By Jon Tevlin, Minneapolis Star Tribune, February 10, 2007

11 Feb 2007 // In the early days, Mac Hammond's church was a hotel room. His congregation was his family and a handful of supporters. He had studied English, not theology, and taken a few Dale Carnegie and self-help courses.

He was also struggling to pay debts and about $100,000 in back taxes. His air cargo business was for sale. A decade later, he said he still didn't own a home or car, or have any savings.

Yet Hammond felt called to spread the word. "My biggest insecurity was that I had no formal training for the ministry," he said. "So I'd stand for hours before a full-length mirror, and preach my message to myself."

Today, 25 years later, James McBryde (Mac) Hammond presides over an expansive spiritual empire based in Brooklyn Park that's attracting legions of devoted followers -- but also drawing a new chorus of complaints about his fiery style, pulpit politics and financial dealings.

Last week, a Washington watchdog group filed a formal complaint with the Internal Revenue Service against Hammond's Living Word Christian Center, which now has nearly 10,000 members, broadcasts weekly services to local and national television audience, and runs an array of businesses.

The group, Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington, says the church gave loans to Hammond at favorable rates and created a sweetheart deal on a plane lease, possibly violating federal tax law that forbids insiders from benefiting from a charitable organization. But church officials said they are confident that they are complying with tax laws.

Meanwhile, some religious leaders and fellow evangelical ministers are criticizing Hammond's unapologetic embrace of wealth -- from his two planes to his luxury cars and high-end condos. In recent weeks, Hammond also has angered Muslims for controversial remarks about Islam.

Amid the controversies, Hammond continues to expand his reach. His church already has a Christian junior and senior high, a Bible college, a bookstore, a drug-treatment facility and even the largest nightclub in downtown Minneapolis, Club 3 Degrees.

Now he's buying up adjacent houses near his Brooklyn Park headquarters for more than $1 million for parking, and he is raising $30 million with dreams of a 15,000-seat sanctuary -- nearly the size of the Target Center -- and a sprawling campus in a business park.

The church already owns millions of dollars of property in the Twin Cities and 560 acres in northern Minnesota that includes a $500,000 cabin "retreat." Hammond's sale of another 90 suburban acres netted about $8 million and allowed the church to pay off debts, documents show.

"I have heard recounted to me, 'Well, you couldn't make it in business, so you decided to give it a shot in the ministry,' " Hammond, 63, said in an interview in December. "That's just not fair."

His church's creed, often called the "prosperity Gospel," is that following God's word will lead not only to spiritual salvation but also earthly wealth.

"I think it's important that I not be embarrassed about the increase the Lord does bring me," Hammond said. "One of the things I think has kept Christianity from being as effective as it could be is the idea that the clergy has to be poor. The Bible doesn't say that."

Public figure, private man

Living Word's sanctuary, painted in muted tones with theater seating, is the kind of place you might watch the ballet, except that it has television cameras, giant screens and a control booth that looks like it belongs on the Starship Enterprise.

A racially mixed, well-dressed congregation crowds Sunday services, which start with a raucous live band. A choir kicks into a rousing hymn, then the camera lands squarely on Hammond, dressed in an impeccable suit worthy of Wall Street.

"Noah was the first investment banker," he said at the start of one recent sermon, which was filled with folksy charm, biblical references and business jargon. "He was buying stock when the rest of the world was liquidating."

Then, stalking the stage as he raised his voice and poked the air with his finger, Hammond launched into a sermon on Islam in which he warned of hundreds of thousands of "Islamo-fascists" who could some day set off nuclear devices across America. Right now, Hammond told the crowd, some U.S. mosques are recruiting terrorists; he went on to advocate unyielding support for Israel.

He conceded his points were controversial, but added, "I really don't give a rip anymore; I haven't got any reputation anyway."

The collection plates were promptly passed.

Hammond's message resonates with Dondi Edwards, who was drawn by the church's community activism and social message, as well as Hammond's personality. "I've seen a lot of people in leadership positions with a lot less humility than Pastor Mac," Edwards said. "And I agree with him."

Hammond is a private man who usually refuses interviews. But he said he decided to talk with the Star Tribune because his church has been misunderstood.

Speaking from his office, which is decorated with leather furniture, pictures of jets and framed medals from his days as a fighter pilot in Vietnam, Hammond was at turns charming and stern.

He was dressed all in black, wearing snakeskin boots and a copper tan. He spoke in a deep baritone and slight drawl, and he peppered the conversation with frequent Bible quotes, sometimes stopping to say, "Now, I'm preachin' at ya."

Hammond's story is remarkable. In 1972, his wife, Lynne, a "good Episcopalian," had "an encounter with the Lord" while reading evangelist Pat Robertson's book, "Shout It From the Housetops."

Hammond, who says he was born again at 12, had strayed from serious study of the Bible. In college, he was more apt to parse a favorite novel, "The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald. But he said he was struck by the profound change in his wife and began to consider a life in the ministry.

Hammond said that, despite his financial struggles, he could have earned a good living in aviation. Instead, the couple embraced the Word-Faith movement, which was practiced by Hammond's televangelist contemporaries, the Rev. Kenneth Hagin and the Rev. Kenneth Copeland.

Word-Faith, an offshoot of Pentecostal ministries, preaches literal adherence to the Bible and spreading the gospel. Members believe in speaking in tongues and faith healing. Hammond says that while he can't predict a date for the Rapture, he believes we are in the "last days."

But members also believe there's no reason to live those days uncomfortably, as long as wealth is directed toward God. Hammond's private jet, he said, allows him to preach in congregations nationwide. "It's impossible to bless someone else or be a blessing if you have nothing to bless them with," he said. "It is a fact that the greatest impact we can have on the world around us is going to be defined by financial resource" used for the right reasons.

Hammond declined to discuss his personal wealth. But records show his two Destin, Fla., condos are worth more than $3 million. He pays no taxes on his comfortable but hardly ostentatious Plymouth home, which has lovely landscaping and a pool. A Lexus and a Porsche are registered under Hammond's name, as well as three boats.

A home near Brainerd valued at more than $500,000 (bought for half that) is used as a retreat, according to a church spokesman. The acreage near Brainerd is part of the church's investment strategy, the spokesman said, but may become a youth camp.

Hammond leases his jet to the church, according to public documents. Flight plans gathered by Fboweb.com show that Hammond makes many trips to other Word-Faith locations. But he also used the jet to travel to Florida property. Hammond said he keeps track of personal use, and repays the church.

The complaint just filed with the IRS alleges that the church made eight loans worth $1.9 million at favorable rates to Hammond. It also contends that he bought a plane from the church, partly on credit, and then leased it to the church for twice the amount he paid the church to buy it.

The church's associate pastor, Marc Redman, said the accusations are false. "Living Word and those outside professionals involved in the conduct of our financial affairs remain confident any fair review of our dealings will reveal the validity of our effort to consistently be an accountable and honest ministry before God, our congregation and our community," Redman said.

'Name it, claim it' gospel

The church's 300,000-square-foot building -- two former warehouses linked with an atrium -- houses many programs. Inside, the school cafeterias look like a Chipotle restaurant, with corrugated tin and mod lighting. The media center is filled with gear that some television stations would envy. A store sells scores of books and tapes by Mac and Lynne Hammond that are part theology, part "Chicken Soup for the Soul."

Hammond wants more. "I do think it's the will of God that every church grow," he said. "It really hurts my heart to see the kind of mentality that pervades much of the body of Christ right now, which is small church, friendly environment, know everybody, and they become little religious bless-me clubs. Our mandate is to exercise greater influence in the community than the ungodly elements seem to exercise."

According to Living Word's annual report, the church's growth means about $14 million in salaries for 300 plus employees, and $2.6 million in "gifts and honorariums."

Hammond selected an early board of directors. They nominate new members. Board members include Mac and Lynne Hammond, Kenneth Copeland's son, pastors of Living Word's Duluth satellite and Texas minister Dennis Burke. They set salaries for the Hammonds (Lynne and sons James and John and daughter Lucyhrt work for the church) by comparing compensation of pastors in all denominations, as well as founders of similarly sized nonprofits and for-profits.

Hammond says he has rarely if ever accepted the full amount the board has approved, and added that he is the church's biggest donor, even though some have given $1 million. In the early years, the Hammonds were not compensated, said a church spokesman.

Some criticize the closed circle and appointed board. "It's the name it, claim it, blab it, grab it movement," said Ole Anthony, executive director of the Trinity Foundation, a nonprofit that investigates churches. "God wants you to be wealthy. It's the promise of greed in the name of God, and it's the oldest heresy there is."It just seems to invite suspicion," said Gregory Boyd, the evangelical pastor at the Woodland Hills Church in Maplewood.

Anthony said his organization has received periodic complaints about political and tithing pressure from former members of the church. Anthony, who has studied many Word-Faith ministries, recalled a breakfast meeting with Hammond mentor Copeland in Fort Worth, Texas, years ago.

"The waitress brought our food, and Copeland turned to her and said, 'God doesn't want me to eat cold pancakes,' " said Anthony. "He was deadly serious. The attitude of these preachers is that they are the King's kid, and deserve the best. Because of the rules in America, you can do just about anything you want once you declare yourself a church," he said.

Boyd said he is impressed with the church's Club 3 Degrees, a Christian rock venue, for bringing youth off the street, and he said that God has used Hammond for many good deeds. Yet he also contends that Word-Faith ministries often take biblical phrases out of context.

"The Bible has a whole lot to say about hoarding when others are needy," Boyd said. "Greed is the biggest sin in the Bible. What concerns me is saying that [attaining wealth] is Christian thought. That seems to me unbiblical."

Politics and religion

Some Brooklyn Park officials say the church has done many good things for the community. Food banks. Volunteer work. Education. Their only complaint was the church may be taking too much land off the tax rolls.

Hammond says community work is essential -- and so is politics. That's an "arena of influence we need to be very active in," he said. "And the preservation of our way of life, I think, is dependent upon it." But that priority has gotten Hammond into trouble.

When Hammond endorsed Bachmann for Congress from the pulpit last fall, a national watch group reported it to the IRS. In 2004 and 2005, Hammond also put his name on fundraising letters for a friend, the Rev. Keith Butler of Michigan, who was running for U.S. Senate.

Frances Hill, author of "Taxation of Exempt Organizations" and attorney for the Campaign Legal Center in Washington, reviewed a copy of one fundraising letter and the Bachmann incident. "My question is why isn't the IRS already in court to remove their tax-exempt status?" she said.

"This is a perfect example of misuse of [that] status," she said, adding that televangelist Jimmy Swaggart had his tax-exempt status taken away for two years for similar behavior.

Hammond said the letters were vetted by his lawyers and don't violate IRS rules. No action has been taken, he said.

Meanwhile, Hammond's sermons on Islam are drawing criticism from Twin Cities Muslims.

Sa'eed Purcell, a member of the board of trustees of the nonprofit Building Blocks of Islam, said Hammond is distorting his religion and using "scare tactics."He took passages from the Qur'an out of context, and made assertions that Muslims were ready to use nuclear weapons in our cities," Purcell said. "He did that to draw attention and raise money by saying sensational things."

The group has asked to meet with Hammond and speak to his congregation, but has received no response. Hammond told the Star Tribune that he allows people to share only the Christian message with his members.

Boyd, who eschews mixing religion with politics, admits that Hammond's politics are a draw. "In evangelical circles, there's a real desire for an authority to tell you how to act," he said. "People like a nice, clean-cut world and an authority who tells you what to believe and that God is on your side. There's no doubt that kind of religion works. Mac's a good communicator; he's saying what people want to hear."

One person who didn't like Hammond's politically tinged religion was Anytra Lester. Lester, who was part of the drama ministry at the church, said she was practically shunned for wearing a John Kerry button and was once called a "baby killer" by a church member.

"If you didn't agree with everything they preached, you didn't fit in," she said. "That's not what a Christian church is supposed to be."

Hammond not finished

There's no debate about who runs the church. Hammond says he's far from finished with his mission. His sons are at least a decade away from taking over, he said.

But some don't like how Hammond uses his authority. Several current or former employees and volunteers who didn't want their names used said he can be too demanding. They also say he records many church functions to maintain control over the message. A church spokesman said the practice simply allows those who miss meetings to catch up. Some also contend that Hammond mandates tithing, or giving at least 10 percent of their pay, to the church.

Redman said tithing is not mandatory, but employees should consider their work a calling and set an example.

Jeff Kruse, a 20-year member whose children attend Living Word's school, said the church has become his small-town community in a large metro area. "Christianity is not designed to be a tiny part of your life on Sunday," he said. "It's practical stuff you can apply to your life."

Hammond shrugged off criticisms. "You know, my church isn't for everybody, and I know that; that's why the Lord's got hundreds of churches -- because everybody is not going to like me and not going to relate to what I say," he said. "There are some people who just don't fit here, and God says that."

Enough Minnesotans do so far to keep Living Word growing, as evidenced by a footnote in a recent church bulletin: Last week, the tally of "souls saved" rose by 306.