What about the fear factor in his sermons? I ask.
"Well, the fear of God is a good thing," he says. "There needs to be a respect."
A former drug addict who did some jail time, Hill has become one of the country's most recognized evangelists because of his association with the Brownsville Revival in Pensacola. Here, he leads Houston's Grace Community Church during an August 12 service.
Related Content
More About
And that God is as "real to me as Steve standing here," says Hill, grabbing the arm of the church's pastor, Steve Riggle.
Hill leaves the stage, with a man, an assistant, trailing behind him, and he walks through the crowd laying hands on people.
As the choir sings, the weary and the fallen flock to Hill.
He presses his fingers against a girl's temples. "Touch her, Jesus," he says. She goes limp. Two ushers nearby cushion her fall. (Believers say there's nothing fake about such displays, that just as the Apostle John fell "as dead" when he saw Jesus in a vision, so do they.)
Soon, a young, heavyset man asks Hill for a touch from God. "A fresh anointing!" says Hill, touching the man's forehead. The latter falls.
"I'll tell you something," Hill tells me, as the man lies before him, his eyes closed. "A grown man is not going to act like that. You hear me? It's real. That's a man. That's not a kid."
Seconds later, a short, older woman tells Hill she has cancer. "Work a miracle, Jesus," shouts Hill. "Do it, Jesus!"
One by one, he works the crowd.
"A healing touch!" he says, laying hands on a woman's forehead. She jerks forward. "Ah! Ah!" she says repeatedly, sounding as if she's having an orgasm.
A girl, looking no older than 10, sees the bodies collapsing around her and starts crying. Amid the throngs of people, Hill spots her a few feet away. "Go get me a copy of my book, Stone Cold Heart," he says to his assistant.
Hill then approaches her, kneeling to speak. She's trembling and teary-eyed.
"You know something?" he tells this girl, dressed in a checkered green dress. "When I first saw people fall down in church like this, it scared me to death. But when you receive a special touch from Jesus, some people fall."
He gives her a copy of his book, gives her a hug, and prays for her.
"Every now and then, I want you to pray for me, OK?" he says.
She nods, the tears now ebbing.
"I got me a friend for life," he says, smiling broadly at me.
"God's in the house," shouts Hill, grabbing a microphone. "Let anyone with a prayer badge pray for you tonight."
A skinny teen comes up to him, and speaks into Hill's ear.
"Your dad's in prison?" says Hill.
The young man nods.
"What's his name?"
"Bob."
"Jesus, I pray for John's dad Bob."
Minutes later, Hill looks at me. "Have you ever studied the early camp meetings in America? Everything that you see here, everything, is part of the history of America."
A young man approaches Hill. "I need a job. My mom left me," he says. "I live with my sister and she don't serve God."
"Open up that door, Jesus," prays Hill.
The wounded and needy surround him. One woman tells him that her son's in jail for murder.
"These are real people, real lives," Hill tells me. "That's what breaks my heart. They need a real touch."
He looks around. A woman spots him.
"Seven years ago, I tried to commit suicide," she says, adding through sobs that she was once a Muslim and needs more of God in her life.
A few feet away, a man and woman stand together, the man's arm wrapped around her shoulder.
"We're detoxing bad," this 38-year-old mother of five later tells Hill, looking at him with weary, drained eyes.
"I'll tell you something, Sis," he says softly, "God can deliver you. You know that?"
She looks skeptical, gives a half-smile.
"Pray that God can help us," her companion tells Hill.
"Plug into this church," Hill replies and moves on, laying hands on others.
"I can't take the noise," the woman says. "I got to get out."
Hill sees her walk away. He calls out to her.
"Keep going after God. You hear me?" he says, and lifts his head amid this sea of broken spirits.
