Excerpt 1

Preface

 

"I am often asked how I came to be the cohost on The 700 Club with Pat Roberston. How was it that a journalist, who was a liberal Democrat and a feminist, could be associated with that conservative, right wing, charismatic Christian television program and become, as the Washington Times proclaimed, “The most visible woman in Christianity today.” Even more, I am asked why I left and what has become of my faith and my life.

 

This is a memoir, my best recollection of what happened.  I have taken care to reconstruct the scenes and conversations to the best of my ability with the understanding that memory is wickedly elusive and necessarily subjective. 

 

Ultimately, this is the memory of a lie. That lie stalked me to the coldest regions of the globe, and drove me to gods real and imagined.

 

This is a story of how that lie carved a greater space for my soul."

 

Excerpt 2

 

My learning curve as a sidekick-cohost evangelist looked like a hockey stick. Within weeks of joining the television ministry, I stumbled into the role of an unordained surrogate pastor to millions of people who asked for my prayers, requested guidance for their lives, and wanted my interpretation of scripture. Before I learned the words to “Amazing Grace,” Christian organizations booked me for speaking engagements. Now, I held a five-day-a-week job on television, and in between traveled the red-eye specials to churches, cathedrals, and banquet halls across the country. While I was always good at public speaking, preaching was a whole new ball game.

 

At first, congregations only asked for my testimony, that is, the personal story of how I “found the Lord.” But soon, my testimony was not enough, they wanted more—a healing, a message, a prophecy. The shock of this realization happened first in Detroit. I remember the labored hum of the air conditioner losing its battle against the humidity. Rivulets of sweat trickled down the small of my back as I waited in the wings of a convention hall to address a thousand Christian autoworkers, church members, and loyal viewers of The 700 Club. A middle-aged lady in a faded flower dress, clutching a bag, rushed up to me. Her disheveled gray hair was pulled back in a bun and her face looked wizened like an apricot, small and dry under the stress of a harsh life.

 

“Please, Danuta, you have to bless my oil,” she begged as she pulled two bottles of what looked like olive oil from her bag.

 

“Bless your oil?” I wasn’t sure what she was asking.

 

“To make it holy, for anointing with the power of the Lord,” she said, holding the bottles higher.

 

The thought of my imparting the power of God into anything made me uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, but I have no special gifts to sanctify anything—” Before I could finish, the poor woman began to cry.

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