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The Family Life Center lies on the edge of Baton Rouge just down the road from the newly opened Mall of Louisiana. The parking lot for the shopping mall is burgeoning on a Sunday, while the acres of parking for the Family Life Center are nearly vacant. Such a contrast might occasion yet another commentary on spiritual apathy, misplaced priorities, and the false gods of consumerism, until one remembers that the preacher behind the pulpit at the Family Life Center on this Sunday—as well as most Sundays—is a man named Jimmy Swaggart.

To suggest that Swaggart is behind the pulpit, however, is somewhat misleading; he has never submitted easily to the constraints of pulpits—or, for that matter, to any other conventional boundaries. Instead, he bobs and weaves and shouts and cries and spins his own magic. "Preaching is like an orchestra," Swaggart told me. "You have to be loud one moment and quiet the next. You've got to keep the people's attention. You've got to keep the people's attention." Throughout a raucous and controversial career now in its fourth decade, Jimmy Swaggart has rarely had trouble keeping people's attention.

NOT WELCOME HERE
Despite the dearth of congregants, my presence at Family Life Center was not entirely welcome. I had made the mistake of chatting with the women at the welcome booth and, in the process, disclosed na•vely that I was in town to write an article about Jimmy Swaggart Ministries ten years after his celebrated—and very public—downfall. I had just settled into my seat in the sanctuary, already awash in klieg lights, when one of the ushers, dressed in a burgundy sport coat, sat down beside me. "I understand you're a reporter," he said. I allowed that he was close enough. "First of all," he barked, "no pictures in here."

As I looked around, I understood why. The last time I had seen Swaggart on television, which was several years ago, it had occurred to me that all the camera angles had been rather narrow, suggesting that they were trying to cover up for the fact that the congregation was small. Indeed, the entire wraparound balcony of the octagonal building was closed, shrouded in darkness, and huge sections of the main floor had been cordoned off by dark, burgundy curtains, which matched the carpeting and the blazers worn by the ushers. "And the other thing," the usher announced brusquely, "I'm pretty sure Don and Jimmy don't want you here. In fact, I'll check with Donnie right now."

Within minutes Donnie Swaggart, Jimmy's son, a stocky man with an athletic build, dressed nattily in a dark, double-breasted suit, came bounding from the backstage area, almost running toward me. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. When I explained that I was writing an article for CHRISTIANITY TODAY, Donnie Swaggart's eyes flashed. "I don't like the press," he bellowed. "How come you didn't tell us you were coming?" I explained that I had called the office several times over the preceding weeks to inquire about dates and that I had made no attempt to hide my purpose for visiting. "Well you didn't talk to me," he said, his tone softening slightly.

"Listen, I've seen characters like you before," he continued, resuming the bluster and wagging his finger in my direction, "and you know what? It's the so-called Christians who are the worst." Ten o'clock was fast approaching, and Donnie had to assume his place on the stage. "Just remember," he continued, "blood is thicker than water. Do whatever you want to me, just don't touch my parents or my kids. If you do, I'm coming after you, you understand?"

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March 2 1998, Vol. 42, No. 3