John Jacobs had a vision that involved breaking things. A lot of things. In the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s, if you lived in a suburban town with a local high school gym, you probably saw a flyer for The Power Team Christian group. It was a spectacle. Huge men with necks thicker than most people’s thighs would walk onto a stage, scream at the top of their lungs, and snap baseball bats like they were toothpicks. They blew up hot water bottles until they popped. They ran through walls of ice. It was aggressive. It was loud. And for a specific era of American evangelicalism, it was the most effective marketing tool in the shed.
But where did it go?
Honestly, the story of The Power Team isn't just about big muscles and torn phone books. It’s a weird, fascinating look at how muscle evangelism tried to make Christianity "cool" for a generation of kids who were more interested in Hulk Hogan than Sunday School. You've got to understand the context. This wasn't just a weightlifting demo; it was a high-octane crusade wrapped in a circus tent.
The Rise of Muscle Evangelism and John Jacobs
John Jacobs started the group in 1976. He was a guy who realized that if you just stood on a street corner and handed out tracts, people would walk right past you. But if you started snapping a set of handcuffs with your bare hands? Well, people stop. They stare. They listen.
The theology was simple. They called it "World Class Evangelism." The idea was to use "feats of strength" to grab the attention of unchurched youth. Jacobs recruited other massive athletes—guys like Bill Kazmaier, who was literally the World's Strongest Man at one point. These weren't just weekend warriors. They were elite powerlifters and bodybuilders. They brought a level of legitimacy to the physical side of the performance that was undeniable.
During the 1980s and 90s, the group was everywhere. They appeared on Walker, Texas Ranger. They had their own cartoon. They were pulling in millions of dollars in donations and book sales. It worked because it felt masculine in a way that traditional church often didn't. They’d tell kids that "being a Christian isn't for wimps." They’d smash a 300-pound block of ice with their heads and then tell a story about resisting peer pressure or staying off drugs. It was visceral.
Why The Power Team Christian Message Struck a Chord
Kids are visual. You can tell a teenager that sin is heavy, or you can have a 300-pound man try to bench press a literal car while screaming about the weight of the world. The latter sticks.
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The group's performances were carefully choreographed to build tension. You’d have a guy like Eddie DeGarmo or one of the other massive regulars struggling with a steel bar. He’d be turning purple. Veins would be popping out of his forehead. The music—usually high-energy 80s rock—would swell. Then, crack. The bar would bend. The crowd would go wild.
- They tapped into the "Strongman" culture of the 80s.
- The school assemblies focused on "character" to get through the door.
- The evening sessions were the "hard sell" for the gospel.
- They used "Visual Parables" like breaking chains to symbolize breaking addiction.
But it wasn't just about the strength. It was about the testimony. After the sweating and the breaking was over, these giants would sit on the edge of the stage and get vulnerable. They’d talk about broken homes, suicide attempts, and drug use. It was a "tough guy" permission slip for young men to show emotion. That’s the part people often forget. Beneath the showmanship, there was a real attempt to connect with kids who felt invisible.
The Controversies and the Splintering
Success is messy. By the late 90s, things started to fracture. People started asking questions about where the money was going. John Jacobs’ personal life became a point of contention, especially following a highly publicized and messy divorce in 2000. In certain evangelical circles, that was a death knell for leadership.
The organization also faced criticism for its "bait and switch" tactics in public schools. They would go into a high school for an assembly, talk about "reaching your goals" and "saying no to drugs," but then tell everyone to come back that night for the "real show," which was a full-blown altar call. Some parents and school boards felt it crossed the line between a motivational speech and state-sponsored proselytizing.
Then came the split.
Several core members felt the organization had lost its way. Todd Keene, who had been with the group for years, eventually left and formed "The Champions for Christ." Others went solo or joined different ministries. The "Power Team" brand remained, but the original chemistry was gone. It became a bit of a legal battle over the name and the rights to the promotional materials. It was, quite frankly, a bit of a bummer for fans who grew up idolizing these guys.
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Is Muscle Evangelism Still Relevant?
You might think this kind of thing died out with the VCR. It didn't.
While the original Power Team might not have the cultural stranglehold it once did, the model persists. You see it in "Team Impact" and other similar organizations. They’ve swapped the hair metal for EDM and the 80s jumpsuits for tactical gear, but the core hook is the same. Big guys doing big things to talk about a big God.
However, the audience has changed. We live in an era of "deconstruction" and extreme skepticism toward big-budget ministries. The "Power Team Christian" style of ministry often gets labeled as "cringe" by Gen Z. The spectacle can feel a bit hollow if it isn't backed up by long-term community presence.
And yet, there’s still something about a person doing the impossible that draws a crowd. If you put a guy in the middle of a shopping mall and he starts rolling up a frying pan like a burrito, people are going to stop. The question for modern ministries is whether that "stop" ever turns into a "stay."
What Most People Get Wrong About the Feats
A lot of skeptics like to claim it’s all fake. "The bats are pre-cracked," they say. Or "The ice is frozen a certain way."
As someone who has looked into the physics of these demos—honestly, most of it is legit. Yes, there are "tricks" of the trade. For example, when you see someone run through a wall of ice, they are hitting it with their shoulder at a specific angle to dissipate the force. But you still have to be a massive, powerful human being to do it without ending up in the ER. The hot water bottles? Those are real. And they are incredibly dangerous. If one of those pops and the air kicks back into your lungs, it can cause a literal embolism. These guys were taking real physical risks.
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The "fake" part wasn't the strength; it was sometimes the projection of invincibility. These athletes dealt with massive injuries. Torn pectorals, blown-out knees, and chronic back pain were the price of the ministry. Behind the scenes, many were struggling with the physical toll of maintaining that persona year after year.
Actionable Insights for the Curious
If you're looking back at the history of The Power Team or considering how this kind of "spectacle ministry" works today, here are a few things to keep in mind:
Understand the "Hook" vs. the "Substance": The feats were the hook. If you're a creator or a leader, realize that a flashy entrance doesn't matter if the message doesn't have legs once the dust settles. The Power Team was most effective when they stayed for a week in one city, building relationships with local youth pastors.
Verify Modern Groups: If you see a group like this today, look at their affiliation. Are they connected to a local church? Do they have a track record of financial transparency? The lessons of the early 2000s taught us that "star power" in ministry needs guardrails.
Appreciate the Physicality: Don't dismiss the athleticism. Regardless of what you think of the theology, guys like Bill Kazmaier and Jeff Holguin were world-class athletes. Their ability to perform those feats while under the stress of a live show is genuinely impressive from a sports science perspective.
Look for the "Why": The Power Team worked because it answered a specific cultural need for "strength" in a religious context. Today, that need usually manifests in different ways—like outdoor adventure ministries or CrossFit-based church groups. The medium changes, but the desire for a "rugged" faith remains a constant for many.
The era of the "Power Team Christian" giant may have peaked in the 90s, but the footprints they left—and the broken bricks—are still visible in the way modern churches think about outreach. It was loud, it was messy, and it was undeniably American. Whether it was your thing or not, you can't deny that for a few decades, John Jacobs and his crew were the strongest show on earth.
If you want to dive deeper into the history of the individual members, searching for "Todd Keene" or "The Champions for Christ" will give you the most accurate look at where the legacy moved after the original group's decline. Most of the original footage is now archived on YouTube, and it’s a wild trip back to a time when evangelism looked a lot like a World's Strongest Man competition held in a church parking lot.