Two years ago, with the pandemic raging, Britt Skarda preached to the smallest crowd -- and the largest audience -- he had ever encountered.
Because of covid-19, the pews at Pulaski Heights United Methodist Church were empty for his Easter sermon. The number of Christians stuck at home, on the other hand, was off the charts.
So Skarda, the congregation's senior pastor at the time, proclaimed Jesus' resurrection via the airwaves.
And when his sermon was over, the program concluded with a rendition of the "Hallelujah Chorus," recorded by the choir in 2018.
"It was a powerful experience," Skarda said of his final Easter service as pastor. "The viewing audience that Sunday was a record."
Since Skarda's retirement in June 2020, the broadcast has remained front and center.
"It's a rock solid part of Pulaski Heights United Methodist Church," said John Robbins, the congregation's current senior pastor. "For many people, PHUMC and our television ministry are synonymous; they're one and the same."
United Methodists refer to themselves as a community with "open hearts, open minds, open doors."
Electronically, at least, Pulaski Heights kept the doors open throughout the worst public health emergency in 100 years.
"We became, [in] a lot of ways, the church for the state of Arkansas during covid, when people's respective congregations were closed," Robbins said.
"We had lots of Presbyterians, and Baptists and nondenominational [Christians] and all kinds of people who couldn't go to their church who watched Pulaski Heights on television, many of whom have remained with us," he said.
FIRST ON KARK
For the past 56 years, Pulaski Heights has been broadcasting its services on Sunday mornings; first on KARK, later on KATV.
The television ministry was the brainchild of James B. Argue, the congregation's pastor from 1964 to 1988.
In 1965, he convinced 30 members to contribute $1,000 each -- roughly $9,000 each in today's dollars -- to help get it off the ground.
Those donations helped to pay the startup costs, and the congregation bought two secondhand black-and-white cameras from a Texas television station.
The program debuted in March 1966. At the time, an hour of airtime on Sunday morning could be bought for $275.
Color broadcasts followed about five years later.
During Skarda's decade-long pastorate, the church transitioned to high-definition equipment.
Argue, who died in 1994, never regretted the enterprise.
"The TV program is the greatest thing that has happened in the church," Argue said in 1987. "I think we have to view it as an outreach ministry. It reaches folks who otherwise couldn't participate in a worship service on Sunday."
Since its debut, the program has aired nearly 3,000 times.
Bishop Gary Mueller, the United Methodist bishop overseeing Arkansas, is impressed by the broadcast's quality and the ministry's footprint.
'MOST VISIBLE PRESENCE'
"It's outstanding. In many ways, it's the most visible United Methodist presence in the state since it has such a wide reach," he said.
Mark Rose, KATV's vice president and general manager, portrayed the church as easy to work with.
"They have such a great group over there and a great crew that's been part of that technical side of the ministry for a long, long time. They know exactly what to do," he said.
Rose doesn't have to tune in to hear the sermons; he joined the church himself after hearing Skarda preach.
The church records its 9 a.m. services and then transmits them to the television station downtown. The postlude plays just before 10 a.m.; by 10:30 a.m., viewers across Arkansas are tuning in to worship.
Originally, the program ran live at 11 a.m., but the church tired of being pre-empted by sporting events. With an earlier starting time, that is no longer a frequent problem, according to Ed Strohm, a leader in the ministry since Argue's day.
Despite the brief delay, there isn't time to edit out errors; the service airs, warts and all.
"What[ever] they say and do ... it's going to be on the air so they are cognizant of that," Strohm said.
PEAKED AT 17,577
In 2019, an average of 7,438 households tuned in each week for the hour-long program, according to ratings data provided to the Democrat-Gazette by church officials.
That figure jumped to 11,759 households in 2020, peaking at 17,577 in April, the first full month of the state's public health emergency.
Average households declined to 9,969 in 2021 as covid restrictions faded and fears decreased -- still well above the pre-covid averages.
There are roughly 2.5 people per household in the United States, based on U.S. Census Bureau statistics.
The reach of the broadcast may have been most evident in December 2020, when 23,540 households tuned in to watch a special Christmas Eve service.
Assuming the whole family was gathered to watch, that would translate to nearly 60,000 viewers -- roughly 1 in every 50 Arkansans.
Others tuned in via the internet, where the broadcast can be watched live or on demand.
In the early days, there were only two television cameras. Big and bulky, volunteers stood beside them, guiding them throughout the service.
Today, there are six cameras, unobtrusive and operated remotely by a team of three volunteers. They sit in a broadcast control room, located in the basement, and capture each moment of the service.
In a booth near the back of the room, a soundman keeps tabs on the audio. Toward the front, the director decides which images work best, switching from the pipe organ to the pulpit and pews.
A graphics generator makes sure that the speakers' names appear on the screen at just the right time.
The congregation's director of technology, Jacob Nolen, is the only crew member employed by the church. Everyone else is a volunteer.
On Sunday mornings, Ray Schaap, the program's producer, is often the first one to arrive.
"I try to be in this room at at just the right time.
The congregation's director of technology, Jacob Nolen, is the only crew member employed by the church. Everyone else is a volunteer.
On Sunday mornings, Ray Schaap, the program's producer, is often the first one to arrive.
"I try to be in this room by 7:30 a.m.," he said prior to this week's broadcast.
By the time the others have arrived, he has already marked up copies of the weekly bulletin, highlighting who will be speaking, where they will be standing and what the order of service will be.
A digital clock ticks off the hours, minutes and seconds.
"At 9:00, we go. At 9:58:08, we stop," Schaap said.
The broadcast team checks in with the television station to make sure they're receiving the feed.
"We have a backup [plan], but we pray every Sunday it goes through," he added.
RISK BEING CUT OFF
Long-winded preachers have to wrap things up on time; otherwise, they risk being cut off midsentence.
When a service ends too quickly, ministers can either ask congregants to reach for their hymnals or they can entrust the spare time to the organist. Musical postludes are great for plugging holes.
Initially, the program simply enabled viewers to be Sunday morning observers.
Robbins' goal is to make them participants, as well, "to invite them in," he said.
In the covid age, TV and internet viewers can join the church, even if they are unable or unwilling to attend services in person.
Before joining, they take membership vows. Afterward, they are welcomed, by name, during the weekly broadcast.
Judy Miller, who lives on Bull Shoals Lake, wanted to be part of a Methodist congregation but wasn't enthusiastic about driving into town for Sunday services.
"I'm like 45 minutes, by road, from any Methodist church," she explained.
So she joined Pulaski Heights instead.
"We don't get Little Rock television stations so I stream it online and I've just really enjoyed it. It's very meaningful, and it's just been an amazing experience," she said.
On Wednesday, she streams Robbins' weekly Bible study. She also participates, via Zoom, in the church's Cancer Friends ministry, which offers prayer, comfort and encouragement to those who are suffering.
"I'm involved in all those things from a distance and feel like I'm really a part of the church," she said.
Miller isn't alone.
Other Arkansans also have made the transition from spectator to full-fledged member, Robbins said.
"People are no longer just peering in to see what we are doing," he said. "They're now a part of what we are doing."
