By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  Rachel parked the car at the far end of the west lot and they began the long walk to the arena.

  The Sports Arena was a large concrete structure that served as home for sports events and concerts.

  “Amazing,” Rachel said. “Simply amazing.”

  “What’s amazing?” Adam asked.

  “The crowds. There’s got to be thousands of people here. And all to see this preacher.”

  “There have been those who have drawn bigger crowds. What’s astounding is that Isaiah usually doesn’t get crowds this big. Oh, he gets six or seven thousand, but nothing like this. I guess his press conference really did the job.”

  As they were walking toward the arena, they were passed by two white vans, each with a satellite dish mounted to the top.

  “The television news is here in force,” Rachel said. “It looks like every station with a news program has shown up.”

  Several vans and cars, each with the call letters of their station painted on the side, were lined up near the entrance. Two cameramen, apparently from competing stations, were situated at the entrance doors taping the long line of people as they entered the building.

  Adam was amazed at the conglomeration of people; there were young and old, children who held tightly to the hands of parents or grandparents. But, the most poignant of all were the ill. They had come in droves: wheelchair-bound paraplegics wheeled themselves forward or were pushed along by hopeful family members; the blind, led by friends, walked eagerly to the building that housed their hope; and the bent, misshapen, crippled, and diseased moved forward in unison, driven by a dream born of despair. Some struggled alone, others had help, and all had the same goal: new health. It was as if all the hospitals had been emptied of their infirm. Fathers carried children too weak to walk, and husbands held wives decimated by disease. Adam watched as one old woman, hunched over and unable to stand erect, labored to make her way up the stairs. Four men carried another man on a stretcher, each looking very somber; the man on the stretcher moved his lips in silent prayer.

  Compassion welled up in Adam. Tears filled his eyes. These people had come because this was their last hope. Here, they thought, was a chance to be whole, to be normal. It infuriated Adam. Isaiah could not deliver that hope. They would leave as they came, crippled and ill, and they would blame God for it.

  He looked at Rachel, her face was stoic as she averted her eyes. We each deal with the pain of others differently. Rachel simply blocked it out.

  Adam started to say something, but his words died in his mouth. In the line, just about to enter the building, was the one who haunted the halls of his mind day and night—the crooked little boy. He held the hand of a tall woman with long, blond hair. It looked as though she had not eaten or bathed in days. She stared unblinkingly forward through hollow eyes. The little boy, his spine contorted, waddled as he walked. Just before the boy entered the building, he turned and saw Adam. Seeing a face he knew, the boy smiled weakly. All of Adam’s haunted dreams came back in flash-flood fashion. The boy would pervade his dreams again—maybe forever.

  Inside the arena, seating was filling fast. Rachel and Adam had to sit in the upper level. From there they could see the whole staging area. A large pulpit dominated the raised platform. Flowers were everywhere, with the brightest ones surrounding the pulpit. A grand piano was on the stage as well as a large organ, a harp, and several electronic keyboards. Overhead was a large screen on which the enlarged image of the stage area was projected so that those seated in the back rows could see everything that happened in colorful detail.

  A few moments after Adam and Rachel were seated, a tall, stately man with dazzling white hair stepped up to the podium and the musicians took their places.

  “Welcome,” the man said in a loud and deeply resonant voice. “Take your brochures that you received when you came in and look on the back page.” The sound of thousands of rustling papers filled the auditorium. “There you will find the words to the songs we are about to sing.” The musicians played softly in the background. “Let’s begin this time of glorious worship by singing praises to God. Stand with me, and sing until the rafters shake.”

  Almost in unison 14,000 people stood and sang, each joining his or her voice to the magnificent basso voice of the man in the pulpit. Those who could not stand sang just as loudly. The singing continued, song after song, for thirty minutes. Adam noticed that the choice of songs were all old and familiar hymns that dealt with the might and power of God: “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” “Joyful, Joyful,” and others. With each song the crowd became more involved and intense. Many sang with eyes closed and hands lifted in the air; some swayed back and forth as they sang; and others simply wept.

  After the singing, the audience was seated. A young woman, tall, slender, with bright blond hair, stepped into the pulpit and spoke. She told of her life before coming to a Paul Isaiah meeting, her broken marriage and her addiction to drugs. She also told of her life as an abused child and resulting resentments.

  “But now I’m free,” she shouted. “Now I’m free and you can be free too. Reverend Isaiah has given me new life, Hallelujah.” The crowd applauded thunderously. “Would you like to have new life? Then let me introduce you to the man who can show you the secrets of happiness, fullness, joy, and success—the Reverend Paul Isaiah.”

  The audience stood and applauded as the stage musicians began playing an up-tempo song. A small, balding man bounded quickly to the front of the platform but did not stand behind the pulpit. He was clapping his hands together in time with the music, encouraging the audience to join him. Soon everyone was clapping to the music and continued to do so until the music stopped nearly ten minutes later.

  “Amen!” Isaiah shouted, in his high-pitched Southern drawl. “Amen! Isn’t sheee wonderful? Isn’t sheee beautiful? What a testimony! And you know what? You can have a testimony just like hers, because God loves you and has all the best planned for you. If you believe that, say, ‘Amen!’ ”

  The crowd responded with a loud, “Amen.”

  “If you believe God loves you, say ‘Amen!’ ”

  The crowd responded loudly.

  “If you believe God will help you, then say ‘Amen!’ ” Isaiah was now shouting and the crowd was shouting back. “Glory, glory, glory; lift your hands in praise to God.”

  Immediately thousands of hands were lift and waved back and forth.

  Adam watched with an analytical detachment. In a matter of moments Isaiah had, through a well-formulated procedure, worked most of the crowd into a near frenzy. Adam also noticed that Isaiah had fallen into a “folk preaching” cadence that was popular in some areas of the deep South. He did this by adding an “uh” sound at the end of every phrase.

  Isaiah continued, “I know why you’ve come-uh. I know why you’re here-uh. You’re hurting-uh, you’re discouraged-uh, your life lacks meaning-uh, so you need help-uh. Well, you’ve found it tonight-uh. Right now-uh. You can have peace-uh. You can have joy-uh. Right now-uh. Do you believe-uh?”

  “Yes,” the crowd shouted.

  “It’s yours to claim-uh. Do you believe?”

  “Yes!”

  “God-uh wants you to be happy-uh. Do you believe?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you ready to be released-uh?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you ready to be free-uh?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you ready now-uh?”

  “Yes!”

  The noise hurt Adam’s ears. He looked at Rachel, expecting to see her laughing at the little man on the stage; instead, she looked transfixed.

  Isaiah began his sermon, pacing continuously across the stage. Although there was very little Bible quoted, and still less any real application, Adam had to admit that Isaiah was an exceptional speaker. Every eye was fixed on him as he pranced up and down the stage, swinging his arms in near windmill fashion and occasionally punching the air with his fist to make a point.


  Isaiah talked of personal peace and prosperity. He proclaimed with great enthusiasm that all could be wealthy and healthy, and that God desired all of His children to thrive. Among orthodox clergy this was often referred to as a “blab-it-and-grab-it” gospel.

  Isaiah proclaimed his message forcefully and with great authority: “If it’s in your heart-uh, you can have it-uh. If you believe it-uh, then it will be so. It all rests in your faith-uh, your belief-uh, and your willingness to step out in confidence.”

  After the sermon, Isaiah began the healing portion of the service, in the fashion so popular with some television evangelists, describing in vague terms a disease or physical affliction and then asking the person who fit the description to come forward. Other times he would call people forward by describing their physical ills in great detail.

  An elderly man in a wheelchair was wheeled onto the stage and positioned to the right of the pulpit. His frail image appeared on the large monitors overhead. Isaiah approached and crouched in front of him.

  “What is your name, brother?” Isaiah asked in a kind and hushed tone, holding a microphone near the man’s mouth.

  “George Wilbur.” The man’s voice wavered.

  “Have you come for healing today, Brother George?” The camera that fed the overhead monitors zoomed in for a tight shot of Isaiah and George.

  “Yes.”

  “The problem is in your back, isn’t it, George?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you had this problem?” Isaiah asked kindly.

  “Twelve years.”

  Suddenly Isaiah popped up from his crouched position. “Twelve years!” he shouted. “Did you hear that? Twelve years! Twelve years of pain. Twelve years of frustration. Twelve years of not being able to walk. And now he wants to be healed. If you think he can be healed, then say, ‘Amen!’ ”

  The crowd responded loudly.

  “I said if you think God can heal Brother George, then say, ‘Amen!’”

  The response was almost painful and followed by peals of applause. Immediately Isaiah held up his hand and quieted the crowd, taking them from exuberance to stark quiet.

  Then in hushed, reverent tones he said, “But I am just a man; a human like you. There’s nothing special about Reverend Isaiah. I am frail and powerless.” He paused and slowly let his eyes scan the crowd. It was as though he was drinking in the silence, appreciating his control of the crowd.

  “I am frail and powerless,” he repeated and bowed his head. The camera slowly tightened its shot until Isaiah’s head filled the overhead monitors. Slowly, Isaiah raised his head, revealing tears streaming down his cheeks. His lower lip quavered. Another camera relayed the image of the wheelchair-bound man who had now buried his face in his hands. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Isaiah began to nod.

  “I am not special,” he said, as a broad smile spread across his face. His next words erupted explosively, “But God is! God is powerful. God is true. God is here.”

  On cue the band began playing, and Isaiah began skipping across the stage clapping his hands in time to the music and shouting, “God is here! God is here! God is here!”

  Moments later the crowd was on its feet clapping and shouting with Isaiah, “God is here.” Some danced in the aisles, others waved their hands in the air. On the monitor Brother George was clapping his ancient hands and beaming.

  The pandemonium continued for five minutes and ended only after Isaiah had stopped dancing. Pulling a large handkerchief from his coat pocket, he dabbed at his sweat-covered face and bald head and slowly moved to face the man in the wheelchair.

  “Are you ready, Brother George?” Isaiah asked in a hoarse and winded voice. “Are you ready to receive the grace of God?”

  “Oh, yes,” George replied. Tears flooded his eyes and he raised his thin hands into the air.

  “Are you ready to praise God-uh?”

  “Yes, I praise God. I praise God.”

  “Then Brother George,” Isaiah said loudly, as he placed a hand on George’s head, “then in the name of Jesus, I command that demon in your back to come out. Come out demon! Come out-uh in the name of Jeeeesus-uh!” Isaiah was rocking the man’s head back and forth as the man shook in an epileptic-like fit. “Release this man-uh. I command it-uh!”

  Slowly the man, with Isaiah’s hand still coupled to his head, rose as if Isaiah were lifting him up by his gray hair. They stood together before the transfixed eyes of the crowd, as spotlights from the back of the building illuminated the strange pair.

  Then with volcanic force Isaiah bellowed, “Be releeeeassssed-uh!” As he did, he released the man who staggered for a moment, then slowly took one step forward, then another. A moment later the man was walking. The band played, and Isaiah once again skipped across the stage shouting, “God is here. God is here.”

  George, now free, began pushing his wheelchair around the stage, dancing with it in rhythm to the music. The crowd jumped to its feet and pandemonium once again descended on the arena.

  “I have a word of knowledge,” Isaiah shouted, his shrill voice amplified by the public address system piercing the arena.

  “What’s that mean?” Rachel asked in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

  “Basically, it means that God has just revealed some hidden information to him.”

  “There is someone here—someone with a sight problem. No, that’s not quite right.” Isaiah paused and put two fingers to his forehead and then continued, “The person is blind. It’s a man who has suffered for years. He is in this section over here.” Isaiah pointed to a large group just to his left. “Is there a man, a man by the name . . .” He paused for a moment and placed the fingers to his head again. “A man named Woody? No, wait. His name is Wood. Is there a blind man named Wood in this section?”

  “Yes!” came a shout. A man who appeared to be in his forties was making his way forward with the help of a woman.

  “Come, my brother,” Isaiah said with arms lifted out. “Come to the healing that God has for you.” Two ushers helped the man and woman onto the stage area.

  Isaiah, microphone in hand, met the man on stage and placed an arm on his shoulders. Silence fell over the crowd.

  ‘Tell the people your name, Brother.” Isaiah said, placing the microphone to the man’s face.

  “Wood. Gerald T. Wood.”

  “How long have you been afflicted?”

  “Eleven years,” Wood said meekly. “I haven’t been able to see for eleven years.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “Hopeless. They say I’ll always be blind.”

  Isaiah turned to the crowd and thundered, “When the doctors give up, God gets going.” Several people shouted, “Amen.”

  “You see, doctors don’t have faith. They live off the faithless, and when they can’t fix you with all their expensive medications, they say, ‘Tough luck.’ But not so with God. Not so with God.”

  Turning back to the man, he asked, “Do you want to be healed today?” The man nodded. “Do you believe that God can heal you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Louder,” Isaiah commanded.

  “Yes,” the man shouted.

  “I say, do you believe that God can heal you?”

  “Yes!” the man screamed. Adam could see on the arena monitors that the man was shaking.

  Isaiah handed the microphone to a nearby assistant and quickly laid his hands on the head of the man and shouted, “Be healed in the holy name of our God. Be healed. I rebuke this devil of blindness; I rebuke it in the Lord’s name. Open your eyes, Brother Wood, open your eyes and see God’s world.”

  Adam watched the image on the monitor intently. Slowly the man opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Then he started laughing and jumping. “I can see. I can see!”

  “What do you see, Brother Wood?” Isaiah asked.

  “I see you. I see everything!”

  “Tell the people what’s on my head.
” Isaiah said playfully.

  The man looked at Isaiah’s bald head and replied, “Not much.” Isaiah and the crowd laughed heartily.

  Isaiah started skipping again crying out, “Glory, glory, glory, glory!” The scene was repeated again and again. One who came suffered pain because one leg was shorter than the other. Another came complaining of migraine headaches. Still another shared how she had been emotionally abused as a child and couldn’t love. All were healed and each healing brought deafening applause.

  Suddenly, Adam’s attention was riveted to two people making their way down the aisle. One was tall, the other pitifully short: the crooked little boy was waddling alongside his mother. Adam leaned forward in his seat, oblivious to all around him, his eyes fixed on the two out of 14,000. What would Isaiah do with these two? How would he handle such an obvious deformity?

  This boy could not be a plant. His disease was not psychosomatic. If Isaiah heals this lad, then I’ll believe that Paul Isaiah is God’s man.

  As the two approached the stage area, two burly men stopped them. Adam watched closely as one of the two men shook his head. The mother seemed insistent, but was making no headway. Adam wanted to rush to her side; to stand up for her and her crippled child, but he was too far removed. He watched helplessly as the two men led the child and his mother around the stage and out of sight. Tonight’s service was over for them. They would leave disappointed again, their sorrow unresolved and their sadness compounded. For the first time in his life, Adam felt like cursing. A beeping sound redirected Adam’s attention.

  “We’ve got to go,” Rachel said hurriedly. “Come on, you can help me find a phone.” They located a pay phone in the entrance foyer.

  Rachel dialed the hospital. After identifying herself to the switchboard operator, she listened for a moment and then said, “All right, I’m on my way.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t take you home directly,” Rachel said. “I have to get to the hospital.”

  “What’s up?” Adam asked, obviously confused. “I thought you were off regular rounds.”

  “I am,” she said coldly. “It appears you were right about the Reverend Paul Isaiah; he isn’t the Healer.”