“So I started preaching in that old, patched canvas tent of my Daddy’s. But then, just a few years later, the Lord showed me a better way to preach. I was still very young, still very inexperienced. I had a lot to learn, friends. I had a whole lot to learn. But I could feel the Lord’s hand on my shoulder, offering guidance. I could hear His voice in my ear. He was telling me that He wanted me to reach thousands of people with my ministry, not just hundreds. And He showed me how to do it. Yes, the Lord showed me the way. He opened my eyes, friends, to the miracle of radio. He made me understand how the very essence of His work is trying to reach more people—more souls, aching to be made whole, and be led out of the darkness and into the light of Christ’s own salvation. He made me understand that the words of Jesus Christ are like a pebble thrown into a pool—a pool of life everlasting. Rings of ripples spread out from the spot where that pebble hit the water, and those ripples never stop. They didn’t stop with the Apostles, even though they only spoke to a handful of people at a time. They didn’t stop with my Daddy, who could only speak to a few hundred people, under that canvas tent. And, friends, those ripples didn’t stop with me, either.
“And so, in 1936, I preached my first sermon on radio. And, praise God, more and more people listened, and believed, and prayed with us. They knelt down beside their radios, and we prayed together. The ripples of Christ’s own teaching were spreading wider.
“And then, of course, there came God’s own ultimate miracle—television. And it was then that God touched my shoulder again. He told me to take my wonderful wife Katherine and my young son Elton, and He told us to come here to Los Angeles, the home of television. He made me understand that if radio could work one miracle in His service, then television could work a thousand miracles. That was twenty-eight years ago, friends—in 1950. And I don’t mind telling you—I don’t mind admitting to you—that I was shaking in my soul the first time I preached a sermon in front of a TV camera. Because I was awed by it. I’m still awed by it.” As he speaks, Holloway turns to face the camera, eye to eye. Confessing: “Because I knew—I was convinced—that the camera’s eye is all-seeing. It never blinks—and it never lies, either. I knew that the TV, God’s own miracle, would test me sorely. And I prayed to God Almighty that I could pass that test, and that people would believe me. I prayed that the Lord would allow me to bring His words to millions throughout the world, face to face, as Christ first brought the words from heaven down to earth.”
Now Holloway pauses. His eyes fall to the prayer book. Beyond the footlights, the audience is still. When Holloway raises his eyes again to the camera, he speaks softly, humbly:
“Yes,” he says, “I prayed for help, and for guidance. And God answered my prayers. Because within five years—five short years—we were able to build this Temple. We built this magnificent Temple the way my Daddy erected his poor, patched old canvas tent. We built it with your help, friends. With your help, and your dollars, And with God’s own guidance.
“But the erection of the Temple wasn’t the end of our struggle. It wasn’t the end of our mission. It wasn’t the end of God’s plan for us. No, friends, that was only the beginning—only the first circle in that ring of ripples everlasting on the great pool of life. This Temple is only made of wood and glass and concrete and steel. It’s a temporal thing—a thing of the world, and not of the spirit. And God knows that, friends. Because His wishes are clear. I can still feel His hand on my shoulder. I can still hear His voice. I can still hear His command. It’s just as clear as it was many years ago, when I was nineteen years old, and taking up my Daddy’s work. That command is just as clear and as strong as the TV picture that comes from this Temple to your home, God’s own miracle.
“And that command was—” A long, solemn pause. Holloway stares straight into the camera. Then: “That command was, ‘Reach out to others. Widen the ripples of Christ’s teachings. Use God’s electronic miracle to help bring the message of eternal salvation to every person in every home in every village on earth.’ And if those homes don’t have TV sets, if they don’t have radio sets—and many of them didn’t, and still don’t, friends—then our command was equally clear. We were to supply those radio sets, and those TV sets.
“And so, with God’s guidance, we made our plans. We planned our campaign as carefully as any general ever planned for any battle, or any war. We drew up our battle plans, and then we carried them out. We would start humbly, we decided, just as Christ started. We would go into a remote village, and we would find the largest public building, and we would supply it with radios, and TV sets. We would start humbly, but we would finish triumphantly, God willing. Using the miracle of electronics—God’s own ultimate miracle—we would take Christ’s message to all the world.
“And that, friends, is just what we did. We did it with your help, just as we built this Temple with your help. We went first to Chile, in 1961. We took radios and television sets into the towns and the hamlets of that poor, primitive country, and we gave them to the people. Some of those trips were made on horseback, friends, with radios strapped to the backs of burros. Some of our people rode through dangerous jungles, risking life and limb for God. But they achieved their goals. They accomplished their missions. They delivered their holy cargo.
“And then, after we’d done that, we went to Santiago, and we rented their soccer stadium there. We brought the choir, and we brought Pastor Bob and Sister Teresa, and all the other people you’ve come to know and love and depend on for your own weekly walks with God. And we brought our TV cameras, and our transmitters, and our technicians, too. And then, friends, we had ourselves a good, old-fashioned prayer meeting. It was the same kind of a meeting we’d have if we went to Joliet, Illinois, or Little Rock, Arkansas, or St. Petersburg, down in Florida. And I remember, friends—” The voice trembles. In the monitor, looking again straight into the camera, Holloway’s eyes are misted with memory.
“I remember that when I asked who it was that would come down the aisle to repent his sins and take the Lord Jesus Christ for his savior, why, the first person to come down the aisle of that mammoth soccer stadium was his honor the mayor of Santiago. And he was crying, friends. He was crying like a child, unashamed. And his hands were stretched up to heaven, reaching out. And he was only the first of hundreds, friends. Only the first of three hundred and eighteen souls, to be exact, who declared for Christ that day.”
A long, heavy pause. Then:
“And the most miraculous thing-about it was, friends—” Holloway shakes his head, overwhelmed. “The most miraculous thing of all, was that God’s work was done that day with an interpreter. Except for the first sentence, I didn’t speak a word of Spanish. And the audience, they didn’t speak English, of course. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter one single bit. Because God spoke through me directly to the hearts of those poor, simple people. He spoke, and they understood. And they believed. And they made their decisions for Christ. All three hundred and eighteen of them, following their mayor down the aisle of that soccer stadium.
“That was in 1961, like I said. Then, in 1965, we took our ministry out to the Philippines, and we reached out to touch the natives there. Next came Africa, in 1972. When we told you that we wanted to buy a river steamer, and outfit it, and sail it down the Nile under God’s banner, to work for Christ among the natives of Africa, you heeded our call. We told you we needed a half million dollars. Yes—” A slow, grave nod. The beautifully barbered head remains momentarily bowed. Intently, the manager looks at the line where Holloway’s hairpiece meets his natural hair. The joining is almost imperceptible.
“Yes, the mission to Africa was our most ambitious crusade for Christ. We wanted to go directly into the heart of that dark, savage land. And we needed your help. We needed money. Lots of money—a half million dollars, just to start. Just to get the boat, and to get it into the water.
“So we asked you for the money we needed. Just like, so many years ago, my Daddy asked those poor, humble fol
k in Peoria for help to buy his tent. And you responded, friends. In only six months, you sent us more than a half million dollars. We bought our steamer, and we named it the Sister Katherine, after my helpmate and partner in the service of God for so many years. We sailed the Sister Katherine down the Nile, and we talked to the natives. And they listened, and they understood. And they believed.
“That was in 1972. And the Sister Katherine is still at work, plying those dangerous waters in the service of the Lord.
“But that was six years ago. This is 1978. Our missions in South America, and in the Philippines, and in the heart of Africa are still steadily winning victories for the Lord—still expanding those circles that the Apostles started, so long ago, when Jesus first cast that holy pebble of His gospel into the great pool of life.
“But what victories, you may ask, are we planning for the future? You may ask whether we’ve decided that we’ve done enough—that we’ve decided to let others fight God’s battles, bringing His word to the world’s unbelievers.”
Another ponderous pause, as Holloway looks out beyond the footlights. Then: “If some of you have asked yourselves that question, then I’m ready today with your answer. Yes, my friends, today I’m ready.” The voice is ennobled by a deep, fervent tremolo. “Today—now—I’m ready to reveal to you that, during these last six years, we’ve been planning our greatest victory for Christ. Because I’m ready to reveal to you, here and now, before this audience and in front of these all-seeing TV cameras, that our battle plans have been drawn. And, with God’s hand still on my shoulder, I am determined to take our crusade for Christ to the most populous nation on earth.”
In the silence, a murmur runs through the audience like a hum of high voltage electricity.
“Yes, my friends—” He looks hard into the camera—the commander now, taking his place at the head of his legions. Almost unnoticed, the strains of “Onward, Christian Soldiers” have begun, played on the organ. “Yes, my friends. With your blessings—with your help—I will take Christ’s holy word into the People’s Republic of China—the most populous country on earth, where nine hundred million human souls live and work and raise their children without knowledge of the one true God, or the teachings of Jesus Christ, His Son.”
The manager blinks, shakes his head admiringly. Writes neatly on the pad:
TOTAL WAR.
One
EYES CLOSED, AUSTIN HOLLOWAY slumped against the marble shower stall, letting the coarse spray beat hard on his chest. Outside the stall, his blue suit had been taken away. Bath slippers, shorts, casual slacks and a terrycloth robe had been laid out on a bench, together with the leather-bound prayer book and his alligator wallet. In the hallway outside, discreetly on guard, Mitchell waited for him to finish showering. Down the hallway, in the conference room that adjoined the Temple’s public rooms, the Council waited for the video taping session to begin.
Instant replay …
As football teams profited by videotape, so did The Hour. God’s work used any tools.
With an effort, Holloway pushed himself away from the smooth, wet marble. Still with his eyes closed, he stepped closer to the shower stream, letting its full force strike his face. Water could help. Water could cleanse the body, restore the spirits, make the mind whole again.
But not now. Not today.
Today, his legs were dead weight. His arms hung heavy at his sides. Pain throbbed across his chest and down each arm, like cat claws raking the flesh of a helpless enemy. Behind closed lids, his eyes burned. He could feel his heart laboring. Its uneven rhythm was working against itself; its work was going badly. Daily, now, he felt the pain. According to the electrocardiogram, the heart was failing him. After sixty-three years of service, doing a good job, the heart was finally running down.
If he willed it, he could die. If there was really a God up there, waiting for him, he could arrange a meeting. He was convinced of it. Eyes closed, shutting out the world, he could move backward until he felt the wet marble against his back. Then, carefully, he could lower himself until he sat on the tiled floor, head hanging low in the stream of water. Sitting like that, gracelessly, he would will his heart to stop, setting his soul free. He wouldn’t say a prayer before dying, either. He wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t try to strike one last bargain. He would simply die. Water would wash away the excrement released when his bladder and his sphincter relaxed. When they found him, he would be cleansed. More than that, maybe he couldn’t ask.
Mitchell would find him.
Discreetly, Mitchell would tap at the bathroom door—as he’d tapped before, over so many years, at so many different doors for so many different reasons. In Chile, stricken with diarrhea, writhing on his bed in a blur-of stomach-heaving pain, he’d heard Mitchell’s early morning knock on his bedroom door, and had been marvelously comforted. Mitchell would help him. Mitchell had always helped him. Whatever he required, Mitchell would do. In Denver, years ago, thrust deep into the flesh of a woman named Stella, he’d heard Mitchell’s warning knock on the door of her hotel room—then heard the sound of fighting from the corridor outside. Mitchell had knocked her husband unconscious, allowing Holloway to escape. The next day, in a plain white envelope, he’d given Mitchell a hundred-dollar bill. Silently. With thanks.
In Tallahassee, Mitchell had taken a knife thrust intended for him. Bleeding from a stomach wound, Mitchell had drawn his revolver and killed the assailant with a single shot. Then he’d collapsed on the sidewalk, murmured his mother’s name and fainted. He’d been on the operating table for three hours, in the hospital for five weeks. But, as soon as he could walk, Mitchell was back on guard: a somber, hulking presence, with him wherever he went. For more than twenty years, Mitchell had taken care of him better than a son could take care of a father.
So, today, it would be fitting that Mitchell would find him.
Mitchell would enter the bathroom, turn off the water, lift him and carry him next door to his small bedroom. Mitchell would lay him out carefully on the bed, and close his dead eyes. Mitchell would fold his arms across his chest, and then discreetly cover his lower body with a blanket.
And then, quietly and privately, Mitchell would cry for him.
Mitchell wouldn’t raise his voice, or rend his clothing, or protest God’s final judgment. No one would ever know that Mitchell had cried for him.
Yet, among all the others, only Mitchell’s anguish would be real. The rest of them—Katherine and Elton and Denise among the family, and Flournoy, his manager—all of them would gaze upon his dead body and secretly rejoice. Katherine would finally have her revenge. Elton would have his chance. Denise would have her freedom from the guilt she felt, forsaking him.
And Flournoy, with his thirty percent of Austin Holloway Enterprises, would finally have the opportunity he sought: to do battle with Elton, may the best man win.
All of them—each one of them—had betrayed him. Katherine had denied him her body, forcing him to risk disease and discovery and disgrace. Elton and Denise had denied him the love of children for a father. And Flournoy had denied him loyalty. Flournoy was the Cassius in his council, the serpent slithering in the grass, silent and venomous. Flournoy watched. And waited. And secretly schemed.
Holloway leaned away from the torrent of water still cascading over him, head to toe. He opened his eyes, shook out the water, reached forward and turned off the shower. During the last few minutes, imagining his own death scene, the pain in his chest and arms had lessened. Miraculously, the water had helped. His heart was calmer now, his thoughts more ordered. He was ready to watch himself on the video screen as he proclaimed his last, his greatest crusade.
Today, the show should be something special.
He watched his video image grow smaller as the camera drew back from the stage. The choir came into the screen on the left. His wife and his son, holding hands, were smiling into the camera from the right. Superimpose the starred spotlights, then one rapt middle-aged face in the audience, then himse
lf, close up. He was looking full at the camera, his eyes serious, his mouth firm, his jaw squared, his chin lifted. He was in command.
Then cut to a longshot. And then the stars. And then the audience solemnly attending him. And once more himself, lips moving soundlessly—praying for them, they thought. And then the longshot.
And, finally, fade.
Had the image of himself seemed somehow smaller than last week’s image? Was it the blue suit, diminishing him?
Or had he mysteriously lost substance since last week?
He’d told them, in the final words, that the camera saw everything—God’s miracle, the all-seeing eye: remorseless, omnipotent, inevitably revealing the truth, harm whom it may.
Was he, then, the camera’s victim?
He cleared his throat as he swiveled to face the Council, seated in their appointed order around the conference table: Elton on his right, Flournoy on his left. Cowperthwaite, the director, sat on Elton’s right. Weston—Pastor Bob—sat on Flournoy’s left. Next came Reynolds, the publicist. Below Reynolds, in order of descending rank, sat the music director and the Temple’s floor manager. At the foot of the table, still dressed in her white satin gown, Sister Teresa sat like a bloated toad, complacently watching him. Last week, Columbia had offered her an album contract: Sister Teresa Sings the Spirituals. The news had made both Variety and the Hollywood Reporter, page one. Time had interviewed her, too.
They were waiting for him to speak first. As always. And, as always, he turned to Weston. For a moment he stared at the familiar face: broad and seamed, with a low forehead, a spectacular thatch of thick white hair and eyebrows to match. The friendly blue eyes were surrounded by an intricate network of deep, folksy crinkles. At age twenty-two, Bob Weston had killed an Arkansas sharecropper with a shovel, and had spent fifteen years on a chain gang. Today, seventy-one years old, he looked like a prophet. And acted like one, too. In all of evangelism, there wasn’t a better warmup man than Pastor Bob. He could cry one moment and stomp the next. He could bellow like Jove on a mountain top, hurling thunderbolts with both hands. When Pastor Bob turned over a congregation, the faithful were soft of eye and sweaty around the collar. If evangelism named an all-star team, Bob Weston would be everyone’s second choice.
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