Wealth gospel propels poor Guatemalans

Fostering greed?

While all Pentecostals follow these social conventions, the brand of "prosperity gospel" that is preached by many pastors continues to be divisive. At its most basic the message is this: God will reward the faithful; if you give to God, God will give back.

But some say the call for money is simply extortion.

Mario Equite, a young pastor who leads a more traditional Church of God congregation in a small community outside Guatemala City, calls it manipulation, and says it has dangerous implications for the poor.

Often, he says, when believers continue to live in poverty, they are told they aren't praying hard enough. "It's a trick. All churches need resources, but we [donate] to give thanks, not give to God so that he pays me," he says.

Cuxun disagrees. She admits that the first time she heard about "prosperity gospel," she was suspicious.

She had saved, over many years, just enough money to purchase her own home, where she moved her entire extended family and shouldered most of the financial burden.

A single mother, she never had anything left at the end of the month, selling creams and soaps and giving pedicures to neighbors to make ends meet.

After her conversion, it took her three years to start giving the 10 percent, or tithe. Now she would never consider not giving it.

"I was afraid to give, because I thought I'd end up with nothing," she says. "I talk to some people in the church and they ask, 'Why do we have to give to the pastors, when they already have enough and I have nothing?' But I realized that you have to plant to get a harvest."

Neo-Pentecostal churches have been criticized for being self-serving and too inward-looking, not embracing structural changes that might benefit the poor or indigenous populations. They start schools, but mostly for their members, critics say.

They help their own people, but they are largely absent in the broader social movements of the country, say many observers. Their churches are massive, what some call audacious.

A new model of church

Exhibit A, for critics, is the Christian Fraternity of Guatemala, also known as the Mega Frater, which was inaugurated this summer. It is the largest building in Guatemala and one of the largest in Central America.

It seats 12,000, provides parking for over 2,500 cars, boasts 50 Sunday School classrooms, a heliport, and a price tag that topped $33 million. Pastor Jorge Lopez argues that the building is a symbol and example of modernity for all of Guatemala.

At a recent service, ushers guide visitors to their seats. For those in the back, massive movie screens hang from all angles, airing infomercials for upcoming events. It is a rambling service that is in large part a Christian rock concert.

"My position as a pastor is to let them know what I see in the scriptures: 'To be poor is not a blessing,' and I don't think that to be poor is the will of the Lord," says Mr. Lopez. He says Pentecostals are forging paths to modernity for all of society. Above all, he says, that means breaking away from a culture of dependence.

Cuxun, for one, could easily have lived her life seeking handouts. She left home at 16, and quickly got pregnant. She never finished school. When she became a Pentecostal, she slowly started signing up for committees and heading projects in the church. She wondered what was keeping her back in her life outside the church.

"I said, 'If everyone says that God is the owner of silver and gold, why can't I have it?' I started writing out a business plan, and prayed," she says. Other church members noticed her dedication, and chose her for the entrepreneurial program.

"Nobody believes me when I tell them I used to make [and sell] tortillas," Cuxun says. "But I know. I keep pinching myself, is this really happening?"

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