Here's an article that appeared in London's Evening Standard.

- John

The guys proving God is big stuff
Evening Standard (London), Apr 8, 1999 by Sanjiv Bhattacharya

TWO strongmen in lurid matching track suits are blowing up pink hot-water bottles like balloons. Thousands of people are on their feet, dancing. "Blow! Blow!

Blow!" they chant, in time to the thumping dance music, louder and louder as the bottles swell. Then: Bang! They explode. Bang! One after the other.

The muscular monsters toss the shreds of burst rubber onto the rubble-strewn floor in triumph. A huge cheer goes up around the hall. The Master of Ceremonies, a weightlifting champion who must weigh 25st, is suitably impressed: "Thank you, Jesus!" he exclaims. Hackney has never seen anything like the Power Team before. They're a group of Dallas-based Christian strongmen who tour schools and churches throughout the world performing feats of strength and spreading the Good News.

These muscle-bound missionaries have brought their crusade to the Kingsway International Christian Centre (KICC), Hackney, an outpost of charismatic evangelism in the heart of the East End. Every evening at 6.30pm, to celebrate the Resurrection, they break stuff for Jesus. Stuff like bricks, baseball bats and walls of ice ("because God can break down any wall in your life"). They rip up telephone directories and packs of cards ("because that's what Jesus does to your record of sin"). They snap handcuffs ("because Jesus can smash any chains to your past") and they bend iron bars ("because erm ... no reason. But how many of y'all know it's OK for Christians to have fun?") For four evenings earlier this week, John Jacobs - catch phrase: "Yes Way!" (as

in the opposite of "No Way!") - the leader and founder of the power team, bounded onto the stage with the same patter. "Yes Way! Somebody say power!" he boomed. "Listen to this: how many people understand that tonight is not a bodybuilding programme. It's a faith-building programme. Yes Way! This is not about guys who are big and think they're big stuff - it's about guys who love Jesus and think God is big stuff." Jacobs, the son of a Dallas pastor, was the first to preach the gospel with feats of strength once confined to the circus. His manifesto promises pastors worldwide that the Power Team will "energise your church" and "attract new souls, because how many of y'all know that God's heartbeat is souls, souls, souls". All the host church needs to provide are the air fare, food, accommodation, materials and promotional expenses. The KICC took the bait, funding a six-day stay for seven men and their wives.

But then, what price salvation? "These feats of strength," explained Jacobs, "they're just a tool to get people's attention, to attract the unchurched into the House of the Lord. How many of y'all understand that I'm not going to get anyone's attention in a suit and tie?" A murmur of "amen" rippled through his flock as big Keenan Smith prepared to "roll up two frying pans like burritos. Yes Way!" The no-suit policy was clearly working. Attendances rose night after night. By Monday, the fourth and last night, the main hall and the overflow room at the rear were both teeming with thousands of souls, drawn by the kitsch poster featuring the Power Team wielding swords beneath the promise of a Great Night Out.

Inevitably, however, some were deceived by the hype. "It's a bloody con," said Adrian, a jeweller from Thamesmead. "I've come here with seven kids thinking it was the world's strongest man, not some big Christian thing. No wonder it was free." But Adrian's grumbles were lost in the all-singing, all-dancing throng. "This is fun," said Pius Osakwe, a member of the church and a professed "servant of Christ".

The shows began with each of the six members on stage breaking building materials. As the music kicked in and Jacobs announced "the walls are tumbling down", each proceeded to smash heaps of concrete and ice with their heads, fists, elbows and feet. The cheers were deafening, kids were whooping and the MC pumped his hands into the air, woofed like a dog and roared chants for the crowd to echo. "Somebody say Jeff Neal!" ("Jeff Neal!") "Man of Steel!" ("Man of Steel!") Or "Who's the King of Kings?" ("Jesus!"). "Give me a J!" ("J!")

When Man of Steel struggled to lift a 300lb log, James Henderson, the biggest of the team, took the mike. "He can't do it without you," he yelled. "All the people in the house, put your hands in the air! Somebody screeeem!" Man of Steel made it third time round, of course. And the applause was deafening. Wrecking stuff, however, is a messy business. With each crashing break, the stage was littered in rubble, at the heart of which stood six hunks high-fiveing ("Praise God").

While they regrouped and prepared their next burst of Bible talk, the KICC foot soldiers would scuttle in to lug the debris into nearby wheelbarrows, occasionally slipping on melting ice and dropping the unwieldy shards of concrete. It made for a clumsy backdrop to the power team's heartfelt testimony.

None of this mattered by the end of the night, however, when it was time for the sinners to repent, for the grim news about imminent damnation to be imparted. Jacobs led a prayer for the unsaved. It was time to let Jesus into their heart. Tonight. They were beckoned on stage, a sea of faces at Jacobs's feet. The big man was moved. "This is scary," he said. "Real scary." How true. He'd certainly scared me.