THE FACE OF FORGIVENESS

A Testimony by Steven Katzman

"Come to the Miracle Tent. Come witness the blind see, the crippled walk, the deaf hear, the prostitute and drug addict be cured. Come to the Miracle Tent." I wasn't looking for salvation (I believed I already knew all of the answers to life's questions) nor did I need a pair of religious crutches from the Salvation Army. I was simply looking for subject matter to shoot for my next project, and the newspaper advertisement in the Sarasota Herald-Tribune in 1999 had all the criteria necessary for an interesting photo essay. Mankind in conflict; with himself, his world, and his God. "Place your hand on the TV screen and be healed."

It was a cold, brisk Sunday when I arrived at the Miracle Tent, pitched in a deserted parking lot across the street from the winter headquarters of the Chicago White Sox. "Greetings brother." This isn't the salutation of shabbat shalom I have experienced at the synagogue and the greeting made me uneasy. On the other hand, it had been years since I'd been to temple other than the obligatory Bar Mitzvah for my nephews. I had stopped attending the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Sometimes I would get the feeling that I should go to at least one of the holidays, just in case He does exist. But that would always pass. Why should I be judgmental of these decisions if I don't believe in God?
       I felt immediately uncomfortable, not because I had twenty pounds of camera equipment tethered around my body, but because I had absolutely nothing in common with these people. I had more in common with the poor souls burning in the crematorium, which I had just finished documenting, than with these Christians looking for redemption. Religion has driven a wedge between mankind throughout the centuries, and tonight wasn't looking to be any different. I wasn't going to be someone's final solution, nor their ticket to salvation.
       My presence didn't go unnoticed. I crouched down in the aisle with a press badge hanging around my neck, anticipating confrontation between myself, the congregation, and their minister. Suddenly the evangelist Leroy Jenkins pointed directly to me and exclaimed, "Faith has no religion! Do I hear an Amen? Do I hear an Amen?" The crowd returned with an, "Amen, hallelujah, praise the Lord."
       And the word amen fell from my mouth.

That first service opened my eyes to a world that I was completely unaware of; an environment of pathetic people, poor dental work, and a driving search for unobtainable answers. At the same time I admired my subjects as I observed their passion through my lens, their commitment through prayer. Was life so difficult for these people that they could no longer come to any resolve other than to ask their God for forgiveness and redemption?
       I felt strange intruding upon this private moment. Was I trespassing, violating a personal sanctuary, preventing these lost souls from communing with God? As I continued to document the Miracle Tent, I began to develop a relationship with my subjects-where disdain once walked, I now felt a sense of compassion for my fellow man.
       The only comparable behavior I had ever witnessed was at a funeral. But inside the Miracle Tent people weren't dying, they were going through a primal scream. Tainted by the temptations of the flesh, the latest reality TV shows, and supermarket tabloids, they were trying to cast away their sins. This was God's emergency room, and I was drawn to it the same way I had been drawn to the crematorium like a moth flying to the light, getting too close to the heat. I was alive in the here and now, capturing such torment on film only reaffirmed my stability among the throng of lost souls being blinded by His light.

It was impossible to keep my mind away from the tent meetings, witnessing behavior that seemed almost pathological. I continued to document Leroy Jenkins' revival until the last Sunday in January brought the conclusion of the service, and the end of his camp meetings in Florida. The air-conditioned tent was taken down, its sides slowly deflating in the late afternoon sun, and scores of metal chairs were stacked into the semitrailer. The calm after the storm finally gave me an opportunity to really talk to some of the congregation. "What are you taking pictures for?" "I'm documenting personal faith, spiritual revival." "Have you ever been to Brownsville?" This was the third time I had been asked this question. Not wanting to appear ignorant of revival's epicenter, I always replied, "It's too far away. I can't afford to travel to Texas." This time I was immediately corrected: "Brownsville's in Pensacola." The following Monday I started to make arrangements for my trip to the Brownsville Assembly of God.
       After making further inquiry I was told that I could photograph the service, providing that I only shoot during praise and worship, along the outer aisles of the church, and without a strobe. Upset and discouraged, I decided to cancel the trip. How would I be able to continue this project under those constrained conditions? But after further encouragement from my wife, Sharon, I committed to the eight-hour drive. Along with my strobe (just in case), medium format camera system, a borrowed 35mm, and high expectations, I was ready to confront whatever Brownsville had to offer.

When I arrived on Thursday afternoon and checked into the local Days Inn, I was surprised to see that they had a map in the lobby with directions to Brownsville. Surrounded by a depressed African-American neighborhood catered to by various Baptist churches, Brownsville Assembly of God is an oasis within this urban blight. I first saw its black metal fence, which seemed to be saying "Keep Out." Then I noticed the pristine, manicured lawns and a line of people stretching around the main chapel, baking in Florida's heat, sheltered by an occasional beach umbrella. It could have been for a rock concert or the World Series but, no, it was for a church service promising salvation and redemption through Jesus Christ.
       Prior to Thursday's evening service I had a meeting with Dr. Michael Brown, director of the Brownsville Revival School of Ministry. I had shown Dr. Brown some of my previous work on caregivers, which depicted children's advocates, physicians, and children at risk. I was still uncomfortable showing the images I had shot at the Miracle Tent, but this was more of a reflection of my personal discomfort and the questions that had started to rise up inside of me then, only to be quickly dispelled and replaced with denial. Was I turning my back on my spiritual inheritance from the God of Abraham and ignoring the persecution of my ancestors at the hands of the very people I was documenting?
       I could see that my work moved Dr. Brown, and we started to discuss the feelings I had encountered in the Miracle Tent. He then gave me his personal testimony-he was a Jew from an upper-middle-class family, his father was a senior lawyer in the New York Supreme Court, and his parents still lived happily married in Long Island. As a young man, ready to commit suicide with an overdose of thirty hits of mescaline, he went from LSD to PhD-he found Christ.
       As we left his office, Michael assured me that he would be there for me in whatever capacity he could, photographically and spiritually. I mentioned the photographic restraints that the church had imposed. "You can shoot our student services Friday night after the main service." "I use flash." "No problem, the church and the school are separate. I'll tell the minister to expect you." I thanked him with an embrace of respect and admiration, and left his office feeling equally enlightened and confused. Am I the next poster boy? The visual voice for the next crusade?
       As I walked down the hall, Dr. Brown's assistant, Scott Volk, mentioned that it is impossible to see Michael. "Pastors with congregations of ten to fifteen thousand members can't get an appointment and yet you are able to walk right in. You call from Sarasota, some photographer doing a series on revival and he doesn't say, 'Take a message.' He says, I'll talk to him now.' God bless you brother."

Upon arriving at the church, I was greeted by Kathy Woods, their staff photographer and my chaperon for this Thursday night's service. In her care, I felt immediately at ease. Without hesitation, I placed all of my trust with this perfect stranger. As the service began, Wendell Cooley, Brownsville's musical director, led a phenomenal ensemble. I was outside the velvet rope, in the required attire against the walls, shooting at the religious mosh pit in front of me. I had never witnessed such mass pandemonium. I quickly became frustrated because I knew that, limited by the church's restrictions, these decisive moments would only become memories. As I finished the first roll of film I realized that A, there wasn't a rewind lever on the camera, and B, my glasses were in the car. Unable to see the fine print-"PHD," push here dummy-I couldn't rewind the film on the unfamiliar camera. I became discouraged, impatient, and angry, questioning why I bothered coming up to Pensacola.

Since I couldn't remove the film, I had no other choice than to listen to the service. Being Jewish, I was unaccustomed to church services, especially a service that lasts over four hours! Since I was with Kathy we were in the "best" seats. Yes, I was in the best seat in the house without a camera. Then an opportunity presented itself when we were on the balcony. I suddenly heard shouts and screams from men and women. Were these the same people who stood in line all day waiting to be prayed for? Not being able to locate the source, I leaned over the balcony railing to witness the killing fields-slain bodies, lying on top of each other, some keeping still in a blissful slumber while others jerked and twitched in epilepticlike seizures. Another missed photo-op. Kathy Woods saw the utter amazement on my face and, over the sounds that filled the sanctuary, turned to me and asked, "Would you like to go down into that?" Without hesitation, I replied, "Yes."
       A whirlwind of energy surrounded Stephen Hill, Brownsville's evangelist-he was laying hands. Hill was the eye of the hurricane as people shoved against each other in a six foot deep mob, demanding to be prayed for. These were the same people that stood in the sun earlier in the day, patiently waiting to be seated in the main sanctuary for the evening service. With great trepidation, I found myself standing in the foyer. The doors opened and slammed against the walls. The tidal surge pressed against me. There were bodies dropping, screams, laughter. I am held, I am touched, I am prayed for, in His name. I feel my blood, warmed by prayer, racing down from my head, shoulders, arms, legs, and knees. I am out. I am down, I am crying, twitching, and embarrassed. I am frightened. I am a Jew!

When I opened my eyes the storm had passed; bodies lay strewn in its wake. Sobbing, I got up to seek refuge in a corner. "Steven, you're supposed to stay down so the Lord can have more time to work on you." "For Christ sake, I've been circumcised, I've been bar mitzvahed. I'm not supposed to be on the ground so the Lord can work on me!"
       The service over, I drove back to the motel, knowing that my life would never be the same again.
       The following morning I called my wife. Before I could get the words out of my mouth, she said, "You did it didn't you." "How did you know?" "Because you get totally involved with everything you do." "I know, but this is different. I can't explain it...losing all sense of self-control. It's a feeling, a sensation that I've never experienced before. The heat, the fire inside. It's like a chemical rush without the withdrawal, without all of the negative symptoms, without all of the toxins that I've violated my body with. They call it the Holy Spirit. This is crazy, but I want more." "Be careful." "I love you." "I love you too."

That Friday night the service started as usual-music, praise, and worship. I figured out how to use the camera this time and shot a few rolls from the sidelines, still outside the velvet rope. This time my chaperon was Kathy Woods' best friend, Sharon. Again, I put my trust in the hands of a total stranger.
       Sharon had just introduced me to a few members of the prayer team when another group came rushing past, carrying a young woman who was struggling to free herself from her captors' grip. Seeking refuge in a small room, they slammed the door shut behind them and demonic sounds began emanating from behind the closed door. "The Devil," Sharon explained. I was too dumbfounded to utter a reply. I had never heard such evil sounds other than at the movies. The noises defied human description and, at that moment, I vowed that I would never let an opportunity like that escape me again.

During Stephen Hill's sermon, "Die Right," I began to reflect upon my personal life. I hadn't believed in God in such a long time, perhaps because of what Rabbi Kripke once told me: "God will only exist in a man's heart once he becomes totally mature and at peace with himself." Hence no need for any dogmatic belief system, external or internal. I am very aware that it was possible to have misunderstood the rabbi. After all, I was an impressionable eighteen-year-old going through a personal hell with my family, fathering a child I still don't know to this day.
       I survived two broken marriages, and then met Sharon, my third wife of sixteen years. I felt deeply fulfilled and enriched in our relationship. I was at peace with my parents. I felt that I could leave this world without regretting that I never said "I love you." I would have liked to think that I had learned something from falling down and getting back up along the way. But what about the other people in my life? I wasn't ready or prepared to meet my maker, let alone believe in one. Nor was I ready to forgive and ask them for forgiveness.
       As the sermon continued, I was overcome with emotion, grief, and pain. Deep anguish burned in my gut, poison ran through my veins-I was being pulled down from the weight of all my crap, gasping for air only to be sucked down again into my personal undertow. My screams of despair became one with the congregation. I was the lost soul in my photographs.
       And then there was an altar call. A young man saw my torment and came up to me. "Would you like to kneel with me before Christ?" I could barely see him through my swollen eyes. Mucus pouring from my nose, tears splattering off my camera, I looked up and shook my head, declining his offer. Sharon asked if I would like her to accompany me to the bloodline, a strip of red tape on the sanctuary floor, symbolizing Calvary. I muttered, "Yes."
       Up until then I had been unable to forgive those that hurt me the most. Kneeling at the bloodline, I raised my hands above my head, as if to surrender. Suddenly Tracy, my first wife and the mother of my son, comes through me. I am forced face down into the carpet, the concrete floor preventing my forehead from going through it. Who slammed me to the floor with such force? Where did she come from? I can't lift myself upright. This isn't about staying on the floor so "God can work on you." Helpless and paralyzed, I can't raise myself up. Tracy leaves my gut, and as suddenly as I was thrown down on the floor I am back up on my knees. All is safe. I forgive. NO! I am thrown down to the carpet again with greater force, greater screams. Oh God help me, forgive me. Now my sister is laying in my gut. Where did she come from? I thought she was buried deep inside my mind. No need for her then, no need for her now. I can't hear the screams of those around me, only my own, I am drowning out the congregation of two thousand people. I am one voice for so many. I am the face for all of those in the parking lot. I find myself back up, looking towards the dais, my swollen eyes making contact with Michael Brown. "Please help me."
       Our eyes meet and without warning I am back on the floor, forehead stuck to the carpet. Another primal scream. Who is next, who must I forgive in order to be free of this torment? Justin, my son who I raised until I kicked him out of my house at age sixteen. Justin, who carries my birthright, and those of my ancestors Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. More tears, the carpet in front of me is soaked with my fluids. I am the new poster child of spiritual death and rebirth. Waiting for another wave of despair and torment, I slowly rise, expecting more screams and tears of anguish. Nothing. I wait. Nothing.
       I suddenly realized that an immense weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Three times I found my forehead pinned to the carpet, asking for forgiveness by three people who have deeply impacted my life. The cleansing had an immediate impact on me, physically and mentally, and through this healing process I realized that my journey was now far different from the one I had originally embarked on.

The church had given me a digital camera to shoot the service for their website. I was now inside the velvet rope, but I was still under no condition to photograph during the altar call or shoot any faces. This strict policy was posted at the doors prior to entering the main sanctuary as well as announced at the start of every service. After my personal burden was lifted, a photo-op presented itself to me on the bloodline. I rose to my knees, lifted up the digital camera, took aim, and fired-once, twice, a third time. Unknown to me, five ushers rushed to stop me but were immediately waved off by Pastor Kilpatrick from the pulpit. From that time on I was permitted to photograph at the Brownsville Assembly of God with my medium format camera and strobe, during the altar call.
       I returned to my preferred seating along with Sharon, crying a different song. I felt alive, wanting to share my experience. I had prayed to God for His forgiveness, a God that I had buried alongside a dead bird in Omaha, Nebraska when I was five years old.

After the altar call, I was prayed for by Michael Brown. Unlike the previous night, I had gone through some radical spiritual surgery. Evidently I hadn't gotten everything out on the bloodline. Again I'm down, clutching my sides in a fetal position, afraid that my organs will explode. I hold myself even tighter, rocking back and forth as if I'm trying to do that last sit-up for the President's Challenge Physical Fitness Award.
       I finally make it to my feet, walking down the aisles where I sense a greater presence of His spirit. Pastor Kilpatrick sees this lost lamb and prays for me. I go down suddenly, hitting my head on the corner of a wall. Concern arises, evidently from the force of the blow. I don't feel anything; I am out, letting God do his work on me. I awake, there are just a few of us who remain from a congregation of two thousand. Elvis has left the building.
       It is now 1 a.m. Saturday morning and I am drunk on the Holy Spirit.

I forced myself to sober up in order to get to a photo shoot at the School of Ministry. Once I reached the campus, I was met by a young ministry student whose responsibility was to ensure that my work was not interrupted or impeded by any misconceptions from the other students. Late every Friday night, the students would gather in the lecture hall to have their own special service after they returned from ministering on the mean streets of Pensacola. The service was very unstructured: music, praying, and more praying. When I arrived, students were still drifting in one at a time, worshiping in their own personal way, smiling, laughing, crying-faces distorted in pain, trying to get closer to God, closer to His face.
       When enough students had arrived, a minister asked them to come up to the "river" and pray for those going into the mission fields. He asked the students to tell of their illnesses. Responses varied from a sore throat, muscle ache, and bad knees. All of this time I was thinking that they were missing the point. We were talking illness, not some minor inconvenience. Then a young girl raised her hand, "I have melanoma." There was uncomfortable silence. My personal pain was no longer important, praying for this dying girl was, and the laying of hands began, the fevered pitch of prayer, crying for His strength, for His works, wonders, and miracles.
       She filled my viewfinder-"The Lost World: Jehovah's Park" scrawled across her T-shirt. Then more praying, shouting, more photographs. She clutched her throat as if to strangle the cancer within. I could no longer think let alone shoot. As I cried, tears found their way into my viewfinder. I sat down, weak from my own spiritual episode and continued to clean off my viewfinder in vain, trying to catch my breath. Then I started the whole cycle over again-shooting, crying, and praying for this young girl.
       During this process, a young man saw my distress and asked if he could pray for me in the midst of all of this spiritual chaos. At that moment I realized that I was no longer a stranger shooting from the outside. I was now inside the velvet rope, on the inside looking out

I left the student service around 3 a.m. Saturday morning to prepare myself for the long ride back to Sarasota. What would my life be like when I returned home? I had so many unanswered questions. Mentally and physically drained, I was afraid of what lay ahead.
       That Sunday evening I received a call from Justin's mother. We had previously communicated only through court-ordered arbitration, but now I listened, and gave her advice and comfort about the difficulties of raising our son. She listened with no animosity, and I was able to quietly go to sleep without anxiety or anger. The following day my sister called after a two-year exile. I told her how excited I was to be a part of the plans for her son's Bar Mitzvah and that I loved her. Tuesday arrived and I met with Justin for the first time in over a year and a half.

Two years later during an exhibit of this work I gave a lecture at a local university. The question would always arise, "Why revival?" I began to explain that I saw an advertisement in the local newspaper, "Come witness the blind see, the crippled walk, the deaf hear..." I have always been interested in the unusual; those people, places, and things that exist on the periphery of society, seemingly non-existent, not conforming to the mainstream. At that moment, I experienced an epiphany in front of the college audience. Recalling the words from the newspaper ad, I suddenly realized that "it was I who had been blind, it was I who had been crippled, it was I who had been deaf."

January 2005

Copyright 2005 Steven Katzman