Jesus for Sale

Letters were often accompanied by gold coins, prayer rugs, or "anointing oil" that was often just Mazola. Humbard would urge the recipient to make a cross with the oil on any cash they had handy and send the largest bill to him. In return, Humbard promised that they would be rewarded tenfold for their "seed offering."

"It will be a sacrifice," the letters read. "But remember, the greater the sacrifice, the greater the blessing."

By 1977, his supporters were sending in an average of $1.2 million a month. Within less than a year, Humbard was able to pay off all his investors. He marked the occasion by burning the last note on television "to tell all our critics we didn't go under."

Though Ewing was later busted by the feds for more than $400,000 in back taxes and illegally operating as a "church," Humbard continued his letter campaign without incident.

Soon, Humbard had developed a highly complex system for sending out begging letters. Data-processing expert Bill Forthsythe set up a mainframe computer that stored donor information. A team of writers and phone operators would then keep the information up-to-date with each person's prayer needs and notes on previous correspondence. Millions of people were receiving letters as often as twice a week; Humbard collected roughly $40 million a year.

"They're obscene," Anthony says. "He capitalizes on the isolation of the loneliest and poorest members of our society, promising them magical answers to their fears and needs if only they will demonstrate their faith by sending him money."

News outlets from The Washington Post to Canada's Globe and Mail dismissed them as little more than tasteless religious fraud. One reporter recounted the story of a lonely 60-year-old woman living in a Toronto low-income housing complex. She lived on a fixed income of $500 a month. Nevertheless, she managed to send off $200 of that to Humbard.

"If we would have known that, we would have sent it back to her, believe me," Humbard's son, Rex Jr., told the reporter.

But there were too many similar stories to make Mildred an anomaly. The elderly sent entire pension checks. Third World families sent their food allowance, hoping that Humbard would cure them of ailments or bless them with fortune.

Another reporter told the tale of Arnold Warshawsky, who dropped a $50 check in the mail, bound for his synagogue in Alexandria, Virginia. Instead, it mysteriously ended up in Humbard's coffers.

Warshawsky never received a refund. He did, however, receive plenty of begging letters.

By the early 1980s, public opinion had taken a drastic turn for the worse. A Cathedral poll showed that 80 percent of Greater Akron had a "negative" opinion of the televangelist. His 5,000-plus congregation had been whittled down to hundreds, as he spent most of his time on the road.

There wasn't even a choir.

Critics and followers alike claimed that his fund-raising had done him in. "People just got tired of listening to Rex crying for money," one supporter told the Beacon.

Even Alma Robinson, a parishioner since the tent revivals in 1952, found a new church. "It just wasn't the same without Rex around," she said.

Tired of the negative publicity, Humbard moved to Florida, refusing to reveal how much money he was taking with him.

He officially resigned as the Cathedral's pastor in 1983. The church's board replaced him with several pastors over the years, but each new leader butted heads with the board, which wanted to sell the Cathedral against the congregation's wishes.

Though Humbard had always insisted that the Cathedral belonged to the congregation, the claim turned out to be a hoax. His church was little more than a corporation belonging to a board of seven trustees, including Humbard, who was still president.

The arrangement dated back to April Fools' Day 1977. Humbard quietly incorporated the church as part of the newly founded Rex Humbard Foundation, naming his board of trustees as the only actual church members. He also included a clause that paid for legal insurance to indemnify board members from lawsuits. Some claimed it was simply a ploy to avoid paying creditors, according to a lawsuit filed by Pullman Power Products, which still hadn't been paid for building the Cathedral.

The church was eventually sold to Ernest Angley Ministries in 1989. No one knows where the money went, though Humbard's supporters, who'd long paid his debts, never received a penny. To this day, Rex Humbard Ministries still collects donations.