Doing It His Way

Texas preacher favors conviction over compassion

For the past six years, Lester Roloff has been waging a battle against the state of Texas. A fiery Bible-quoting, fundamentalist preacher, Roloff, 65, believes devoutly in the separation of church and state, so much so that he has repeatedly refused to allow inspection and licensing of his three child-correction homes in Texas, part of his multimillion-dollar evangelical empire. He has thundered defiance on his daily radio programs, broadcast over 180 stations to his supporters. "They want me to be licensed by a failing infidel system," he has claimed. "I'm tired of this bunch of rattlesnakes chewing on me."

Roloff fought for his convictions in court, and even went to jail for his beliefs. To no avail. Last Wednesday, the state district court ordered that the three homes be licensed or else closed and the children turned over to the Texas department of human resources, unless Roloff complies with state law this week.

At the heart of the controversy is the Rebekah Home for Girls, a facility for wayward girls that Roloff founded in 1957. The two-story, white brick building is located next to Roloff s own two-story stone house on his 567-acre compound near Corpus Christi. Rebekah's 150 residents have been sent to Roloff by parents around the country, and their expenses are largely paid by Roloffs "People's Church." The girls wear uniforms and spend about four hours a day in rigorous religious training, in addition to studying academic courses that are heavily weighted with fundamentalist beliefs. TV, radio, rock music and eye makeup are banned.

Former "prostitutes, runaways and dopers," as Roloff describes them, the girls seem to be models of reform. He claims a success rate of 90%, "better than anything else in the country." Many, after the normal stay of one year, become born-again Christians. They talk of being "witnesses for the Lord" and punctuate conversations with "Amens." Says Judy Burnett, 16, who came to the home from Dallas: "I didn't like it here at first because I still had sin in my heart. Now I love it."

But there is an Old Testament harshness to the Rebekah regime. The windows have alarms. The rooms are bugged, and the girls are kept under constant surveillance. Mail is censored. Errant inmates are given "licks" with wooden paddles; serious offenders, like those who try to run away, are tied up or put in solitary confinement "lockups" for days. "We're not dealing with kids who got caught fooling around in church choir practice, you know," says Roloff.

The state might never have bothered him except that tales of excessive punishment kept surfacing from some of his thousands of alumnae. In 1973 the state attorney general's office ordered an investigation, alleging that Roloffs residents were sometimes beaten black and blue, or tied to toilets for days. Roloff refused to admit the inspectors.

Contempt of court citations came in 1974 and 1976, along with a $33,000 fine and even short jail sentences. Still Roloff refused to let state officials in. "Some of these kids had done nothing worse than have parents who couldn't cope," recalls Lynn Taylor, a former special assistant attorney general. "The state had a right to protect those kids."

Then in April a far more sinister story surfaced. The Corpus Christi Caller-Times reported that in July 1978 a girl named Misty Hardman, 16, had been stabbed by other Rebekah residents in an attempted murder. Their motive, the girls told the paper, was to cause a scandal that would force authorities to close the home. The girl survived, and Roloff never reported the incident. Instead, he paddled the culprits and locked them in solitary confinement for two days to three weeks. Roloff later claimed that the assailants were all "saved" by his treatment, and indeed the girls, whom he lovingly referred to as "my five little murderers," all had only praise for their leader. A county grand jury is now considering bringing charges against the girls.

Shortly after the news broke, newly elected Governor William Clements, whom Roloff had supported during his campaign, kept an earlier promise to tour the home and emerged to call the preacher "a man of great conviction." Nonetheless, the state filed the suit that it won in court last week, forcing Roloff to submit to the licensing procedures or have his facilities closed down.

Roloff appears to have little legal recourse. The U.S. Supreme Court refused last October to hear one of the earlier contempt charges. "The courts are trying to shoot the Holy Spirit out of the saddle," said the enraged preacher. He does not plan to give in, even though it means the closing of his homes. Proclaims Lester Roloff: "My conviction is greater than my compassion." -

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