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JOYCE MEYER MINISTRIES: The big squeeze




THERE IS IN AMERICA a popular image of the good pastor as a person who seeks
reward in heaven rather than on Earth. The preacher preaches the Bible,
comforts the sick, cares for the poor and lives a comfortable but modest life
while doing it.

This image may be unfair. Still, we don't quite know what to do with a preacher
who thinks she deserves to live in extravagant wealth right here on Earth using
money given to the ministry by its believers.

In Jefferson County, assessor Randy Holman thinks he knows what to do. He wants
to revoke the tax exemption for the 52-acre, $20 million headquarters of Joyce
Meyer Ministries. We're not sure the assessor is legally correct, but Ms. Meyer
seems to be cruising close to the line separating a religious ministry from a
for-profit operation.

Ms. Meyer, a televangelist and author, preaches a variation of the "prosperity
gospel." Donate to God through her ministry, and God will reward you, she
preaches. That reward may be spiritual, or it may come in the form of
prosperity and wealth on Earth.

The Bible says, "Give and it shall be given unto you," she tells the thousands
who gather at her revival-like "conferences" around the country. So she's not
shy about asking for money. "Make your checks payable to Joyce Meyer
Ministries/Life in the Word. And million is spelled M-I-L-L-I-O-N," she says
with some levity.

Ms. Meyer says she's living proof of the payback phenomenon. Sexually abused as
a child, she endured a failed marriage, then found a good husband and religious
faith. She launched a powerful national ministry with legions of devoted
followers and more than $90 million in annual revenue.

Her reward for that has been a mother lode of earthly wealth. As reported by
Carolyn Tuft of the Post-Dispatch on Sunday, Ms. Meyer and her
family have received millions from the ministry in recent years.

For 2002 and 2003, the board approved $900,000 annual salaries for Ms. Meyer
and $450,000 for her husband as well as the use of a $2 million home where all
the bills are paid by the ministry. The ministry also has paid $1.475 million
for three houses for Ms. Meyer's children.

The ministry didn't volunteer those figures; they came from filings in the tax
assessment case. But Ms. Meyer doesn't hide the fact that she does very well.
"I'm living now in my reward," she told an audience in 2003.

Although out of fashion these days, the idea that God enriches his servants on
Earth is not new. It stretches back hundreds of years in Christianity. In some
versions, great wealth is a sign of God's personal approval. Nor do we lack
examples of clergy living in worldly splendor. The Roman Emperor Constantine
let bishops keep a quarter of church revenue. Today's televangelizing
millionaires follow in the worldly shoes of the palace-dwelling bishops of the
Middle Ages.

In a nation that values freedom of religion, the state never should pass
judgment on Ms. Meyer's theology. Neither would this editorial page question a
person's faith. But the state has to set criteria for tax exemptions. That's
where Mr. Holman comes in.

State law says that a tax-exempt church property must be used "exclusively for
religious worship, for schools and colleges or for purposes purely charitable
and not held for private or corporate profit."

Besides the Meyer family's paychecks, Mr. Holman says it was the lavish
accouterments of the headquarters that convinced him that Ms. Meyer's ministry
isn't purely charitable. Those included a $30,000 table, among other
high-priced furniture, and several pieces of fine art, some of which are
religious. To Mr. Holman's mind, Ms. Meyer's ministry is in business to make
money.

Of course, such extravagance must be balanced by the good done by the ministry,
and there obviously has been quite a bit.

Thousands find inspiration in Ms. Meyer's life story and her down-home advice
about day-to-day living, keeping a family together and about the power of faith
to redeem lives. That's why they donate and buy the books and tapes hawked
endlessly at her conferences.

The Meyer family's own multimillion take is, after all, just a small percentage
of the ministry's $90 million-plus revenue. Ministry spokesman Mark Sutherland
says the ministry spends 20 percent on administration, with the rest going to
good works. Those include support for 18 orphanages around the world, 3.5
million meals donated to the poor, 145 wells dug in poor nations and missions
to AIDS hospitals and leper colonies.

It's tempting to ask why a ministry would spend $30,000 on a fancy table rather
than digging a few more wells for poor Africans. But the legal balance may tip
in favor of Ms. Meyer keeping her tax exemption.

In the Gospel of St. Matthew, Jesus says, "It is easier for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of
God." Ms. Meyer would seem to believe she can make the squeeze. Those who feel
that preachers shouldn't live like royalty always have the option of directing
their donations elsewhere.

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