Last Tuesday evening, my wife and I settled in for our annual fall ritual: the premiere of “Hard Knocks.” Some couples watch sitcoms. We bond over football. When Liev Schreiber’s voice kicks in, summer is slipping away, and the beer fridge is filling up.
We’ve watched for years, but this season felt different. The cameras didn’t linger on helmets crashing or coaches barking. Instead, they caught quieter moments: a player brushing off sweat, another flipping open a devotional. The message wasn’t painted in the end zone. It was lived out on the field.
End-zone paint doesn’t move people. Faith lived out in the open does.
That stands in sharp contrast to the NFL’s other big announcement: the return of slogans painted in end zones — “End Racism,” “It Takes All of Us,” and other socially conscious slogans. The league insists they matter. The results? Unclear. A stenciled phrase doesn’t change lives. A lived-out faith does.
Consider New York Jets quarterback Justin Fields. He recently admitted, “I’m low-key addicted to getting in my Bible.” He credits that daily habit for keeping him grounded when the noise grows loud.
In Houston, Coach DeMeco Ryans has helped make Bible studies a regular feature for the Texans. Nearly 40 players, coaches, and staff now attend. Quarterback C.J. Stroud thanks “my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ” during interviews. NBC cut that phrase from a broadcast last season, but it hasn’t stopped him from saying it again.
“Hard Knocks” has become the best proof yet. In the first episode, backup cornerback Christian Benford prayed over an injured rookie, his words audible as trainers worked: “Heavenly Father, please give him strength. … As we’re weak, bless everything we do. … In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”
HBO aired the prayer uncut. No sound bite, no irony — just a moment of faith in full view of teammates and millions of fans.
Episode two showed Damar Hamlin praying, thanking God for “focus, fellowship, brotherhood.” His devotional book sat in his hands, battered and beloved. Its frayed edges testified louder than any press release.
It’s impossible not to recall Tim Tebow. A decade ago, he was mocked for praying on the field. “Tebowing” became a late-night punchline. But Tebow’s courage made public faith in football possible. Today, players pray without irony — and with far less ridicule.
The league points to its Inspire Change program, which has directed more than $460 million to nonprofits. Good. But the slogans? They’re background noise. As the Babylon Bee joked, “NFL Hoping 3rd Year of ‘End Racism’ Painted in End Zone Will Do the Trick.” The gag works because it highlights the gulf between gestures and genuine transformation.
The real transformation is happening elsewhere: in chapels, prayer huddles, and well-worn Bibles. These acts don’t just polish the league’s image. They shape the men who play the game — building character, humility, and unity in a way a slogan never could.
Sitting on the couch with my wife, I felt the difference. End-zone paint doesn’t move people. Faith lived out in the open does.
Painted slogans fade. Prayer changes hearts. If the NFL wants to inspire change, it should keep showing the moments that can’t be scripted — players living out their faith with quiet acts of devotion, one prayer at a time, and far more enduring than any PR campaign.
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