©The Associated Press

By VERENA DOBNIK

NEW YORK (AP) - The Broadway theater is so packed that the audience spills

into the lobby, the basement - even onto the stage.

The music is mesmerizing, with ushers dancing in the aisles and people leaping

from the red velvet seats, clapping and shouting.

But this spectacle, fine as it is, doesn't have a chance for a Tony. This is

the Times Square Church, Christian revival as show biz, pure prayer under

spotlights.

Each Sunday, a screen and huge loudspeakers beam the stage action to about

8,000 worshippers at three services. They wave back, bodies swaying amid amens

and hallelujahs. Shaking tambourines, they sing with the drums, saxophone and

gospel choir that rock the stage of the old Mark Hellinger Theater.

This is the same stage where Julie Andrews once sang in ``My Fair Lady'' and

where Jeff Fenholt starred in the 1970s rock musical ``Jesus Christ

Superstar.'' In 1987, the born-again Fenholt - a drug addict while he played

Jesus - helped dedicate the theater as a church.

It's now part of a worldwide rebirth of strict Christian mega-churches. They

offer ``a kind of therapy rooted in God: person-to-person religious therapy,''

says Mark Noll, a visiting professor of religious history at Harvard.

Here, at the heart of America's biggest city, the church ministers to

prisoners with AIDS, the suicidal, the handicapped, juvenile delinquents and

sex-abuse victims. At some services, the first few rows are reserved for

congregants such as former prostitutes and recovering drug addicts and

alcoholics.

Well-dressed and well-behaved, worshippers fill the 1,600-seat theater on West

51st Street, drawn by a marquee that reads: ``A great multitude of all

nations, people and languages... (Rev. 7:9).'' Some are even well-heeled.

``There are millionaires praying here and there are homeless people,'' says

Manhattan attorney Joseph Ruta. ``It really moves me.''

In a city of immigrants, the congregation represents 110 nations. ``We're at

the crossroads of the world,'' the Rev. David Wilkerson tells the faithful -

black and white, rich and poor, Hispanic, Asian and African.

As security guards patrol, Wilkerson also adds: ``Hold on to your purses,

ladies. We're in Times Square.'' Instead, many clutch Bibles, underlined and

dogeared.

>From an illuminated lectern, the evangelist's voice reaches even the overflow

crowd seated in the domed lobby and the basement, who watch him on screens.

``Who has never been here?'' the preacher asks. ``Stand up! Let us welcome

you.''

Video cameras roll amid handshakes. The moment is captured, to be shipped to

those who aren't here or don't yet believe. Wilkerson's mailings of cassettes,

newsletters and inspirational videos reach almost 1 million addresses.

Their star is Jesus.

``He's the answer for everything,'' says the Rev. Richard Wiese, one of

Wilkerson's four co-pastors. ``Jesus is real, he's a people lover and he

reaches out to everyone, from the bum to the CEO.''

Among those ``found'' is Howard Grimsley, a prisoner with AIDS at the city's

Rikers Island jail, where a church volunteer conducts weekly Bible classes. In

this church, Grimsley says from jail, ``there's no discrimination. It's about

inspiration - and they accept the outcasts of society like me.''

But make no mistake, though God pardons everyone, this is pull-no-punches

Christianity. ``We shoot straight from the hip,'' Wiese says. So the faithful

are asked to fast, and to stay clear of extramarital sex, homosexuality, and

any drinking or drugs.

Show biz saturates the theater's rose-colored interior. From the resplendent

lobby, with its massive rococo chandelier, a sign flashes: ``Service starts in

24 minutes.'' The service lasts about two hours, as long as a Broadway show,

with lyrics that could have been lifted from a Southern revival meeting.

``Lord, we can trust you for every need,'' intones Wiese.

The response is instant: ``Yessss, yesss...

An electronic box flashes hymn numbers and lyrics. Behind the green velvet

stage curtains, a technician stands over a light-control panel, dimming the

spots as the sermon starts. From glass booths, translators speak various

languages that reach worshippers through headphones.

Wilkerson, 66, an Indiana native, was trained by the Assemblies of God that

ordained such dramatic televangelists as Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart. His

book about saving youths from drugs and violence, ``The Cross and the

Switchblade,'' served as a script for a Hollywood movie, inspired by

Wilkerson's first years in New York in the 1950s.

The city's streets are home turf to Wiese. Involved with drugs and guns at 13,

he once associated with the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang. In the 1980s, he

was released from Sing Sing prison north of the city after serving a six-year

sentence for violent assault.

Now 39 and a father of three, Wiese altered a skull tattoo on his arm into a

wheel with wings, representing a biker's life. ``We call this a switchblade,''

he says, displaying a tiny gold New Testament. Joking about God's word as ``a

sword of the spirit,'' he adds: ``This is the mini version.''

Among those Wiese calls a friend is David Berkowitz, who terrorized New York

City 20 years ago as the serial killer dubbed ``Son of Sam.'' A born-again

Christian, Berkowitz met Wiese while they were both behind bars.

Since then, Wiese has acquired more friends, including Ivy League graduates

from Wall Street who attend the Times Square Church.

The congregation was started in the 1980s, when Wilkerson left Texas to return

to New York City, called the ``sin-soaked city'' in a church pamphlet.

Eventually, World Challenge Inc., a group of missionaries he heads in Texas,

purchased the theater for about $15 million.

To start, Wilkerson first rented a theater on West 41st Street. But ``we

prayed for our own space,'' says Charlette Crump, a retired social worker who

ministers to the elderly. ``When we started praying, 'Legs Diamond' started

going downhill,'' she adds, citing a show then playing at the Hellinger.

The star of ``Legs,'' Peter Allen, said at the time: ``God kicked me off

Broadway.''

Now, God's theater is run by five pastors who tackle urban angst, both

spiritual and financial. Wilkerson, who claims he predicted the stock market

crash in 1987, warns the congregation of the week's big drop: ``I'd recommend

that if you're in the stock market, get out.

``If you don't know God, this is the time to know him,'' he says, announcing

that the church would add a seminar on money management to its usual Bible

study for 1,500 faithful.

Because tax-exempt religious organizations are not required to make their

finances public, it's hard to determine just how well off the ministry is. But

Wilkerson apparently practices what he preaches.

The church, he says, has no debt and owns about 200,000 square feet of prime

Manhattan real estate. These include Isaiah House for homeless men and Sarah

House for destitute women and children, plus a new 75,000-square-foot annex to

accommodate the overflow crowd on Sundays.

Parishioners do share the largess. Those who drive to church may can park at

pricey midtown lots, at church expense.

Among the commuters is Peter Moran, a 29-year-old church ``elder'' who

conducts prayer groups in Lancaster, Pa. He attends two services in Manhattan

on Sunday, piling his family into a van and driving three hours each way.

``I had everything: four cars, a beautiful wife, five kids,'' says Moran, a

high-school dropout who owns a successful car-cleaning business. Then, ``God

broke in on my life, saying, `Peter, you've got all of these things.' But what

does it profit a man if he gains the whole world, but loses his soul?'' he

asks, paraphrasing the Bible.

His salvation comes amid urban grit. ``The Wall Street guy and the homeless

guy are both accountable to the same God here,'' he says. ``At the cross, it's

level ground.''

AP-NY-03-21-98 1954EST

Copyright 1997 The Associated Press. The information contained in the AP

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