Ernest Angley: The sad shadow of an old miracle man

The sign heralding Ohio miracle worker Ernest Angley's visit to Lesotho is enough to make you wince. Next to Angley's pudgy face, it promises that the deaf will hear, the lame will walk, and "AIDS And Other Death Diseases" will be healed. In a country with an HIV rate of 25%, stigma and misinformation are still major barriers to prevention campaigns, and a startling number of people live in fear of discovering that they are HIV-positive. Education campaigns are our best tool, and the last thing we need is an American preacher coming to town dispensing miracle cures.

Feeling a little bit dirty but driven by morbid curiosity, three friends and I found our way to the Sunday night show at the Pitso Grounds in Maseru. They were still setting up when we arrived, and it looked to be quite the event. Public outdoor shows are not common in Lesotho - famous musicians tend to choose private clubs with stiff entry fees to cover their expenses. Angley's team was setting up spotlights, towers of scaffolding, and quite possibly the biggest sound system that has ever been used in Lesotho.

The grounds were predictably busy. The Basotho are a religious and superstitious people, and they live in a troubled time, with the future of their nation threatened by the HIV epidemic. As elsewhere in Africa, the colonial overhang has left an overly positive impression of white expatriates. So when a white preacher comes with a promise to cure HIV, it is going to draw a crowd.

Ernest Angley has been working as a miracle man for well over forty years, which raised my expectations for an impressive and well-oiled performance. The David Copperfield of faith healers. I was disappointed to see that miracle workers too are affected by age (wikipedia puts him at 86) - they become slow and rambling, old men remembering another time, slightly embarrassing and uncomfortable to be around.

The outfit was the first hint that Ernest Angley was still living in the heady world of 1970s televangelism, the white suit, azure shirt, the sparkling tie. The dark toupee and the gold, shining bible were all intimidating, but most striking of all was the face, the bulbous jowls and smooth, synthetic sheen. "Is it plastic surgery?" I wondered. "Is it a mask??" "Its Dick Cheney under there," G whispered ominously.

86 years can't stop him

Angley's sidekicks had brought their sparkling suits and mustaches with them from the seventies, and sang melodious tunes to the canned music that floated through the sound system. Religious music is big in Lesotho, and several locals asked me where they could get a recording, assuming from my caucasian coloration that I must be with the masked man. Each time someone talked to me, a suited man built like an ex-marine would quickly arrive and angrily tell the questioner that I was NOT with them. There must have been at least a dozen of Angley's thugs stalking the crowd. In any case, I was happy for the clarification. As the singing went on, the more gentler of Angley's aides scanned the crowd for visibly disabled people and escorted them to reserved seats in front of the stage.

Maseru dance party

The occasional songs in Zulu or Sesotho (usually consisting of only a few repeated words) made the crowd go wild. That was the fun part of the performance - Lesotho does not see very many outdoor dance parties. After the songs, they gave the microphone to Angley, and the show started to go weird. After weird came depressing, and after depressing came boring, and after boring came being escorted to the door by four mustached thugs.

I don't think he even introduced himself. They passed him the microphone, and he stalked the stage, shouting into his microphone, "The blood! The blood! The blood! The blood!" He was followed step for step, motion for motion, by his Basotho translator, shouting "Mali! Mali! Mali! Mali!" 10,000 people, shouting for blood.

This was followed by a long, strange speech, which was as long-winded as it was directionless. I expected that after 40 years of fine-tuning, Angley's speech would be perfect: crafted, refined, designed to whip the crowd into a religious frenzy that made people levitate and smash their glasses, throw their crutches into the air.

If you yodel, I'm leaving

Maybe from the Ernest Angley of the 50s, but not this guy. He talked for a good ten minutes about yodelling, and how he didn't care for the sound. I'm not making this up. How one day he had experimented with his voice, and discovered that yes, he could make that sound, but why would he want to? And maybe we liked to make yodelling sounds in our home churches, in which case Angley would not judge us, but he would prefer if we didn't do it at his crusade.

From yodelling, into a rambling autobiographical sketch which included a lot of conversations with God, and a lot of talents passed down, including speaking, healing, the aw-shucks Ohio accent, and presumably the Amazing Plastic Face.

After the rambling came the offering. He sped through how you don't have to give money to receive a miracle, but took his time at the fun part. "Who wants to be blessed tonight? Who's going to give 500 rand? Put your hands up, who wants to be blessed tonight? There are people here who can give 500 rand!" It was all worded so nobody reviewing a transcript could accuse Angley of associating offered gifts with miracles, but the implication was clear. No hands went up. We were thrilled. I overheard an American missionary advising the people around him, "Don't give money. Give to your local church instead."

Beneath the dejected auctioneer, the price of a miracle slowly came down: "There are people here who can give 100 rand, who wants to be blessed with a miracle tonight?" No hands. "There are a lot of people who can give 10 rand. Who's going to give ten rand tonight? Who wants to be blessed tonight? Who's going to give ten rand." One or two hands. He went down to five rand. He went down to two rand (about 25 US cents). Finally, a few hands went up. But to our disappointment, when the rainbow bags went around, it looked like almost everyone threw in a coin or two. Just in case it might make a difference.

All proceeds will be spent on 747 jet fuel

Finally, getting to the business of the miracles, one of the aides asked the deaf and mute people to stand in parallel lines at the back of the fairgrounds. D went and stood in line, and spoke with a young, made-up woman of Angley's. "I can't hear my daughter's voice," he said. "I can hear everything, but I can't hear my daughter's voice, ever since I had an affair I can't hear her voice." Taking him aside to talk about the thick presence of witchcraft in Lesotho, she suggested that he was in all likelihood possessed by a demon.

In line for a miracle

In the meantime, Angley began healing people in the audience. As with everything else about the miracle crusade, it was an underwhelming experience.

"I'm not going to point out anyone with AIDS, because I don't want to embarrass them. But you know who you are. You are a man, you are 42 years old, you have had AIDS for 3 years. Your middle name is Andrew. When you last went to your doctor, you had lost 59 pounds. You are now healed of AIDS."

The applause was polite but unconvincing. What a weak effort! Andrew?! The least he could have done was learned a couple of Basotho names before the show.

"You are 73 years old. Your daughter has died of AIDS. You have been caring for your granddaughter, who also has AIDS, and you got AIDS from your granddaughter. You would give your life to help her. You are now healed of AIDS."

The physician standing next to me grumbled. "What a great message to reinforce. That you can get HIV by caring for someone with HIV." The physician is right of course - there is no documented case of HIV transmission to a caregiver, but now maybe some people will go home, afraid to care for relatives with HIV.

A solemn woman was standing next to us, holding a baby whose face twitched in an irregular spasm. On his small head were lesions that are common in HIV-positive children, and extremely rare otherwise. With the translating help of another man, the physician gave the woman directions to the clinic where he works. It was a difficult translation, but she seemed to get the message. "Bring your child there tomorrow," he said. "We can help your child. It is free."

Too late we realized that we should not have come for entertainment. We should have prepared flyers with directions to free HIV clinics, and passed them out to everyone, especially to people with evidently HIV positive children. Next year.

Angley moved on to the one-on-one stage of the show, where he healed people who have no sense of smell. It was a strange shift, from AIDS to anosmia, but to judge from the line, this is apparently not such a common condition in Lesotho. (In my office where the toilets have been backed up for weeks, it could even be considered an asset.) Maybe at 80-something, Angley's tired healing powers need to start with some easy miracles to get warmed up.

The candidates were brought to him by the ex-marines, who by this time had almost all migrated to the stage. Presumably they were necessary to quickly dispose of any trouble-makers that made it past the screening process and on-stage. (Our friend D was rejected... likely the miracle he needs is too complex for the TV audience.)

The first woman was young, round, smiling. He put his hand on her nose and cast her nasal demon OUT!!!, the echo of the word reverberating through the sound system into the surrounding mountains. Angley waved a perfume-soaked rag under her nose. "Whoooo!" she yelped, folded in half at the hips, and spun around. The crowd roared approval. He waved it in front of her face again. She gave the same shout, and the crowd roared again. Angley was happy too, and he turned to the crowd. "Who did it? Jesus! Say it with me. Who did it?" "Jesus!" the crowd shouted back.

Next was a young, thin man, looking nervous under the spotlights. Angley cast the demon OUT! and waved the perfume-soaked rag. The man sniffed, and looked confused. "Do you smell it?" The man kept sniffing, but the confused expression did not change. Close enough for Angley. "That's what you want your girl to smell like!" he crowed. "You want to go out with a girl who smells like this!" This conversation went on for much too long before Angley sent the man off stage. "Who did it? Jesus!!"

After a few more unconvincing nasal healings, Angley moved on to those deaf in one ear. He cast their one-sided demons OUT and demonstrated the successful miracle by putting a plump finger in the person's good ear, and speaking into the other ear (and the microphone, and thus the best sound system in Lesotho). And they could hear him. Stunning.

Moving on, one of Angley's thugs brought up a woman in her 40s. "Reverend Angley," he says, "This woman has been deaf and mute for over 20 years." Angley looked keen for the challenge. Arms waving, he cast OUT! the demon of deafness, and he cast OUT! the demon of muteness.

Putting his large face close to her's, he enunciated dramatically, "baaaay-BEE! Baaaay-BEE!". And again. He repeated it at least 20 times, the plastic face seemingly stuck in a robotic loop. Finally she understood that she was to repeat after him. "aay-eee", she pronounced, struggling. "Baaaaay-BEE!" Angley shouted, feeling close. "Bay-bee," she answered calmly. Angley gave a twitter, and the crowd thundered - it was definitely the best miracle yet.

The healed woman was communicating with the friend who had come with her, and after some discussion, the healed deaf-mute turned to Angley, speaking directly into the microphone in perfect English. "I am not mute. I have always been able to speak. But I cannot hear anything." Angley, still focused on the crowd, seemed not to hear. "Who did it?" he shouted, and answered his own question. The woman said something else inaudible, and the thugs escorted her off the stage. Angley now looked a bit confused. "Whatever she came here with," he stuttered, "She left with more, that's what's important. That's what Jesus does!"

Next was a man who was actually mute, and appeared to struggle greatly just to mumble incoherently into the microphone.

Angley used the same approach. OUT!, followed by, "baaaaay-BEE!" Mumble mumble mumble, came the response. Back and forth they went for several uncomfortable minutes.

"baaaaay-BEE!" Mumble mumble mumble. "Come on man, you have to put some effort into it," Angley encouraged, the translater repeating after him.

"baaaay-BEE!" Mumble mumble mumble.

"Don't say it with your head. Say it with your lips. You have to use your lips. baaaay-BEE!" Mumble mumble mumble.

"Use your lips man, your lips. Come on Lord, he's almost there, he just needs a little bit more help. Just a little bit more healing, Lord. baaaay-BEE!" Mumble mumble mumble.

Turning halfway to the man's friend, halfway to the audience, Angley dissimulated. "We've made progress here, but he doesn't know the language. You have to teach him. When I see you next year, he'll be speaking perfectly. Who did it?? JEEEEESUS!!"

This was followed by another mumbling mute, who suffered the same indignity. Headlines from the Onion were scrolling through my mind. "Deaf-mute just not trying hard enough to speak."

It was painful to watch. I came expecting to feel anger at this charlatan spreading mistruths about AIDS, but the display was too pathetic for me to feel anything but sadness. To age with dignity is a privilege not in our control. Whatever Angley once had, it seems to have left him long ago. Between the bright lights, the thugs, the 747 and the white suit, the show can go on, but the mojo is gone. I wondered how many of his support crew have stuck around out of reverence to what this man once was, supporters who cannot bring themselves to tell him that he is a disgrace, who instead work days and nights to help keep up the charade around him.

The "healings" went on. M was getting anxious, as he'd told his wife he would be home by nine. G was looking bored. More significantly, D was starting to pass out the flyers that he had prepared in advance of the event. Their message, in short: "Believe in Jesus, but don't believe in Ernest Angley. You can be healed, through the MIRACLE OF ARV DRUGS." If that wasn't enough to get the ex-marines' attention, the flyer was topped with Angley's face blocked out by the red circle-slash symbol for NO.

It didn't take long for one of the goons to grab me and G by the arms and rudely ask if we were distributing these flyers, though he seemed to have already made up his mind.

"No," I said disingenuously.

The change in demeanour was instant. "Well in that case you can stay," with a too-wide smile.

"But I guess it is my friend who's passing them out," I went on with a helpless smile, and we allowed ourselves to be escorted to our car by the gate.

Things took a turn downhill at that point, as D and M had apparently found the anger that I had not, and an immature shouting match had developed.

"You're killing these people!"

"No, YOU'RE killing these people!"

"I may go to Hell, but I know I'll see you there!"

"I'll take my chances, you hypocrite!"

Rolling a couple of metres out of the gate, D stopped the car and passed out the rest of his flyers. We drove home in silence, each with our own thoughts. I never did get to see what Angley was going to do with all the crippled and disabled that he had assembled under the stage. But maybe its for the best.

Until next year, Lesotho!