‘This is not good enough! I’m going to speak with management,’ I said, and started up the stairs two at a time. Anita followed. The front doors at the top opened onto a packed foyer. There was no manager up there, no office, just volunteers in their ‘Faith Ministry’ yellow T-shirts.
While I was deciding what to do, Anita approached a volunteer standing behind a pamphlet table and asked him if there was a lift for wheelchairs. ‘There’s no lift,’ he said, with a big unapologetic smile on his face. ‘But there are plenty of God’s people to help. Just wait here and —’
‘That’s not good enough,’ I interrupted. ‘You are required to have wheelchair access. It’s the law.’
‘Jesus loves you, sister. We have the handicapped here all the time. No one’s complaining, ’cause no one’s perfect, only Jesus,’ he said.
I was furious. Anita pulled me away. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said. ‘Calm down.’
We went back down the stairs. Dad had returned and was taking charge. He and a male volunteer each took one side of Mum’s wheelchair, and a good-looking long-haired man in a black leather jacket took the back. ‘One, two, three, up! Alleluia!’ Dad said, and Mum and wheelchair were lifted into the air.
‘Make way for a miracle!’ Dad shouted to the people crowding the stairs. ‘Miracle coming through!’ The people parted, praising the Lord. Mum adjusted her skirt around her knees, held onto the armrests, cast her eyes down to her lap and did not look up until we reached the top. She should have been walking up those stairs, swaying this way and that, in her small-stepped, alluring way. The volunteer soon disappeared but the man with the long dark hair lingered to introduce himself and ask if there was anything else he could do. He had an attentive yet reserved manner that made me wonder what he was doing at the rally. Mum thanked him and he shook her hand and ours before moving on.
I took the wheelchair handles. I told Mum we should complain to management about the access, that it was ridiculous a faith rally should be held at a place where people who needed healing couldn’t get in.
‘Let us be humble, Natasha,’ Dad interjected. ‘Remember the crippled man in the bible who was dropped through a hole in the roof so he could reach Jesus?’
‘Mum’s not upset – why should you be?’ Anita said. Taking the handles from me, she pushed Mum towards the auditorium.
Inside, our gaze rose to see thousands of people filling the aisles and seats over three levels. With joyful and expectant faces, they hugged and greeted each other. The hall buzzed with excited chatter, electric guitars tuning up and microphones being tested. We made our way to the front area below the stage, where the leaders of the movement congregated. Every few steps, someone would stop Mum to tell her she was healed, to rise up or to throw the wheelchair away.
At the front, Dad immediately joined the suited men, the leaders of the renewal. They clapped each other on the backs, spoke in loud voices and guffawed. I heard the garrulous Geoff Atkins before I saw him. The leaders’ wives surrounded Mum, crouching down to speak with her, as though to a child.
I slunk away to the side and leant against the wall, where I feigned reading a pamphlet. I was free to watch.
Dad was talking to Terry Morris. Terry, his wife and four daughters led the most popular local prayer group in Melbourne, drawing several hundred each week. They were a fine-figured, good-looking family. When they were up the front leading and singing, they could have been on TV.
Staying close to Mum, Anita talked to a middle-aged couple. She could fit in anywhere. Patsy and Maria joined the gang of youth surrounding the Morris girls. The Morris girls were no longer in their teens but were still the centre of attention. Lara, the eldest, had been a heroin addict. Many times I had heard her testify about her five years on drugs, her ‘living hell’, and how one day, when she was lying in her own vomit, Jesus spoke directly to her. She had told her story hundreds of times, but the intensity with which she delivered it never flagged. Lara did not look like her younger sisters. Where her face was craggy and worn, theirs were cherubic. Where her power was in preaching, theirs was in singing. I smiled, remembering Bonnie’s imitations of the Morris girls – all flounce and simper and singing like a bird when she was doing the younger sisters, then, spinning around, she would do Lara – hunched over, shooting up, smoking, gravelly voice saying ‘my living hell’.
Towards the back of the auditorium, leaning against the wall, was the guy with the long hair who had carried Mum’s wheelchair. He was alone, watching, like me.
The lights were lowered, there was a momentary hush, then a tinny sustained chord, a drum roll and we were off. Patsy, Maria and I ran to take the seats Anita had saved for us next to the aisle where Mum sat in her wheelchair. Lights strobed across the stage, the band revved up, rhythm and sound rose in key and volume, and the praise began. The fifty-strong choir taking centre stage sang, clapped, flung up their arms and kicked their legs in victory. The audience gave it back. We were a mosh pit of bounding bodies, raising our voices to a roar. Dad and Mum, faces rapturous, lifted their intertwined hands to Jesus. Patsy clapped and sang, and Anita and I watched Maria, who had left her seat and was dancing and jumping like crazy in the aisle.
Each song was more jubilant than the last. Closing my eyes, I tried to silence all the negative and critical voices in my head. I forced myself to clap, opened my mouth to sing. Gradually I let the music and the vast pulsating crowd take me. Higher, faster and louder, I jumped, clapped and sang until I felt an electricity course through me, the way it had felt when I was born again. I could not help smiling. God was the answer, people were good, everything would be all right!
Then the singing stopped. Lou Mercier, the leader of the Victorian chapter, came on stage. I knew the order of proceedings. First songs, then announcements and collection, then more songs, the guest preacher and finally the healing of the sick. Lou told us that the visiting American preachers wanted to know why they didn’t see more Mercedes, BMWs or Volvos among us Aussie believers. ‘“Don’t insult Jesus,” they said. “He don’t want no second-class followers!” Let us show the world that we are winners for Christ!’ Lou exhorted.
‘What’s so insulting about Dad’s old Holden?’ I said under my breath, and had Patsy and Maria giggling just like old times.
While the collection-takers waited in the aisles, Lou spoke of God’s promise that whatever you give, you will get back tenfold. He told people to ask Jesus to put on their heart what they should give. It did not have to be cash – cheques, gold watches, pearl necklaces would be accepted too. I saw Dad take out a fifty. That was more than enough from the whole family, I thought, trying to pass the collection cup on quickly down the row, but Maria threw in thirty dollars, which I knew would leave her broke for the week.
More songs, then Tom Bronson was introduced. He came running onto the stage, punching the air and swinging his microphone like a rock star. He was stocky and wore a white suit. ‘Can I have the lights?’ he boomed. ‘I want to have a good look at my Australian brethren. Do us a favour – when the lights reach you, shout out “Amen!”’
As the lights circled the hall, the amens rolled out like a never-ending wave.
Now Tom closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Jesus, for showing us the light, for bringing us here today. I know there is a football game at the MCG just a mile from here. I heard you Australians like your football. There’s 100,000 people at the MCG right now. Well, don’t you love the Lord, creator of mankind better? Jesus, you will reclaim the people. Soon we will be at the MCG! Lord, we are hungry for your miracle. God is perfect. Are we made in his likeness? So aren’t we perfect?’ Tom asked, and to each of his questions the audience responded, ‘Amen!’
‘Sickness belongs to the devil. Tell me, who does sickness belong to?’
‘The devil!’ shouted the crowd.
‘There are some who say we must carry our cross just like Jesus did. But Jesus don’t want no martyrs. Satan says, that’s your life, the mediocre life, th
e life of pain, the life of make-do. Jesus says, get thee behind me, Satan. We have been reserved the kingdom of heaven …’
His voice was deep and thrilling; at times he was almost singing, bringing us high and bringing us low, speaking in a whisper and building up to a crescendo. The content, however, was the same old stuff.
Gazing at the stage, I remembered the day my parents were born again, less than a year after arriving in Australia. It was here at Dallas Brooks Hall. The preacher had called out to members of the congregation to come forward and be baptised in the holy spirit. Before the preacher could finish his sentence, Dad had jumped out of his seat. It was as if he had been waiting all his life to be called. Taking Mum’s hand, he pulled her with him up to the stage.
Mum and Dad looked like children next to the tall, blond preacher in his tight blue suit. I felt anxious at how small and Asian they appeared. The preacher crouched down. ‘Where are you from? Do you speak English?’ he asked.
To the preacher’s surprise, Dad leant over and grabbed his microphone. ‘I am fair dinkum Aussie! And I tell you, praise the Lord!’ Dad’s voice projected over the speakers loud and clear. The crowd loved it. When their cheers subsided, the preacher laid one hand on Dad’s head and the other on Mum’s. Immediately, Dad fell back as though he had been struck by lightning. Mum gently cascaded to her knees. Within a few seconds, Dad rose to his feet again and spoke in tongues. Volleys of gibberish shot from his mouth.
I had shivered uncontrollably. Hundreds of people were cheering and clapping for my parents. Something amazing had happened, and my parents were at the centre of it. Smiling and in awe, Mum stayed quietly kneeling. Dad sobbed in great guttural heaves. It stunned us, because it was the first time we had seen him cry. He often cried after that. I grew used to it and then later came not to trust it, even to be repulsed by it.
Now Tom Bronson’s shouting drew my attention back. ‘Over there in the back corner, I sense that there is a man with one leg shorter than the other – come on up!’ He pointed to the back and beckoned. ‘Someone who has been hearing voices. Only Jesus is the true voice – come on up!’ He continued to point to people in different parts of the auditorium where Jesus put on his heart that a sickness lay. Finally he made the call for those with cancer. Dad had already taken Mum’s wheelchair brakes off and was running with her towards the stage.
A line was forming in front of the stage. Leaders of the renewal took their places to assist with the laying on of hands. It looked like only about a dozen people would be prayed over by Tom himself. The rest would be prayed over by the leaders below the stage. Dad pushed Mum right past them and lined up. I counted the people in front of her: twelve. I could only see the backs of my parents but knew they were anxious.
The general call-up came. Tom stood with his arms open to the people. ‘All the Lord’s children! Ye who seek to be healed. Ye who rebuke Satan. Come forward!’ he shouted.
They responded. The auditorium came alive with people standing up, clambering, filling the aisles and flowing to the front. The band started up.
‘And Jesus said, come to the waters,’ we sang, ‘stand by my side, I know you are thirsty, you won’t be denied.’
Patsy squeezed past us. I grabbed her arm, but she pulled away. You don’t need healing, I wanted to say. You don’t need demons cast out. You’re fine, you’re okay. She walked down the aisle and joined the yearning multitude.
‘In the name of Jesus!’ Tom shouted. He began to speak in urgent, rapid tongues. With both palms outstretched towards the people below, he walked across the front of the stage. As he passed, the people fell backwards, slain in the spirit. Some were caught by volunteers, and others, like Patsy, hit the carpeted ground without intervention. She pulled her skirt down as she fell. Bodies, some jerking and shaking uncontrollably, were strewn on the ground. Now there was a clear view of Mum and Dad. Mum sat with her eyes closed and a beseeching smile on her face. Dad knelt beside her, weeping and punching his hand upwards as though reminding Jesus, I’m saved, we’re saved! Seeing them, I had to hold my own tears back. Next to me, Anita watched too. Her face looked sad. Maria, hands stretched out to the slain at the front, swayed and babbled in tongues.
The auditorium started to fill with the speaking and singing of tongues. In the unintelligible languages, I heard pleading, nourishing, anger and rejoicing. A thousand voices clashed and blended into a powerful, complete sound. I was tingling, wanting to open my mouth and join in as I had when I was twelve, but I wouldn’t let myself. One by one the slain rose, and the laying on of hands began. In the background the music and singing continued, now soulful and worshipful.
A young woman was dragged up onto the stage by her parents. Swearing and spitting, her face twisted and ugly, she tried to pull away. Tom took one look at her and directed the band to stop playing. He conferred with Lou. The auditorium was hushed and apprehensive. Four suited Charismatic leaders strode onto the stage.
Tom turned his microphone back on. ‘By the almighty power of Jesus, we will have victory over the devil which has inhabited her soul. Pray with me. But first, if anyone of you is a doubter, unclean or possessed of fear, you may leave the room. For when the devil is cast from her, he is going to be mad! And he will go looking for someone else to possess.’
I tried not to care what they thought. I stood up and walked out, looking at my feet, ruing the long walk of shame to the doors at the back. Maybe another thirty people left too, slinking, trying not to stand out. Volunteers directed us to sit in the foyer until we were called back in again. I ignored them and kept on walking, desperate to get out of the building.
I pushed the doors open, walked to the edge of the landing and stood there, looking out over Fitzroy Gardens. We had been in the hall for over three hours. The sun would be setting soon. A shimmering blue tint presided over everything.
Hearing the doors open behind me, I turned around to confront the volunteer I thought had followed me out. Instead it was the long-haired man who had helped carry Mum’s chair up the stairs.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he said.
‘What makes you think the devil won’t find us here?’ I said.
He grinned. ‘You were scared that devil was going to jump into you? I just needed a smoke.’ He leant against the stair rail and took out his tobacco and papers.
‘Oh, please, can I have one?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, narrowing his eyes playfully at me. I watched his deft hands at work rolling the cigarettes. It was easy to flirt with him. As we smoked and talked, there was something familiar about him. He seemed casual but at the same time alert, his gaze continually shifting.
‘The woman in the wheelchair with you. Is that your mother?’
I nodded.
‘She’s beautiful,’ he said.
‘Do you think so? She has cancer. She’s supposed to die – the doctor gave her five months. That means she’s supposed to have about two and a half months left.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, and for a while he stopped gazing around and looked down. He seemed genuinely sad.
‘It’s okay, you don’t even know us,’ I said.
He laughed, then became serious again. ‘I work as a carer for older people. I see so many of them die. Every time I hear of someone else dying, I think of all of them.’
‘Well, my family doesn’t see my mum as dying.’
He nodded. ‘No, of course not. Sorry.’
‘You don’t sound very Charismatic, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Praise the Lord!’ His face creased into a smile. ‘How’s that?’
I smiled too. ‘Nup.’
‘You’re right. I started coming to these meetings about a month ago.’
A volunteer stuck his head out the door to call us back in.
We butted out our cigarettes. He asked me my name as we walked back inside. His name was Eduardo. Ed for short, he said. I left him at his seat and walked down to mine.
Anita moved
up one seat for me. ‘Lucky you came back,’ she said. ‘Mum’s going up next.’
‘What happened to the possessed woman?’ I asked.
‘Which one?’ Anita asked. Obviously things had moved on.
Mum’s chair was being lifted up the side steps to the stage by Dad and two volunteers in their yellow T-shirts. At the top of the stage, they set her down. Dad took off her brakes and pushed her across the floor to Tom, who waited for them in the spotlight. Holding the microphone to Dad, Tom asked their names.
‘We are Paul and Irene Chan, we are leaders of the Charismatic, and we love the Lord!’ Dad said. Cheers and alleluias came from the audience.
Tom went down on one knee, facing Mum. She was very nervous. ‘Why are you in this chair, honey?’ he said, his voice kind. He held the microphone to her.
‘I have cancer,’ she said softly.
He snatched the microphone away, jumped to his feet and shook his head. ‘Why is she in this wheelchair?’ he shouted. Now he pointed the microphone at Dad.
‘That the victory of Jesus will be manifested!’ Dad proclaimed.
Tom aimed his hands like pistols at Dad. ‘Yes, sirree!’ he shouted. ‘Cancer. I hate that word. Doctors don’t know how to cure it. But Jesus does. When we don’t forgive, it grows in us like a tumour. Unforgiveness is spiritual poison. Sister, have you forgiven?’
‘I must forgive … Yes, Lord, I have forgiven!’ Mum said with determination.
The Healing Party Page 11