Ex-church members struggle to reclaim happiness and financial health

For most of her life, Ivette Villaseñor has been searching for a god. She looked in vain for one in the traditional Catholic Church of her parents, in Pentecostal congregations, and among curanderos, Latino healers who practice indigenous faiths.

She thought she had finally found one seven years ago, when she walked into downtown L.A.'s Million Dollar Theater. She was enthralled by the powerful prayers and songs, and by the pastors who so dramatically exorcised demons. But within five years, she was out of money and in danger of losing her home, her marriage and her mental health. "The Universal Church inflicted so much suffering on me that to this day I still can't get over the pain," she says. "Not only did they leave me and my family broke, but they also used the very thing that I loved the most -- God -- to take advantage of my faith."
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In 1995, a Universal temple opened in nearby Santa Ana's Yost Theater, a 1920s movie house, and she started going there. Pastor Sergio granted her request to be an obrera, a church worker. She soon fell in love with Gustavo Villaseñor, a 30-year-old aircraft-company supervisor from a small town in the Mexican state of Jalisco.

About a year after they married, Gustavo cut his shaggy light-brown hair and donned a white shirt and dress navy-blue pants to become an obrero. Gustavo dove into his new duties. His obedience to the pastors -- showing up at the temple every day after work, donating thousands at a time -- impressed even his wife.
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During backstage meetings held before services, the Villaseñors were taught to be on the lookout for people who did not belong to the church or who stood out from the crowd. They were told especially to watch for journalists, investigators and others carrying cameras or tape recorders, which were strictly prohibited. As regular members, the Villaseñors contributed about $30 each service. Now, the amount grew to as much as several thousand dollars a pop because obreros, the pastors told them, must be role models.

Ivette became pregnant with her second child and decided to leave her job as a secretary at a law office to become a full-time mother. Left only with Gustavo's $35,000-a-year job, the Villaseñors' budget was strained when tithings, donations, campañas (see main story) and other contributions came to average $1,600 per month.
Gustavo Villaseñor was rarely at home, spending most of his free time at the temple. In time, Ivette found herself asking pastors why the church didn't have a program to feed homeless people or provide other charitable programs she believed the Bible commanded. Pastors blamed all of her doubts on demons. They would grab her head and exorcise her, sometimes for an hour, until she revealed a demonic manifestation. New pastors assigned to the congregation, sometimes every six months, quickly learned about Ivette's rebelliousness. She was a hard worker and therefore tolerated -- until, she says, Pastor Adilson Fonseca arrived. He showed up in 1997 and would remain for almost three years. (Now a bishop in Boston, Fonseca declined an interview request and referred questions to the Los Angeles hierarchy, which did not respond.)

Fonseca, according to former church members, is a stern man who would often, from the pulpit, scold members who did not tithe generously. "He would always tell us that the reason we were in the condition we were in is that we did not sacrifice to God enough," Gustavo says.

With most of their money going to church coffers, the Villaseñors slipped into debt, with little money for food and most of their bills unpaid. Ivette became a thorn in the side of Fonseca as she continued to question church practice and doctrine. What most infuriated Fonseca, she says, was that Ivette was trying to persuade her husband to spend less time at the temple and more with his family. "It was a tug of war between me trying to keep my husband for myself and Adilson trying to keep my husband for the church," she says.

Again and again, Fonseca would tell Gustavo -- in private and from the altar -- that his wife was possessed by demons. One time, he recalls, he had to make a $1,000 donation for a campaña. There was no food in the refrigerator, so his wife took $40 from his wallet to buy groceries. "I took to Adilson only $960. I told him that I couldn't make the $1,000 because my wife had stolen $40 from me to buy food," Gustavo says. Their marriage was approaching rock bottom.
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Though they would barely talk to each other, Gustavo still loved his wife, he says. The truth finally hit him: The church was his problem, not his wife. Over the course of five years, he figured, they had donated about $70,000 to the church, and were another $70,000 in debt.

The Villaseñors reconciled and decided they must leave the church. Their departure left a profound mark on Fonseca. For months, members told them, Fonseca railed against the couple from the pulpit.

The Sunday after quitting the Universal Church, the couple accepted a friend's invitation to attend the Christian Embassy, a Pentecostal temple in Orange County, where they met Pastor Frances Huezo, the leader of its Spanish-language ministry. A certified psychologist, Huezo was shocked by their allegations. "I couldn't believe that people who preach salvation could also do such things," Huezo says. "What is worst, they claim to be a Pentecostal church. It gives us all a bad name."
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See the Light

Ex–church members struggle to reclaim happiness and financial health