How the Prophets Profit

IN THE BEGINNING, there was Reverend Ike, a flamboyant evangelist who looked pretty cool on Atlanta television back in the 70s. Ike worked the stage like a rock star, and preached, as he still does, that one does not wait for one's pie in the sky by and by. Rather, one is to enjoy the riches of Earth as God wishes. To make his point, Rev. Ike wore lots of expensive, flashy jewelry paid for by his predominantly black congregation.  Later on, Jim Bakker of the PTL would steal Ike's celebration of wealth to bilk a predominantly white congregation. Bakker was scum, of course.

 I'm not sure why Rev. Ike remained so likable to me. Maybe I was confusing him with James Brown. They both had shows on WTBS.

Anyway, the Rev. Ike begat New York City's own Bishop E. Bernard Jordan, a flashy pastor who remains an untapped secret in Manhattan. Nearly all of Jordan's professional media coverage has been based on sunny profiles of his Zoe Ministries. Jordan—aka the Prophet Mar Elijah—should be known as the best prophesier since Criswell. His dreary eagerness to invoke images of concentration camps notwithstanding, his visions from the Lord are hilarious. Take, for example, this relatively recent example of the Lord speaking to (and through) Bishop Jordan:

"I will bring judgment through a new sound in the earth that will silence the voices of past recording artists. This will be known as New Wave music."

Or this endearing example of God struggling to maintain Biblical syntax while chatting with (through) his favorite minister:

"The days will come that you will see hospital stations filled up with men and women getting shots to place protein in their body. Great will be the industry of nuts in this hour."

But Jordan isn't afraid to be specific. For instance: "I will move in the Cracker state," says the Lord, "known for the Cherokee Rose."

Only through the wisdom of the internet did I learn that the Lord's "Cracker state" is better known as Georgia.

Yes, the Lord has a unique way of speaking through Bishop Jordan. That hasn't stopped Zoe Ministries from growing at an impressive rate. We shouldn't consider this to be a success story. Bishop Jordan is kind of a tragic figureespecially if you're the tragic idiot who falls for his pitch to "unlock your future" while going "before the Lord on your behalf" for a $150 ("or more") donation.

Bishop Jordan, you see, is a pay-for-pray operator. He's got plenty of ways to prophesize for you, all billing at that minimum $150. Or you can go with "The Trailblazer" package, where Jordan intervenes with the Lord for an entire yearand for a minimum donation of $365. As the pitch explains, "A dollar a day keeps ignorance away!"

 And can you guess who's to blame if Jordan's prophecies don't come true? As the fine print insists, "According to your faith it shall be done unto you!"

BISHOP JORDAN HAS been particularly busy lately. He's upgraded his personal-prophecies business from mail order to the internet, selling plenty of individual readings through his streaming, glorious bandwidth. Jordan is also in the midst of expanding his empireas I learn when I'm invited to the Mark Hotel for the Bishop's first Economic Seminar.

On a beautiful Saturday morning, I attend what the Zoe Ministries' publicist described as a "$500-a-plate" breakfast. I don't even mind that $500 only rates a fairly chintzy buffet; I'm less pleased to find Reverend Runformerly the "Run" in Run-DMCsitting alongside Jordan at the separate table that serves as a dais. It's pretty sad to see Run reduced to being Jordan's grinning sidekick. I was hoping that Jordan had leeched off Run's reputation sufficiently earlier in the year, when the rapper presented Jordan with a new Phantom Rolls Royce, valued at $325,000, according to the press release. (Run also seems to have donated some fashion sense to the Bishop; the prophet is looking unusually stylish.)

Then it occurs to me that maybe I should try thinking more positively. Maybe it doesn't mean anything that Bishop Jordan continues to peddle a collection of his prophecies entitled Written Judgments. Maybe these internet prophecies are Jordan's efforts to go straight as a financial adviser. Maybe

The same publicist informs me that the Bishop's future plans may include "holding a seminar of all the noted psychics, including Miss Cleo and Dionne Warwicke" and I realize that, nope, it's the same old con.

Jordan's official bio is also pushing his hotline to the Lord. "Bishop Jordan," we're informed, "differs from those who can operate with extra-sensory perception, for his calling as a prophet endows him with a degree of authority." It forgets to mention the dollar value he puts on his gift from the Lord, but that's okay, because Jordan's website quotes several biblical passages to explain why a prophet does you a heavenly favor by taking your money. Jordan's power, after all, is "just like the prophets of the Scriptures!"

I don't doubt other claims in Jordan's bio. He probably has been awarded "proclamations of recognition" from the likes of Mario Cuomo and David Dinkins. I'm less confident about which fine institution presented Jordan with his "doctorate in Religious Studies in 1991," or "his Ph.D in Philosophy of Religious Studies" from 1993. The details were left out.

Jordan clearly has connections, though. His latest self-published workone of "over 40 books"is titled Cosmic Economics, and has a forward from Phat Farm's Russell Simmons. ("Not only does Bishop Jordan write and preach about prosperity, he demonstrates it.") And, not surprisingly, Al Sharpton is hooked up; he's being brought in to introduce Jordan for the lunch session.

And then there's the morning's guest speaker. Mark Victor Hansen, as you may or may not know, is co-author of Chicken Soup for the Soul, which has bloomed into a publishing empire. Totaling some 100 million books sold, there are now more than 190 different Chicken Soup titles in print for assorted souls, all of whom might need some humorous inspirational tales.

Hansen can be genuinely proud of the goodor at least the lack of harmdone by the Chicken Soup biz. Why, then, is he involved with the Bishop?

Still being positive at my $500-a-plate breakfast, I assume the best. Specifically, that Hansen has no idea what he's gotten himself into, and will soon be embarrassed by what he'll soon endure in the name of promoting the new Chicken Soup for the African-American Soul.

As Hansen enters the room with the Bishop, he at least has the decency to look slightly baffled by the morning's grand display. When everyone finishes breakfast, Hansen comes out. And I learn that like the Bishop, Hansen is a protege of Rev. Ike.

That's probably news to a lot of people. The only mention I can later find of their connection is on Rev. Ike's own website, where the photo of Hansen seems to be from the 80s. Hansen's done a good job of covering up his greedy heritage. He even seems like a nice enough guy at the start, and I don't even mind his constant refrains of asking the audience to repeat an affirming word or phrase every five minutes. That's a perfectly respectable trick to hold a group's attention.

But the world has changed since the innocent days of a Zig Ziglar or an Og Mandino, and I don't realize just how pathetic Hansen is until about halfway through his slide show. So far, it's consisted mostly of dopey flashy graphics and cute cartoons. Then, suddenly, there's a photo of an ugly couple in front of an even uglier mansion. Hansen proudly explains that the two people are the first official millionaires from his best-selling One Minute Millionaire book. They got rich, we're told, by following the book's plan for buying tax lien certificates from distressed home owners.

For all his flash, for all his millions, for all his lucrative licensing deals, Mark Victor Hansen is shilling the same get-rich-quick scheme that you find on any number of infomercials at 3 a.m.

THIS WOULD BE A good time to point out that not many reporters are present to see Hansen getting his hands dirty. The only other media at the press table are three young people from a website for young black professionals. They tell me they're from something pronounced "crem.com." "As in crme de la crme," they helpfully explain. I'm not sure if they actually know how to spell that. I'll later be unable to find the actual URL.

Any real journalist would avoid this kind of event. Hansen is shoveling out verbiage and not telling us a thing. He makes us laugh. He has a few touching stories. He has even more stories about the importance of taking full advantage of people. Token insistence on tithing comes up on a reliable basis.

A few lucky investors do get rich from tax lien certificates, and anyone is welcome to make money in an industry of misery. It's pitiful, however, that Hansen can't be happy with the millions made from the Chicken Soup series, which is at least legitimate. That he's driven to score a few more bills by exploiting every sleazy opportunity speaks of a lowlife going back to the gutter for another score.

Hansen's also proud to inform us that he's hooking Bishop Jordan up with his own literary agent. But back to the important stuff: Hansen's Personal Power Package is being sold outside in the hall. Usually, this set of three compact discs, five books and two "tele-classes" sells for $620.

"That's what we charge regular people," says Hansen.

As part of the Bishop's economic seminar, we can get it for the low Event Special cost of $297. We can even put it down as two payments on our credit cards.

For the rest of his presentation, Hansen works hard to prove that he's the kind of white guy who can offer Chicken Soup for the African-American Soul. Case in point, at one point he commands his audience to turn and "give your neighbor some skin." For better or worse, I don't have a neighbor at the press table.

Further race relations will include Hansen and Reverend Run in a witty exchange about how the word "bad" has two meanings within the black community. You see, the word sometimes actually means "good." This actually segues into the topic of "phat" vs. "fat.'

And finally, as one participant gets excitedby the prospect of untold wealth, no doubtthe Chicken Soup king declares, "Get down, mama!"

Hansen also likes to drop names. We hear about his good friends Kenny Loggins and Chuck Norris. He can't say he knows Oprah, but he's a good friend of Stedman Graham. This explains why one fevered, self-affirming refrain is a shout of, "I'm gonna be on the A-party list!"

The whole disaster is kind of fascinating, and Hansen has the courtesy to present me with one defining moment. He's pulled out a humble ballpoint pen, and is challenging everyone to come up with an idea that would make this pen a billion-dollar idea. The first person to be inspired isn't in the audience. Justine Simmons is sitting at the dais. She's married to the Reverend Run, and she has a great notion.

"I would just put diamonds on it," she says.

That's your problem, you silly poor people! You haven't thought to cover stuff in expensive gems.

Hansen feigns enthusiasm. He has to. That's what motivational speakers do for a living. And all I can think is that this forum is pretending to be about helping people achieve economic power. It's possible that some in this room aren't aspiring hustlers; not everyone is imagining their own long grifts. A few have probably been taken in once again by Bishop Jordan.

If anything good comes from this day, let it be that we're praying for the hustled. At no cost to them, as Hansen would say. Except I'm telling the truth.