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James and Betty Robison

In the 1970s, James Robison was a fiery Texas evangelist who filled churches and stadiums across the country. People didn't flock to his crusades because of his compassion; they went to hear hard-hitting sermons from a young Baptist preacher who was bursting with zeal, urgency, and, more often than not, rage. As sweat flew through the air, Robison delivered messages like his "Sex Isn't Love" sermon in staccato fashion, pounding his points into the pulpit. He was an imposing figure on the platform—a 6-foot-3, 200-pound, black-haired spellbinder who earned a reputation as "the Southern Baptists' angry young man."

Robison's road to the ministry was anything but easy. He was born in Pasadena, Texas, in October 1943, the child of a rape. His mother, who was unable to raise him, put an ad in the local newspaper asking for a Christian couple to raise her son. A Baptist pastor and his wife took Robison in until he was 5, when his mother reclaimed him. He became a Christian at age 15, and ultimately answered the call to preach. As a student at East Texas Baptist College, he spoke frequently at local churches and made a name for himself as a dynamic preacher. In 1967, he moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth area and started the James Robison Evangelistic Association.

The young evangelist's following grew as he preached in city after city before crowds of 10,000 or more. Soon, Christian leaders were tagging him as the next Billy Graham.

	"I could hear the devil communicating directly with me. I sensed his power over me."

Like Graham before him, Robison soon took his message to TV and radio, partly through Graham's encouragement. "There is a young preacher I believe has a word from God, and you need to see him," Graham once told an audience. "I believe God has shown me he needs to be on television regularly."

Robison's prime time specials, Wake Up, America: We're All Hostages! and Attack on the Family, attracted a slew of viewers and received the highest awards from the National Religious Broadcasters. When his weekly telecast, James Robison, Man with a Message, went national, he became one of the rising televangelists of his day. He rarely pulled punches, and his rants against gays and fringe religions led many television stations to temporarily yank his program.

By the 1980 elections, Robison had become a powerful political voice for fundamentalist Christians. Along with colleagues like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, Robison's influence extended into the Reagan White House.

But then something changed.

'I was out of control'
"During the time of God's greatest blessings on our ministry, I let the demands of my schedule move me into a web of religious activity that robbed me of my intimacy with God," Robison admits. "Reading my Bible didn't give me the same joy it once had. It became a tool of the trade. Serving lifeless religion apart from intimacy with God allowed strongholds to be built in my life."

Burned out and tormented by lustful thoughts and temptations, Robison no longer wanted to preach. He indulged in excessive eating and was obsessed with athletic activity. "I was not going to make it," he says. "I was a man out of control."

	"I try to be polite, but I'm not going to back away from what I believe to be truth."

During the darkest times, he wanted to die. While piloting a plane with a coworker, he pointed the nose down, and only the terrorized cries from his friend persuaded him to pull the plane up.

"I could hear the devil communicating directly with me," Robison wrote in his autobiography Thank God, I'm Free. "I sensed his power over me."

At his lowest point, Robison sat in a chair in his hotel room as a layman named Milt Green prayed over him and commanded the devil to loose his grip. Robison soon experienced "deliverance" from his torment. He told his wife Betty the next night, "Something has happened in my heart and in my mind. That claw in my brain is gone. I can think—my mind is clear."

Getting real
Robison's transformation was undeniable. He downplayed politics, adopted a fresh focus on forgiveness, compassion, and church unity, and began a new emphasis on missions.

In 1992, to take the focus off himself, he changed the name of his organization from the James Robison Evangelistic Association to LIFE Outreach International (www.lifeoutreach.org). "And I asked Betty to travel with me and co-host [his revamped TV show] LIFE Today," says the preacher.

At first, the staff wasn't thrilled about the idea of putting the shy and reserved Betty Robison on the air, but her husband stood his ground. "She gives affirmation of everything we are," he says with obvious admiration. "She's a real mom, grandmother, and wife, and she's not trying to be seen. Audiences love her. They know it's not easy for her to do what she does. In their minds, I might be some kind of fast-talking salesman, but they know Betty's for real."

James Robison, circa 1980.

Robison likes to describe his talk show, LIFE Today, as "true reality television," a program that offers hope and compassion in the name of Jesus. The show airs on 300 stations, including affiliates of PAX TV and TBN, and several cable outlets in the United States, Canada, Europe, and Australia. On any given day, Robison can be seen in over 100 million homes.

LIFE Today has become one of those rare programs on Christian television that actually breathes freshness into a stale genre. The broadcast features inspiring stories about the everyday issues of life and high-profile guests such as Beth Moore, Rick Warren, and Chuck Norris, as well as Christian musicians like Bill Gaither and Point of Grace. Even President George W. Bush (when he was governor of Texas) visited the studio in Euless, Texas.

These days, Robison's "preaching" takes place from a couch and sounds more like the banter you'd hear on Oprah than the breathless televangelizing of days past. The atmosphere is casual and relaxed. Sport coats, collarless shirts, and mock turtlenecks have replaced Robison's suit and tie.

He still makes time during the show to ask viewers for money. However, the thrust of his on-air appeals is no longer just to keep his show on the air but to assist humanitarian aid projects for various Third World countries. Perhaps some of the most compelling images of Robison these days are those from his trips to Africa, where he helps feed starving orphans. In the studio, these heart-wrenching moments flash on the screen as Robison delivers his most powerful pleas: "Can you give just $30, or $50, or $100 to feed just ten children?"

Skeptics may wonder if the money is getting anywhere near those children, but according to the latest LIFE Outreach International audit, over 73 percent of contributions go toward ministry services and missions, while 21 percent is spent on fundraising, and 5 percent covers general and administrative expenses. A policy of regular audits, open books, and a 14-year membership with the Evangelical Council for Financial Accountability (ECFA) adds even more credibility to the organization.

Robert Morris, senior pastor of Gateway Church in Grapevine, Texas, where the Robisons are members, told the Fort-Worth Star Telegram last year that he has traveled in 34 countries and never seen a better food aid program for children than Robison's.

Learning to please God
Though he's no longer a lightning rod, Robison is still a target of many critics—except now the arrows come from both the right and the left. As reporter Darren Barbee wrote in the Fort-Worth Star Telegram: "One side says he has strayed too far from spreading the word of God and has begun promoting a social Gospel. [While] to the other side, for all his finesse in communication, Robison is still seen as a fundamentalist preacher thumping his Bible for a mesmerized audience of religious robots."

Robison says he expects criticism, and accepts it. "I don't like to be criticized," he confesses. "But I understand controversy is a part of being visible, and so is being misunderstood or misrepresented when you represent a position others don't hold to. I try to be polite, but I'm not going to back away from what I believe to be truth."

That's why his most recent book, The Absolutes: Freedom's Only Hope, takes on our culture's rejection of absolute truth and its rapid slide into moral relativism. But even here, Robison balances his message with kindness and love.

"I once thought I could straighten people out with harsh words," he says. "I was convinced people needed to be told off, and they probably did. I don't find I was wrong in what I said, I just think sometimes I said it in the wrong way."

Robison no longer beats pulpits. He looks into TV cameras with new eyes to reach hurting people and to deliver a new message of hope.

When you ask him to paint a portrait of his journey—from the fiery stadium evangelist to the compassionate TV talk show host, he pauses for a moment, then says, "I began to move more out of a broken heart.

"I adopted a motto at the time of my deliverance: 'I have nothing to prove; I have Someone to please.' And that's where I live at this moment. I'm not trying to prove anything; I only want to please God. And that has changed everything about me."

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