Coming of age in Oklahoma City Public Schools, I never really understood the national debate about religion and education. Maybe things were looser back then, but in both middle and high school, there seemed to be regular “intervention” assemblies every semester featuring various touring preachers and pastors—often labeled as “motivational speakers”—on the mic and, for the most part, everybody seemed cool with it.
From low-level CCM singers and “clean” comedians speaking out about the dangers of alcohol and drugs to an ex-Vietnam vet with a facial disfigurement courtesy of a “phosphorous grenade” lecturing the youth about pre-marital sex, most of the time, it was a by-the-book speaking engagement; a song would be sung, the guest would have “rap session” with the kids about the problems we were facing and then they’d pass out flyers or free tickets to the real main event, usually that night at some Baptist Church.
And while they would never quite come out and exactly say that we all needed to give our lives to Christ, the underlying message—His message—was always distinctly clear.
Out of all those modern missionaries that would come and try to save our schools and souls, however, few left me with as many bewildered emotions and heretical questions as the wonderfully gimmicky scripture sideshow that was John Jacobs’ Power Team did. Based out of Dallas, anyone and everyone who could pick up even the dankest of UHF channels were familiar with the 30 second screaming adverts that promised numerous feats of superhuman strength and stamina from a crack cadre of bodybuilders who cut the creatine to get down with Creation. It was easy to envy my Christian friends whose church youth groups footed the bill for tickets; meanwhile, all I had to look forward to at Saturday Mass was that hopefully we’d eat at Pancho’s afterwards.