Herbert Armstrong loved to name-drop George Müller, the 19th-century evangelist who built orphanages in Bristol, England, through faith and answered prayer. Across decades of writings, the cult leader painted Müller as a shining example of what true belief could achieve: millions raised, thousands housed, all through the power of prayer. To the WCG, Müller was proof that God exists, that faith moves mountains, and that obedience to divine laws brings miracles. It sounds inspiring—until you see the con.
This wasn’t about honoring Müller; it was about hijacking him. Müller’s story became a prop, a shiny bauble dangled to co-opt his faithfulness and merchandize Christ for the cult’s gain. In Armstrongism, faith wasn’t about selflessness—it was a transaction: obey the rules, tithe till it hurts, pray the right way, and God will deliver. Müller’s legacy was exploited to sell this grift, lending credibility to a system that raked in millions while its leader lived in luxury. Today we rip apart this holy heist, showing how Müller’s example was used to peddle a gospel of greed, leaving WCG members with a warped faith that served the cult’s wallet, not their souls.
The Müller Myth: A Saint for Sale
Armstrongism couldn’t stop gushing about George Müller. From the 1940s to the 1970s, WCG publications called him a "great man of faith," a "modern apostle" who proved God’s existence through answered prayer. Müller, a Prussian-born evangelist, founded five orphanages in Bristol starting in 1836, housing thousands without soliciting funds—relying solely on prayer. The cult loved to tout the numbers: over 70 years, Müller raised the equivalent of $7 million, all through faith, feeding and schooling orphans in a testament to divine provision. This, they claimed, was the ultimate proof of God, a slam dunk against skeptics who doubted miracles.
But this praise wasn’t pure. The WCG founder zeroed in on Müller’s story because it fit the cult’s narrative: faith, defined their way, gets results. Müller’s answered prayers became Exhibit A, a convenient example to prop up Armstrongism’s theology. The system taught that faith meant absolute belief in God’s promises, obedience to its laws—like Saturday Sabbath and festival-keeping—and unwavering trust until the answer came. Müller’s success was trotted out as evidence that this formula worked, ignoring how his faith differed from the cult’s. By plastering Müller’s name across booklets and letters, the WCG borrowed his credibility, making its own teachings seem legitimate. It was a con, a holy heist to sell a distorted gospel to the flock.
Müller vs. the Cult Leader:
Selflessness Meets Greed
Let’s compare the two legacies the WCG tried to tie together. George Müller was a genuine servant. He founded his orphanages to care for the destitute, never taking a salary, never asking for donations, trusting God to provide through prayer alone. His journals detail daily miracles—bread arriving as the pantry emptied, funds coming at the last moment to pay bills. Müller’s faith was selfless, his work a labor of love for orphans, not a scheme for personal gain. He died modestly in 1898, leaving a legacy of compassion that still inspires.
Herbert’s Legacy? The opposite. Armstrongism preached faith while demanding triple tithes—up to 30% of members’ income—to fund the cult, not orphans. By the 1980s, the WCG was pulling in $200 million a year, over $600 million in today’s dollars, while families struggled to pay bills. Where did the money go? Armstrong’s journals detailed his daily self gratification episodes. He lived a lavish lifestyle while members lived in poverty, guilt-tripped into giving more to prove their faith. Herbert claimed to follow Müller’s example, but Müller built orphanages; Armstrongism built an empire, one that enriched its leader while exploiting the faithful. Müller’s faith fed the hungry; the cult fed its greed.
Merchandizing Christ: Faith as a Transaction
The WCG didn’t just co-opt Müller’s story—it weaponized it to merchandize Christ. In Armstrongism, faith wasn’t about a relationship with God; it was a transaction. The system taught that answered prayer came through strict obedience to its laws—Saturday Sabbath, dietary rules, festival-keeping—plus unwavering belief. Müller’s millions, the cult claimed, came because he prayed the right way, believing until the answer arrived. The subtext? Follow the rules, tithe faithfully, pray like Müller, and God will provide. It was a sales pitch, turning spirituality into a business deal where the WCG held the contract.
This transactional faith was a grift. Müller’s example was used to guilt members into giving more, tying their spiritual worth to their financial sacrifice. If Müller raised millions through prayer, why couldn’t you? Never mind that Müller never demanded money—the WCG did, incessantly, claiming it was the key to divine favor. Members who couldn’t pay triple tithes were shamed as lacking faith, while their offerings funded a lifestyle of luxury. Faith became a product, Christ a commodity, and Müller’s legacy a marketing tool to keep the cash flowing. The cult wasn’t honoring Müller—it was exploiting him to sell a gospel of greed.
The Fallout: A Warped Faith That Breaks
Armstrongism’s distortion of Müller’s faith had a devastating impact. Members were taught that prayer and provision hinged on perfect obedience to the cult’s rules—rules Müller never followed. Müller’s faith was flexible, rooted in trust; the WCG’s was rigid, rooted in control. When members prayed and didn’t get answers—because they couldn’t tithe enough, or broke a dietary law—they were told they lacked faith, not that the system was a sham. This warped view of prayer and faith left them disillusioned, as we saw in previous discussions of how the cult breeds atheism. Many who left didn’t just reject Armstrongism—they rejected faith entirely, unable to separate God from the transactional grift they’d been sold.
Müller’s example, meant to inspire, became a weapon in the WCG’s hands. Members felt pressure to emulate Müller’s results without his freedom, trapped in a cycle of guilt and failure. The cult’s co-opting of Müller didn’t build faith—it broke it, turning a story of divine provision into a tool for spiritual abuse. The system didn’t care about Müller’s heart; it cared about his story, a shiny veneer to mask its own greed while fleecing the flock.
The True Motive: Profit, Not Piety
Why did the WCG latch onto Müller? Profit. Müller’s story was a goldmine for a cult built on exploitation. By linking its teachings to Müller’s success, the system lent legitimacy to its empire, convincing followers that its rules were the path to miracles. But while Müller’s faith fed orphans, the WCG’s faith fed a bank account. The $7 million Müller raised over 70 years pales in comparison to the $200 million the WCG raked in annually by the 1980s—money that didn’t go to orphans but to luxuries. Müller lived modestly; the cult leader lived like a rock star, all while preaching a faith Müller supposedly embodied.
This holy heist wasn’t about piety—it was about power. Müller’s legacy gave the WCG a veneer of holiness, a way to sell its gospel grift to a captive audience. But the truth is clear: the cult didn’t admire Müller—it envied him, not for his faith, but for the story it could exploit. The system stole Müller’s faithfulness to merchandize Christ, turning a saint’s legacy into a sales pitch for a cult that left its members spiritually bankrupt.
The Gospel Grift Exposed
The WCG’s glowing praise of George Müller was a sham, a holy heist to co-opt his faithfulness for the cult’s gain. Müller’s selfless mission—raising millions through prayer to care for orphans—became a prop, used to sell a transactional faith that enriched Armstrongism while impoverishing its members. The system didn’t honor Müller; it exploited him, merchandizing Christ to fund an empire of greed. For AiCOG readers, this is a stark reminder of the cult’s true legacy: a gospel grift that turned faith into a product, leaving WCG members with a warped belief that broke under its own weight. Müller’s legacy deserves better—Herbert Armstrong’s legacy deserves to be exposed for the con it was.
Herbert’s Holy Heist © 2025 by AiCOG is licensed under CC BY-ND 4.0
