LET US PAY

In addition to expelling demons, Pentecostal preacher Wallace Hickey, an elderly white man crowned by a stylish, white toupee, speaks in tongues, composes rhyming prayers and warmly welcomes strangers.

After Pastor Wally attempts to exorcise cancer, the three women join the thousand or so other congregants inside, where live music is happening. Keyboards, sax, guitars, singers. Professionals backed by a sixty-member choir of congregants. Sweet soul music.

Just a few minutes later, as the music really gets funky, the flock's eyes squeeze shut again as they are told by Pastor Marlene--a young, attractive black woman--to reach for their wallets. "Well, church, it is time to give!" she says. "We are of God! We are of God! We are of God! We pay to him. We owe him. I know you're able."

The principle is simple: You've got to give if you want to receive. And that means money. They call it "sowing the seed."

Envelopes, not hymnals, are tucked into the backs of the auditorium's chairs. The ushers approach with brown plastic tubs, and the flock open their eyes long enough to stuff checks and cash into the envelopes and pass them to the aisles. They are told to pray, so their eyes squeeze shut again. Pastor Marlene turns her attention to God and says, "We're giving and sowing seed. Show them how You will bless the 90 percent while they give the 10 percent. In Jesus's name. Amen."

Only after the "offering" does the real star of the Happy Church take the stage. It's Pastor Wally's wife, Marilyn Hickey, a small, slender woman now in her early sixties. No feminist in principle, she nevertheless runs the entire show. She believes in miracles, blessings and healing. After preaching the Gospel for decades, she's now a minor television personality, globetrotter, chair of the board of regents of Oral Roberts University and overseer of a nonprofit, multimillion-dollar electronic ministry that includes the Happy Church. It does seem like a miracle.

And she wants to pass it on. "I want to pray for people who have any kind of miracle problem," she says. She tells her congregants that she healed a ten-year-old Detroit boy who had cerebral palsy. And she tells them about her own health problems and miracle cures.

"They told me I had an enlarged heart at 23," she says. "Now it's fixed."
There are people--other evangelical Christians, in particular--who would agree that Marilyn Hickey no longer suffers from a big heart.

Records obtained by Westword show in detail how the Hickeys have raised $75 million in the past five years on God's behalf here and overseas. The largest portion of that money flows in response to direct-mail appeals that use such items as holy oil, miracle prayer cloths and starving foreigners as props. The rest comes from church members, telemarketing, a school, a bible college, correspondence courses, overseas excursions, books, tapes and videos, all of it peddled via television and a magazine called--what else?--Outpouring.

Of course, the Hickeys are small-time compared with, say, Focus on the Family, which rakes in $100 million a year. But Focus, based in Colorado Springs, releases financial figures and belongs to the self-policing Evangelical Council for Financial Accountability. The Hickeys and their Greenwood Village-based company do not. And the size of their revenue surprises the watchdogs who track televangelists for a living and thought that Marilyn Hickey, though notable for being one of the few women televangelists, was just a small blip on their radar screens.

Nonbelievers scoff at those who send money to the Hickeys and other "faith" evangelists in return for promises of miracles and blessings. But the emotional and spiritual power drummed up by the Hickeys is real. It's heartfelt. And that's why some Christians view it with alarm.

"Being a member of Marilyn Hickey's electronic church is like being married to a rubber dolly," says the Reverend Ole Anthony, whose Trinity Foundation in Dallas helped expose Pastor Bob Tilton on national TV a few years back. "She is just another one of the heresy teachers. It's heresy because they teach that God rewards greed. They're dominating the airwaves. The real hook is that if you give, then you will get. And you will get a whole bunch. They're teaching people to play a heavenly lottery, to go to a spiritual Las Vegas."

Little of the money that comes in goes back out in taxes, since these fundraising ventures are under the aegis of a church. Some of the money is earmarked for perks such as "pastoral" housing allowances, which are tax-free to the administrators who receive them. But while the Hickeys have approved additional allowances for church higher-ups in the past few years, they have slashed their staff and landed in hot water with federal Department of Labor officials for failing to pay overtime to lower-level workers. It turns out there are many things the Hickeys will not subsidize: They even raised the prices in their employee cafeteria to force it into the black.

After all, the Hickeys have expenses.
A graduate of South High School, Marilyn Sweitzer was teaching at Grant Junior High School in 1954 when she met Wally Hickey, at the time a record salesman at the Denver Dry Goods Company. Wally became a preacher and, eventually, so did Marilyn. They both turned to evangelism and opened Full Gospel Chapel, an Assemblies of God church. Marilyn eventually eclipsed her husband as a preacher, and they renamed their operation the Happy Church, capitalizing on their own brand of Pentecostalism that features singing, dancing, laughing, speaking in tongues, and boundless optimism that God will make them healthy, wealthy and wise. Marilyn and Wally raised two children, Mike and Sarah, in the comfortable southeast Denver split-level house where they've lived for decades.

Meanwhile, the Happy Church kept growing. In 1990, angling to move the church out of its home in a blue-collar section of northwest Denver, the Hickeys paid $7.8 million for Beau Monde, a busted shopping mall at I-25 and Orchard Road in upscale Greenwood Village. Today they're almost through carving a grand sanctuary out of the courtyard of the mall. It costs more than $300,000 a year to operate the big complex. Other funds pay for the ministry's world travel--an amount that outstrips the direct aid they send to poor people overseas. But the largest chunk of the money, millions per year, is funneled through the Hickeys' in-house TV agency to buy more television time to make more money. To buy more television time. To make more money. To buy more television time.

Critics in the evangelical Christian community call this "feeding the monster." Documents of the Happy Church and Marilyn Hickey Ministries, which include daily cash-flow reports, balance sheets, internal memos and board minutes, confirm what a number of evangelical Christians themselves say: that television tempts preachers to "lose their message" and veer into some very un-Christian behavior. The sweet smell of celebrity success helped send preachers Jim Bakker, Jimmy Swaggart and Bob Tilton careening out of control and into ruin.

Could this happen to Marilyn Hickey? Though somewhat homophobic, intolerant of mainstream Protestants and known as a hard-driving boss, she gets high marks from even her critics for her personal morals and her ability as a Bible teacher. She and Wally don't live like the Bakkers, but they're not poor. According to a 1991 personal financial statement, their house was paid off in full and their net worth at the time was a million bucks.

Hickey herself won't answer questions about her church. After initially agreeing to make time for Westword's queries, she has hidden behind her Dallas attorney, Dennis Brewer Sr. "I'm their general counsel and they do what I tell them. That's the deal," says Brewer, a former lawyer to Jimmy Swaggart and boardmember of Swaggart Ministries. In a letter to Westword, he declined a request for an interview with Hickey.

Ê Nevertheless, there is some question about how happy the Happy Church really is. The internal documents, coupled with interviews with insiders past and present, indicate that this money monster may be meddling in the lives of Happy Church employees.

Ex-insiders talk about how the company's incessant demand that employees work overtime has torn families apart. Tom Moller, a former instructor at Marilyn Hickey Bible College, and his wife, a counselor for the ministry, tried to help many who complained of the pressures of devoting much of their lives to the church. Moller describes the situation as a sort of "spiritual bondage" that makes people fearful of refusing requests to work long hours at what's portrayed to them as the service of the Lord. The church's stated goal is to get more "involvement" from the people in its orbit.

Other ex-insiders note that employees--not to mention other congregants--are expected to attend two services a week, tithe and make additional contributions to "mission work" on top of that. And the pay, several people say, is low. The church is being sued by a worker who claims she was fired because she refused to work overtime. "They're fearful of being dismissed, but they also want to serve God," says Moller. "And they're told they're serving God, so if they balk, their motives are questioned."

When he voiced those concerns directly to Marilyn Hickey, Moller says, top officials weren't exactly thrilled.

"I went to Marilyn, and she was very gracious to me," says Moller. "But my wife was told by her supervisor to `control' her husband. And Wally jumped me for supposedly not tithing."

Last spring Moller was dismissed from his part-time job. "I want to be very careful here; I don't mean to say it's a cult," he says. "But it was very close to cultic in that mentality."

Marilyn Hickey, says Moller, probably "thinks she's doing right." The problem, he adds, is "there's a lot of pressure. There's a huge superstructure to support."

Back in 1978, according to one insider, there were 300 church members and two people on staff. Now services attract more than 1,000, there's an estimated mailing list of at least 350,000, a staff of about 300, a host of subsidiary enterprises and a mall to pay off.

"The organization begins to take on a life of its own," says Moller, who started working for the Hickeys in 1988. "It needs to be fed. And good people slip into hucksterism without realizing it."

Moller and others describe Hickey as too defensive to be able to accurately assess her own situation. But when she's standing in front of a congregation, she portrays supreme confidence. This is a positive church with a positive message. Drawing on her classroom experience, Hickey teaches by rote and makes her listeners participate in a variation of "Simon Says."

"Look at someone," she says, "and say, `Honey, you're going to get free. This morning!'" They say it.

"Say `Give and receive,'" she tells them. They say it, over and over. She orders them to turn to their neighbors and say, "Honey, keep reading your Bible." She tells them to be positive, not negative or hurtful, with themselves and others. Sassy and quick on her feet, she translates the formal language of the King James Version into modern vernacular. "Abigail had a husband," she says, walking into the church aisles. "He was a nut. One thing about him: He had money. But he was a thug all the way."

If you got a hubby like Abigail's, honey, don't worry. As Pentecostal preachers like to say, the blood of Jesus washes it all away. Even other people's blood. Hickey's modern stories of redemption are often compelling. On that Sunday in July, she told a story she said she heard while in Maui of a 22-year-old Tonga woman, a Methodist, who started going to a Pentecostal church. Her horrified father clipped off her beautiful hair and beat her with strips torn from a big ol' tire. The young woman prayed during her beating. What happened to her dad? He eventually came to Jesus the Pentecostal way and became a born-again believer. You should do the same, she urges.

And she's made that suggestion all over the globe. Marilyn Hickey drops more place names than a clumsy cartographer. In just three sermons this summer, she also mentioned visits to Santa Fe, London, the Bahamas, Switzerland, Russia, China and Pakistan--not to mention trips to such U.S. Bible Belt centers as Tulsa, Orlando and Greensboro, North Carolina.

It all pays off. During Marilyn's Sunday service on August 20, the Hickeys had two pieces of exciting news for their flock. They're changing the name of the Happy Church to Orchard Road Christian Center--a name more in keeping with their upscale location.

And they received an award: a third place in "world missions giving" from the district office of the Assemblies of God denomination. The plaque notes that the Hickeys' operation gave a grand total of $170,699.98 in 1994. That fact was proudly announced to the congregation. Warm applause followed. What the congregation didn't hear was that $170,699.98 represents about 1 percent of the church's estimated $17 million haul last year.

If you're going to be one of Marilyn Hickey's "prayer warriors"--actually, a telemarketing employee--there are some things you need to know. First, do not pray with a caller any longer than ninety seconds.

It says so right on the sheet that telemarketing crews have used at the Happy Church.

How do you get in touch with a "prayer warrior"? Try watching Today With Marilyn, her TV show that airs on the Trinity Broadcasting Network, the Black Entertainment Network and various other stations and cable channels, including Channel 20 in Denver early weekday mornings.

In these infomercials, Hickey wastes no time explaining the procedure. "We have prayer warriors that love you!" she says right at the beginning of the show. She even picks up a phone to show you how to call. And she throws in a plug for Jesus, too: "His anointing destroys the yoke," she reminds her viewers.

Hickey's spiel varies; a June show features her advice to those who have weight problems. "I can eat anything," she says. "And it's a good thing. I travel all over the world." Her advice to the rest of us: "Before you go to the table, pray in tongues."

The show is sprinkled with Hickey ads for a "Holy Spirit encounter" in Honolulu, a tour to Indonesia, Singapore and China, and an old-fashioned "camp meeting" where you can "come hang out with Jesus" in North Carolina.

Through all of this, the number of the Prayer Center is on the screen and Marilyn reminds you of the "wonderful, wonderful prayer warriors" awaiting your call.

And when you do, these warriors have a "call flow chart" that tells them exactly how to respond. According to a May 5 chart, here's the procedure if someone calls in needing a prayer: "1. Determine need quickly. 2. Ask first name. 3. Stay on subject. 4. Avoid excess talk. 5. Pray time 90 sec. 6. Do not counsel."

The prayer warrior follows this "script example":
"(Name), there is a special ______ that has helped so many people who have been in the same situation that you are in today (be specific when appropriate). You know that Marilyn believes in standing on the Word and I know that she would want you to have this (tape, tape set, book, or booklet, called...) so she is not asking a specific price for it. Instead, it is available TO YOU for a gift of any amount. (Name), would you like to receive this (tape, tape set, book, or booklet)?"

Then the prayer warrior suggests a product (from a list that includes a tape called Beware of the Wiles of the Devil).

Finally, the prayer warrior makes a "ministry offering." Absolutely free. Of course, the "ministry offering" to these callers is a free booklet urging them to send money. It's titled Tithes and Offerings: God's Plan for Blessing You.

According to the flow chart, this booklet is not available to people who call and ask for other free items, such as Outpouring magazine or "overseas trip information"--unless those callers also ask for a prayer. The free booklet is not available under any circumstances to those callers who purchase items listed in Outpouring or who send money for other reasons. After all, why offer something free to people already willing to pay?

The Prayer Center cost the Hickey company $765,440 in operating expenses during the first nine months of last year. But it helped generate revenue in several areas, including $372,241 in "product sales" and $1 million for Outpouring (which cost only $650,000 in operating expenses).

The big-ticket item, however, is direct mail. According to the religious company's documents, operating expenses for direct mail in the first nine months of 1994 were $1.104 million, while direct-mail revenue was $3.306 million.

Insiders say the Hickeys rely heavily upon Paul Landry, a marketing wizard who wrote direct-mail appeals for Bob Tilton. (The Tilton and Hickey letters are similar in their crazed, jumbled graphic style and breathless tone.) Back in 1992, according to ex-insiders, Landry was being paid $3,800 a month for three days' work on the Hickey mailings. The consultant would fly into town for brainstorming sessions, at which time the letters would be fine-tuned. Some of the appeals are specifically geared to feature starving kids in forgotten lands. Others rely on what watchdog groups say is a familiar pattern: Send something to people and have them send it back. Invariably, they'll feel guilty and send you money, too.

What's the gimmick? Sometimes it's a piece of textile-like substance dubbed a "miracle prayer cloth." Other times, it's a little card with a string called a "miracle claim check." The Hickey organization will send you a vial for "anointed oil." Mail it back with a check and the company will fill it up for you.

Recently the Hickeys sent out a fundraising appeal that included a flimsy stick, along with Marilyn's explanation that 28 years ago "God used me as His instrument of faith and love to minister a specific miracle word to my own husband." She wound up curing Wally of depression.

Page three of the long, involved and bizarre fundraising letter shows a photo of Marilyn breaking the stick, with this caption: "Are you or is someone you know and love needing a lasting MIRACLE BREAK in some area of life? Remember: The Lord has truly prompted and directed me to send this letter. My faith is ready to be released for your MIRACLE BREAK!"

You're supposed to break the stick in half and send it back to her, along with a prayer request for a "miracle break." Check one box for Hickey's free cassette, How to Make a Miracle Break. Check another box that says, "In Jesus' name--(with FAITH)--I broke my (point of contact) stick and declared out loud in prayer: `I make my miracle break. This spiritual war is over for me!' (Enclosed is 1/2 the stick as my sign and symbol of faith.)" Check another box that says "Enclosed is my GIFT OF LOVE. In Jesus' name, I am making it my BREAKTHROUGH SEED OF FAITH!"

Amazingly, people send money in response. Ole Anthony of the Trinity Foundation explains why:

"There's a limited number of people who watch religious programming--about five million in North America. And all of the evangelists are after that same donor pool. Sixty percent of the donor pool is made up of elderly women. Thirty percent are the desperation pool--people in dire, dire need. The remainder is made up of relatively well-off, middle-class people who want a spiritual justification for their greed. All of these evangelists are going after this same donor pool." Anthony adds that a member of that donor pool "normally doesn't just give to one; he or she gives to several."

Of course, the Hickeys' Prayer Center, television and direct-mail appeals work together to siphon money from this donor pool. TV prompts people to call. Prayer warriors capture names, addresses and phone numbers. That information, plus the callers' particular interests, is fed into a sophisticated computer program that targets particular segments of the ministry's constantly growing mailing list.

A sizable segment of the evangelical Christian community berates preachers like Marilyn Hickey and Bob Tilton, the modern-day counterparts of Forties and Fifties faith healers Kathryn Kuhlman and Oral Roberts. No one could squeeze his eyes shut tighter than Brother Bob, a handsome, rakish man who pleaded and begged and pounded on the table for people to send him money. His lifestyle included a $600-a-week dry-cleaning bill until an ABC Prime Time Live investigation took the starch out of him.

The Reverend Austin Miles recognizes hucksters such as Tilton. A former circus ringmaster and narrator for the Royal Lippizaner Stallion Show, Miles turned to the Lord and then to televangelism and got caught up in it. In fact, he takes credit for inspiring the Saturday Night Live Church Lady with his own evangelistic catchphrase "You are special." But in the Eighties he helped bring down Jim Bakker's empire when he walked into a ministry steam room one day, saw the evangelist cavorting with other naked guys and squealed on him.

Now based in northern California, where he tracks televangelists, the 61-year-old Miles won't lump them all together. Of Tilton, he says, "When he dies, they'll have to screw him into the ground, he's so crooked. He was never straight." But, like others, Miles praises Marilyn Hickey as "an excellent teacher," although he describes her as "very impressionable."

And that's a bad quality when TV gets its hooks in. "When they get involved in TV, they start panicking," Miles says. "And they kind of develop a taste for publicity. It's the worst monster for Christianity. When you get on TV, money comes too fast. You lose your message. I know. I lost mine."

The Christian Research Institute in California, a watchdog group that tries to root out heretical Christians, doesn't have as charitable a view of Hickey. CRI literature calls her "aberrant at best and, at worst, heretical." And, upon request, CRI will send out a flier that quotes Hickey on tape as recalling the fun she had doing a satellite-TV hookup with Tilton.

CRI has another tape of Hickey, "Claim Your Miracles," in which she asks her audience "What do you need?"

She provides her own answer: "I need money. Then start creating it. Start speaking about it. Start speaking it into being. Speak to your billfold! Say, `You big, thick billfold full of money.' Speak to your checkbook! Say, `You checkbook--you've never been so prosperous since I owned you. You're just jammed full of money.'"

end of part 1