Jesus for Sale

He'd need at least 5,000 seats to accommodate his parish, as well as a room fit for television broadcasts. He wanted a domed, circular structure "as a symbol of the world that the televangelism ministry of this church would reach." He would call it the Cathedral of Tomorrow. And he knew exactly how to pay for it.

Humbard took to the pulpit, begging feverishly for donations. This is for God's rightful place on Earth, he reminded the faithful, who were desperate to ensure their own place in heaven.

The cash poured in. Humbard promised that their donations would be the seeds from which greater things would grow, whether that was to be healed from illness or come into great fortune.

"This seed-based theology is the oldest heresy in the church," says Ole Anthony, founder of the Trinity Foundation, a Christian organization dedicated to exposing religious fraud. "The Catholics did it with indulgences. It's based on the scripture that God will give you ten- or a hundredfold back on your seed. Rex simply took that idea and said that any investment in his ministry was that seed. He started that."

In his autobiography, Humbard recalls Granny Peck, an elderly farmer's wife and longtime follower. He knew that she'd come into some money after selling off the farm. He called to ask for her help. She gave him $25,000.

He also began selling bonds to parishioners and investors to build the Cathedral.

He hired a Chicago architectural firm to draw plans for a $2.5 million church in Cuyahoga Falls that would seat 5,400 and would include a 168-foot stage. But as soon as he broke ground, he met with skepticism from outsiders.

Rumors began to swirl that Humbard was using his ministry to enrich himself. People complained that his well-tailored suits made him look more like a junior executive than a man of God. They scrutinized his collection of sporty Chevy Bel Airs and his wife's elegant wardrobe.

Newspapers were dumbfounded by his congregation's $100,000 operating budget, "the largest of any similar church organization in the country," the Beacon claimed.

Humbard defended his family's posh dress as a result of having to appear on television. He claimed that a generous supporter lent him the cars at no cost. The year before, he'd filed a tax return claiming just $8,000 in income — money that had come through "love offerings" collected from his congregation. He claimed that he never took a penny from television and radio donations — all went to keeping his ministry on the air. Reporters had no way to verify his claims, as churches are not required to report financial information to the public or the IRS.

In 1958, the Cathedral of Tomorrow officially opened its doors, with 60,000 people attending the church's grand opening. It was like nothing they'd ever seen.

A 220-foot dome capped the Cathedral's sleek granite walls. The main room boasted teardrop chandeliers, thousands of colored lights, and the largest indoor cross in the world. The stage was dressed with bistro-style lighting and a crushed-velvet curtain. Other amenities included an elaborate office suite, private prayer rooms, and a nursing home with 200 beds.

But Humbard didn't have the money to pay architects or contractors. They sued, scaring off investors, who began to demand early repayment of their bonds.

Humbard was also struggling to keep up with the cost of his growing television broadcasts, now aired on over 100 stations nationwide. Banks refused to give him loans, believing religion a bad investment. The Beacon predicted his demise.

Then, in 1963, Humbard claimed God sent him an angel. Weirdly enough, that messenger looked exactly like Jimmy Hoffa.

Despite warnings from colleagues that accepting a loan from Hoffa would come with heaps of bad publicity, Humbard agreed to meet with the infamous Teamsters boss and Mafia ally. "I'll take a mortgage from anybody," he said to a friend.

The two men met at a swank hotel in Chicago a few days later. "Meeting Jimmy Hoffa was a memorable experience," Humbard wrote. "I have never talked with anybody who has a quicker and more penetrating intelligence, or more easy poise and assurance, than this two-fisted truck driver."

By the end of their meeting, Hoffa handed Humbard a $1.2 million loan from the Teamsters' pension fund. "I've watched your programs on television," Hoffa said. "I want you to know that I feel this is the finest investment we've ever made."