Fantasy, Faith, Fraud

I read incessantly. I have been reading incessantly since I learned how before I went to kindergarten. Throughout the 1980's, I scoured my parents' bookshelves for anything I could figure out; history, nursing manuals, theology - it didn't matter. Library trips were never frequent enough for me, so I often read the same books again and again.

My favorites were the inspirational little paperbacks from publishing houses like Baker or Zondervan or Whitaker House or, even further back, Logos or Creation House. They were easy to hold, very portable, handy to stash in the bathroom cabinet or under the couch for later, and often contained exciting first person narratives of escape from Nazis, torture by atheist Communists, or Bible-smuggling behind the Iron Curtain. Some were agonizing accounts of crippling accidents, drug addiction, brain damage, and poverty. Every one of them included miracles. Kathryn Kuhlman's miracle stories were good, Smith Wigglesworth was memorable, and I pondered Corrie ten Boom's vitamin bottle for decades, but Mel Tari was the miracle winner, hands down.

Momma didn't allow fantasy on our bookshelves, but Mel Tari made the Indonesian island of East Timor every bit as thrilling as Narnia or The Wizard of Oz could have been. Never mind the sick getting well. Like a Mighty Wind and its sequel, The Gentle Breeze of Jesus, had water springing out of dry ground, fruit appearing on trees, singing angels, broken bread growing back in a woman's hand, God showing movies on the clouds to weary itinerant preachers, a dead eye regrowing to match the seeing one, water turning to [non-alcoholic] wine, invisible umbrellas, non-consuming flames, corpses returning to life, shamans cutting their hair short (sure proof of God's power in the 70's!), and much, much more.

Oh, yeah. Aslan had nothing on the teenage Tari's God. It was like the book of Acts in Technicolor. Acts was my favorite Bible book, after all, but these events took place just a decade before I was born! Over time, I did wonder if Tari had exaggerated just a bit and I quit reading his books in favor of more staid Christian literature, especially stories of perseverance in the face of suffering that wasn't miraculously abated.

Twenty years later, when I was trying to shore up my faith in God and his powers to reverse nature, I remembered Mel Tari. Looking back at his stories after a few foreign trips myself, they seemed oddly "westernized" for 1960's Indonesia, but perhaps that was the fault of translation. Surely if Tari was genuine, he would have caught attention since. What had he been up to since his books became so popular?

So I googled Mel Tari. And what should turn up but a conviction for fraud in 1994. Nice. Shareholder in an American resort? Maybe my childhood hero was just another con-man who could spin an ear-catching yarn to eager Christian publishing houses in the 1970's and 80's. Like Jack Chick's buddy, John Todd. Like Mike Warnke, "ex-Satanist High Priest". Like Rebecca Brown, a mentally disturbed doctor who had her medical license revoked. And like Crying Wind, whose claims were investigated by Moody Press 20 years after they published her "testimony".

On a hunch, I looked up Cliff Dudley, Mel Tari's co-author who suggested publishing the tales in the first place. Turns out Dudley (now deceased) also co-authored Tammy Faye Bakker's I Gotta Be Me and Run to the Roar. In 1978, he co-authored the volume Choose Life or Death: The Reams Biological Theory of Ionization with Carey Reams, (an agronomist who promoted treating cancer with fasting and lemon juice, and had been convicted of practicing medicine without a license). And with Sidney Custodio, there was Love-Hungry Priest. (Custodio's name now shows up on lists of sexual abuse allegations against priests in California.)

Honestly, I really don't care if God had a celestial movie projector on an island north of Australia before VHS tapes. Angelic singing? Josh Groban's voice is beauty enough for me. And as handy as regenerative bread may be, it seems it is not available in stores. Or to malnourished African children. Now if there was a God who was able to keep his followers from falling, that would be nice. Able to keep them from abusing kids, lying to their fans, scaring people senseless, and taking money that was meant to help the needy. All in God's name, of course.

Mel, of course, stands by his story. He's still out there preaching and praying in Jesus' name, alongside claims that he's walked on water. And, hey, if silver jewelry is turning to gold at Mel Tari's evangelistic healing meetings, maybe I really am missing out.

Permission To Be Outrageous

This is the year of speaking up.

For the last fourteen years, I have pondered, questioned, studied, asked more questions, tested, questioned again. I have watched my friends in pain, and felt the same pain in myself. I have realized the consequences of "being strong for too long", and I have reached out to others for help. I have felt betrayed. I have been angry at my own ignorance, angry at deceit and manipulation, angry at the unfairness and cruelty in the world. For a while, the ground seemed to be shifting under my feet and it took all my energy not to lose my balance. Like a woman in labor, I had to focus inward and find my inner strength. I had to learn to relax, to calm myself and let the process unfold.

During the worst of that transitional time, three hugs stand out as momentous healing events. One winter Saturday at the art museum, I asked a stranger for a hug. Though she didn't know me, she wrapped me in her arms and I was reassured and comforted. At a Christmas coffee, one of my neighbors gave me a warm, enveloping hug. On an autumn night at a Starbucks near Dallas, I met an author who had changed my life and when I left to go back to my hotel, she pulled me close in a big, comforting hug. Each of these women shared with me from herself and let me draw on her courage and strength when I was in a fragile place.

I am a stronger woman now. Most days, the ground again seems firm under my feet. It is a time for looking outward again, for seeing where I fit in this world and what difference I can make. And I have given myself permission to speak out. When I was 16, I traded away that freedom. I exchanged the uninhibited expression of my feelings and my beliefs for a mess of pottage (or, in my case, a Walkman). Now that I am reclaiming that expression, my real self is growing again: impassioned, bold, and willing to take risks.

Instead of anger simmering inside, now is time for what Sue Monk Kidd calls "outrage". This year, I will be outrageous. I will not be silent. I may voice what I think, sometimes even shocking things. When I confront ignorance, cruelty, falsehood, or hypocrisy, I can challenge it--whether that means emailing a school principal or college professor, writing a blog post, or doing something more outrageous.

I will particularly challenge misogyny and patriarchy, religious or secular. I will tell the truth about my story, and share other stories that have been guideposts for me. As women, we need to stick together. To quote Sue Monk Kidd again, "When we set out on a woman's journey, we are often swimming a high and unruly sea, and we seem to know that the important thing is to swim together--to send out our vibrations, our stories, so that no one gets lost."

If those stories seem outrageous, so be it.