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The unnamed author has nothing to say of value here. He offers no encouragement, enlightenment, or even an explanation of some Bible principle.
This is a little over 1500 words, with about 600 of them wasted on an irrelevant tangent. And not a single Scripture quoted.
We must deem this Bad Bible Teaching.
And yet—conveniently—their miracles only ever seem to materialize inside dimly lit auditoriums filled with suggestible audiences. Never in hospitals. Never in hospice wards. Never where the truly desperate and dying need them. Always on stage, where the cameras are rolling, where the lighting is perfect, where the crowd is primed for deception. (The hostility and lack of faith is palpable. This man truly believes that people ought to accept their disease and just go away to die. Incredible.)
In 2019, Bethel orchestrated what can only be described as a modern-day necromantic ritual. A two-year-old girl had died suddenly, and rather than mourn as Christians—clinging to the hope of the resurrection to come—they launched a social media campaign under the hashtag #WakeUpOlive.
They danced. They sang. They commanded her lifeless body to rise. (They believed God could resurrect the dead. But God did not in this case. And the author is ecstatic.)
They turned grief into a spectacle. They dragged an already shattered family through the gauntlet of false hope, of performative faith.
And when—predictably—Olive did not rise?
They moved on.
No apology. No self-reflection. No reckoning with their fraudulent theology. Just silence, as if it had never happened. (This is quite false.)
This is Bethel’s calling card—never admit failure, never acknowledge the cracks in the foundation. Just keep pushing the next spiritual gimmick. And when healing doesn’t come? It’s never the theology that’s flawed—it’s always your fault. Not enough faith. Not enough giving. Not enough “pressing in.”
But the Bible tells a different story. (Where in the Bible? Why not teach the Bible? Quote it? Explain it?)
Scripture never promises immunity from sickness in this life. Even Paul—an actual apostle, not a self-appointed “apostolic leader” like Johnson—suffered from a thorn in the flesh that God chose not to remove. Timothy had stomach ailments. Epaphroditus nearly died. The great men and women of faith were not marked by glowing health and earthly prosperity but by perseverance through suffering.
The gospel does not promise perpetual healing. (What does the Bible teach about healing? Please, explain it to us.)
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(...) Deleted long, irrelevant tangent.
Here stands a man whose own eyes betray him—forced to wear glasses because his faith isn’t strong enough to restore his failing vision. A man whose wife, despite the grandiose proclamations of healing, succumbed to cancer just over a year or so ago. A man whose church once engaged in what could only be described as a seance, an unhinged display of misplaced faith in an attempt to resurrect a dead toddler. (So, a church that believes in healing but doesn't see it happen is hypocritical? What?)
And yet, here he is, still selling the same snake oil, still convincing the gullible that divine healing is just one more Bethel conference away. (Which of course isn't the case. Johnson teaches and believes in healing, but has never promised healing by attending one more conference. This is just silly.)
Perhaps the most damning indictment of Bethel’s fraudulent healing theology is found in the story of Nabeel Qureshi, a former Muslim turned Christian apologist. Diagnosed with stage 4 stomach cancer, Qureshi made his own pilgrimage—not to the temples of Asclepius, but to the faith healers of Bethel. He sat through their services, endured their prophecies, allowed their self-proclaimed miracle workers to lay hands on him. Bethel’s leadership declared health over him, proclaimed victory over his body, waged supernatural war against the cancer.
And yet, despite all their showmanship, despite the roaring declarations and the fevered prayers, the cancer did not retreat. Their magic words carried no power. Unlike the collection plates they pass around like sacred relics, their promises were empty. (The author gleefully notes the death of a Christian man who believed in healing.)
In September 2017, Nabeel Qureshi died.
Not healed. Not miraculously restored. Just another casualty of Bethel’s cruel fantasy. (Get to the point, "Publisher." Can God heal or not? Does he answer prayers for healing? Does He act on behalf of people who seek Him in faith?)
And still, Bill Johnson grins. Still, he peddles books. Still, he sells conferences. The desperate will keep coming. The suffering will keep hoping. And the cycle will continue—because Bethel’s business model isn’t built on truth. It’s built on the willingness of the afflicted to “sow seeds” of false hope. (The author seems happy about peoples' dashed hopes and failed prayers.)
The inconvenient realities—his own failing eyesight, his wife’s death, Qureshi’s tragic end—will not make a dent in the narrative. The system depends on selective memory. The failures are forgotten. The contradictions ignored. And the lie, wrapped in the language of faith, marches on.
It would be entertaining if it weren’t so scheming and serpent-like with real-life and eternal consequences. (It clearly entertains the author as he ghoulishly celebrates the deaths of Christians.)
Bethel’s theology is nothing more than a modern-day reincarnation of the cult of Asclepius—magic words, mystical rituals, and a staggering confidence that flies in the face of both Scripture (What Scriptures?)
(...) Deleted long, irrelevant tangent.
Here stands a man whose own eyes betray him—forced to wear glasses because his faith isn’t strong enough to restore his failing vision. A man whose wife, despite the grandiose proclamations of healing, succumbed to cancer just over a year or so ago. A man whose church once engaged in what could only be described as a seance, an unhinged display of misplaced faith in an attempt to resurrect a dead toddler. (So, a church that believes in healing but doesn't see it happen is hypocritical? What?)
And yet, here he is, still selling the same snake oil, still convincing the gullible that divine healing is just one more Bethel conference away. (Which of course isn't the case. Johnson teaches and believes in healing, but has never promised healing by attending one more conference. This is just silly.)
Perhaps the most damning indictment of Bethel’s fraudulent healing theology is found in the story of Nabeel Qureshi, a former Muslim turned Christian apologist. Diagnosed with stage 4 stomach cancer, Qureshi made his own pilgrimage—not to the temples of Asclepius, but to the faith healers of Bethel. He sat through their services, endured their prophecies, allowed their self-proclaimed miracle workers to lay hands on him. Bethel’s leadership declared health over him, proclaimed victory over his body, waged supernatural war against the cancer.
And yet, despite all their showmanship, despite the roaring declarations and the fevered prayers, the cancer did not retreat. Their magic words carried no power. Unlike the collection plates they pass around like sacred relics, their promises were empty. (The author gleefully notes the death of a Christian man who believed in healing.)
In September 2017, Nabeel Qureshi died.
Not healed. Not miraculously restored. Just another casualty of Bethel’s cruel fantasy. (Get to the point, "Publisher." Can God heal or not? Does he answer prayers for healing? Does He act on behalf of people who seek Him in faith?)
And still, Bill Johnson grins. Still, he peddles books. Still, he sells conferences. The desperate will keep coming. The suffering will keep hoping. And the cycle will continue—because Bethel’s business model isn’t built on truth. It’s built on the willingness of the afflicted to “sow seeds” of false hope. (The author seems happy about peoples' dashed hopes and failed prayers.)
The inconvenient realities—his own failing eyesight, his wife’s death, Qureshi’s tragic end—will not make a dent in the narrative. The system depends on selective memory. The failures are forgotten. The contradictions ignored. And the lie, wrapped in the language of faith, marches on.
It would be entertaining if it weren’t so scheming and serpent-like with real-life and eternal consequences. (It clearly entertains the author as he ghoulishly celebrates the deaths of Christians.)
Bethel’s theology is nothing more than a modern-day reincarnation of the cult of Asclepius—magic words, mystical rituals, and a staggering confidence that flies in the face of both Scripture (What Scriptures?)
and observable reality. ("Observable reality" is not a Biblical perspective. The Pharisees could not believe the blind man was healed [Jn. 9:18], because that violated "observable reality." This is nothing more than saying that because we haven't seen healing we will never see healing.)
They believe their words hold divine creative power. They “declare” bones to knit, tumors to shrink, blind eyes to see.
And yet—conveniently—their miracles only ever seem to materialize inside dimly lit auditoriums filled with suggestible audiences. Never in hospitals. Never in hospice wards. Never where the truly desperate and dying need them. Always on stage, where the cameras are rolling, where the lighting is perfect, where the crowd is primed for deception. (The hostility and lack of faith is palpable. This man truly believes that people ought to accept their disease and just go away to die. Incredible.)
In 2019, Bethel orchestrated what can only be described as a modern-day necromantic ritual. A two-year-old girl had died suddenly, and rather than mourn as Christians—clinging to the hope of the resurrection to come—they launched a social media campaign under the hashtag #WakeUpOlive.
They danced. They sang. They commanded her lifeless body to rise. (They believed God could resurrect the dead. But God did not in this case. And the author is ecstatic.)
They turned grief into a spectacle. They dragged an already shattered family through the gauntlet of false hope, of performative faith.
And when—predictably—Olive did not rise?
They moved on.
No apology. No self-reflection. No reckoning with their fraudulent theology. Just silence, as if it had never happened. (This is quite false.)
This is Bethel’s calling card—never admit failure, never acknowledge the cracks in the foundation. Just keep pushing the next spiritual gimmick. And when healing doesn’t come? It’s never the theology that’s flawed—it’s always your fault. Not enough faith. Not enough giving. Not enough “pressing in.”
But the Bible tells a different story. (Where in the Bible? Why not teach the Bible? Quote it? Explain it?)
Scripture never promises immunity from sickness in this life. Even Paul—an actual apostle, not a self-appointed “apostolic leader” like Johnson—suffered from a thorn in the flesh that God chose not to remove. Timothy had stomach ailments. Epaphroditus nearly died. The great men and women of faith were not marked by glowing health and earthly prosperity but by perseverance through suffering.
The gospel does not promise perpetual healing. (What does the Bible teach about healing? Please, explain it to us.)
It promises resurrection life in Christ. (False choice.)
A promise secured not by Bethel’s stagecraft but by the atoning work of Jesus Christ alone. (Who claims that Bethel's stagecraft is being marketed as something distinct from the atonement? This makes no sense.)
So what exactly is Bethel selling?
Not biblical faith. Not scriptural truth. Not the hope of the gospel.
They are selling a repackaged, modern-day version of Asclepius’ cult—false hope wrapped in spiritual theatrics, a carnival act disguised as Christianity. And Bill Johnson, with his toothy grin and these useless books, is nothing more than a merchant of delusion, selling miracles he cannot produce, promising healing he cannot deliver.
Perhaps, like Asclepius, Johnson and his movement will one day be struck down—not by Zeus, but by the true and living God of Scripture, (Hmm. Rather than pray for Johnson the author wants him and everyone in his church to die.)
So what exactly is Bethel selling?
Not biblical faith. Not scriptural truth. Not the hope of the gospel.
They are selling a repackaged, modern-day version of Asclepius’ cult—false hope wrapped in spiritual theatrics, a carnival act disguised as Christianity. And Bill Johnson, with his toothy grin and these useless books, is nothing more than a merchant of delusion, selling miracles he cannot produce, promising healing he cannot deliver.
Perhaps, like Asclepius, Johnson and his movement will one day be struck down—not by Zeus, but by the true and living God of Scripture, (Hmm. Rather than pray for Johnson the author wants him and everyone in his church to die.)
and the cold, hard reality that their empire was built on a foundation of empty words and broken promises.
And when that day comes, perhaps some of their followers will finally wake up to the truth.
And when that day comes, perhaps some of their followers will finally wake up to the truth.
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