COMMENTARY: Promise Keepers rally has newspaper editor soaked to the soul

c. 1997 Religion News Service (Jerald Hyche is a regional editor at the Mobile Register in Alabama.) BIRMINGHAM _ I’m not what you’d call a holy roller, by any means. And although I’m well aware of the men’s movement that has defined the ’90s, I’ve not been known to run through the woods and beat […]

c. 1997 Religion News Service

(Jerald Hyche is a regional editor at the Mobile Register in Alabama.)

BIRMINGHAM _ I’m not what you’d call a holy roller, by any means. And although I’m well aware of the men’s movement that has defined the ’90s, I’ve not been known to run through the woods and beat a drum with a bunch of guys in loincloths.


So when somebody approached me about going to what I called”one of those born-again-Christian Promise Keeper rallies,”I was intrigued. Sure, I had heard critics scowl that the crusades are some sort of sanctified love fest for wimps who want to grab from their wives the helms of their households.

I heard something else, though, from the men who had gone. Like me, they all appeared to be doing fine _ good jobs, nice homes, beautiful families, work all week, church on Sunday. That’s right _ doing fine, at least in terms of material things.

But for them, like me,”fine”just doesn’t quite cut it anymore. Call it a mid-life crisis _ it’s the point where you’re getting all you dreamed about and you ask yourself,”Is this it?” I’ve come to realize that when I ask that question, I need spiritual revival. It’s a hunger I can identify as a result of my deep, though somewhat tangled, religious roots. As a result, I am as comfortable listening to a farmer speak in tongues as I am listening to a Jesuit’s low-key delivery of the liturgy in a Saturday evening Mass.

Maybe that’s why all the talk about”one of those born-again-Christian Promise Keeper rallies”didn’t scare me. So I packed a bag, said goodbye to the wife and kids for the weekend and hopped on the interstate north to Birmingham to see if Promise Keepers truly are”Men of Integrity.” After getting to Birmingham, I picked up my God-fearing cousin, Bryan, who I had asked to join me in exchange for letting me crash at his apartment. We made our way through downtown to Legion Field, hardly a place I associate with holiness. In fact, as a college student, Legion Field for me was a place to become inebriated, lose myself in a crowd of thousands, whoop and holler and curse and gesture _ all in the name of a football team.

This time, the scene was similar as throngs of baseball-capped men filed into the stadium. But these men donned shirts and caps with more profound messages:”Hand to hand combat”(over two hands in prayer);”Jesus Christ is life. The rest is just golf.”; and”God rules.” As a towering stage stood silent at one end of the field, beach balls bounced in the stands. One group bellowed,”We love Jesus, yes we do! We love Jesus, how ’bout you?”and got an equally enthusiastic response. Despite the drizzle and forecast of a downpour, the unprotected seats on the stadium floor were filled. Bryan and I, however, climbed toward the overhang high in the far corner of the stadium, but wound up sitting just out of its reach.

From that high perch, I sat almost in silence at the sight of thousands of men _ just men _ gathered together in one place for a purpose higher than any football game. The awesome sight, however, hardly squashed the seeds of doubt planted in my mind.

Were we all just being suckered into making former University of Colorado football coach and founder of Promise Keepers Bill McCartney rich and famous?

Are guys going to blubber,”I love you, man,”before they grab for my wallet?

Then the music started. The big screen lit up with lyrics, and we all began to sing. And clap. I tried to loosen up, feel something, but it was awkward. Why was I here? More music. More rain. Then the Rev. Franklin Graham, son of the famous evangelist, came on stage and made the call that scared the living daylights out of me as a boy and still makes me uncomfortable, that call to make a decision, that plea to come forward, that time when it seems the door to salvation is briefly opened for those with enough intestinal fortitude _ or humility _ to step through.


On this rainy night, some 300 men dismissed the deluge and answered the call. But nothing moved me to leave my seat. Afterward, though, something happened. As the rain fell harder, Graham asked us each to do one more thing before we ended the evening: look into the eyes of the man next to us and confess just one of our sins.

Bryan and I followed his instructions. He went first, and his honesty raised tears in my eyes. I struggled to express my thoughts, and as I did, I could feel a weight being lifted from me.

Then we closed our eyes and Bryan led us in a prayer. I don’t know how long we stood there, but by the time we opened our eyes, finding ourselves alone in the mostly empty stands, my doubts were gone.

I knew why I was there.

The next day, I lost myself in the crowd of thousands. I whooped and hollered and gestured, and all in the name of Jesus Christ. At the end of the day _ soaked to the bone by the rain and soaked to the soul by the speakers’ words of inspiration _ I found myself with a couple of thousand other men at the foot of the stage, where we held hands and prayed.

I’ll spare you the details of my personal spiritual revelation except to say that if I hadn’t gone to Promise Keepers, it might not have happened. I sought revival, and I was revived. As a result, I can honestly say the course of my life was changed.

The interpretations of Promise Keepers’ mission have been misconstrued by many. It is not to push women down, but to pull men up. It is not to weaken men’s will, but to strengthen them to take action in themselves, in their families, in their churches, in their communities, in their country _ and in God’s name.


I can think of worse ways to spend my time and money.

MJP END HYCHE

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