POSTSCRIPT

In 1985, I was hired by Pat Robertson's publisher to ghost-write America's Date's With Destiny, Mr. Robertson's survey of twenty-three lessor known events that helped shape our nation's history. During the six-month project I met with Robertson in his publisher's offices in Nashville and at his CBN headquarters in Virginia Beach. I conducted interviews on the run in several hotel suites, in his home and auto, at Regent University, and in his jet crossing the U.S. When the book was published in 1986, Pat invited me to a celebration dinner at the Commadore's Palace in New Orleans. After a gourmet dinner and a rare hour of conversation between just the two of us, Pat presented me a hard copy of America's Dates With Destiny signed simply, "To Mel White - A magnificent writer. Best wishes. Pat Robertson."
The next time I saw Pat was ten years later, March 8, 1995, in the Virginia Beach City Jail. I had fasted for twenty days, promising to continue the fast until Pat came to hear my case against his antigay rhetoric. On February 14, almost three weeks earlier, twelve people of faith representing Protestants, Catholics, Jews, and Unitarians had joined me on a walk to Pat Robertson's office at his Regent University Campus. For three years we had monitored his words about homosexuality and homosexuals in his mass mailings, his articles and books, and on his 700 Club broadcasts. We had written asking to meet with Pat to discuss our concerns about the tragic consequences of his rhetoric. He had refused. During our direct action, Valentine's Day, 1995, as we crossed the street towards Pat's large campus in Virginia Beach, we were met by police, campus security, and Pat's spokesman denying us entry. On February 15, we returned and I was arrested.
Everyone expected me to pay the $25 trespass fine and be released. When I refused, I was placed in a punitive isolation jail cell to await my court hearing. I continued my jail fast for almost three weeks, hoping and praying each day that Pat would come to the jail to hear my concerns. After twenty days, I had lost twenty pounds and was beginning to feel weak and foolish. During a visit with Gary that evening, I decided to leave the jail after thirty days. Later that night, in my cell, I opened the CBN Bible the jail chaplain had given me to Isaiah 58. As I read the prophet's words about fasting, I knew in my heart that I couldn't just end the fast because I was hungry, exhausted, and afraid that Pat would never come. I knew I had to let God finish what I had begun, even if I looked like a fool to my friends and adversaries alike. "Why waste any more time or energy on Pat Robertson?" they were asking. "He'll never change anyway."
I sat on the edge of that iron bed with its lumpy little mattress and began to cry. I felt foolish and embarrassed but I couldn't stop crying. Suddenly, I sensed the presence of other people in my cell. I looked up and saw Gandhi standing there staring down at me with surprise and disappointment in his eyes. Dr. King was there and he didn't look too happy either. My cell was crowded with people who looked familiar, my justice heroes and sheroes, prophets, martyrs, saints whose faces illustrate our family Bible. I thought immediately of the "cloud of witnesses" that Hebrew's author says surrounds us. And everyone in that great cloud seemed amused and rather annoyed by my flood of tears.
Whether those bemused spirits were a wishful fantasy, a waking dream that comes before deep sleep, or just a product of indigestion brought on from so many days of fasting, I may never know. But I do know this. As quickly as they came, they were gone. And my fears were gone with them.
The next morning, Deb Price, a popular syndicated columnist, arrived to interview me. She was surprised to learn that I had decided to continue the fast until Pat sat down with me. And even as I told her my plan, I wondered if I was just being stubborn and unrealistic. After Deb's interview, the Sheriff of Virginia Beach walked me back to my cell. I was stunned when he apologized that Pat hadn't visited, saying he and the Mayor were both embarrassed by Pat's refusal, and promising that if Pat didn't come that night, the Sheriff would "bring him to the jail in handcuffs." He spoke in jest, I'm sure, but I returned to my cell feeling that my hopes and prayers might be answered.
On March 5, visiting hours came and went. I wrote a letter to Pat, hoping that if he dropped by my cell even for a moment, I could hand it to him. In the letter I wrote my demands, wondering if he would ever see them. "First, tell your viewers of the exponential rise of hate crimes against God's lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender children. Second, condemn anyone incites or commits those crimes. Three, visit with PFLAG parents whose children have been victims of those crimes."
Close to midnight, I heard footsteps and the sound of a lock turning. "You have visitors," a guard said. "Get dressed." I got into my bright orange prison suit, found the letter I had written Pat, and followed the guard through the silent, darkened corridors. I faced the back of the elevator as ordered and descended to the first floor where lawyers met their clients in cells separated by bars with an opening to pass documents back and forth. I sat alone in the cell for five or ten minutes, waiting for my visitor. I could hear rain beating against the building and the crack of thunder.
Suddenly, Pat was there, staring down at me. His coat and hat were dripping wet from the rather violent Atlantic storm. I handed him my letter. For a moment we talked. He was angry and condemned me for making so many "false charges" against him. He listened. He promised nothing. We prayed together and he was gone.
Immediately, guards took me back to my cell and told me to pack everything into pillowcases and be prepared to leave the jail in thirty minutes. Needless to say, I was surprised about my sudden good fortune. Apparently, Pat had agreed to meet with me if they would release me that night with no media attention. I filled the pillowcases with more than a thousand letters that I had received in jail from well-wishers and from critics across the country. My clothes were returned. A judge had been called to sign the papers. In less than an hour, I stood in the lobby calling Gary from a pay phone, asking him to pick me up. "Did you break out?" he said halfway joking, halfway wondering if it were true.
Gary was staying in the beach front condo of a supportive gay couple. I broke my twenty-one day fast with a lemon custard that one of them just "threw together" for the occasion. We talked most of the night. Finally, everyone else went to bed and I stood by the condo window looking out at the sun beginning to burn off the storm. It was then I saw them for the second time, standing there, on the beach in the morning mist looking up at me. The great cloud of witnesses, my justice heroes and sheroes, just stood there in the sand smiling.
"Gary," I called out. "Come quick!" I wanted my partner to witness this amazing scene, but by the time he got there, they were gone. When I told him about seeing the spirits in my cell and on the beach, he took me in his arms and though I knew he had some doubts about my sanity (again), he assured me that he believed my story. And though I have never seen them before or since, I believe it, too.
The Jewish prophets walked and talked with the spirits of their ancestors. Jesus visited with the spirits of Moses and Elijah on the mount. He also promised that the Spirit of Truth would be with us always. Gandhi and King assured us that death is not the end, but the beginning of life. On March 8 and 9, 1995, I had a quick look at another world. I am convinced that the spirits who live in that other world are very much with us and that when we join our Creator in liberating the outcast, in making things fair for all, we will see visions and dream dreams that will change our world.

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