I'll say this, Saint Paul and Pat Robertson have always done as much as they could, even for those who lack the faith to be healed. "Short leg syndrome" is a good example. A blind man might come forward to the altar; he wants to see, but his faith is too small to receive the miracle of eyesight. So Saint Paul says, "Take a seat in this chair." The person sits. "Now stick your legs straight out." The person sticks his legs straight out. Then Paul would say, "Just as I feared! Your left leg is a half-inch shorter than the right" (or sometimes, it was the other way around) – and the patient would discover that Paul's foreknowledge was correct, that he really did have a slightly shorter leg! Next, Paul would run his hands, up and down, along one leg. Then he rubbed his hands up and down the other leg, just up and down. And as he did it, the shorter leg would grow to match the longer one. And even though the suffering person went home that day without his top objective (eyesight, or hearing, or mental health, or a cure for cancer, whatever), the day was not wasted because now his legs were the exact same length; and sometimes that one miracle gave the person faith for greater miracles thereafter, such as a cure for acid reflux, or leprosy, or male-pattern baldness.
Short leg syndrome remains, to this day, a critical item on the résumé of most charismatic ministers; but no one, these days, does it as well as those original apostles, Paul especially. You could put Saint Paul in a room with forty new converts, and 39 of them would go home cured of short-leg syndrome. I never saw him heal an actual amputee – Christians back then were taught that amputees had a better chance of being admitted into Heaven than the rest of us, and so if you were an amputee, you didn't want to mess with that – but I don't doubt that Paul could have grown someone a whole new leg if the candidate just had enough faith for him to do it.
In fact, Paul was so good at curing short leg syndrome that I sometimes wonder whether he ever tried it on his own... but never mind.
Or if Pat...but never mind, again.
For Christians seeking the latest updates on how to heal short leg syndrome, may I recommend the "Beginner's Guide To Healing," by Teresa Seputis, one of many fine online manuals for Spirit-filled miracle-workers.
Perhaps I should warn you that I attempted this ancient apostolic miracle just two years ago, on the Flushing line in New York City, and ran into trouble. I was riding the number 7 train from Shea Stadium. My patient was a tiny, stooped Latina grandmother who hobbled on board at Corona Plaza. She walked with a cane. I felt sorry for her.
Granny sat down, and sighed, "°Mierda!"
Stupidly, I said: "¿Qué te pasa, madre mía?"
And she replied, without missing a beat, "Short leg syndrome."
I didn't want to go there. I suggested that her pain "might be relieved by a good masseuse, or by a chiropractor"—
(Do I look like a chiropractor?) Granny scooted her little legs out into the aisle, long and short, and said, "I'm game, sonny!"
Well, it was all very spur-of-the-moment. I had not reviewed the excellent updated instructions of Ms. Seputis and I could not remember exactly how Saint Paul used to do it. And I could not get it right! And it was embarrassing! Once I got started, I could not just walk away, I had to make it work. First, I made granny's shorter leg a half-inch too long, by extending it "in the name of the Father." Then, "in the name of Jesus," I made her other leg an inch too long! I tried it every which way. I got flustered. I swore.
As we approached Jackson Heights, I knew I was in trouble, but granny didn't seem to care. In fact, I think Señora was enjoying herself. I tried again.
Well, let me tell you something: by the time we reached Bliss Street station, that little old lady had a set of legs like those of the Brazilian supermodel, Ana Hickman – which looked a little ridiculous, to me, because the hem of granny's black dress no longer reached her knees and her walking stick no longer touched the ground. But she was not displeased. In fact, I'd say she was quite satisfied. She tapped her toes. She flexed her calves. She gave me a big, Tina Turner, smile. She must have said, "Señor, gracias!" a dozen times.
I said, "Don't thank me, thank the Lord."
Which proved to be a bad suggestion.
Granny bowed her head and made the sign of the cross. "¡Santa madre de dios!" she said, for she was now reminded of another little health problem: she was suffering also from tennis-ball-in-a-sock syndrome, on one side worse than the other.
I'm thinking: "No way!"
And she's obviously thinking, "This handsome chiropractor has made a believer of me! I'm not looking to the Lord for bigger, they just need firming up."
I opened the Times, to catch up on the news. As I watched from the corner of my eye, Granny touched her bosom, pondering some such overly optimistic Bible verse as Matthew 21:22: "Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive."
The train stopped at Queensboro Plaza. I saw, just in the nick of time, just before the doors closed again, what was coming next: Granny clutched her chest, and coughed quite theatrically, and called out to me, saying, "°Dolor en los pechos, Señor!"
I didn't believe her. I bolted.
I needed to go downtown, changing at Times Square. But I got off there at Queensboro Plaza – and wouldn't you know, I walked straight into a quintet of adolescent gangsta-punks in backward baseball caps, high on coke, coming up the steps. One of them had a big gold cross on a gold chain around his neck, and a gold tooth. He sticks a gun in my face and says, "Yo, bro, give us yo' money, muthaf**ka!"
Like I've got mo' money than he's got, when I'm wearing no gold and I don't even have a job! Besides which, I did not know that kid's mother from Queen Latifah. But I gave him what I had, about eighty dollars and a fake Rolex.
When they split, I called after them, shouting, "Jesus loves you boys!" – because it is better, in my opinion, for children like that to become born-again Christians than for them to be out there on the streets selling drugs and stealing cars and mugging pedestrians and pimping out their little sisters. But I guess they were not yet ready for salvation, because they just flipped me off.
Catching the next train, I finally reached my girlfriend's flat in the West Village: I was thirty minutes late and had no cash in my pocket to pay for what ought to have been a romantic dinner at La Palette. In the end, the whole evening was a disaster – because I tried to cure an elderly Latina's short leg syndrome without knowing what I was doing.
If you have short leg syndrome, don't write me and ask me for my help. I don't care if your long leg is called "Randy Johnson" and the short one is "Danny Devito." I will never, ever, attempt to perform that miracle again on anyone.
Ask Pat Robertson, maybe he can help you, at one end or the other.
The next morning, however, I felt ashamed of myself. Those youngsters who robbed me hung on my conscience. An insight occurred to me, in that moment of introspection: although the Christian Right has tarred me with the epithets, "liberal," and "politically correct," and "secular humanist," I don't always live up to my own ideals: in that one moment of fear, I know I misjudged those five New York City kids, and it haunts me to this day. Those boys were no gang leaders! Seriously, all five of those foul-mouthed little punks had the crotch of their trousers right between their kneecaps – and I missed my opportunity to help! Those young men were suffering from short leg syndrome! I should have performed a miracle on them!
– L.
