Cross my palm with your hard-earned money and all will be revealed

The first time I became aware that there was such a thing as a televangelist was 1988. This is when US televangelist the Rev Jimmy Swaggart was caught spreading the Word in a private prayer session with a prostitute in Room 7 of the Travel Inn motel in New Orleans. This was followed by him using his televised church sermon on an Assemblies of God pulpit to deliver the famous tearful “I have sinned” speech.

In any case, I was absolutely intrigued by the realisation that one can organise a live TV broadcast to preach the word of God and, by total coincidence, get paid millions of dollars in the process.

One of the first preachers I knew was Bab’ Zondi from next door whose Zion Church flock wore heavy, starched green uniforms, beat cowhide drums and the men rocked up for Sunday service armed with fighting sticks. Then there was Bishop Moya of the Church of the Holy Ghost.

And, of course, my own priest at the Umndeni Oyingcwele Catholic Church, Father Mthanti. None of these men were remotely close to being millionaires. In fact, Bab’ Zondi’s mode of transport was a bicycle and Father Mthanti got around in a Toyota Corolla.

Much later, the Swaggart model would be emulated here in SA, with many of the pioneers coming from west and east Africa. We saw with our own eyes how Pastor Bushiri levitated and walked on air, on television, raising millions.

One of the best practitioners of this art of spreading the Word is the African-American televangelist Creflo Dollar. I enjoy Creflo Dollar because he makes no attempt at hiding from his “donors” what he is about. I mean, if that name does not clarify it for you, it is very possible you suffer from some form of brain damage.

This might have been the case with former undisputed heavyweight champion Evander Holyfield. After taking too many blows to the head and allowing Mike Tyson to snack on his earlobe, Holyfield handed over $4m-$10m in “tithes” to the Rev Dollar. Within five years, Holyfield had filed for bankruptcy and the man of God had used some of that money to bankroll the purchase of a $65m Gulfstream private jet, largely funded by poor members of his Atlanta, Georgia, congregation, with the promise of prosperity for all of them.

There is something about preaching the Word that makes televangelists want to buy Gulfstream private jets — probably a Bible verse I’m not aware of along the lines of, “Only those who refuse to fly commercial shall sit at the right hand of the Father”.

There’s a 12-minute clip on YouTube of another televangelist, the Rev Kenneth Copeland, explaining why he bought Tyler Perry’s Gulfstream jet. His rationale? Plucking a figure out of his rectum, he claimed that flying commercially would curtail the Lord’s work by 65%. The real reason, though, it seems, is that he once described flying on a commercial airline as “getting into a long tube with a bunch of demons”. So he got the demons to buy him a jet.

After giving a speech at a corporate function a few years ago, I was approached by a former radio jock. He gave me his card and asked me why I hadn’t started a motivational speaking business. Look, I would love to make millions and purchase Gulfstream jets. I just lack the cojones to organise the Big Top Arena at Carnival City to stand in front of the “demons”, selling them dreams at R1,500 a pop.

Besides, I don’t think I could keep it up with a straight face. I’d be in the middle of saying something meaningless but profound-sounding such as, “Understanding your customers is about standing under them in order to ultimately stand over them to reap your rewards” and I’d lose it.

Motivational speaking circuit crowds lap up that sort of tautological gibberish, especially if you say it, pause for five seconds, and then repeat the nonsense, but slowly the second time. You get raucous applause. To quote the former deejay-turned-motivational speaker, “All you need to have is a story”. And stories are what I have plenty of. You don’t get to write 50 columns a year for 12 years if you don’t have stories. Unfortunately, you can’t really afford private jets on a columnist’s wages.

But do not be surprised if, one of these days, you hear that I have become a popular sangoma. When I’m on television, my face covered in red ochre, with seven goats’ gall bladders on my dreadlocks and my iris has disappeared into my skull, you will find yourself reaching for your phone and dialling the “SMS line 43765 at the never-to-berepeated low price of R7.50 per SMS” to have your future foretold.

The crowds lap up that sort of gibberish, especially if you say it, pause for five seconds, and then repeat it, but slowly the second time