HEARTLAND ACADEMY IS WINNING ITS BATTLE IN THE COURTS

BETHEL, Mo. - Child protection officials have raided his Heartland
Christian Academy. Prosecutors have thrown the book at his employees. But
Charles N. Sharpe isn't budging.

Not from his plan to enroll hundreds more troubled youths at a 20,000-acre
religious complex he built with his own wealth. And not from his belief
that America's youths are falling prey to drugs, sex and violence because
public institutions are godless and parents have spared the rod of discipline.

As long as society fails its youth and helpless parents bring their
children to his doorstep, Sharpe said, his ministry will flourish.

There's no sugarcoating how he regards those who attack the biblical refuge
he has spent six years building.

"They are evil," he said. "There's not another term for it. They hate us.
They literally hate us."

In the past two years, Sharpe said, he has spent more than $2 million
defending Heartland employees against a long list of criminal charges,
ranging from forcing kids to work in deep piles of manure to excessively
paddling students. Several of his employees have been hauled into court,
and investigators temporarily removed Heartland's 115 students last fall.

Today, Sharpe appears to have the upper hand.

His attorneys have persuaded a federal judge to ban all future raids but
allow the state to continue investigating individual reports of abuse. The
judge even said he was disgusted by how the raid played out. More recently,
a rural jury needed only 18 minutes this spring to determine that working
waist-deep in manure isn't child abuse. Other abuse cases appear to have
stalled.

If anything, Sharpe said, all the hassles have brought more teens in. Many
parents are so in need of help, he said, that they are relieved to learn
about Heartland, even if through bad publicity.

Today, Heartland runs on Charles Sharpe's terms. And Sharpe runs much more
than a school and a church.

He acts as a sort of mayor of a city that cropped up in a cornfield - one
with a subdivision of brick duplexes, a hotel, two restaurants, a gas
station, a private runway, 3,200 milk cows and one of the largest cattle
operations in the state.

All of it was built by money Sharpe made as founder of Ozark National Life
Insurance Co. And all of it was built on the belief that drug addicts and
former criminals needed a place to escape from the sins of the world.

Since 1995, Heartland has welcomed not only defiant teens, but adults and
even entire families who come to work the ranch and farmland while they
shed bad habits.

Many cross the country based on what they have heard from a pastor. Day
after day they arrive at Sharpe's office to learn the terms of their stay.

Levi Craig came on a morning in August with his parents. As the 21-year-old
recounted a string of drug binges, his mother wept for the times she locked
him out of the house or refused to give him money.

Then Sharpe set the conditions of his recovery program. All drugs, even
tobacco, are to be abandoned cold-turkey. "It's like you died and just
started over," Sharpe said.

To enter Heartland, he said, is to commit to at least two years in the program.

"What if I break down and go crazy six months from now and have to leave?"
Craig asked.

"Then you leave now," Sharpe said.

With that, Craig yielded up a cup of tobacco spit and surrendered himself
to Sharpe's world.

It's a world that Sharpe willingly opens to visitors. One of his employees
does little else than provide tours to visiting pastors, families and
members of the media.

Sharpe makes no effort to put a soft face on his rigid teen program. He
openly admits that he relies on corporal punishment. But Sharpe said he
wants to show outsiders the teens he believes have been reclaimed by the
ministry. He recently allowed two journalists from the Post-Dispatch to
observe the teen program with no restrictions on who could be interviewed.

Many students - even when speaking in private - offered unabashed praise.

Leigha, a 16-year-old who did not offer a last name, hugged Sharpe when she
saw him in the school hallway. She said she's been to numerous programs to
treat her uncontrollably violent temper. At Heartland, she said, "I have
people here that care about me."

Joshua Melton, 18, resisted Heartland's approach when his uncle, a
Heartland attorney, suggested he enroll. Today, he works with other young
men on the cattle ranch and feels his life is in order.

"Milking cows and praising God," he said. "It's awesome."

But a visit to Heartland also leaves little doubt to its severity.

During lunch, several boys in the cafeteria said they knew of only one boy
who had not been swatted for acting out. One boy said he had been swatted
every day for weeks and expected to be swatted daily for the year or more
he anticipates remaining at the school. The boy didn't offer his name, but
several of his classmates backed up his claim.

Throughout the day, there are frequent signs that Heartland is ruled by the
swat. Students can be seen re-enacting their last paddling and trading
advice on how to flex the right muscles to brace for the next hit. In an
office, several employees worked through the scheduling conflicts of doling
out numerous swats to a boy in several sessions.

Those kinds of tactics haven't entirely gone unpunished. In December, the
father of a 17-year-old student pleaded guilty of child abuse for taking
part in spanking the boy more than 30 times.

But for the most part, accusations against Heartland and its employees have
been batted down by Sharpe's legal team.

Political support Sharpe also appears to have all the support he needs in
Jefferson City, where the Legislature has repeatedly defeated efforts to
require Heartland and other faith-based programs to submit to regulation.
Sharpe has flown several lawmakers on his private jet to tour Heartland,
and he ranks as a leading contributor to the Republican Party.

The Missouri Citizen Education Fund, a nonprofit group that tracks
conservative political activity, estimates that Sharpe and his family and
business associates donated more than $210,000 in the 2000 election cycle.
Since state contribution limits have taken effect, Sharpe and associates
have donated $12,500 to Republican candidates, including $8,000 to Jim
Talent's Senate campaign.

Campaign finance records also indicate that Sharpe and family members
donated at least $1,200 to the state House campaign of Brian Munzlinger, a
Republican who recently won the district that includes parts of Heartland.

Sharpe still believes he's under assault from those who would take
Heartland away from him.

But he knows that he has only begun to tap into what seems like a limitless
reserve of troubled teens and frustrated parents. So when he walks through
the halls of his pristine school - which enrolls 150 teens from his reform
program - he sees room to grow.

"We're looking at having 500 students in the next two years," he said.