The Preacher's Unholy Past
Most folks drive right past the gritty stretch of downtown Los Angeles that houses University Cathedral, a former movie palace whose marquee now advertises weekly evangelical sermons. But on any given Sunday, several hundred parishioners converge here for a rousing service that has them swaying and shouting Hallelujah!, enraptured by the low, breathless calls for salvation from Melissa Scott. The unlikely stunner who leads this congregation, Scott, 40, struts the stage clutching a red-leather Bible, periodically flinging her endless chestnut locks. Her doe-eyed image is beamed to local cable stations — she is a late-night staple — courtesy of six TV cameras flanking the pulpit. "Before I found God's word, when things got bad, what did I have? I had friends and family forsake me," she cries, directing her followers to Deuteronomy 33:25. In unison, they bark, "Tough shoes for a tough road!" Ninety minutes later, she slips offstage and is whisked by security out of the building through a private passageway.
Scott knows a thing or two about tough roads. Four years ago, she lost her husband, Dr. Gene "Doc" Scott, the wildly popular "shock jock of televangelism" — nearly 40 years her senior — to complications from prostate cancer. In his heyday as pastor, Doc Scott reportedly collected $1 million a month in donations and amassed an empire that included two horse ranches, a 35,000-square-foot mansion in Pasadena, a private plane, and a collection of luxury cars. Shortly after his funeral, Doc Scott's comely young wife assumed University's pulpit. But after her first sermon, someone anonymously mailed churchgoers Easter cards featuring snapshots of a porn star named Barbie Bridges, who looked remarkably similar to Pastor Melissa Scott. One image showed the woman with her legs spread wide, Virgin Mary and baby Jesus postage stamps covering her privates. Another featured a "See you Sunday!" banner plastered across her bare chest; underneath, it read: "The Church Where You Can Do Anything ... Anything."
The mailing sparked a revolt. Scott's Wikipedia page was so vandalized, it had to be removed; Web newsgroups devoted to the church were overrun by users posting more damning photos. ("Who else wants to bang the bejesus out of Pastor Melissa Scott?" inquired one.) Already stinging from the regime change following Doc Scott's death, some demanded her resignation. Others claimed she was a walking billboard for the redemptive powers of faith. But Scott would cop to nothing, dismissing the incident as an expert Photoshop job, part of a sick smear campaign by religious nuts. She even trotted out a Hollywood attorney to threaten her congregants with lawsuits should any more anonymous missives materialize. It seemed as if Scott had joined the long, sordid list of disgraced televangelists like Jimmy Swaggart, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, and, most recently, Ted Haggard, ousted from his Colorado church following allegations that he solicited a male prostitute. But unlike those toppled icons, Scott clung to her denial and carried on preaching.
In the years that followed, Scott avoided answering any more questions about Barbie Bridges — until now.
http://www.marieclaire.com/world-reports/news/melissa-scott-porn-pastor 
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