Using the cat-like reflexes that made him an NFL terror, Cunningham landed in a pose similar to a one-armed push-up, left hand on the ground. Miraculously, he bounded up and fired a perfect spiral.
Touchdown!
Any remaining doubters were probably converted that night.
On Sunday at Remnant Ministries, 235 E. Windmill Parkway, Cunningham has fried chicken and waffles in one hand and palms a bottle of hot sauce in the another. He dabs some over the bird, then prays. In between bites—post-service activities at the 400-member church include food from the in-house restaurant, Cupbearer—he listens to an assembly line of people. Physically, he looks much unchanged from the weapon of a player he once was, 6 feet, 4 inches and able to beat you with his long-striding legs or his powerful arm. Signs of midlife (he's 43) are creeping in, though, small wrinkles and thinning hair.
Preaching earlier from Acts 2, Cunningham talked of building a church so powerful, of shepherding congregants so spirit-filled, that they could walk into casinos like the Bellagio and magnetize people away from gambling with prayer.
"Nothing against the Bellagio or the casinos," he clarifies after service, "but the point I was making was that people should be on fire for the Lord."
In biblical times, he says, people were in church every day. "They didn't go to church on Sunday, then wait six days to come back ... Let's not be too busy for church ... We should get to know our neighbors, break bread with them, fellowship with them."
Whether preaching or fellowshipping, Cunningham is a study in control. He's always been soft-spoken, talking just loud enough. That voice is largely unchanged during the sermon, in which he alternates between reading Scripture, admonishing the faithful and encouraging struggling believers to "give their lives to Christ."
Service is smooth, almost staid. There's no Pentecostal fervor on this day. No one speaks in tongues, shouting praises or running around the church as if filled with the Holy Ghost. Where some pastors ask you to shake hands with your neighbor, or some other variation of physical touch meant to break down barriers between parishioners, Cunningham encourages everyone to introduce themselves and smile. And rather than using life stories to enhance scriptural references, Cunningham does the inverse, examining Bible verses—"I believe it's God's inspired word"—then applying life lessons.
Before Cunningham could lead people to Christ, he had to stop running from Christ. Fast as he was on his way to two-time All-America honors at UNLV (1982-1984) and a pro career that included MVP awards in 1988, 1990 and 1998, Cunningham was more elusive off of the field.
"I lived a sinful and carnal life," he says.
Christ grabbed a toehold of him in 1987, his third season in the NFL. After finishing a round of golf at Spanish Trail, a friend encouraged him to accept Jesus Christ as his lord and savior. Cunningham did so more out of respect than desire, wholly unaware of what he was getting into, the commitment that living holy required. "I didn't know what he meant," he says. "He talked about being born again, and I wanted to know how I would know I was born again."
Back in Philly in 1988 for what would be his first MVP season, Cunningham tried to stay on the straight and narrow. Occasionally, he'd curse in the locker room. To further fortify himself, he started reading the Bible—it took three and a half years to finish—and attending church.
"I was trying to figure out how to work it out," he says of being a Christian athlete. "Being in the NFL made it worse. I lived a carnal lifestyle and developed a lot of pride. Things started changing when I blew out my ankle. I missed 12 games, but I never questioned God about my injury. Then I got married in 1993. That really changed me. I had to learn how to be a husband." In 1995, he had Randall II, the first of three children. "Now I had to learn how to be a father."
By then, he'd read the Bible twice and hooked up with pastor John Michaels of Calvary Chapel Spring Valley who, he says, "poured the spirit of Christ into" him. Christ's toehold became a full-nelson. When injuries and disappointment relegated him to the bench in Philly, Cunningham took them in stride, retiring in 1996. "I was growing at that point," he says. He spent 18 months traveling and evangelizing.
A year later, Cunningham was better able to handle the spotlight when Minnesota Vikings quarterback Brad Johnson got injured and he resumed his playing career. Older and wiser, Randall Cunningham the scrambler became Randall Cunningham the drop-back quarterback, throwing for more than 3,700 yards and 34 touchdowns, amassing a stellar 106 quarterback rating and leading the Vikings to within one game of the Super Bowl. The lanky kid from Santa Barbara, California, youngest of four boys, who chose UNLV because he'd get a chance to showcase his skills, was back on top. With God in his heart, he handled success better.
In Minnesota, he and his wife, Felicity de Jager, joined the ministry of Vikings chaplain the Rev. Keith Johnson, founder of Christian Athletes United for Spiritual Empowerment. Back home, he'd begun hosting Bible study in his home and was thrust into the role of facilitator. "When I was told they wanted me to lead, I laughed."
He couldn't run from his appointment. And didn't. When he bought a music studio near McCarran Airport, he relocated the classes. Big-name talent stopping by to record often got ministered to. "Most people didn't even know it was a church," he says. Gospel superstar Kirk Franklin dropped in, as did classic rocker Huey Lewis and introspective rapper Nas. "I got the chance to fellowship with Nas and fill him with the spirit."
To further put their faith into practice, he and Felicity sponsored the annual Unity religious festival in the parking lot of the Thomas & Mack Center; during one event, they gave away $20,000 in cash to poor participants. In 2004, after eight years of "discipleship" under Michaels, Cunningham was ordained a minister.
God had finally sacked him.
Sheila Washington, the church's PR machine, says she's got word that Cunningham will be a first-ballot Hall of Famer—he's eligible next year. Cunningham retired for good in 2001 from the Baltimore Ravens—his fourth team, along with the Minnesota Vikings and Dallas Cowboys—21 yards shy of 30,000 passing yards and as the all-time quarterback rushing leader with 4,928 yards. Her pastor's goal now, she says, is to "put people in the Christian Hall of Fame"—that is, heaven.
Key to the church's growth, says parishioner Chris Chapel, is Cunningham's commitment. People may come because they're curious, but they stay because they're getting spiritually fed. "He's a loving, humble man. He doesn't drive a flashy car. He drives a Toyota Avalanche."
Outside the church after service, four boys are playing sandlot football in the parking lot. The one with the ball—spindly and light-skinned, with curly hair—does his best Cunningham imitation, scrambling to avoid a nonexistent defender. Inside, Cunningham is surrounded by clergy, congregants, visitors, well-wishers. Six inches taller than everyone, he works the crowd with the ease of someone accustomed to fielding questions. He isn't blind to the role celebrity has played in Remnant's fast growth. The new building has only been open a month. People want to see if he can preach, if he can lead people to Christ—he didn't go to seminary, but neither did Billy Graham.
Remnant Ministries has grown because God is working through him, Cunningham says, and through his congregants. With the millions he made in the NFL, he could've paid for the building, but he put the onus on his flock, which helped finance the state-of-the-art sanctuary (replete with two theater-like screens for messages, a concert-worthy stage and a modern recording studio).
It's because he's willing "to lie flat on my face every morning, humble, and listen to God," says Cunningham, who completed his degree in leisure studies in 2004, "that people are listening to me.
"I've got an awesome responsibility," he says. "It's nothing to play with."