Durham,
N.C. — ON a Thursday morning a few months ago, I got a call from my
doctor’s assistant telling me that I have Stage 4 cancer. The stomach
cramps I was suffering from were not caused by a faulty gallbladder, but
by a massive tumor.
I
am 35. I did the things you might expect of someone whose world has
suddenly become very small. I sank to my knees and cried. I called my
husband at our home nearby. I waited until he arrived so we could wrap
our arms around each other and say the things that must be said. I have loved you forever. I am so grateful for our life together. Please take care of our son. Then he walked me from my office to the hospital to start what was left of my new life.
But one of my first thoughts was also Oh, God, this is ironic. I recently wrote a book called “Blessed.”
I
am a historian of the American prosperity gospel. Put simply, the
prosperity gospel is the belief that God grants health and wealth to
those with the right kind of faith. I spent 10 years interviewing
televangelists with spiritual formulas for how to earn God’s miracle
money. I held hands with people in wheelchairs being prayed for by
celebrities known for their miracle touch. I sat in people’s living
rooms and heard about how they never would have dreamed of owning this
home without the encouragement they heard on Sundays.
I
went on pilgrimage with the faith healer Benny Hinn and 900 tourists to
retrace Jesus’ steps in the Holy Land and see what people would risk
for the chance at their own miracle. I ruined family vacations by
insisting on being dropped off at the showiest megachurch in town. If
there was a river running through the sanctuary, an eagle flying freely
in the auditorium or an enormous, spinning statue of a golden globe, I
was there.
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This article originally appeared in the NY Times.
