- Banned
- #1
From The Manic Times by Pinky Beecroft.
Who's Afraid Of Hillsong?
Most Sydneysiders have an opinion about Hillsong. It’s either a wonderful church that does nothing but good, or an evil cult. Armed only with faith, PINKY BEECROFT, decided to check it out for himself.
I was hoping to go unnoticed, to sneak in, sit in the back row and observe. But the minute I got inside the front doors, an attractive girl seized my arm and said “welcome to church.” I was a bit surprised, I mumbled something, and she led me into an auditorium which felt and smelt like a thousand RSL or footy club venues all over Australia. The music was thumping and the lights were down and it really, really felt like I’d arrived late for an Eskimo Joe gig.
There have been so many words written recently about Hillsong. Mostly it’s the same stuff every time, the same chorus of outrage about how Hillsong makes a lot of money. Hillsong pays no tax. Hillsong wields political influence. Hillsong won’t disclose its cash-account details. Hillsong annoys David Marr. Blah blah blah. My answer to this is: no s**t. Who cares? Let he who casts the first stone, have a look at the Catholic Church. Or the Anglicans. Come to think of it, have a look at every church invented since Primeval Man first got frightened.
Why should we care about Hillsong? I sure didn’t. I was vaguely aware that they’re in some way responsible for people like Guy Sebastian and therefore a whole world of awful music, but that just struck me as one more solid reason to stay the hell away.
It was in this frame of mind that I read Tanya Levin’s book People in Glass Houses, the first major book on Hillsong in Australia.
Tanya’s main thesis is that the church owes her. From childhood she was encouraged to base her life around it, and duly she did. She wore the T-shirt, she sang the songs. When she had genuine questions, and struggled to fit in, the church rejected her and closed its doors. It left her on her own to sort through the spiritual/psychological mess that it created for her in the first place.
She puts the blame fairly and squarely on the church - an organisation that banned her from listening to Bruce Springsteen. And Madonna. And philosophical curiosity. And independent thought. And gender equality. And sex with her boyfriend. Some of which might arguably be sound advice, although personally I couldn’t live without Holiday.
The only thing certain is that no matter what Tanya Levin writes or how well she writes it (and some of her writing is superb - see break-out box)* most readers already have a rock-solid opinion about all this stuff. Hillsong is a wonderful church that does nothing but good. Hillsong is an evil cult. Whatever. Not being convinced of either position I decided to go check it out for myself.
The band on stage was larger than Eskimo Joe, scruffier, and definitely a lot more rock. The sound mix was perfect. A large, black-shirted guy greeted me and led me to a seat in the middle of the dance-floor area. Big screens everywhere, with close-ups of the band: lead singer in jeans & T. Six other singers spread across a massive stage. All young and dressed for the occasion. Fashion-wise there was a little something for everyone: denim rock, a little dance, a little urban. All youth and good-looks. Lyrics up on the screen, something about Jesus, Saviour, that sort of thing. Rockin’.
Another rocker, then a ballad or two - one of which was incredibly hooky. Goddamn the sound mix was perfect. And the crowd was great - the whole place filled to capacity, everybody up on their feet, loving it, arms in the air, singing along.
I thought about beer but next to me was a conservatively-dressed middle-aged woman who was clapping along to the beat, smiling, enjoying herself. On the other side, a funny-looking kid who could’ve been 16 or maybe a chronically-ugly 25. Who knew? He smiled and shook my hand and told me his name was Darryl. I said, “Of course it is” and smiled right back.
After three or four songs, the band took a break and a youth pastor got up and spoke; actually he said “awesome” about 40 times in two minutes.
He looked and sounded exactly like a radio DJ. Or the lead singer of Eskimo Joe. Darryl raised an arm in the air.
That’s the first thing you need to get your head around at Hillsong: the salute. You raise your right arm about 60 degrees, keeping the arm straight, palm downward. Everybody does it, a lot. You start to feel weird if you’re not doing it. I joined in after a while, although I thought I’d seen this gesture somewhere before.
They played a short film on the big screens: a monologue from an average Aussie middle-aged battler who’d been doing it tough since her husband died.
She said she’d been on some sort of widow’s pension and struggling financially. The worst thing about poverty was the way it robbed you of your dignity, left you feeling powerless. Amen to that.
She talked about how she felt disenfranchised most of all by her inability to give money to the church. But then she had a profound realisation: she could still tithe. There was nothing to stop her giving 10 percent of her pension to the church. And that’s what she was doing. Giving 10 percent of every pension cheque, supporting her church and gaining a little dignity in the process.
Next up on the screens there was a live cross to the Hills campus, which is like the mothership of Empire Hillsong. It’s out in Baulkham Hills and it seats thousands, apparently. I had no idea. But when Brian Houston - the big boss and CEO of Hillsong - appeared on the big screens and started talking to us, we all got excited. Here was the man himself, and his enthusiasm was palpable.
After Brian waved goodbye, the awesome guy got up again and said awesome half-dozen times, and explained that one of the people amongst us wanted to have a quick word. Up jumped a young man, 25-35?, whose name I can’t remember, but it might’ve been Steve. When he took the podium Darryl yelled out “Go Steve” and so did a few others. Steve said that all his life he attended Church, and one of his earliest memories was putting coins on the offerings plate. Giving something back to God. And when he grew up and got his first job, working in a service station, he donated his very first pay-cheque to God - just to say thanks. All of which seemed eminently fair and reasonable, and it was told in such an honest, self-deprecating kind of way that everyone - me included - was right there with Steve, putting our first proud wages on the plate for God.
Steve added, that recently, he’d started his own real estate business and, though it was tough, he felt the Lord looking out for him. When it came time to make an offering to the church, he thought long and hard about how much he could afford, and budgeted accordingly. But then... just as he was filling out the form with his credit-card details, Steve suddenly changed his mind, and, overcome with joy and generosity of spirit, “I completely maxxed out my credit card."
He said it had been like a leap of faith, like diving off the high board and trusting God that he wouldn’t get hurt.
What happened next, according to Steve, was that a short while later, he got a letter to say one of his relatives had died and left him $10,000. Seriously. Darryl whistled; everybody clapped and cheered. This was an incredible story. Here was a simple, ordinary guy who had taken a leap of faith, and been rewarded. I was hooked.
Next up was Pastor Ian Woods. He was the NSW State President of the Assemblies of God, and today was his birthday. He was charming and funny and self-deprecating. Most of the bad press about Hillsong had led me to believe this was an American religion, with American attitudes. But this man was pure Australian, in accent and bearing. He talked about growing up in a country town, and playing cricket, and smoking cigarettes. How he beat a run of bad health with pure faith in God.
He preached about control. About the importance of having control of yourself, and not being a slave to anything. He talked about his own long-term addiction to cigarettes, and how stupid that had been, and how cigarettes stopped him from being his own man until the day he gave them up. He talked about how it’s the same with alcoholics, and drug-addicts, and it’s the same with people who are so not in control of their finances that they don’t have enough money to give to the church.
After the preacher finished I thought there might be Communion but there was nothing even remotely like that. Just a few more rock songs, and suddenly, it was all over. It was exactly like going to a rock gig, except the between-song banter was a lot more entertaining. I wandered off into the sunshine, already thinking about my return visit.
A month or two larter and I’m a Hillsong regular. I’m hooked
On the night of Sunday, August 26, I’m in a bad mood. I’ve had an upsetting day, for personal reasons, and I’ve picked up a horrible tummy bug. I don’t want to go to church.
I get half-way to Baulkham Hills and I’m tempted to turn back. I’ve already been to part of the 10.45am service. Before the tummy bug convinced me to cut and run, I saw Brian Houston preach in person, back from a trip away. He promised he’d be there again tonight, and there’d be Baptisms, which sounded cool.
I remember Hillsong has really great, fresh clean toilets and I keep going.
The band plays several rockin’ tunes. If Hillsong City in Waterloo is like a Leagues Club or RSL then Hillsong Hills is the Entertainment Centre. It’s huge. The band is tight, they have a giant stage, perfect sound and a back-up choir of about 30 people. Plus, I recognise the words and melodies now so I can sing along and punch the air and even dance if I want to.
It’s incredibly like an Eskimo Joe gig except that the music’s hookier and there are more females at Hills, with the vast majority of them quite hot-looking.
Outside, there’s a sausage sizzle, hot coffee and lots of space to hang out and chat to other Hillsongers. In the last few weeks it’s mostly just been Hey, how’re you doin’? and stuff like that, the odd chat about mobile phone plans, harder to understand than God himself, and one weird conversation with a 21-year-old redhead girl who confessed to me “Hillsong makes me so excited, I always want to have sex with my girlfriend straight after.” We swapped phone numbers. True story.
On stage, Brian Houston’s telling the same anecdote he told this morning about his daughter Laura getting engaged. She got a huge engagement ring but she can’t be here to show it off, she’s on unpaid leave somewhere - he says ‘unpaid leave’ twice. And then the son-in-law-to-be gets up and he’s huge and Fijian and incredibly charming and relaxed and he says:
“People ask me what it’s like to date a pastor’s daughter... I don’t know. I just date the girl I love.”
Everybody cheers like crazy and there’s a really warm feeling in the room. This guy somehow pulled Brian Houston’s daughter, and Brian’s cool with it, and it’s like we’re all cool with it and we’re all invited to be part of it. And Brian jokes about how the wedding will be in Fiji, which will limit the number of guests and keep the costs down. Another reason to thank the Lord. Brian grins his goofy grin and we’re all laughing.
Then the lights go down and it’s the Ten Tenors... except it’s not, it’s six great singers, plus Dazza and Phil Dooley. All in black suits. Dazza and Dooley are pastors - Phil Dooley is in charge of the whole Youth ministry, which is a vast responsibility. His Sunday night sessions up at Hills are legendary.
Right now he’s stepped forward to sing a solo - he’s singing Amazing Grace in a sometimes shaky voice and sections of the crowd are laughing. But Dooley keeps going, and there’s excitement in the air. This is a guy who loves motorbikes, the Manly rugby league team, and looks more like a scruffy-haired plumber than a pastor. He’s everybody’s favourite pastor, besides Brian of course. And Bobbie, who’s Brian’s wife. Anyway, to see Phil Dooley in a black suit is weird in itself, but singing? The whole church whistles and cat-calls and screams encouragement and chants “Doooooo-ley, Doooo-ley” like we’re at a footy game, or maybe an Eskimo Joe gig.
The little kid in front of me has a book called Ancient Weapons. The kiddie three seats in front of him has The Lord Of The Rings, by Tolkein.
Phil Dooley preaches and takes the piss out of himself. That’s his schtick, and it works. Tonight he preaches about a Significant Life - with those very words on the screen above him, maybe 20 feet high.
Phil talks about David and Goliath; he says their story is “just about the number one story in the whole Bible.” And he re-tells the story, talks a lot about David not even being a soldier, just being the “smelly cheese boy” who wasn’t even supposed to be at the battle. But he stepped up and slew the giant anyway.
And then Phil talks about 1 Chronicles 20 and the slaying of three giants, and talks about how amazing it is, because David killing Goliath takes up 48 verses of the Bible... then in Chronicles there’s the killing of three giants all told in one verse.
Somewhere, deep inside me, I suspect that historically, chronologically and maybe logically this makes absolutely no sense. But who cares, it’s a great yarn and I’m saluting like crazy. Phil at no stage comments on whether or not we’re meant to believe that giants in the Bible really were giants. Part of me wants to ask questions but it’s not allowed. Not here anyway. I feel like maybe you could kind of have it both ways.
Then the lights go down and we all watch edited highlights from the movie The Invincibles which I haven’t seen. This is one of the best things about Hillsong - in the last few weeks, I’ve managed to catch scenes from Meet The Parents, Braveheart, Gladiator and a bunch of films I missed at the cinema. The giant screen is amazing and although I can’t makes sense of the storyline from this edited version, later on some kids come out on stage and do a kind of Rock Eisteddford version of The Invincibles and they’re really good. Everybody claps and laughs and I think, well, this is shitloads better than watching Eskimo Joe.
Then... highlight of the night... we watch a film clip called Bede’s Dream and Bede turns out to be a guy who looks to be in his 40s who, in his own words, has psycho-affective disorder from drug use. He has the most mind-boggling speech impediment I’ve ever heard. And some years back the Lord called him to be in the choir at the Hillsong City campus. So he tried out for the choir but got rejected; then four years ago or so, the Lord again commanded Bede to be in the choir but Bede “argued with the Lord for nine months”.
Then Bede tried out again and, somehow, this time he got in and now he’s been in the choir for two years and he loves it, and he’s a really good singer.
And then Bede appears on stage, in person. And says: “I have a really nice unit in Roseville and I haven’t had a breakdown for seven years.” Standing ovation.
Bede is genuinely inspiring. He has the most amazing eyes and face. He talks openly, and keeps going even with this incredible speech problem. He talks to Phil Dooley, who is possibly the warmest, best interviewer I have ever seen, and he wins all our hearts. This guy is something special. I want to hear him sing.
But Bede doesn’t sing. Why the hell does Bede not get to sing? It’s so weird... he gives his speech, talks to the pastor about how singing changed his life... and then they send him back into the seats. I can’t believe it; if Bede could really sing, with his crazy speech impediment, it would be the most astonishing miracle. I suppose I could chase up Bede at the City campus, but.... I don’t really want to meet Bede. I’ve seen the video, watched the interview. I’m ready for the next thing.
But there are a lot of youths around me quite obviously loving the Bedester which cannot be a bad thing – getting through a message of genuine respect for the mentally ill. And it is clearly getting through, I can see the reactions all around me.
The thing is, this whole place is positive. We’re constantly told we’re special, we’re great, we rock. Each and every one of us. In the few short weeks I’ve been here I haven’t heard a single word about guilt, punishment, mourning or weeping in this vale of tears. It’s like all the nasty, negative bits of Christianity have been removed and we’re all winning contestants in a cosmic version of Australian Idol.
And there’s more. The complexity of Christianity - stuff like the Assumption, and Transubstantiation, the Holy Trinity and the Resurrection - all that’s kind of disappeared as well. Even Holy Communion’s gone. Which is tremendous, because in my Catholic childhood that s**t used to do my ****ing head in. Here at Hillsong, I don’t even have to think about it. I can just kick back, dig the vibe and watch new releases on a giant screen.
Anyway... up on stage there’s this blonde – Mia somebody? – who looks past her 20s. She’s older than anybody I’ve seen on stage with the band. She can’t sing very well either, another rare thing in this environment. But she struggles through a song she’s written herself. Mostly she’s drowned out by the band. The song itself is a bit lost on me, it’s pleasant I guess, but as I listen I’m suddenly gripped by a life-changing revelation.
I can see a future, for the first time in years. I think I’ve been really depressed, for a long time now, with my career in trouble and my finances mostly non-existent. Too old for record companies, too weird for radio, too thin to be the next John Farnham.
But here at Hillsong, none of that matters. I’m a champion. I’ve been worried that I would be too old to fit in, or not conservative enough, or that my voice is not sufficiently trained. But now I think maybe I’ll be OK. Maybe I don’t have to be young and beautiful. It occurs to me: this is not some fascist organisation, leeching the tax-payer, run by evil, youth-exploiting despots - that’s in Ultimo, and it’s called Triple J.
After the song, Phil does his usual thing of asking us to close our eyes and pray. Then he says: if you want to be specially connected with Jeeeeeezus tonight, raise your hand. Raise your hand if you want special help, and I will pray with you.
I sneak a look around… and like the other times I’ve been... nobody much raises their hands.
We conclude the prayer and they say alright, anybody who raised their hand, we’re gonna bring you all down the front. Which they always do and then about 20, maybe 30 people go down the front. Are you people kidding? You never had your hands raised.
Then a security guy singles out the little 15-year-old five seats away from me and tries to lead her down the front. She says, no, I’m not going down. He says, yes, you are, you had your hand up. She says ummm... no I didn’t. He says Yes you did. She says aaaah yeah maybe but I don’t wanna go down the front and looks to her friend for support. Security black-shirt, complete with ear-piece, says come on, come down the front. Both girls go down the front.
They join the group of 30 who get a special prayer, a big round of applause, and a free Bible each. Like I said before, everyone’s a winner baby, that’s the truth.
Then... Pastor Brian gets up on stage together with a bunch of newly engaged couples.
The guys are not good-looking. But they are really, really, really pumped. The girls are all quite good-looking, an pumped. Everyone’s pumped, like a late adolescent who’s never had sex. I can’t help thinking, my God, there will be some ****ing tonight. And then.... and then Brian blesses them, and growls, and clasps a guy on the shoulder, and kisses all the girls. It’s genuinely erotic. Bloody hell, we’re all going to **** for Jesus.
Then it’s … baptisms.
The stage opens up and, suddenly, there’s a swimming pool, right there.
A little kid with “health problems” GOES FIRST – he might be four, five, six, I don’t know, he looks s**t-scared and there are people speaking in tongues at him, the pool is crowded with baptisers, and and they drag him down under water...
And then there are shitloads of people in the water, getting absolutely soaked...
THE CAMERA WORK IS BRILLIANT, the screen is huge, the band is loose because the drummer’s gawping at the baptisms like HE CAN’T ****ING BELIEVE IT.
And I feel really, really, really happy.
Manic Times’ photographers had their own story to tell after attending a Sunday service at Hillsong’s Baulkham Hills arena.
Arriving in the foyer, we were invited by someone with an American accent to join a ‘Connect’ group. We then browsed through the many CDs on sale and sipped coffees from a convenient Gloria Jean’s before a lovely female usher escorted us to our seats.
Instinctively, we started taking photographs of the enthusiasm of this modern attempt to reach the Lord through song.
However, the same usher who had so politely assisted us earlier noticed this development with no enthusiasm at all.
Not so polite any more, she informed a man who appeared to hold some form of authority – an unmarked security guard dressed in a suit. I caught his hand signals out of the corner of my eye.
Turns out we were not permitted to take photographs, even though there was no signage to that effect.
We were obliged to put down the cameras.
Of course it was only normal to disobey authority when they left by carrying on with our documentation. After all, it didn’t seem to be an official rule…
But it didn’t take long before the guard reappeared at the end of our row. We got a serious finger-pointing command, accompanied by a lot of eye-squinting and silent lip-synching.
Put the camera away or you’re out.
We took both options and left, bearing our cameras.
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the link is http://www.manictimes.com.au/whos_afraid_hillsong
Who's Afraid Of Hillsong?
Most Sydneysiders have an opinion about Hillsong. It’s either a wonderful church that does nothing but good, or an evil cult. Armed only with faith, PINKY BEECROFT, decided to check it out for himself.
I was hoping to go unnoticed, to sneak in, sit in the back row and observe. But the minute I got inside the front doors, an attractive girl seized my arm and said “welcome to church.” I was a bit surprised, I mumbled something, and she led me into an auditorium which felt and smelt like a thousand RSL or footy club venues all over Australia. The music was thumping and the lights were down and it really, really felt like I’d arrived late for an Eskimo Joe gig.
There have been so many words written recently about Hillsong. Mostly it’s the same stuff every time, the same chorus of outrage about how Hillsong makes a lot of money. Hillsong pays no tax. Hillsong wields political influence. Hillsong won’t disclose its cash-account details. Hillsong annoys David Marr. Blah blah blah. My answer to this is: no s**t. Who cares? Let he who casts the first stone, have a look at the Catholic Church. Or the Anglicans. Come to think of it, have a look at every church invented since Primeval Man first got frightened.
Why should we care about Hillsong? I sure didn’t. I was vaguely aware that they’re in some way responsible for people like Guy Sebastian and therefore a whole world of awful music, but that just struck me as one more solid reason to stay the hell away.
It was in this frame of mind that I read Tanya Levin’s book People in Glass Houses, the first major book on Hillsong in Australia.
Tanya’s main thesis is that the church owes her. From childhood she was encouraged to base her life around it, and duly she did. She wore the T-shirt, she sang the songs. When she had genuine questions, and struggled to fit in, the church rejected her and closed its doors. It left her on her own to sort through the spiritual/psychological mess that it created for her in the first place.
She puts the blame fairly and squarely on the church - an organisation that banned her from listening to Bruce Springsteen. And Madonna. And philosophical curiosity. And independent thought. And gender equality. And sex with her boyfriend. Some of which might arguably be sound advice, although personally I couldn’t live without Holiday.
The only thing certain is that no matter what Tanya Levin writes or how well she writes it (and some of her writing is superb - see break-out box)* most readers already have a rock-solid opinion about all this stuff. Hillsong is a wonderful church that does nothing but good. Hillsong is an evil cult. Whatever. Not being convinced of either position I decided to go check it out for myself.
The band on stage was larger than Eskimo Joe, scruffier, and definitely a lot more rock. The sound mix was perfect. A large, black-shirted guy greeted me and led me to a seat in the middle of the dance-floor area. Big screens everywhere, with close-ups of the band: lead singer in jeans & T. Six other singers spread across a massive stage. All young and dressed for the occasion. Fashion-wise there was a little something for everyone: denim rock, a little dance, a little urban. All youth and good-looks. Lyrics up on the screen, something about Jesus, Saviour, that sort of thing. Rockin’.
Another rocker, then a ballad or two - one of which was incredibly hooky. Goddamn the sound mix was perfect. And the crowd was great - the whole place filled to capacity, everybody up on their feet, loving it, arms in the air, singing along.
I thought about beer but next to me was a conservatively-dressed middle-aged woman who was clapping along to the beat, smiling, enjoying herself. On the other side, a funny-looking kid who could’ve been 16 or maybe a chronically-ugly 25. Who knew? He smiled and shook my hand and told me his name was Darryl. I said, “Of course it is” and smiled right back.
After three or four songs, the band took a break and a youth pastor got up and spoke; actually he said “awesome” about 40 times in two minutes.
He looked and sounded exactly like a radio DJ. Or the lead singer of Eskimo Joe. Darryl raised an arm in the air.
That’s the first thing you need to get your head around at Hillsong: the salute. You raise your right arm about 60 degrees, keeping the arm straight, palm downward. Everybody does it, a lot. You start to feel weird if you’re not doing it. I joined in after a while, although I thought I’d seen this gesture somewhere before.
They played a short film on the big screens: a monologue from an average Aussie middle-aged battler who’d been doing it tough since her husband died.
She said she’d been on some sort of widow’s pension and struggling financially. The worst thing about poverty was the way it robbed you of your dignity, left you feeling powerless. Amen to that.
She talked about how she felt disenfranchised most of all by her inability to give money to the church. But then she had a profound realisation: she could still tithe. There was nothing to stop her giving 10 percent of her pension to the church. And that’s what she was doing. Giving 10 percent of every pension cheque, supporting her church and gaining a little dignity in the process.
Next up on the screens there was a live cross to the Hills campus, which is like the mothership of Empire Hillsong. It’s out in Baulkham Hills and it seats thousands, apparently. I had no idea. But when Brian Houston - the big boss and CEO of Hillsong - appeared on the big screens and started talking to us, we all got excited. Here was the man himself, and his enthusiasm was palpable.
After Brian waved goodbye, the awesome guy got up again and said awesome half-dozen times, and explained that one of the people amongst us wanted to have a quick word. Up jumped a young man, 25-35?, whose name I can’t remember, but it might’ve been Steve. When he took the podium Darryl yelled out “Go Steve” and so did a few others. Steve said that all his life he attended Church, and one of his earliest memories was putting coins on the offerings plate. Giving something back to God. And when he grew up and got his first job, working in a service station, he donated his very first pay-cheque to God - just to say thanks. All of which seemed eminently fair and reasonable, and it was told in such an honest, self-deprecating kind of way that everyone - me included - was right there with Steve, putting our first proud wages on the plate for God.
Steve added, that recently, he’d started his own real estate business and, though it was tough, he felt the Lord looking out for him. When it came time to make an offering to the church, he thought long and hard about how much he could afford, and budgeted accordingly. But then... just as he was filling out the form with his credit-card details, Steve suddenly changed his mind, and, overcome with joy and generosity of spirit, “I completely maxxed out my credit card."
He said it had been like a leap of faith, like diving off the high board and trusting God that he wouldn’t get hurt.
What happened next, according to Steve, was that a short while later, he got a letter to say one of his relatives had died and left him $10,000. Seriously. Darryl whistled; everybody clapped and cheered. This was an incredible story. Here was a simple, ordinary guy who had taken a leap of faith, and been rewarded. I was hooked.
Next up was Pastor Ian Woods. He was the NSW State President of the Assemblies of God, and today was his birthday. He was charming and funny and self-deprecating. Most of the bad press about Hillsong had led me to believe this was an American religion, with American attitudes. But this man was pure Australian, in accent and bearing. He talked about growing up in a country town, and playing cricket, and smoking cigarettes. How he beat a run of bad health with pure faith in God.
He preached about control. About the importance of having control of yourself, and not being a slave to anything. He talked about his own long-term addiction to cigarettes, and how stupid that had been, and how cigarettes stopped him from being his own man until the day he gave them up. He talked about how it’s the same with alcoholics, and drug-addicts, and it’s the same with people who are so not in control of their finances that they don’t have enough money to give to the church.
After the preacher finished I thought there might be Communion but there was nothing even remotely like that. Just a few more rock songs, and suddenly, it was all over. It was exactly like going to a rock gig, except the between-song banter was a lot more entertaining. I wandered off into the sunshine, already thinking about my return visit.
A month or two larter and I’m a Hillsong regular. I’m hooked
On the night of Sunday, August 26, I’m in a bad mood. I’ve had an upsetting day, for personal reasons, and I’ve picked up a horrible tummy bug. I don’t want to go to church.
I get half-way to Baulkham Hills and I’m tempted to turn back. I’ve already been to part of the 10.45am service. Before the tummy bug convinced me to cut and run, I saw Brian Houston preach in person, back from a trip away. He promised he’d be there again tonight, and there’d be Baptisms, which sounded cool.
I remember Hillsong has really great, fresh clean toilets and I keep going.
The band plays several rockin’ tunes. If Hillsong City in Waterloo is like a Leagues Club or RSL then Hillsong Hills is the Entertainment Centre. It’s huge. The band is tight, they have a giant stage, perfect sound and a back-up choir of about 30 people. Plus, I recognise the words and melodies now so I can sing along and punch the air and even dance if I want to.
It’s incredibly like an Eskimo Joe gig except that the music’s hookier and there are more females at Hills, with the vast majority of them quite hot-looking.
Outside, there’s a sausage sizzle, hot coffee and lots of space to hang out and chat to other Hillsongers. In the last few weeks it’s mostly just been Hey, how’re you doin’? and stuff like that, the odd chat about mobile phone plans, harder to understand than God himself, and one weird conversation with a 21-year-old redhead girl who confessed to me “Hillsong makes me so excited, I always want to have sex with my girlfriend straight after.” We swapped phone numbers. True story.
On stage, Brian Houston’s telling the same anecdote he told this morning about his daughter Laura getting engaged. She got a huge engagement ring but she can’t be here to show it off, she’s on unpaid leave somewhere - he says ‘unpaid leave’ twice. And then the son-in-law-to-be gets up and he’s huge and Fijian and incredibly charming and relaxed and he says:
“People ask me what it’s like to date a pastor’s daughter... I don’t know. I just date the girl I love.”
Everybody cheers like crazy and there’s a really warm feeling in the room. This guy somehow pulled Brian Houston’s daughter, and Brian’s cool with it, and it’s like we’re all cool with it and we’re all invited to be part of it. And Brian jokes about how the wedding will be in Fiji, which will limit the number of guests and keep the costs down. Another reason to thank the Lord. Brian grins his goofy grin and we’re all laughing.
Then the lights go down and it’s the Ten Tenors... except it’s not, it’s six great singers, plus Dazza and Phil Dooley. All in black suits. Dazza and Dooley are pastors - Phil Dooley is in charge of the whole Youth ministry, which is a vast responsibility. His Sunday night sessions up at Hills are legendary.
Right now he’s stepped forward to sing a solo - he’s singing Amazing Grace in a sometimes shaky voice and sections of the crowd are laughing. But Dooley keeps going, and there’s excitement in the air. This is a guy who loves motorbikes, the Manly rugby league team, and looks more like a scruffy-haired plumber than a pastor. He’s everybody’s favourite pastor, besides Brian of course. And Bobbie, who’s Brian’s wife. Anyway, to see Phil Dooley in a black suit is weird in itself, but singing? The whole church whistles and cat-calls and screams encouragement and chants “Doooooo-ley, Doooo-ley” like we’re at a footy game, or maybe an Eskimo Joe gig.
The little kid in front of me has a book called Ancient Weapons. The kiddie three seats in front of him has The Lord Of The Rings, by Tolkein.
Phil Dooley preaches and takes the piss out of himself. That’s his schtick, and it works. Tonight he preaches about a Significant Life - with those very words on the screen above him, maybe 20 feet high.
Phil talks about David and Goliath; he says their story is “just about the number one story in the whole Bible.” And he re-tells the story, talks a lot about David not even being a soldier, just being the “smelly cheese boy” who wasn’t even supposed to be at the battle. But he stepped up and slew the giant anyway.
And then Phil talks about 1 Chronicles 20 and the slaying of three giants, and talks about how amazing it is, because David killing Goliath takes up 48 verses of the Bible... then in Chronicles there’s the killing of three giants all told in one verse.
Somewhere, deep inside me, I suspect that historically, chronologically and maybe logically this makes absolutely no sense. But who cares, it’s a great yarn and I’m saluting like crazy. Phil at no stage comments on whether or not we’re meant to believe that giants in the Bible really were giants. Part of me wants to ask questions but it’s not allowed. Not here anyway. I feel like maybe you could kind of have it both ways.
Then the lights go down and we all watch edited highlights from the movie The Invincibles which I haven’t seen. This is one of the best things about Hillsong - in the last few weeks, I’ve managed to catch scenes from Meet The Parents, Braveheart, Gladiator and a bunch of films I missed at the cinema. The giant screen is amazing and although I can’t makes sense of the storyline from this edited version, later on some kids come out on stage and do a kind of Rock Eisteddford version of The Invincibles and they’re really good. Everybody claps and laughs and I think, well, this is shitloads better than watching Eskimo Joe.
Then... highlight of the night... we watch a film clip called Bede’s Dream and Bede turns out to be a guy who looks to be in his 40s who, in his own words, has psycho-affective disorder from drug use. He has the most mind-boggling speech impediment I’ve ever heard. And some years back the Lord called him to be in the choir at the Hillsong City campus. So he tried out for the choir but got rejected; then four years ago or so, the Lord again commanded Bede to be in the choir but Bede “argued with the Lord for nine months”.
Then Bede tried out again and, somehow, this time he got in and now he’s been in the choir for two years and he loves it, and he’s a really good singer.
And then Bede appears on stage, in person. And says: “I have a really nice unit in Roseville and I haven’t had a breakdown for seven years.” Standing ovation.
Bede is genuinely inspiring. He has the most amazing eyes and face. He talks openly, and keeps going even with this incredible speech problem. He talks to Phil Dooley, who is possibly the warmest, best interviewer I have ever seen, and he wins all our hearts. This guy is something special. I want to hear him sing.
But Bede doesn’t sing. Why the hell does Bede not get to sing? It’s so weird... he gives his speech, talks to the pastor about how singing changed his life... and then they send him back into the seats. I can’t believe it; if Bede could really sing, with his crazy speech impediment, it would be the most astonishing miracle. I suppose I could chase up Bede at the City campus, but.... I don’t really want to meet Bede. I’ve seen the video, watched the interview. I’m ready for the next thing.
But there are a lot of youths around me quite obviously loving the Bedester which cannot be a bad thing – getting through a message of genuine respect for the mentally ill. And it is clearly getting through, I can see the reactions all around me.
The thing is, this whole place is positive. We’re constantly told we’re special, we’re great, we rock. Each and every one of us. In the few short weeks I’ve been here I haven’t heard a single word about guilt, punishment, mourning or weeping in this vale of tears. It’s like all the nasty, negative bits of Christianity have been removed and we’re all winning contestants in a cosmic version of Australian Idol.
And there’s more. The complexity of Christianity - stuff like the Assumption, and Transubstantiation, the Holy Trinity and the Resurrection - all that’s kind of disappeared as well. Even Holy Communion’s gone. Which is tremendous, because in my Catholic childhood that s**t used to do my ****ing head in. Here at Hillsong, I don’t even have to think about it. I can just kick back, dig the vibe and watch new releases on a giant screen.
Anyway... up on stage there’s this blonde – Mia somebody? – who looks past her 20s. She’s older than anybody I’ve seen on stage with the band. She can’t sing very well either, another rare thing in this environment. But she struggles through a song she’s written herself. Mostly she’s drowned out by the band. The song itself is a bit lost on me, it’s pleasant I guess, but as I listen I’m suddenly gripped by a life-changing revelation.
I can see a future, for the first time in years. I think I’ve been really depressed, for a long time now, with my career in trouble and my finances mostly non-existent. Too old for record companies, too weird for radio, too thin to be the next John Farnham.
But here at Hillsong, none of that matters. I’m a champion. I’ve been worried that I would be too old to fit in, or not conservative enough, or that my voice is not sufficiently trained. But now I think maybe I’ll be OK. Maybe I don’t have to be young and beautiful. It occurs to me: this is not some fascist organisation, leeching the tax-payer, run by evil, youth-exploiting despots - that’s in Ultimo, and it’s called Triple J.
After the song, Phil does his usual thing of asking us to close our eyes and pray. Then he says: if you want to be specially connected with Jeeeeeezus tonight, raise your hand. Raise your hand if you want special help, and I will pray with you.
I sneak a look around… and like the other times I’ve been... nobody much raises their hands.
We conclude the prayer and they say alright, anybody who raised their hand, we’re gonna bring you all down the front. Which they always do and then about 20, maybe 30 people go down the front. Are you people kidding? You never had your hands raised.
Then a security guy singles out the little 15-year-old five seats away from me and tries to lead her down the front. She says, no, I’m not going down. He says, yes, you are, you had your hand up. She says ummm... no I didn’t. He says Yes you did. She says aaaah yeah maybe but I don’t wanna go down the front and looks to her friend for support. Security black-shirt, complete with ear-piece, says come on, come down the front. Both girls go down the front.
They join the group of 30 who get a special prayer, a big round of applause, and a free Bible each. Like I said before, everyone’s a winner baby, that’s the truth.
Then... Pastor Brian gets up on stage together with a bunch of newly engaged couples.
The guys are not good-looking. But they are really, really, really pumped. The girls are all quite good-looking, an pumped. Everyone’s pumped, like a late adolescent who’s never had sex. I can’t help thinking, my God, there will be some ****ing tonight. And then.... and then Brian blesses them, and growls, and clasps a guy on the shoulder, and kisses all the girls. It’s genuinely erotic. Bloody hell, we’re all going to **** for Jesus.
Then it’s … baptisms.
The stage opens up and, suddenly, there’s a swimming pool, right there.
A little kid with “health problems” GOES FIRST – he might be four, five, six, I don’t know, he looks s**t-scared and there are people speaking in tongues at him, the pool is crowded with baptisers, and and they drag him down under water...
And then there are shitloads of people in the water, getting absolutely soaked...
THE CAMERA WORK IS BRILLIANT, the screen is huge, the band is loose because the drummer’s gawping at the baptisms like HE CAN’T ****ING BELIEVE IT.
And I feel really, really, really happy.
Manic Times’ photographers had their own story to tell after attending a Sunday service at Hillsong’s Baulkham Hills arena.
Arriving in the foyer, we were invited by someone with an American accent to join a ‘Connect’ group. We then browsed through the many CDs on sale and sipped coffees from a convenient Gloria Jean’s before a lovely female usher escorted us to our seats.
Instinctively, we started taking photographs of the enthusiasm of this modern attempt to reach the Lord through song.
However, the same usher who had so politely assisted us earlier noticed this development with no enthusiasm at all.
Not so polite any more, she informed a man who appeared to hold some form of authority – an unmarked security guard dressed in a suit. I caught his hand signals out of the corner of my eye.
Turns out we were not permitted to take photographs, even though there was no signage to that effect.
We were obliged to put down the cameras.
Of course it was only normal to disobey authority when they left by carrying on with our documentation. After all, it didn’t seem to be an official rule…
But it didn’t take long before the guard reappeared at the end of our row. We got a serious finger-pointing command, accompanied by a lot of eye-squinting and silent lip-synching.
Put the camera away or you’re out.
We took both options and left, bearing our cameras.
digg_url = 'http://www.manictimes.com.au/whos_afraid_hillsong';digg_title = "Who\'s Afraid Of Hillsong?";digg_bodytext = "Most Sydneysiders have an opinion about Hillsong. It’s either a wonderful church that does nothing but good, or an evil cult.";digg_skin = 'compact';
the link is http://www.manictimes.com.au/whos_afraid_hillsong
), Shepard's Chapel, International Church of Christ(ICOC), Growing in Grace Ministries, Christadelphianism, and (in my opinion) Roman Catholicism.(which is more so apostate than a cult) and Seventh Day Adventists, Islam
