"I've come here to help spread the fire," Bentley says. "BAM! BAM!"
Four or five BAMs later Bentley utters an ear-shattering KABOOM in Miller's direction and the Denton preacher falls over backwards, shaking and twitching like a slab of bacon that's been thrown on a hot griddle.
Bentley goes on for another two hours about his divine medical miracles, supernatural surgeries, religious root canals and raising of 30 people from the dead, including one poor soul who asked his family to play his revival at the funeral and started knocking on the inside of the coffin. Unfortunately, there won't be any such miracles performed this night. No one in a wheelchair is pushed to the stage. No cancer survivors walk up the stairs to thank Bentley for kicking the carcinoma right out of them or a recently departed zombie for returning him to the land of the living. Not one crutch-clutching crowd member hobbles to the stage to get the holy head-butt from Bentley himself. Truth be told, I was a little disappointed.
So were a lot of other people who frankly had more of a right to be than I did. William Dembski, a research professor of philosophy at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, attended Bentley's Denton revival with his wife and their twin 7-year-old boys, one of whom is autistic, at the behest of his friends who told him Bentley had the healing touch. He couldn't even get his family down to the main floor to pray.
"Ushers twice prevented that from happening," Dembski said in the Baptist Press. "They noted that he was not in a wheelchair. . . . People with needs were shortchanged. It seemed that power, prestige and money (in that order) were dominating motives behind the meeting. Minimal time was given to healing, though plenty was devoted to assaulting our senses with blaring insipid music and even to Bentley promoting and selling his own products (books and CDs)."
Just before the revival reaches its third hour, Bentley asks for an offering. Badge-clad volunteers roam up and down the aisles with white plastic buckets while parents and adults whip out their checkbooks or pull some big bills out of their wallets, all of which would go to Miller's ministry, Bentley claimed. By that time it’s obvious there’s gonna be no carcinoma-kicking, so most of the contributors were probably just showing their gratitude for the absence of Lee Greenwood music.
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cheranne
Bam Bam is back
"I've come here to help spread the fire," Bentley says. "BAM! BAM!"
Four or five BAMs later Bentley utters an ear-shattering KABOOM in Miller's direction and the Denton preacher falls over backwards, shaking and twitching like a slab of bacon that's been thrown on a hot griddle.
Bentley goes on for another two hours about his divine medical miracles, supernatural surgeries, religious root canals and raising of 30 people from the dead, including one poor soul who asked his family to play his revival at the funeral and started knocking on the inside of the coffin. Unfortunately, there won't be any such miracles performed this night. No one in a wheelchair is pushed to the stage. No cancer survivors walk up the stairs to thank Bentley for kicking the carcinoma right out of them or a recently departed zombie for returning him to the land of the living. Not one crutch-clutching crowd member hobbles to the stage to get the holy head-butt from Bentley himself. Truth be told, I was a little disappointed.
So were a lot of other people who frankly had more of a right to be than I did. William Dembski, a research professor of philosophy at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, attended Bentley's Denton revival with his wife and their twin 7-year-old boys, one of whom is autistic, at the behest of his friends who told him Bentley had the healing touch. He couldn't even get his family down to the main floor to pray.
"Ushers twice prevented that from happening," Dembski said in the Baptist Press. "They noted that he was not in a wheelchair. . . . People with needs were shortchanged. It seemed that power, prestige and money (in that order) were dominating motives behind the meeting. Minimal time was given to healing, though plenty was devoted to assaulting our senses with blaring insipid music and even to Bentley promoting and selling his own products (books and CDs)."
Just before the revival reaches its third hour, Bentley asks for an offering. Badge-clad volunteers roam up and down the aisles with white plastic buckets while parents and adults whip out their checkbooks or pull some big bills out of their wallets, all of which would go to Miller's ministry, Bentley claimed. By that time it’s obvious there’s gonna be no carcinoma-kicking, so most of the contributors were probably just showing their gratitude for the absence of Lee Greenwood music.
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Steveo
I often wondered what you guys in the mid west did for entertainment!
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