Bastion of Redemption?

"When Adam and Eve fell from their original righteousness and community with God, they became dead in sin. From this original sin, our natures become sinful. Because of the sinfulness of man, sinful man is inclined to serve his own will instead of God."

You can hear it from outside of Victory Outreach's storefront church. Pastor Benny Jacques' voice is a gumbo of sounds, mixing the rapturous fury of a Pentecostal preacher with shades of Arthur Fonzarelli (heeeeyy), all of it seasoned with barrio inflections so that, in a 90-minute sermon, he channels T.D. Jakes, Benny Hinn and Cheech Marin. To see him, though, you'll have to wait until someone opens the doors—they remain locked. As church member Howard Fortson says: "Look where we are, what neighborhood we're in."

Victory Outreach's 'hood, on East Lake Mead Boulevard, near Las Vegas Boulevard, isn't much to look at. Bisecting the Las Vegas-North Las Vegas border, the area is stuck in the socioeconomic cellar—too few homes, sparse commerce and aging casinos. On various nights, the concrete lot adjacent to the church serves as sleeping commons for the homeless. On a recent morning, two men and a woman, their faces weathered by time, have turned a 4-foot-by-4-foot patch of shaded sidewalk between Victory Outreach and the 7-Eleven it shares commercial space with into a picnic/panhandling refuge.

Once inside the church, the main sanctuary is accessible through a doorway on the left. On the back wall is a ceiling-long poster featuring Jacques' mug, beneath which the man himself—bespectacled, clean-shaven and shorter than he sounds—is recalling, for 40 or so parishioners, his days as a drug-using, gang-banging, hell-raising, here-he-comes-we-better-lock-the-doors badass in Anaheim, California. It's these messages that most resonate with the listeners; many were just like Jacques, with enough police blotter material to fill a résumé. It was in prison, Jacques tells them, that God saved a wretch like him. At this, hands raise in exultation. Men shout "preach." Five women in front-row seats shake their heads and smile, as if to say, "You know where we're coming from."

"God interrupted my miserable life and saved me," he says, pausing for dramatic effect.

"I began serving the Lord instead of serving time ..."

Pause.

"I stopped counting the days (to his release from prison) and started making my days count ..."

Pause.

"God has a purpose for you, but you have to be trained and equipped ..."

Victory Outreach has been salvaging folks like Jacques since 1967, the year Sonny Arguinzoni, a reformed purse-snatching heroin addict, opened the church in Los Angeles. Since then, Victory has earned both kudos and scrutiny for its methodologies, namely its transitional homes for men and women. Victory touts a 75-percent to 85-percent success rate against recidivism for those completing the nine-to-15-month home programs. Websites for the church's 500-plus branches carry stories about miscreants who've turned their lives around after joining a congregation or living in a home. This contrasts with critics' claims that Victory is Arguinzoni's personal piggy bank, that group homes are biblical indoctrination camps where residents are forced to give 10 percent of their earnings, that many pastors are former group-home residents who lack formal evangelical training.

Alicia Pate is a believer—in Christ and in Victory. The women's home offered her an escape from a life of prostitution and drugs. Prison is where Isaias Carillo says he'd be if a District Court judge didn't commit to the men's home. Now both Pate, who sold her body on Fremont Street for 10 years, and Carillo, a 14-time convicted felon who once stole a Cadillac Escalade with the intent of selling it and buying heroin, work for Victory—she in the women's home and Carrillo as director of the men's home. And both say they want to win souls for the Lord.

Next stop on the holy recruitment tour: 28th Street. Yes, that 28th Street, the same high-crime, gang-plagued thoroughfare that's bedeviled cops for the better part of two decades. Jacques says it resembles the rough-and-tumble environs of his youth, the type of neighborhood church members say so many Victory congregations continually make positive inroads into. It's a homecoming of sorts, as the church plans to build an 800-seat sanctuary on 28th and Cedar Street adjacent to the men's home. Opened in 1992, the men's home doubled as Victory's first sanctuary, hosting services and Bible study. Jacques says a church is precisely what troubled 28th Street needs.

God will succeed there, Jacques says, because He doesn't fail.

As noon creeps into afternoon and school lets out, 28th Street takes on an Any-Street-USA countenance: backpack-toting kids socializing, fishing out candy money for the convenience store or meeting parents who'll walk them the rest of the way home. Come evening though, fewer children are on the street. Teenagers and grown-ups come out. More than a few men stand in the walkways of their doors, suspicious eyes trained on every pedestrian, every passing car.

Subsidized housing dominates much of the landscape on 28th Street and its surrounding blocks. On Abrahams Street, a Dumpster tagged in white spray paint marks this as territory of the Hispanic 28th Street gang. A block away, on Wardelle Street, sits a house tattooed with gangland graffiti written in the "Placas" style, employing square-like typefaces and Old English lettering written in uppercase. And 28th Street's notoriety extends even beyond the pages of newspapers and travel websites urging visitors to avoid it at all costs: The street managed a mention in an episode of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

But Metro Police spokesman Bill Castle says the neighborhood isn't what it used to be. "With other areas increasing in crime, it's no longer the shining star," he says, only half-jokingly. "But it's still a high-crime area, with lots of auto theft, auto burglaries and residential burglaries."

Airlift 28th Street eastward to Anaheim and, Jacques says, you've got his old neighborhood, a place where a small criminal element overshadows the good that goes on. Born into a family of 10 and reared mostly by a nanny, by age 11, Jacques was drinking, smoking marijuana, running with a gang and making his first trips to juvenile detention. He graduated to heroin and jail, mostly for stealing to support his drug habit. Prison was the logical progression. While incarcerated for burglary at the medium-security California Rehabilitation Center in Norco, California, he befriended members of Victory's prison ministry. The lesson of Jesus Christ's life—living a sinless life, dying on the cross for mankind's sins, promising eternal life to those who profess with their mouths and believe in their hearts that Christ is Lord and Savior—was interesting, if not appealing. So during one sermon, he decided to give his life to Christ. "I was the only one out of 200 people that got saved," he says.

Out of prison in 1983, with no job and no plans, Jacques moved back to his old neighborhood. Old friends doubted his religious resolve, predicting that he'd be back to thug life, lickety-split. He had doubts, too. "I really didn't know if my conversion was real," he says. "I thought it might have been just jailhouse religion."

Unable to get a job because of his record—"When they ask you where you last worked, you can't put, 'Chino Penitentiary, washing dishes'"—he eventually landed a gig delivering apparel for Ocean Pacific Swimwear. Next came a job at Victory Outreach in Santa Ana handling placements for its men's homes throughout California—there was no home in Santa Ana. When a men's facility opened there, church brass needed a director.

"The pastor told me they didn't have a director and I said, 'Don't worry, God's gonna bring somebody,'" Jacques recalls. "The pastor said we've had that person. Me. I told him, 'You must see something I don't see.' I had a never been in the home.

"I was basically jumped in the ministry," Jacques continues, alluding to the often-violent process of initiating new gang members. "My girlfriend, who is now my wife, Evelyn, was in prison for burglary and violating parole at the time, so I felt this was my burden."

After serving as director for several years, he says the church called him to open a sanctuary in Vegas, a place he says was in need of salvation because, "after all, this is Sin City."

Victory's website touts it as "one of the largest inner-city ministries and Pentecostal denominations in the world," with more than 500 churches and ministries in 24 countries. Victory's successes in reforming drug addicts, criminals and gangbangers appears tangible and is well-chronicled on church websites. Various newspaper stories note that the transitional homes have become cogs in that locale's social-services network, particularly as it pertains to drug-abuse treatment. Several LA Times stories examine the church's reformative ability, especially among Southern California gang members. But also of interest are the paper's exposés unearthing allegations of forced labor, welfare fraud, unsanitary conditions in the homes, lawsuits and financial chicanery.

According to the Times, former members told the paper that "once men and women graduate from the rehabilitation homes—usually after six to nine months—they are expected to live in church-sponsored, single-family homes with other members for nine to 12 months. Victory Outreach collects rent." In addition, the Times article reports, the church extracts 10 percent from everyone's pay, and encourages members to give a dollar a day to a campaign to sponsor new churches, the "ultimate goal" being to "send converts back to the streets to establish their own churches."

Rick Ross runs the New Jersey-based Rick A. Ross Institute for the Study of Destructive Cults, Controversial Groups and Movements. His website, www.rickross.com, contains links to unflattering items about Victory, including a letter from Peter Belaustegui, who claims to be a former pastor. Belaustegui stops just short of labeling the church a cult, writing that "the live-in rehabilitation homes of Victory Outreach are nothing more than indoctrination centers and are unbiblical."

Reached by phone, Ross has even more to say: "I've received very serious complaints about Victory Outreach, allegations that people in their residential homes have been exploited and abused. I'm not aware that there's any real financial accountability or democratic process in holding leaders accountable. If you look at the Evangelical Council for Financial Accountability ["ECFA is an accreditation agency dedicated to helping Christian ministries earn the public's trust," its website says], you will see that Victory Outreach doesn't meet their standards and, as I understand it, is not a member of the ECFA. There is no real independent audit or annual report about how money is used, what the salaries are, for example, of the various pastors, what expenses they may derive from a church. The pattern of complaints that I've received is that pastors rule over congregations pretty much as dictators and that people have been hurt. You can read a number of accounts the LA Times wrote about this. The group has a troubled history, that's clear."

In the 1999 Times article, Victory adherents dismiss the claims as lies spun by the devil. The church website, www.victoryoutreach.org, states that tithing, while not mandated, is "encouraged as a minimum standard of Christian financial stewardship" and that "the church maintains its accounts on an in-house computer system using third party-produced software in a manner conforming to generally accepted accounting principles." As for employee salaries—"Understanding the twin evils of both under- and overcompensation, the church strives to provide its employees, including its paid ministry, fair and reasonable salaries as objectively measured, taking into consideration: the nature of the job, the person's individual qualifications and merit, the training, education or experience required and possessed, the realities of the outside marketplace, the cost of living at the site of the job, the nonprofit nature of the organization, the financial ability of the employer and other relevant factors."

A search of Better Business Bureau archives showed no complaints against the Las Vegas church. Asked about Victory's problems in Los Angeles, Jacques says he'd heard about the story, but hadn't read it. "I'm well aware of the issues it raised," he says.

About the claims of financial impropriety, he says: "If a person wanted to, they could find problems in (all) churches."

About Arguinzoni getting rich off believers: "All those things—the boats, cars—that were given to him, were given to him by us. We wanted to give them. Reporters got the information and blew it up how they wanted to blow it up. They put out the negative. But what about the positive? It goes to what people want to write about."

Locally, he says, "we've had no run-ins whatsoever. They can say, 'He (Jacques) is an ex-drug addict who's the pastor of a church,' but that's all they can say. We've had no, praise the Lord, run-ins. I realize that only one person can make us look bad and I tell everyone that. The story may not even be true. I know who we are and what we do and the track record we have."

Does the local church mandate tithes for residents' salaries?

"I wish everybody tithed to my church, but nobody is forced to pay tithes. That (LA Times) article there makes us sound like a cult. We're not a cult. That's why I told you that you are free to interview whoever you want. My books are open."

Is his salary public knowledge among parishioners?

"My salary is not. I really don't think it's anybody's business. When I came here, I got no salary. All my records are in the corporate office (in La Puente). You have to wonder where is a person coming from when they ask about salaries. Are they the IRS? What's their motive? I've been given a car—a Cadillac. When I got it, I knew people were going to talk. So I just put it on front street and said I got it."

What about claims that the homes are Christian indoctrination camps?

"The homes are discipleship homes. We have a whole manual on the home, to cover ourselves. We try to document everything. We do preach and teach doctrine, but the doctrine is the word of God. We're not twisting the word of God. If a person comes into the home, it's just like any program—a person has to comply with the program. Not just because this is a Christian program, but any program like AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) and NA (Narcotics Anonymous), you have to comply with the rules. So yes, they get up a certain time, have breakfast at a certain time and have group sessions at a certain time."

"Look," Jacques says, "if a person really wanted to find out about the nuts and bolts of what goes on, they could go incognito and see how they treat you. God has built up this work here and He's in charge here. We need to be good stewards of what He's given us."

The men's home is a small, brick edifice, with twin, skyscraping palm trees in the front yard and a roof-hanging "Jesus is Coming" sign. When it opened in 1992, Jacques and his wife drummed up interest by knocking on doors, chatting up folks and posterizing neighborhoods with flyers. It worked. Men would stray in, or come after hearing about it on the streets. Years later, courts and social-service agencies like WestCare referred clients. Church services took place in the living room. As the number of residents grew (28 currently), the glass windows in the front of the house were replaced with removable plastic, so chairs could be set up outside to seat the overflow during services.

It's midday on a Wednesday and a few men tend to the landscape, picking up debris. Inside, two residents sit at a table as one of their peers prepares a dinner of fried chicken and creamed corn. A man with tattoos on the back of his neck reacts warily to the presence of a reporter: "I don't do cops and I don't deal with (news)papers. I deal with the Lord."

In walks Isaias Carrillo. In 15 months, he's gone from men's home resident to its director. Carrillo seems to be in constant motion, hands behind his back, in his pocket, crossed sheath-like in front of him. Even seated, he's constantly moving, but it's not ants-in-his-pants movement, more like his energy is searching for release. Carrillo says he's always moved fast, be it through drugs—he used them all, methamphetamine, speed, crystal, beer—or crime, racking up 14 felony convictions, mostly for burglaries. Though it happened often, incarceration was more a setback than a deterrent. "I didn't need prison," he says, "I needed help."

So when a District Court judge committed him to the Victory's men's home, he rejoiced. Thought that he'd gotten over. Might as well try and stay out this time, he reasoned. Be on his best behavior, do the right thing, graduate and get on with his life. Good intentions, all. "A 10-year-old could have told me what to do and I would have obeyed," he says. "I went into the home, grateful, humble."

The honeymoon lasted 90 days. That newfound humility? Old news. In its place: pride, anger, jealously. Couldn't tell him squat. And rules, well, weren't they meant to be broken? Since Jacques had been where he was, Carrillo listened, if only tacitly. Then he was given a choice: Behave or be gone. "I learned how to submit real quick," Carrillo says.

Once that happened, he says, the blessings came. A job. Being able to move with his wife and family to Henderson. Still, every chance Carrillo got, he came back to the home to pray and preach. In trying to win souls for Christ, he won Jacques' confidence. "One day, Pastor Jacques asked me to direct the men's home," he says. "I agreed because I could never give God back what He gave to me."

"With salvation, we are set apart from sin and dedicated to God for fellowship and service. This sanctification is both instant and progressive in the life of the saint."

If you look carefully enough, while driving, you might spot a crew from Victory Outreach's men's home in the parking lot of a convenience store washing cars. On Eastern Avenue, just south of Owens, some car-washing residents have set up shop near a Hispanic restaurant. A few men hoist signs in the air, while another man fervently whips a white towel, like he's trying to lasso the air. It's an image Jacques says is often associated with Victory Outreach, downtrodden men busting suds on dirty cars.

"I don't want to be known as the car-wash church. I want to move away from that," he says, sitting in his office. "We've been called the drug-addict church and the gangster church. I want to move away from those labels, too. I'm not a drug addict. I'm not an ex-drug addict. I'm not a rehabilitated drug addict. I'm delivered. This is not a gangster church. This is a Christian church. Come visit and see for yourself and you'll see people who are not part of the problem, but part of the solution. We are people that love Jesus. We are serious about serving God. Look where we are—Las Vegas, Sin City. The Bible says where sin abounds, the grace of God much more abounds. If there ever was a ministry that the grace of God was evident in, it's Victory Outreach."

Save for using a different section of scripture as the focal point of his message, this Thursday's sermon resembles last week's. Jacques is back on the podium, shouting, joking, lecturing, admonishing, cajoling and reminding congregants that, since God conquered the devil in him, He can do the same for you.

"You are a miracle," he says, "and I want you to know that."

At the altar call, hands go up in supplication and Jacques prays. After the service ends, a group of believers gathers, eager to offer testimony about how God used Victory Outreach to rescue them.

"The pastor and preachers came from lifestyles like mine and went through the same things ... they can reach me," Pate, 35, says, noting that the hardest part of being saved is being disciplined. "To stay saved, you have to have boundaries and learn to sacrifice. I've learned that here. No other church could have done this for me."

Racquel Soof, 20, says she was on a fast track to nowhere before her boyfriend told her about Victory: "I have Arabic parents who were very strict. So I rebelled. I ran with a gang and got into drugs—doing meth, huffing paint, smoking sherm (Angel Dust). At one point, I thought I was going crazy." A few months in the women's home and Soof says she was on the right track. "God has put me back in my right mind. I have peace and joy now."

Lina Randall, a 53-year-old former drug addict, prostitute and madam, came to Victory because she was "tired of getting beat by the devil." Homeless after moving here in 2001 to escape her criminal ways and an abusive husband, she moved into the women's home, a decision she says she thanks God for every day. "At other churches, they look at us like we don't belong."

Howard Fortson spent most of his 20s high on cocaine. He treated recovery like a game. He went into the men's home on five occasions and failed the program each time. Jacques came up with a nickname: habitual backslider. Something clicked on Fortson's sixth attempt at getting his life right. Unlike his sister who encouraged him to quit drugs—"I heard her but I didn't hear her—and the wayward Christians he saw acting churchy on Sunday but "living like the devil Monday through Friday," Fortson says Jacques had a realness that made what he was saying about God's saving grace more real, more tangible.

"What changed me," he says, "is that I saw Pastor Benny live the message he preached. We'll do good things on 28th Street."