Benny Hinn Does Not Belong to Any Church, Denomination, or Specific Religion. He is a Recognized Heretic!
Controversial televangelist and “faith healer” Benny Hinn arrived in Texas in 1999, canceling his congregation’s directive to build the World Healing Center in Irving. However, Hinn — whose lifestyle more closely resembles Michael Jackson than Jerry Falwell — recently received a word from above: to shelve his plans for constructing this recreational park, or rather a New Age-style miracle resort. And thank God.
Article taken from the website of the investigative mission Trinity Foundation, which has produced several video investigations and films about BENNY HINN. http://www.trinityfi.org
Heretic
If you head west out of the city, through the neo-modernist fantasy landscape of Las Colinas, past the airport, into the preserve of faceless office buildings that make up the Grapevine megalopolis, you’ll never find Benny Hinn.
That’s exactly how he wants it. The nerve center of his worldwide organization is concentrated in a cluster of cheap, white, nondescript buildings that resemble a favorite hideout of New Jersey mobsters. Inside, several dozen employees process donations of roughly $100 million a year from people who believe in Hinn as the 21st-century Elmer Gantry (clearly, they haven’t read the novel).
Now let’s take a different road, into the backcountry of East Dallas. On a dead-end street, in an expensive two-story house that doesn’t look like a mob mansion (despite once being owned by Dallas mafia), the Trinity Foundation operates around the clock, trying to trace how much money flows through Grapevine, where it comes from, and where it goes. Members of this Christian watchdog organization do so by engaging in covert operations, infiltrations, espionage, surveillance, cultivating ties with disgruntled former employees, and even rummaging through Benny Hinn’s garbage in an effort to prove that… he is not a fraud.
“All we want is for Benny Hinn to keep the promises he made to me in 1993,” says Ole Anthony, president of the Trinity Foundation. “He promised to stop broadcasting false healings, to medically verify them, to wait six months before publicizing healing cases on television to make sure they’re real. He said he’d do all of that, and he’s done nothing. And it would be just wonderful if he submitted himself to examination by real theologians. Some of his teachings go beyond all bounds, bordering on necromancy.”
What Is Benny Hinn Doing in Dallas?
It’s supernatural. It was supernatural when he announced he moved here in 1999, largely abandoning his church congregation in Florida. Even more supernatural was when he declared that God commanded him to build a $30 million World Healing Center in Irving, which was touted as a combination amusement park and New Age-style miracle resort. He would have built it as a kind of shrine to famous faith healers of the past, complete with “stereophonic gardens of statues,” as well as a Holy Spirit Clinic for the paralyzed, the lame, and the afflicted. Hordes of hope-filled wheelchair-bound invalids would land on Airbuses at the airport and travel to Las Colinas, much like pilgrims streaming to a Disneyfied version of Lourdes. Doesn’t that sound like Tulsa?
Fortunately, “God changed His mind” last summer and eventually told Hinn not to build the Healing Center, even though he spent two years collecting donations for it. Apparently, “God” was confused about what Hinn should do with the money. The county tax assessor was less confused, telling Hinn that his hardly existent tax exemption would not survive an amusement park era. Hinn said it was just a matter of time. God wants this Center, but He doesn’t want it right now (since the only building the Almighty ever ordered constructed besides this was the Jerusalem Temple; perhaps Irving simply didn’t impress Him). Finally, Hinn said he would keep his headquarters in Dallas because the centralized location would save him money.
“Well,” says Anthony. “That saves us money too.”
Be that as it may, the move to Texas looks like an attempt to spread his activities across as many geographical jurisdictions as possible. For example, Hinn’s television show, “This Is Your Day!”, originated in studios in Orange County, California, and is broadcast in 192 countries, making it one of the most widely distributed television programs in the world. And indeed, Hinn is so ubiquitous on religious television that one might think (after 30 years of preaching ministry) that he’d be a household name, advising presidents like Billy Graham and appearing on The Today Show during times of national crisis. But Hinn has achieved quite the opposite.
Aside from his not-infrequent (twice-a-month) appearances at his “crusades,” held in the world’s largest stadiums, Hinn is practically a recluse, surrounded by armies of bodyguards, living on an $8 million oceanfront estate in Southern California, traveling by private jet for “submarine vacations” to the Cayman Islands, wearing $3,000 presidential-level suits, and demanding a level of financial secrecy and paranoid internal security more associated with drug lords than with a normal person. Surrounding himself with yes-men and micromanaging every detail of his public image from behind the scenes—even when it comes to the severity of punishment for paparazzi who try to photograph him—he has more in common with Michael Jackson than with Jerry Falwell. In fact, he may be the first Christian rock star, but not in the vein of Paul McCartney. Hinn’s career more closely resembles Cher. He adapts to circumstances, reinventing himself whenever necessary.
Benny Hinn has no church. He does not belong to any denomination. He is not even associated with any particular religion, though the buzzwords he throws around show that he is drawn to perch on the fringes of Pentecostalism. Perhaps no more than three centuries ago, he would have been burned as a heretic. To give an idea of some of his doctrinal oddities, one must mention that he once preached: the Trinity is actually nine persons, because each member of the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—is also a Trinity. He also says that God and the Holy Spirit have real bodies with eyes, hands, a mouth, and so on. Of course, various theologians have torn Hinn apart for preaching “new revelations” directly from God which, upon closer inspection, turn out to be variations of Christianity’s most ancient heresies. He thinks of himself as a prophet (even when his prophecies fail to come true) and, in the same package, as a “new Messiah walking the earth.” He believes that the biblical Adam was taken up into outer space; that when God parted the Red Sea, He turned it into a wall of ice; that God speaks to him more often than He spoke, say, to Moses; that in his presence a person was raised from the dead; that a man turned into a snake before his eyes; that angels came to his bedroom and talked with him; and that the only reason we do not all enjoy perfect health and live forever is the demons that attack us. He has voiced opinions one would ordinarily hear only from schizophrenics, and has done so in front of millions of people—and they still flock to him. They come to him, and thousands walk away with nothing, but even those who go away empty-handed joyfully give him their money.
…It happened when he was 11. “Jesus” first appeared either to him or to his mother while they were still living in Jaffa, Israel. Or perhaps it happened when he was 18 and a believing high-school student in Toronto. At that point, Benny Hinn says, he was “anointed.” Or maybe it was soon after, when he took a bus trip to Pittsburgh to see the “faith healer” Kathryn Kuhlman. It is hard to say exactly when it happened and in what form, because Hinn patches together the scraps of his biography however he needs to, and then embellishes the reality. So isolating any single event in his life is as difficult as trying to decipher a thirty-year-old KGB document.
What we do know (because Hinn keeps coming back to it) is that the transformative moment in his life came when, as a teenager, he was asked to look after a woman suffering from arthritis in her legs. She was making a pilgrimage to one of Kuhlman’s healing services, and he saw that the woman apparently got rid of the pain in her legs and “untangled,” as he puts it. Depending on how cynical you are, you might think that he either found his calling to ministry or discovered one of America’s oldest con games. Ever since, he has been hailed as a genuine miracle worker (Oral Roberts himself is his biggest fan) and also exposed by investigative journalists around the world, including the staff of “60 Minutes Australia,” who concluded: “Benny Hinn is a fake. A dangerous fake. He profits from the sick, the desperate, and the gullible.”
Hinn is a special case even by the standards of the ongoing clown show known as “American televangelism.” If you look at the superstars of the previous twenty years—Bakker, Swaggart, Tilton—they are all typical extroverted white Anglo-Saxon Protestant men with the attractive features of gigolos. Even Jim Bakker had that sad puppy-dog look so appealing to lonely widows; after all, aging single women are the first to get involved when it comes to fundraising for television ministries. On the other hand, there is Hinn: short, slight, of Semitic appearance, round-faced, often sporting a hairdo that resembles a cone of soft-serve ice cream licked off at the top. He reminds you of a Persian merchant rather than a spiritual leader. He is Palestinian, his father is Greek, his mother a Turkish woman of Armenian origin. He was raised in a Catholic school with eight brothers and sisters, crammed into a tiny, two-bedroom apartment in the Tel Aviv suburb of Jaffa. In his book, Hinn claims that his father was the mayor of Jaffa. In reality, Jaffa had no mayor after 1948, a full four years before Hinn was born. Like many “facts” in the Hinn legend, this claim turns out to be a fabrication.
Toufik Benedictus Hinn, known within his family as “Tutu,” did not much enjoy living in Israel with an Arabic name, so quite early on he became “Benny.” He did not stand out among his classmates either at the Collège de Frère elementary school in Jaffa or at Georges Vanier Secondary School in Toronto, where his family moved after emigrating (Benny was fourteen at the time). In his sermons and books, Hinn portrays himself in childhood as a social outcast, suffering from severe stammering, which did not stop him from being a brilliant student. However, when G. Richard Fisher and M. Kurt Goedelman, two journalists writing for Christian publications, looked into Hinn’s youth, they found that both claims were untrue: no one remembered any stammering, and he left school after the eleventh grade. This harmless lie means little on its own, but it shows how convoluted Hinn’s myth-making can be. He invents things that later backfire on him just as readily as things that work to his advantage. Psychologically speaking, he cannot bear the unvarnished truth.
Nevertheless, sometimes embellishing reality turns from an innocent lie into something more serious. For instance, Hinn claims that he preached at a Catholic girls’ school in Jerusalem in 1976, after which “every woman in that school received salvation, including all the nuns.” Since there is only one Catholic girls’ school in Jerusalem (Schmidt’s Girls College), it was easy enough to interview all the nuns who were there in 1976, as well as Father Dusind, who had overseen all religious observances since 1955. The result? “It’s nonsense, complete nonsense,” Dusind told Fisher and Gedelman. “This never happened and could not have happened, because a charismatic healer or Protestant preacher would never have been allowed even to speak with the girls.”
Or what about the case when Hinn came to a Catholic hospital (Sault Ste. Marie General Hospital, Ontario) and healed everyone there? According to Hinn’s story, he and three other Pentecostal preachers and seven Catholic priests held a joint service in the hospital chapel, to which every patient came to the “anointed vessels,” after which those who came quickly received healing. Then they were asked to lay hands on all the patients in the wards, so Hinn and his companions went down into the hall, healing people, throwing them to the floor by the power of God until “the hospital looked as if there had been an earthquake.”
The reality, easily established by speaking with hospital officials and the nursing sisters from the Gray Sisters of the Immaculate Conception who work there, was that not a single patient was healed when Hinn held a small service in the chapel, and moreover: “…Mr. Hinn’s claims are strange and entirely unwarranted.”
In the end, so what? Benny Hinn is not the first or the last shining evangelist in white, juggling “miracles.” What makes Hinn original is that after moving to Orlando in 1979 and founding the Christian Center there in 1983, he became the most famous (and perhaps the richest) “evangelist” in the world. For example, when he preaches in Africa, his meetings often draw no less than half a million people. And they all come for one thing: supernatural phenomena, miracles, ecstatic emotional experiences. He developed his technique in the 1980s in the Orlando church, which served as the stage for loud, frenzied, charismatic services almost from the very beginning of his presence. Hinn could often speak in tongues (something he does not do now when his services are televised), utter wild prophecies, share divine revelations given only to him, as he largely incorporated into his services all the techniques he learned by watching Kathryn Kuhlman. Soon the Orlando church became a Mecca for the suffering, and by the time Hinn engaged in “crusades” in the late 80s, he filled the void left after the collapse of the Bakkers, Swaggarts, and Tiltons.
Hinn is in many ways rooted in the era of 19th-century tent revival meetings. A little Scripture and great enthusiasm—such were initially the ways of bringing the Gospel to people on the fringes, whom the churches had overlooked. Traditionally, at the end of such services, small offerings were collected to pay the preacher’s travel expenses. Over time, tent evangelism fell prey to dubious dealers and adventurers who realized they could profit from a good catch by whipping up emotions in uneducated people, making them feel the presence of miraculous events. And from there it was a short step to Aimee Semple McPherson, the now-discredited “healer” of the 1920s, to whom, oddly enough, Hinn tips his hat as one of his spiritual predecessors. McPherson was the first to raise tent revival meetings to a national level.
This is not to say that everyone who conducted a healing ministry was a fraud—but it seems very likely that those who made their entire career out of it were. Special techniques were even developed using sleight of hand and foot, which did well in the 90s, and to a large extent used by W. Grant, who can “lengthen” or “shorten” a leg by simple but artful manipulation of the shoe. Almost from the very beginning, healing ministries were a strange mixture of show business, fervent worship, and magic. For instance, Hinn’s services are built on a rigidly set pattern designed for maximum emotional impact and, not so coincidentally, for maximum offering collection. From the moment attendees enter the show, they are stirred up by lighting, repetitive music, impressive chanting, group body movements, group singing, various forms of choral singing and instrumental music—all of this prepares them for the moment when Hinn steps on stage. The song played at his entrance (“How Great Thou Art”) is convenient for the ambiguous interpretation of the personal pronoun it contains.
“People, there is power here!” Hinn usually says. “Lift up your hands and receive it.”
— Everyone obediently raises their hands.
“You will be healed tonight!”
— They sob and shout “Hallelujah.”
“All things are possible to him who believes!”
Hinn repeats the same phrases three times, achieving a greater emotional response with each utterance.
Chanting, body movements, greeting—all the classic techniques are used to merge individuals into a crowd. This works for dictators, and it works for Hinn. But now, when he has brought them together in hope, he adds a dose of fear.
He speaks of huge catastrophes happening in the world. He tells them about the strange time we live in, about a sinful world that will be purified through fire and earthquake. And there is only one faint hope for deliverance: “Only those who have given to God’s work will be spared.”
Donations are collected in large white plastic buckets to the melody of a violin. And while they are being gathered, Hinn’s voice becomes soothing. “Nothing will touch you. No one will lay a hand on your children. Nothing will touch your home.”
Even though he never explicitly says, “Give money or you will die,” he makes it clear enough. His sermons constantly feature the interconnection between “giving” and “healing,” “confessing faith” and “meeting your needs.” He comes within a hair’s breadth of declaring: “If you give me money, you will be healed.” And the offerings are always taken between his promise of healing and the actual healing service. In exactly the same way, street performers use their main trick before the hat is passed around.
Around 10 p.m., when all the checks and green bills with portraits of deceased presidents have been collected, Hinn announces that God is speaking to him. Sometimes he sees angels in the room. Sometimes he sees hideous demons fleeing the building: “You foul spirits of disease, get out of here! Make room for God’s people!” Sometimes he just feels the presence of spirits or angels. Once he saw an entire stadium covered in gold dust. And then, as if his body were controlled by a power beyond his will, he begins running around, sending people falling backward. Sometimes he knocks them down with his jacket, sometimes by blowing on them, sometimes by shoving them in the forehead with his hand—but when he touches them, they topple over. While he does this, he shouts out healings—brain tumor, cancer, paralyzed left leg—as if he can see what is invisible to ordinary mortals. Then, one after another, various people climb onto the stage, and the host describes their ailments so that Hinn can lay hands on them and declare the disease defeated. On a typical evening, he will heal about 80 people; in addition, he shouts phrases like: “Wherever you are, you are healed.”
No wonder Hinn needs bodyguards. Very few, if any, of those people were actually healed. And when they die, or their illnesses worsen even more, their relatives start to become furious. Over the past more than 10 years, this has happened again and again, as documented in various investigative reports conducted by the Trinity Foundation, starting with the Inside Edition show in 1993.
Here are just a few examples:
- He healed brain cancer on stage, although tests done in a follow‑up exam showed the tumor remained.
- The “healing” of a deaf woman who, according to her doctor, was never deaf at all.
- A woman from Houston who thought she was healed of lung cancer (“It will never come back!” Hinn told her). She stopped monitoring and medical care—and died two months later.
- Heavyweight boxer Evander Holyfield, who was barred from sports because of a heart condition, came to Philadelphia for a Benny Hinn “crusade,” where hands were laid on him. After Holyfield was told he was healed, he wrote Hinn a check for $265,000. The facts are that he later passed another medical exam, and then his doctors told him he had never had a heart condition. He had been misdiagnosed.
- Hinn claims that a man in Ghana was raised from the dead on stage. He said, “We have that video recording!” but he has never provided it.
In two cases, journalists attempted to verify all the healings at a single “crusade.” Researchers preparing the HBO documentary “A Question of Miracles” attended a crusade where 76 miracles were claimed. It took place in Portland, Oregon. Even though Hinn agreed to provide medical documentation for each miracle, he completely ignored all requests, and then finally responded 13 weeks later—with only five cases. HBO pursued these cases and discovered that the woman “healed” of lung cancer had died nine months later; the broken spine of an elderly woman had not actually been healed; a man with an injury worsened when he refused treatment and necessary surgery; a woman alleged to have been healed of deafness had never been deaf (according to her husband); finally, a woman suffering from shortness of breath stopped seeing her doctor on her mother’s instructions.
Last December, NBC’s Dateline program tried to replicate HBO’s investigation. At a crusade in Las Vegas, they counted 56 miracles. Of those, Hinn ultimately provided “confirming” information for only five people. Four of the five refused to share their medical records with NBC. The fifth, a woman supposedly healed of Lou Gehrig’s disease, was, according to her doctor, misdiagnosed.
There are so many documentaries and investigations dedicated to Hinn (almost all organized by the Trinity Foundation) that a common pattern can be discerned: Here is Hinn in action.
This is what he claims. This is what his critics say.
Is he a fraud or a healer? Let’s find out. There aren’t very many healings. This is what Hinn says in his defense.
By the way, this is what Hinn says in his defense when confronted with the death certificate of a person “healed” of an illness: “The reason people lose their healing is that they begin to question whether God really did it.” If you are not healed (or worse—if your sick child is not healed), it’s a problem with your own insufficient faith. Here, Hinn’s ministry comes close to primitive magic, meaning that if you really want something, say the right words and feel the right feelings, then that “something” becomes reality.
Nevertheless, as it turned out, media investigations were the best thing that ever happened to Hinn. They made him more famous and recognized than religious broadcasting ever could have. And since most of his audience consists of truly desperate people — the chronically ill, the dying, those living in constant pain — Benny Hinn became yet another crutch for them in their attempts to do something, anything.
When the first investigation ended in March 1993, Hinn must have thought his empire was on the verge of collapse. An ugly incident occurred between Hinn and Steve Wilson of Inside Edition, followed by a campaign to restore Hinn’s tarnished image. During that campaign, he visited numerous radio stations and TV shows and even met personally with some of his critics to admit he had made mistakes and to vow that he would never broadcast “miracles” on television until they were medically confirmed. “God grabbed me by the throat,” he told his congregation. “I think it’s time to stop preaching healing and start preaching Jesus.” At the request of Inside Edition, Ole Anthony came to Orlando to meet with Hinn. In a face‑to‑face meeting, Hinn said he had repented and intended to start medically verifying all miracles, and also wanted to keep them off television for six months to make sure they were genuine. He even said during the meeting that worldly wealth is sinful — something that rarely slips from the lips of a televangelist.
If you examine a specific year of his life (1993, in particular), you will see that he is supremely consistent in his statements, perfectly aware of his mistakes, very humble, very apologetic, very eager to get “back to the Gospel.” He even said once that he would stop healing ministries altogether. And almost everyone believed him, including Inside Edition and Anthony. “I was disappointed,” Anthony says today, “that a year later he was back to his old tricks.”
In 1994, it looked as though the previous year had never happened. Hinn ramped things up to an unprecedented degree. He increased the number of “crusades,” became more visible, more theatrical, and the number of “miracles” flashing across the TV screen each day did not decline.
Undoubtedly, he realized: scandal is good for business. At least, this particular kind of scandal. Bakker and Swaggart — he must have thought of them — fell victim to adultery, which the Christian world finds hard to forgive. On the other hand, greed does not lead to good, either. Tilton crashed over money, but after a few years of silence he was back in action. This was a fundamentally different kind of media attention. Journalists simply asked, “Is he a healer or a fraud?” And because that was an open question, the crowd of fans grew even larger.
A decade later, Hinn has become something of a media expert. Whenever his activities are investigated, he simply admits his “mistakes.” When a crisis hits, he especially loves appearing on Larry King’s show. He has also refined his view of what he does. He heals no one, he always reminds the interviewing journalist. He merely creates an atmosphere in which God can heal people. By the time they come up on the stage, they have already been healed by God, he says. And if the healing turns out to be a fake, that person deceived themselves. There’s no harm in dreaming, after all.
He also says he has a doctor on hand to analyze miraculous healings, and that doctor also advises the healed to continue their medication until the healing is medically confirmed. This seems to have satisfied the media, even though it implies an admission of his own inability to understand whether a person is healed. Of course, the image he presents to his fans is just the opposite. To them, he is a man endowed with special wisdom. He sees what no one else sees.
He converses with Jesus as no one before him. He testifies to God’s presence when no one else would even think of it. And he constantly says his teachings are “new.” “You didn’t come here to hear the same old sermons you’ve heard for the last 50 years, did you?” Of course, to orthodox Christians, that alone makes him heretical. For them, the Gospel hasn’t changed in 2,000 years.
However, there is an even uglier side to Hinn and his organization’s activities. In 1998, two people in his inner circle died of heroin overdoses. In 1999, after yet another pledge to reform, he fired several board members and hired a former police officer named Mario Licciardello to conduct an internal investigation of his ministry. Licciardello was the brother of Carman, who is something like the Engelbert Humperdinck of Christian singers, so many think Hinn had no suspicions. Yet Licciardello worked so diligently, digging through hundreds of personnel shake‑ups to get to the bottom of the heroin pit, that Hinn later filed criminal charges against him. While Licciardello was still head of security, a lawsuit was brought against him in the name of the ministry, seeking to turn over and seal all his papers, since their disclosure could put an end to Hinn’s ministry. Licciardello was an investigator with 25 years of experience, and he realized that his entire career could be tarnished, so he and his lawyers fought back blow for blow. He repeatedly tried to oust Hinn, but Hinn resisted every step of the way. Despite this, the judge ruled against Hinn and said that if he intended to prohibit Licciardello’s activities, he could agree to submit to questioning.
On the day when Hinn’s consent to resign was expected in this case, Licciardello suffered a heart attack and died. Hinn’s organization reached an out-of-court settlement with Licciardello’s widow, which included the termination of the legal proceedings.
Hinn heads the largest evangelical organization in the world that is not a member of the Evangelical Council for Financial Accountability (ECFA). This means his finances are closed, his salary is kept secret, and his income can only be guessed at. His book royalties alone are estimated at around $500,000 a year, but he clearly has carte blanche to pull whatever his heart desires out of the magic money bag. “He lives like a billionaire,” says Ole Anthony, “and all thanks to false promises and trading in fake hope.”
As Hinn himself puts it in rare moments of candor: “I don’t need gold in heaven, I have it now.”
Throughout 1993, his year of “reforms,” he spoke of his pain at being portrayed as a millionaire and how he wished to be “more like Christ.” His solution: “The Lord told me to sell the Mercedes and the watch.”
He got rid of his Rolex and his Mercedes. Mind you, he did not give them away. He sold them — and replaced the Mercedes with a $65,000 BMW. That is exactly what God told him to do. Just as God later told him that the time was not yet right for the World Healing Center in Irving. And who, after all, knows what God wants better than Hinn — for, in the end, he is only the third person in the history of the Universe to have seen God and lived to tell about it.
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