In my early twenties, finding my footing in life felt like navigating an endless maze. For me, that meant juggling part-time jobs, taking college courses without a clear direction, and trying to build a stable life for my young family. Money was tight, opportunities felt scarce, and I often questioned whether I was on the right path. In the midst of this uncertainty, I found solace in a Bible study group—a community that welcomed my wife and me with open arms and made us feel like we had found a second family.

Among the group was a man who stood out—a natural leader, always positive, always offering advice. He seemed to understand me in a way my own father never had. While my dad was a blue-collar worker, pragmatic and practical, I was more of a thinker, drawn to discussions of faith, philosophy, and meaning. This man saw that in me, or at least he made me believe he did. He encouraged my ambitions, helped me secure a job when I was unemployed, even helped us find a place to live. He became a mentor, a father figure, a guiding hand when I needed one most.

But what I didn’t see at the time—what I only realized much later—was that his generosity came with strings attached. What began as friendship and mentorship slowly turned into something else: a web of influence, where faith and finance were intertwined in ways I couldn’t quite understand at first. By the time I realized the cost of his help, I was already entangled in something far more complex than I had ever imagined.

The Allure of a Helping Hand

There’s something incredibly powerful about having a mentor—especially when you’re young, struggling, and looking for direction. I had spent years feeling uncertain about my career and my place in the world, but here was a man who seemed to have it all figured out. He was confident, successful, and always willing to help. When I lost my job, he found me work. When my wife and I needed a place to live, he helped us negotiate a rental. He wasn’t just a friend; he was a guiding hand, a father figure, and in many ways, exactly what I thought I needed at that time.

One of the most enticing aspects of his worldview was his emphasis on financial independence—specifically, the idea of being completely debt-free. And that idea resonated deeply with me. Even now, I believe it’s best to avoid debt whenever possible. There was the carrot: a vision of life unburdened by financial stress, of freedom from the paycheck-to-paycheck struggle that defined my reality. For a young man who was barely able to afford infant formula, the promise of financial independence was more than just appealing—it was intoxicating.

He reinforced this message constantly, whether over dinner at his house, during our Bible study discussions, or in one-on-one conversations where he’d always take my call, always have advice to offer. And his advice was always on the same script: financial freedom was the key to a better life. It wasn’t just about money; it was a philosophy, a way of seeing the world, and it was seamlessly woven into his faith. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I wasn’t just being mentored—I was being conditioned.

The Underlying Agenda

At first, everything seemed genuine. My mentor and his wife weren’t just friendly; they were deeply involved in our lives. They helped us find a place to live—right across the street from them. They watched out for us, invited us over for dinners, and even sent their daughter to babysit so my wife and I could have a rare evening to ourselves. At the time, it felt like kindness, like real community. Looking back, I can see how it was something else entirely.

When he invited us over for what we thought would be a relaxing dinner, we were grateful. A quiet evening, just the two of us, away from the baby? It sounded perfect. But when we arrived, the night took a turn we hadn’t expected. What we thought was a simple meal quickly became an Amway sales pitch.

The conversation started casually, but soon, he was laying out his grand vision for financial independence. He spoke with certainty, as if he had uncovered a secret path to success. And he backed it all up with Bible verses—rapid-fire references that I barely had time to process, let alone look up in context. It wasn’t just about making money; it was about faith, about God’s will for prosperity. The message was clear: this wasn’t just a business opportunity—it was a spiritual one.

At the end of the pitch, I felt conflicted. On one hand, it felt like a setup, a bait-and-switch under the guise of friendship. On the other, maybe this was the way. The logic seemed airtight: buying from ourselves, helping others do the same, creating a network that would eventually lead to financial freedom. My wife and I expressed interest but admitted that we were struggling to pay bills and couldn’t afford the buy-in at the moment. That’s when he hit us with the inevitable response: How could you afford not to?

That moment should have been a red flag. Instead, I found myself still considering it. After all, he had helped me get a job. He had helped us with our finances. He had woven himself into so many aspects of our lives that it was hard to separate genuine care from calculated persuasion.

Red Flags and Cognitive Dissonance

The Amway pitch wasn’t a one-time thing—it became a constant presence. Since I hadn’t explicitly told him no, he kept bringing it up, weaving it into every conversation. It didn’t matter if we were talking about work, faith, or even casual life updates—somehow, it always circled back to the same point: Financial independence. Buying from yourself. Helping others do the same. He was relentless.

And then I noticed something even more unsettling. The Bible study group we had started together—what I had believed was a shared effort to grow in faith—wasn’t just a Bible study to him. It was a recruiting pool. Week after week, I watched as he subtly tested the waters, feeling people out, nudging them toward the same “opportunity” he had presented to me. I had thought I was co-leading a faith-based group, but in reality, I had been helping him build his downline. I was unknowingly bringing him more potential recruits, and that realization made me sick.

Still, I hesitated to walk away completely. He had been a mentor, a friend, a father figure in many ways. Even if I had doubts about his financial schemes, maybe he was still sincere about his faith—maybe he truly believed what he was teaching. But then, he crossed a line that I couldn’t ignore.

When my son was born with a birth defect, he told me it was my fault. “If you had enough faith,” he said, “he could be healed.”

That was the breaking point. It was one thing to push financial schemes under the guise of faith, but to use God as a weapon—to claim that my child’s condition was punishment for my lack of belief—was too much. I could no longer give him the benefit of the doubt. This wasn’t just misguided theology. This was manipulation.

Thankfully, my theological studies had already given me some tools to push back, but it was Hank Hanegraaff’s book on the Word of Faith movement that really opened my eyes. I started to see the patterns, the way prosperity gospel teachings twisted scripture into a transactional formula: Have enough faith, and God will make you rich. Believe enough, and you’ll never struggle. But real faith doesn’t work that way. God isn’t a cosmic vending machine, dispensing blessings to those who insert the right amount of belief.

Breaking Free

Securing a full-time job was the first real step toward independence, but it wasn’t easy. Up until that point, my mentor had a direct hand in my employment, getting me part-time work at the Springfield harbor docks loading and unloading cargo. It was grueling, late-night work—midnight to 4 a.m.—but I had little choice. Thankfully, the union and seniority rules prevented him from giving me more hours, limiting his control over my schedule. Even so, knowing that my livelihood depended in part on him made it all the more difficult to walk away.

But as time went on, the cracks in his influence widened. Conversations with others in our Bible study revealed that I wasn’t alone in my experience—several members had noticed the same patterns, felt the same pressure, and had come to the same unsettling realization. This wasn’t just a Bible study; it had been a recruitment pipeline for his Amway business. Once we all understood what was happening, the study shut down. The trust that had bound us together had been broken, and there was no going back.

Even though the Bible study had ended, I still lived across the street from him. That meant awkward encounters were unavoidable. But unlike before, we no longer spoke. He didn’t attempt to rebuild the friendship, nor did I. The few times we crossed paths at church, he made sure to take a jab—always a subtle dig, a snide remark, a way of reminding me that in his mind, I had failed some test of faith and financial ambition. I learned to avoid him, choosing distance over confrontation.

Finally, years later, when my family and I moved back to Springfield and left Ogdenville behind, I felt an immense sense of relief. It was over. I never had to see him again.

Lessons Learned

One of the biggest takeaways from this experience was the danger of mixing faith with financial schemes. When someone intertwines spirituality with promises of wealth, it can be incredibly seductive—especially for those who are struggling. The best defense against falling for such manipulation is to be prepared: to know the truth so that when you encounter a lie, you can recognize it. Looking back, I’m grateful for the critical reading class I took in college, where I learned about logical fallacies. That, combined with Christianity in Crisis, helped me see through the flawed theology I had been exposed to. It also ignited a curiosity in me, leading me to study cults and the various ways people manipulate others.

Cults don’t always look like what we expect. They aren’t always isolated compounds in the middle of nowhere or doomsday groups waiting for the end of the world. Sometimes, they creep into everyday life under the guise of mentorship, community, or even business opportunities. The psychological tactics used in cult-like groups—whether religious or corporate—follow the same patterns: love-bombing, social pressure, loaded language, and the slow erosion of independent thinking. The more I studied, the more I realized that what I had been pulled into wasn’t just bad theology—it was a small-scale cult.

Perhaps the hardest lesson I had to learn was distinguishing between genuine generosity and generosity with an agenda. That’s a tough one. My default is to trust, not to be skeptical, and that’s exactly what made me fall for his apparent kindness. He presented himself as a mentor, a friend, a father figure, and I wanted to believe in that. Now, I’ve learned to listen to my gut more. If something feels off, if my instincts send up a warning, I don’t ignore it. I’m out.

Recently, I read Combating Cult Mind Control by Steven Hassan, and it hit me hard. It was the final piece of the puzzle, confirming what I had suspected: I had been drawn into a subtle, small-scale cult—one built around power, control, and a perversion of faith. That realization is what prompted me to write this. Because if it could happen to me, it could happen to anyone.

The Broader Implications

What happened to me wasn’t just about one man or one group—it was part of a much larger pattern. The tactics he used weren’t unique to him or to faith-based communities. Cult-like influence exists in many places, including business, self-help movements, and especially multi-level marketing (MLM) schemes. Not all MLMs function like cults, but they create the perfect environment for manipulation. Some organizations are overtly cultish, while others become cult-like because of the people within them—leaders who demand loyalty, push an “us vs. them” mindset, and weave ideology into financial promises.

One of the trickiest aspects of these groups is how they blur the line between positivity and manipulation. Positivity is a good thing—it can help you stay motivated, push through challenges, and even improve your chances of success. But it’s never a guarantee. When someone tells you that thinking the right thoughts or believing the right things will automatically lead to success, they aren’t giving you wisdom—they’re selling you a fantasy. And when faith gets mixed into that equation, it becomes even more dangerous.

That’s why skepticism and discernment are so crucial. One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is to listen to my gut. Most people who fall into cult-like environments—whether religious or business-based—remember a moment at the very beginning when their instincts told them to run. But they ignored it. I ignored it. I wanted to believe in the kindness being offered, in the promise of a better life. Now, I’ve learned to trust that first instinct. If something feels off, if I sense even a hint of manipulation, I don’t second-guess it—I walk away.

Because the truth is, real faith doesn’t need to sell you success. And real success doesn’t require blind faith.

Conclusion

Looking back, this experience taught me more than I ever expected—not just about faith, but about influence, manipulation, and the importance of critical thinking. It reinforced how easy it is to be drawn into something that feels right at first but slowly shifts into something else entirely. I don’t regret my time in that Bible study because it ultimately strengthened my discernment. But I do regret how long it took me to see the truth.

Faith is powerful. So is community. So is mentorship. These things are good, but only when they are rooted in truth and genuine care, not hidden agendas and financial gain. I still believe in seeking out wise mentors and surrounding myself with supportive people. But now, I do so with awareness, with a sharpened sense of discernment, and with the understanding that not all kindness is selfless.

If there’s one final takeaway from this, it’s that faith should never be transactional. God is not a business model. Faith isn’t a tool for personal gain. The moment someone starts selling you a version of Christianity where financial success is tied to belief, where hardship is blamed on a lack of faith, or where community is contingent on buying into their system—that’s your sign to run.

Because faith should be about truth, not profit. And the moment those two things get tangled together, something has gone terribly wrong.

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Excerpt

Faith should never be for sale. When mentorship and community come with hidden agendas, it’s time to question everything. I learned the hard way that influence can be a tool for both good and manipulation. Real faith isn’t a business model—it’s rooted in truth, not financial gain.