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Pat Robertson, a religious broadcaster who turned a tiny Virginia station into the global Christian Broadcasting Network, tried a run for president and helped make religion central to Republican Party politics in America through his Christian Coalition, has died. He was 93. Robertson's death Thursday was announced by his broadcasting network. No cause was given. Robertson’s enterprises also included Regent University, an evangelical Christian school in Virginia Beach; the American Center for Law and Justice, which defends the First Amendment rights of religious people; and Operation Blessing, an international humanitarian organization. But for more than a half-century, Robertson was a familiar presence in American living rooms, known for his “700 Club” television show, and in later years, his televised pronouncements of God’s judgment on America for everything from homosexuality to the teaching of evolution. The money poured in as he solicited donations, his influence soared, and when he moved directly into politics by seeking the GOP presidential nomination in 1988, he brought a huge following with him. Robertson pioneered a now-common strategy of courting Iowa’s network of evangelical Christian churches, and finished in second place in the Iowa caucuses, ahead of Vice President George H.W. Bush. At the time, Jeffrey K. Hadden, a University of Virginia sociologist and a Robertson biographer, said Robertson's masterstroke was insisting that three million followers across the U.S. sign petitions before he would decide to run. The tactic gave him an army. ″He asked people to pledge that they’d work for him, pray for him and give him money,” Hadden told The Associated Press in 1988. ″Political historians may view it as one of the most ingenious things a candidate ever did.″ Robertson later endorsed Bush, who won the presidency. Pursuit of Iowa’s evangelicals is now a ritual for Republican hopefuls, including those currently seeking the White House in 2024. Robertson started the Christian Coalition in Chesapeake in 1989, saying it would further his campaign’s ideals. The coalition became a major force in Republican politics in the 1990s, mobilizing conservative voters through grass-roots activities. By the time of his resignation as the coalition's president in 2001 — Robertson said he wanted to concentrate on ministerial work — his impact on both religion and politics in the U.S. was “enormous,” according to John C. Green, an emeritus political science professor at The University of Akron. Many followed the path Robertson cut in religious broadcasting, Green told the AP in 2021. In American politics, Robertson helped “cement the alliance between conservative Christians and the Republican Party.” Marion Gordon “Pat” Robertson was born March 22, 1930, in Lexington, Virginia, to Absalom Willis Robertson and Gladys Churchill Robertson. His father served for 36 years as a U.S. Representative and U.S. Senator from Virginia. After graduating from Washington and Lee University, he served as assistant adjutant of the 1st Marine Division in Korea. He received a law degree from Yale University Law School, but failed the bar exam and chose not to pursue a law career. Robertson met his wife, Adelia “Dede” Elmer, at Yale in 1952. He was a Southern Baptist, she was a Catholic, earning a master’s in nursing. Eighteen months later, they ran off to be married by a justice of the peace, knowing neither family would approve. Robertson was interested in politics until he found religion, Dede Robertson told the AP in 1987. He stunned her by pouring out their liquor, tearing a nude print off the wall and declaring he had found the Lord. They moved into a commune in New York City’s Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood because Robertson said God told him to sell all his possessions and minister to the poor. She was tempted to return home to Ohio, “but I realized that was not what the Lord would have me do ... I had promised to stay, so I did,” she told the AP. Robertson received a master’s in divinity from New York Theological Seminary in 1959, then drove south with his family to buy a bankrupt UHF television station in Portsmouth, Va. He said he had just $70 in his pocket, but soon found investors, and CBN went on the air on Oct. 1, 1961. Established as a tax-exempt religious nonprofit, CBN brought in hundreds of millions, disclosing $321 million in “ministry support” in 2022 alone. One of Robertson’s innovations was to use the secular talk-show format on the network’s flagship show, the “700 Club,” which grew out of a telethon when Robertson asked 700 viewers for monthly $10 contributions. It was more suited to television than traditional revival meetings or church services, and gained a huge audience. “Here’s a well-educated person having sophisticated conversations with a wide variety of guests on a wide variety of topics,” said Green, the University of Akron political science professor. “It was with a religious inflection to be sure. But it was an approach that took up everyday concerns.” His guests eventually included several U.S. presidents — Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan and Donald Trump. At times, his on-air pronouncements drew criticism. He claimed that the terrorist attacks that killed thousands of Americans on Sept. 11, 2001 were caused by God, angered by the federal courts, pornography, abortion rights and church-state separation. Talking again about 9-11 on his TV show a year later, Robertson described Islam as a violent religion that wants to “dominate” and “destroy,” prompting President George W. Bush to distance himself and say Islam is a peaceful and respectful religion. He called for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez in 2005. Later that year, he warned residents of a rural Pennsylvania town not to be surprised if disaster struck them because they voted out school board members who favored teaching “intelligent design” over evolution. And in 1998, he said Orlando, Florida, should beware of hurricanes after allowing the annual Gay Days event. In 2014, he angered Kenyans when he warned that towels in Kenya could transmit AIDS. CBN issued a correction, saying Robertson “misspoke about the possibility of getting AIDS through towels.” Robertson also could be unpredictable: In 2010, he called for ending mandatory prison sentences for marijuana possession convictions. Two years later, he said on the “700 Club” that marijuana should be legalized and treated like alcohol because the government’s war on drugs had failed. Robertson condemned Democrats caught up in sex scandals, saying for example that President Bill Clinton turned the White House into a playpen for sexual freedom. But he helped solidify evangelical support for Donald Trump, dismissing the candidate's sexually predatory comments about women as an attempt “to look like he’s macho.” After Trump took office, Robertson interviewed the president at the White House. And CBN welcomed Trump advisers, such as Kellyanne Conway, as guests. But after President Trump lost to Joe Biden in 2020, Robertson said Trump was living in an “alternate reality” and should “move on,” news outlets reported. Robertson’s son, Gordon, succeeded him in December 2007 as chief executive of CBN, which is now based in Virginia Beach. Robertson remained chairman of the network and continued to appear on the “700 Club.” Robertson stepped down as host of the show after half a century in 2021, with his son Gordon taking over the weekday show. Robertson also was founder and chairman of International Family Entertainment Inc., parent of The Family Channel basic cable TV network. Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp. bought IFE in 1997. Regent University, where classes began in Virginia Beach in 1978, now has more than 30,000 alumni, CBN said in a statement. Robertson wrote 15 books, including “The Turning Tide” and “The New World Order.” His wife Dede, who was a founding board member of CBN, died last year at the age of 94. The couple had four children, 14 grandchildren and 24 great-grandchildren, CBN said in a statement. ____ Former Associated Press reporter Don Schanche contributed to this story.

The Driving Crooner is popping up all over the shop, but who is he? A good Samaritan who picks up people who are way over-the-limit on a night out and drops them home is the easy answer, but the reality? He's the biggest meme from the new season of 'I Think You Should Leave with Tim Robinson'. Each season of the Netflix comedy has enjoyed a breakout skit with perhaps the defining one coming from the first season; The infamous 'hot dog man' - who is omnipresent in the replies of anything a politician ever tweets. A perfect response tweet to the ever-evolving disaster that is the 21st century. However, the Driving Crooner from the new season - season three - could be about to blow that away, and honestly; for no good reason apart from it being excruciatingly funny in the stupidest way. It's not a response to anything. It's just nuts. This explainer is not going to do it justice. Here are the memes, stay for the explanation. Sign up to our free Indy100 weekly newsletter As explained, the skit starts with a man offering his number to colleagues so they avoid drink-driving (an accident had occurred to a colleague). One colleague takes the man up on this and calls him. Smartly dressed, he arrives taxi-like, picks the colleague up and drives off, starting some small talk. So far, so normal - but with only minutes in the sketch remaining, so many angles appear. Firstly, the man announces himself as The Driving Crooner - and nods to the decals on his driver-side window (a fedora and a cigar). Then he starts to scream and alter speeds as the traffic flows around him at speeds that do not line up the decals with his head (the others are trying to make him look fake). Then a bunch of "frats" arrive in an SUV and tell him they are going to kill him. Then he almost breaks out into tears wondering how he is ever going to make money from The Driving Crooner idea (it's too good, you see). Finally, he berates a dog-walker for "trying to steal his decals" (he is 50yds away, minimum). It's the perfect Tim Robinson skit of an earnest idea presented to the world by a man who thinks the world revolves around him, only to find out there is genuine lurking threat, a bit of sadness, and a whole lot of chaos. Go stream I Think You Should Leave right now. Have your say in our news democracy. Click the upvote icon at the top of the page to help raise this article through the indy100 rankings.

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