The Shroud of Tulsa

Sometimes some very weird stuff shows up in the mail

It was addressed to RESIDENT– TO A FRIEND.

The envelope was official-looking, with a cartoonish symbol resembling the federal seal (like on the envelopes that contain IRS refund checks) and a box stating that postage had been paid by a Nonprofit Organization.

“Two Homes Are About To Be Blessed,” the envelope said. “Then It Must Go To Another Dear Friend.”

It got better when I turned the envelope over.

“Dear Jesus,” it said across the back. “We pray that you will bless someone in this home spiritually, physically & financially. And please Dear Lord, Bless the one who’s (sic) hands open this letter. Make good changes in this one’s life and give them the desires of their heart. We pray over and bless this letter in your Holy Name. Amen.”

The return address was in smallish type at the bottom of the back of the envelope: Saint Matthew’s Churches. The address was a post office box in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Now, who would pass up a chance at their heart’s desire?

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a weird, 11-by-17 sheet of paper with the face of Jesus in purple, eyes closed. It vaguely resembled the Shroud of Turin. “Church Prayer Rug,” was written in cathedral-looking script beneath the face. Good thing they labeled it, or I wouldn’t have known it was a rug.

“Look into Jesus’ Eyes you will see they are closed,” it instructed at the bottom. “But as you continue to look you will see His eyes opening and looking back into your eyes. Then go and be alone and kneel on this Rug of Faith or touch it to both knees. Then please check your needs on our letter to you. Please Return this Prayer Rug. Do not keep it.”

On the back of the “rug,” it warned that it “must be mailed to a second home that needs a blessing after you use it.”

Okay, sure.

I looked at the letter.

“Would you like to have God’s blessings upon your home, your family and finances?” it asked. “Just put a (check) mark by your needs below, telling us that you want prayer.”

There were boxes to check if you wanted health, a better job, to stop a bad habit, a new car, a money blessing, or “a home to call my own.” There was even a blank space to write in the amount of money you wanted God to bless you with.

The letter was signed, “Your Brothers & Sisters in Christ, Saint Matthew’s Church.”

There was another sheet with testimonials to the power of this “prayer package.” People identified by initials only -- in other words, not real people, but symbols of people, sort of like the cartoon eagle on the front of the envelope -– were quoted as having obtained new cars, new jobs, new houses, and thousands of dollars. “Y.G.” said she had only $50 to last until payday, but that after using the Prayer Rug, she was blessed with $46,888.20.

The twenty cents was a nice touch.

On none of the material was there a name connected with the church, or a street address, or even a telephone number. Don’t churches need buildings and telephones?

Apparently not Saint Matthew’s.

How could anybody possibly fall for this old scam, I wondered? If you mail the envelope back, of course, you’re hit with a request for a seed donation to prove your faith in the Lord. But this scheme was so outrageous I wanted to know who was behind it. So I searched the Internet for “Saint Matthew’s Churches.”

What I found was that this “nonprofit” organization had reaped $26 million in 1999, the last year it made its tax records public, according to an article published April 27, 2003, in The Tulsa World.

Yep, I said $26 million.

The operation is the brainchild of one Rev. James Eugene Ewing, a sharecropper’s son and a former tent-show evangelist who operates his mail ministry from a mansion in Los Angeles. Saint Matthew’s has no churches in Tulsa (or apparently anywhere else), but it does have two telephone numbers, the article said -– both of which are answered by machines that deliver a religious message.

The World said that Ewing, now 70, had invented the concept of “seed faith” donations and had shared the idea with such well-known television evangelists as Oral Roberts. The concept is simple: Send desperate people worthless items such as 'Jesus eyes handkerchiefs,' golden coins, communion wafers, and sackcloth billfolds. Then, ask them to write you the biggest check they can cover to make their prayers come true.

Personally, I feel cheated.

I would rather have had the golden coin or the sackcloth billfold instead of a crummy sheet of paper called a “prayer rug.” And, oh yeah, the “Jesus Eyes” trick is just an optical illusion. Stare at anything hard enough and you’ll swear it moves. In this case, the trick is helped along by a couple of smudges in the center of Our Lord’s “closed” eyes. I tried it, and it doesn’t take much to imagine that the eyes on the Shroud of Tulsa open.

Since 1993, according to the World, Saint Matthew’s has enjoyed a gross income of more than $100 million, Also, critics charge, the organization uses computerized mailing lists to target the poor and most desperate.

But the worst part?

Saint Matthew’s doesn’t pay a dime of federal income tax.

So if you receive one of these “prayer packages” in the mail, at least you’ll know where it came from, thanks to The Tulsa World. This is just another reason that newspapers and investigative reporting are important -– and the Internet, of course, which allowed me to locate the source of this odious scam in just a few seconds. Unfortunately, I got so worked up that I’ve wasted an hour now writing about it.

Meanwhile, I’m keeping the Prayer Rug.

If Ewing wants it back, all he has to do is write a letter asking me to pray for him and enclose the biggest check he can write that will clear to PO Box 1607, Pittsburg, Kansas, 66762.

-- January 14, 2004