After 9 years of giving, man has no Chrysler, no wife, no wealth

St. Louis Post-Dispatch/November 17, 2003
By Carolyn Tuft

Note: This article has been republished with the permission
of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch

Bob Schneller gave to Joyce Meyer until it hurt. Nine years later, he says, it still aches.

He's out of money, out of a marriage and out of faith with televangelists.

Schneller, 59, lives alone in a 600-square-foot, early-model mobile home in House Springs. He's surrounded by videotapes of televangelists. He says he studies the tapes to learn how he was taken in by Meyer.

Not so long ago, Schneller spent his days hanging on Meyer's every word. The money he gave her - $4,400 a year - surpassed his annual mortgage payment. He and his wife lived on $30,000 a year.

"She teaches you that if you give a seed offering, it will come back tenfold or a hundredfold," Schneller said. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but you get caught up in it. You believe it as truth."

Schneller was reared as a Roman Catholic but said he was reborn as a Protestant Christian when he was 40.

A year later, in 1985, the Schnellers started attending Life Christian Center, near their home in Fenton. At the center, they learned what Schneller calls the prosperity message: If you give, you will get more in return. And there they met Joyce Meyer, then an up-and-coming preacher.

"Her teachings were practical," Schneller said. "I'd never heard anyone preach that way before."

He and his wife, Mary Jo, followed Meyer to her church meetings in a Ramada Inn in South County, one of several places she preached.

Soon, the Schnellers were working for Meyer. Bob Schneller became Meyer's exterminator. Mary Jo worked as Meyer's hairdresser.

Most of what Meyer taught, Schneller said, is what he calls the "name-it-and-claim-it" theology: If you have enough faith, you can name what you want.

"So I laid across the hood of a brand new 1985 Chrysler Fifth Avenue," Schneller said. "I never did get it. She would say that I didn't have enough faith, or that there was sin in my life blocking the blessing. It always goes back to you."

The Schnellers began giving more to Meyer: $350 a month. They went to Meyer's home Bible sessions.

By the early 1990s, Meyer's popularity started to climb.

But Schneller was less fortunate. His back went out, and he lacked money to pay his bills. He went to Meyer and told her what was happening. She laid her hands on him, he said, and told him that he would be healed, that his problems would soon go away.

"One day, I went out to my mailbox, and there inside were six $100 bills wrapped up," Schneller said. "Right after that, she had me give testimony, and she used it to prove that you can be blessed."

Despite the $600, nothing changed, he said. He went on workers' compensation and underwent neck surgery. Meyer called him to wish him well, he said. She began giving seed money to a ministry that Schneller and his wife had started, Sword of Spirit of Truth.

Then, in the spring of 1994, a new technique was percolating among charismatics like Meyer. It was called "holy laughter," a ritual in which the congregation sings songs repetitively. The preacher steps onstage and begins laughing. Immediately, the room breaks into laughter. People slide out of their chairs and onto the floor, "drunk on the Holy Spirit."

But Schneller felt uncomfortable with it.

The Schnellers went to a church in Waterloo. There, Schneller spoke out against holy laughter. A few days later, Schneller said, his wife was called into Meyer's office.

Meyer told her, Schneller said, that because of their position on holy laughter, "I can no longer support you."

They parted ways.

Since then, Schneller's marriage has fallen apart. He works as a security guard and attends a "regular church, where the Bible is taught verse by verse."

Referring to Meyer's ministry, he says: "My advice to other people thinking about getting involved and giving: Don't give it - you're being ripped off."

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