizemore broke the
story, Robertson was livid and when the two met years later, Robertson
still had not forgiven him:
The publicity cost him a bundle, he complained, and the crowning
indignity was the venture's meager output. "We got one tiny little
diamond!" he exclaimed.
Sizemore goes on to examine everything from Robertson's ties to
indicted Liberian war-criminal Charles Taylor to the founding of his
Regent University Law School and the subsequent influence its 150
graduates had within the Bush Administration.
But perhaps the most interesting anecdote comes from Gerry Straub, a
former "700 Club" producer, who explained how Robertson and his
supporters believe that CBN had been chosen by God to "usher in the
coming of my Son" and, as such, put in place a plan to televise
Christ's imminent return to earth:
In order to prepare for the imminent Second Coming--which Robertson
believes will occur on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem according to
biblical prophecy--he acquired METV (Middle East Television), a station
then based in southern Lebanon that could broadcast into Israel.
Straub was given marching orders to be ready to televise Christ's
return. CBN executives drew up a detailed plan to broadcast the event
to every nation and in all languages. Straub wrote: "We even discussed
how Jesus' radiance might be too bright for the cameras and how we
would have to make adjustments for that problem. Can you imagine
telling Jesus, 'Hey, Lord, please tone down your luminosity; we're
having a problem with contrast. You're causing the picture to
flare.'"
As Sizemore notes, it might be tempting to write Robertson off as a
now-inconsequential relic, but to do so greatly underestimates
Robertson's continuing influence, as well as the legacy he has
created:
Perhaps of most import for the nation and the world, he has pioneered
a unique marriage between theology and politics. This is a man who ran
for president because, he said, God told him to, but that brief
campaign twenty years ago would be merely a footnote in American
political history were it not for the potent legacy it spawned.
Robertson has never really left the political stage. He opines on
world events daily on his TV show and regularly interviews national
and world leaders. Presidential hopefuls give major speeches at Regent
University, the school he founded, where former attorney general John
Ashcroft is on the faculty. Out of the ashes of the Robertson
presidential campaign came an army of Bible-believing religious
fundamentalists which has won a degree of political power
unprecedented in modern times.
much as anyone about Pat Robertson and his multi-million dollar
empire, having covered him for years and regularly breaking stories on
everything from his outrageous statements to his murky business
dealings.
Recently, Sizemore penned an insightful and informative profile of the
Religious Right icon for the Virginia Quarterly Review that not only
chronicles Robertson's rise to fame and wealth but also serves as an
excellent example of the sort of pieces Sizemore has done on Robertson
over the years, which helps explain why Robertson hates him so much.
I spoiled Pat Robertson's birthday.
I know, because he told me so.
On March 22, 2007, the day he turned seventy-seven, the televangelist
and I sat eyeball-to-eyeball across the corner of a long table in a
dark-paneled conference room at the Christian Broadcasting Network's
cross-shaped headquarters in Virginia Beach. Also at the table were
two CBN lawyers and the editor, publisher, and lawyer from the
newspaper I write for, the Virginian-Pilot. We had been summoned for a
tongue-lashing over a story I had written about Robertson. It was a
vicious piece, full of lies, he fumed--and what's more, I had
consciously timed its appearance to ruin his birthday. He demanded a
retraction, a correction, an apology. If he didn't get it, he implied
none too subtly, he would sue.
"You guys are as crooked as a snake," he sputtered. "I'll have you all
in depositions for the rest of your life."
Sizemore explains how Robertson, son of a US Senator, set out to be a
"sophisticated New York swinger," only to jettison the lifestyle in
pursuit of the "prosperity gospel," the idea that believers will be
rewarded financially for their faith in God ... and, more importantly,
their monetary donations to his servants such as Robertson.
The piece chronicles Robertson's early days of speaking in tongues,
casting out demons, fighting off Satan, and warding off hurricanes
through his purchase of a bankrupt TV station in southern Virginia
that eventually became the behemoth Christian Broadcasting Network.
Along the way, Robertson developed close ties with now-disgraced
evangelist Jim Bakker and slowly began transforming his growing
ministry into a political force that culminated in his failed run for
President in 1988 and the eventual birth of the Christian Coalition.
Sizemore also lays out Robertson's shady business practices, noting
how raised money for his charity Operation Blessing by promising to
provide aid to the victims of the genocide in Rwanda in 1994 ... and
then proceeded to use the operation to mine for diamonds in the
Democratic Republic of Congo [formerly Zaire] for the benefit of his
for-profit African Development Company. When Sizemore broke the
story, Robertson was livid and when the two met years later, Robertson
still had not forgiven him:
The publicity cost him a bundle, he complained, and the crowning
indignity was the venture's meager output. "We got one tiny little
diamond!" he exclaimed.
Sizemore goes on to examine everything from Robertson's ties to
indicted Liberian war-criminal Charles Taylor to the founding of his
Regent University Law School and the subsequent influence its 150
graduates had within the Bush Administration.
But perhaps the most interesting anecdote comes from Gerry Straub, a
former "700 Club" producer, who explained how Robertson and his
supporters believe that CBN had been chosen by God to "usher in the
coming of my Son" and, as such, put in place a plan to televise
Christ's imminent return to earth:
In order to prepare for the imminent Second Coming--which Robertson
believes will occur on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem according to
biblical prophecy--he acquired METV (Middle East Television), a station
then based in southern Lebanon that could broadcast into Israel.
Straub was given marching orders to be ready to televise Christ's
return. CBN executives drew up a detailed plan to broadcast the event
to every nation and in all languages. Straub wrote: "We even discussed
how Jesus' radiance might be too bright for the cameras and how we
would have to make adjustments for that problem. Can you imagine
telling Jesus, 'Hey, Lord, please tone down your luminosity; we're
having a problem with contrast. You're causing the picture to
flare.'"
As Sizemore notes, it might be tempting to write Robertson off as a
now-inconsequential relic, but to do so greatly underestimates
Robertson's continuing influence, as well as the legacy he has
created:
Perhaps of most import for the nation and the world, he has pioneered
a unique marriage between theology and politics. This is a man who ran
for president because, he said, God told him to, but that brief
campaign twenty years ago would be merely a footnote in American
political history were it not for the potent legacy it spawned.
Robertson has never really left the political stage. He opines on
world events daily on his TV show and regularly interviews national
and world leaders. Presidential hopefuls give major speeches at Regent
University, the school he founded, where former attorney general John
Ashcroft is on the faculty. Out of the ashes of the Robertson
presidential campaign came an army of Bible-believing religious
fundamentalists which has won a degree of political power
unprecedented in modern times.