world at the age of 31. Daggart thought of himself as an impact player. Anything less would be disappointing and almost a form of sloth on his part. In terms of his relationship to God, it would be a sin. How could he make a difference for God? How could he put his stamp on the world and Christianity? It wasn’t by writing yet another thesis on the New Testament or ministering to a congregation of Protestants in a sleepy suburb somewhere for the next 20 years. He was meant for more.
So, Daggart went shopping. And he found Jimmy Burgess. Burgess was a native Tennessean and the son of a lay preacher who had been a revival-tent prodigy before he was a teenager. Now, he was six-foot-three with a jaw that looked as if it could break ice. He was 42, no longer a kid but exuding life, energy and a raw charisma. Burgess was still working the rural fire-and-brimstone circuit, filling local churches and revival tents, when Daggart got down to business. He smoothed the edges, honed the message and weaned Burgess from his fondness for Kentucky bourbon. He hung Brooks Brothers in the preacher’s closet alongside the jeans and cowboy boots.
They found a big church in California’s Orange County with a pastor looking for an assistant. Within a year, he and Burgess split off to form Soldiers of Christ Ministry, moved up the coast to Los Angeles and took two-thirds of the congregation with them. Then, a moderately successful televangelist made the mistake of letting Burgess guest host his Wednesday night live show. Between the first and 60 th minutes of the show, the audience increased by 40 percent. Within a week, the producers dumped the original host and gave the show to Burgess.
In the four years since, Burgess and Soldiers of Christ Ministry (SOCM) had kept climbing in viewership and revenues, spinning off side projects in books, videos and even tour junkets to the Holy Land. Daggart had created a separate operation called Divine Fury with its own website for the faithful seeking a more activist brand of worship.
Daggart had led the charge into the political fray, using SOCM as his platform. Even when he was young, Daggart had worried about the decline of morality and the victory of sin. As he became even more aware of the weakness and perversion in mankind, he’d just become more disgusted. Drugs. Promiscuity. Abortion. Homosexuality. He had seen religion decline in status and importance his whole life, eroded like a soft shoreline in a rough sea.
No more. Daggart was determined to reverse the tide. He picked up the phone and dialed the first Washington number on the list.
Chapter 9
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY that Eddie Denovo threw for himself on his 50 th birthday was old-school newsroom. The photo editor of the San Francisco News simply invited everyone to pile into the nearby M&M, the venerable Irish pub with ancient barstools and a horseshoe bar that had accommodated thirsty editors, reporters, photographers, politicians and neighborhood regulars for four decades. He bought everyone their first drink, explained this was more of a wake than a celebration and then kept ordering more for himself. Quarters were tight and it was clear the event was more of an inspired launching pad for the evening than the main event in itself.
Lee piled out with a dozen reporters and editors, climbed into one of three cabs the group flagged down for the four-minute ride to Slim’s, a popular South of Market night club typically jammed to overflowing when popular bands rolled in playing country, Cajun, hard rock and everything in between. It was blues night and still early enough for the party to stumble their way to an open cluster of tables in the back. The quartet on stage was led by a thin guy in his 20s wearing an all-red outfit and wailing convincingly about lost loves, wasted lives and depression
So, Daggart went shopping. And he found Jimmy Burgess. Burgess was a native Tennessean and the son of a lay preacher who had been a revival-tent prodigy before he was a teenager. Now, he was six-foot-three with a jaw that looked as if it could break ice. He was 42, no longer a kid but exuding life, energy and a raw charisma. Burgess was still working the rural fire-and-brimstone circuit, filling local churches and revival tents, when Daggart got down to business. He smoothed the edges, honed the message and weaned Burgess from his fondness for Kentucky bourbon. He hung Brooks Brothers in the preacher’s closet alongside the jeans and cowboy boots.
They found a big church in California’s Orange County with a pastor looking for an assistant. Within a year, he and Burgess split off to form Soldiers of Christ Ministry, moved up the coast to Los Angeles and took two-thirds of the congregation with them. Then, a moderately successful televangelist made the mistake of letting Burgess guest host his Wednesday night live show. Between the first and 60 th minutes of the show, the audience increased by 40 percent. Within a week, the producers dumped the original host and gave the show to Burgess.
In the four years since, Burgess and Soldiers of Christ Ministry (SOCM) had kept climbing in viewership and revenues, spinning off side projects in books, videos and even tour junkets to the Holy Land. Daggart had created a separate operation called Divine Fury with its own website for the faithful seeking a more activist brand of worship.
Daggart had led the charge into the political fray, using SOCM as his platform. Even when he was young, Daggart had worried about the decline of morality and the victory of sin. As he became even more aware of the weakness and perversion in mankind, he’d just become more disgusted. Drugs. Promiscuity. Abortion. Homosexuality. He had seen religion decline in status and importance his whole life, eroded like a soft shoreline in a rough sea.
No more. Daggart was determined to reverse the tide. He picked up the phone and dialed the first Washington number on the list.
Chapter 9
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY that Eddie Denovo threw for himself on his 50 th birthday was old-school newsroom. The photo editor of the San Francisco News simply invited everyone to pile into the nearby M&M, the venerable Irish pub with ancient barstools and a horseshoe bar that had accommodated thirsty editors, reporters, photographers, politicians and neighborhood regulars for four decades. He bought everyone their first drink, explained this was more of a wake than a celebration and then kept ordering more for himself. Quarters were tight and it was clear the event was more of an inspired launching pad for the evening than the main event in itself.
Lee piled out with a dozen reporters and editors, climbed into one of three cabs the group flagged down for the four-minute ride to Slim’s, a popular South of Market night club typically jammed to overflowing when popular bands rolled in playing country, Cajun, hard rock and everything in between. It was blues night and still early enough for the party to stumble their way to an open cluster of tables in the back. The quartet on stage was led by a thin guy in his 20s wearing an all-red outfit and wailing convincingly about lost loves, wasted lives and depression
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