The Unlikely Disciple Part 13

"First of all," Rick says, "I don't use the word h.o.m.os.e.xuality. h.o.m.os.e.xuality. I say I say same-s.e.x attraction same-s.e.x attraction. If I say I'm a h.o.m.os.e.xual, I'm something that I can't help. Now, I may fall into the sin of h.o.m.os.e.xuality, but same-s.e.x attraction just means I'm attracted to another man."

When I ask if there's any way to read the Bible that permits h.o.m.os.e.xuality, he shakes his head vigorously and lifts a thick leather Bible from the shelf behind him.

"No, no, no," he says. "Look here: in Romans 1, it talks about the fact that men doing things to other men was not meant to be. Common sense tells me that when G.o.d created man and woman he made them different. He gave man a p.e.n.i.s, and he created into a woman that which brings a man and a woman together."

Rick wants to back up--he's getting ahead of himself. He says that his job, first and foremost, is to provide emotional support for gay Liberty students. "The problem is, the church has been too busy condemning kids for having these feelings, and now they won't come for help. My pastorate is not like that at all. It's an affirmation. There's a difference between saying 'it's sin,' and saying 'I love you, dude. I want to work through this with you.' "

But working through same-s.e.x attraction, Rick says, isn't as simple as telling a guy to try dating girls. "That's actually the worst thing to do, because if they try it once, and they don't feel any emotional or physical connection, they a.s.sume it's because they're gay!"

A proper approach to gay-conversion, according to Rick, involves ma.s.sive amounts of prayer and Bible study, as well as focused mental exercises. He pulls from his desk a packet t.i.tled "Breaking Free," which he distributes to all his mentees. The ten-page packet contains a list of essay a.s.signments designed to instill in them "the confidence to change." On the first page, I see: 1. Describe G.o.d's unfailing love. 1. Describe G.o.d's unfailing love.2. Describe G.o.d's great compa.s.sion.3. How does G.o.d's unfailing love and great compa.s.sion affect me and what I am struggling with?4. What is David asking for when he says, "Create in me a clean heart?" How can this happen?5. How can I be cleansed and washed clean from my sin?6. I am not alone, working through my struggle, for I am upheld by the Holy Spirit. This makes me feel _________.

"It's important to figure out where this same-s.e.x attraction comes from," Rick says. To that end, each of his disciples keeps a journal of childhood memories and reflections, which forms the basis of a sort of neo-Freudian a.n.a.lysis. In these sessions, Rick plays the role of psychotherapist, working with his students to link their h.o.m.os.e.xual urges to past traumas.

"One guy I was working with was having trouble figuring out where this stuff came from," he says. "And he called me one day just as I was leaving work, and he said, 'Pastor Rick, you can't go home. I found out where it came from.' So I turned around and went to meet with him. And he said, 'I got it. My dad and I didn't get along. He never abused me, but he was married to his work. He was never there. And I longed for masculine love. That's where it all started.' " Rick shakes his head. "You know, 85 or 90 percent of the time, the problem comes back to Dad."

Twenty minutes into our meeting, I still haven't pinned Pastor Rick down. Here's the confusing thing: his views about the gay lifestyle are no different than the Liberty orthodoxy. He believes the Bible condemns h.o.m.os.e.xuality categorically, and he quotes the well-worn verses from Leviticus and Romans to b.u.t.tress his position. He describes gay relationships as "affectionless," and he criticizes the mainstream media for "glorifying h.o.m.os.e.xuality" without showing kids dying of AIDS or committing suicide. "They don't show the hollowness or the emptiness," he says.

But Pastor Rick isn't the whip-cracking disciplinarian I expected him to be. When he talks about his students, in fact, his tone is disarmingly compa.s.sionate. "You have to understand," he says, "the guys that come to my office, I love them. They always say 'You probably wouldn't want me as a son, would you, Pastor Rick?' But no, I'm proud of them. I think they're doing a great job. It's just a struggle going on inside of them."

Pastor Rick admits that his method doesn't always work. He tells me about a Liberty student named Reggie, who earned two degrees from Liberty's seminary, worked as an a.s.sistant to Liberty co-founder Elmer Towns, and went to see Rick for help with his s.e.xuality on the q.t. Today, Reggie is the owner of one of Philadelphia's largest gay nightclubs.

"I know where it's coming from," Rick says. "Reggie had a deadbeat dad, and he was always scared of abandonment. I used to tell him over and over, 'I'm here for you, Reggie. I'm here for you.' And I still tell him that today, even though I know what he does for a living."

At one point, Pastor Rick casts his eyes down at the floor. "I've sat with a couple of guys in the hospital who were dying of AIDS," he says. "And when they found out, who did they call? Me. So my wife and I would go visit them, sit by their beds. There were nights I just sat with them all night. I love these dudes. And I tell them, 'I don't think this is something G.o.d intended, but I love you, man.' I can't abandon these guys, Kevin."

Maybe it's retroactive sympathy for Liberty students like Reggie, maybe it's confusion about the coltish paternalism of a guy like Pastor Rick, but this conversation has gotten me emotionally worked up. Before I can catch myself, I wonder out loud if the social atmosphere on Liberty's campus--the incessant h.o.m.ophobic slurring in the dorms, the convocation speakers who lambaste gay culture, the editorials in the school paper t.i.tled "Kids Should Pray, Not Learn to Be Gay"--if any of that might make h.o.m.os.e.xual Liberty students feel, oh I don't know, abandoned abandoned?

"Maybe not abandoned," he says. "But sure, if I'm a guy struggling with that, and people are calling me 'f.a.ggot,' all of a sudden, I start letting them define me. I think that kind of language can push someone further into h.o.m.os.e.xuality."

Okay, so the problem with calling a gay kid "f.a.ggot" is not that it hurts his feelings, but that it might make him more gay. Point taken.

Perhaps sensing my unease, Pastor Rick quickly points out the hypocrisy of people who attack the kids he counsels. "People say you can't struggle with this and be a Christian," he says, extending an angry finger. "Well, I disagree with that. So you're attacking other people for feeling same-s.e.x attraction, but you've been looking at Internet p.o.r.n and masturbating?"

Here's my honest impression of Pastor Rick: I don't think he's evil. I really don't. I disagree with his line of work, of course. I think the American Psychiatric a.s.sociation was on target when it warned that the "potential risks of 'reparative therapy' are great, including depression, anxiety, and self-destructive behavior." But despite my basic misgivings about his approach, I can't in good conscience label him an evildoer, and the reason I can't is also the most confusing thing about him: in a ministry that has become the gold standard for venomous anti-gay preaching in America, Pastor Rick seems to have developed a genuine custodial love for his students, if not a theological love for their s.e.xuality.

I still can't puzzle out, though, the means by which he reconciles his message--one of care and (moderate) acceptance--with his job as a pastor at the school founded by Jerry Falwell, who has made a half-century career of flagrant gay-baiting. I ask him about this, and he takes a pregnant pause.

"The world wants us to believe that Dr. Falwell is bashing the h.o.m.os.e.xuals," he says, catching my eyes in a tight lock. "They want to believe that he's . . . h.o.m.ophobic." He tells the story of a speech Dr. Falwell gave at Exodus International, an annual conference for Christians trying to overcome h.o.m.os.e.xuality. "When he first got up, people booed him. But he told these people that he loves them and that he wants them to put G.o.d in control of their lives, and when he got done, he got a standing ovation." He shifts in his seat. "Is Dr. Falwell h.o.m.ophobic? No, he's far from it."

Of all the soft-spinning and gentle rhetorical ma.s.saging Pastor Rick has done today, this move--trying to recast Jerry Falwell as a non-h.o.m.ophobe--strikes me as the most unlikely. In all fairness, Dr. Falwell has come some distance on the subject, and his most intolerant days are probably behind him. Two years ago, during an appearance on MSNBC's The Situation with Tucker Carlson, The Situation with Tucker Carlson, he admitted that he supports equal employment and housing access for gay people, saying, "I may not agree with the lifestyle, but that has nothing to do with the civil rights of that part of our const.i.tuency." And it's true that during the speech Rick mentioned--the one Dr. Falwell gave at the 2005 conference of Exodus International, the foremost "ex-gay" ministry--he spoke fondly of an evangelical gay-rights group called Soulforce (though news reports made no mention of the initial booing). But in that same speech, Dr. Falwell also said that Christian parents should be allowed to force their children into gay-conversion programs like Pastor Rick's, comparing allowing a teen to be gay to allowing a son or daughter to play on the interstate. he admitted that he supports equal employment and housing access for gay people, saying, "I may not agree with the lifestyle, but that has nothing to do with the civil rights of that part of our const.i.tuency." And it's true that during the speech Rick mentioned--the one Dr. Falwell gave at the 2005 conference of Exodus International, the foremost "ex-gay" ministry--he spoke fondly of an evangelical gay-rights group called Soulforce (though news reports made no mention of the initial booing). But in that same speech, Dr. Falwell also said that Christian parents should be allowed to force their children into gay-conversion programs like Pastor Rick's, comparing allowing a teen to be gay to allowing a son or daughter to play on the interstate.

I have many more questions, but after a long hour of conversation, Pastor Rick seems ready to attend to the other students in the waiting room. But before I leave, he says, "Now, I'm just going to throw this out there: was there ever a time when you you struggled?" struggled?"

He waits expectantly, smiling, leaning in close to my face. I laugh nervously and tell him that no, it's not me. It's my friends.

"Let's pray," Rick says, not wanting to force the issue. We bow our heads, he prays for me, and after telling me about a self-help book called You Don't Have to Be Gay You Don't Have to Be Gay, which he recommends I give to my struggling friends, we say our goodbyes.

"Oh, and one more thing," he says, stopping me at the door. "Come here." He draws me into a full-on bear hug, complete with side-to-side swaying. "Love ya, dude."

It would be far too easy to emerge from a meeting with Pastor Rick feeling downtrodden and depressed, and I resolved beforehand not to let that happen. If I try hard enough, I can mine some nuggets of hope from the past hour. It's heartening, for example, that Rick shows his students compa.s.sion instead of anger, even though he ultimately wants them to change. Love with strings attached seems better than no love at all. And it's a good sign that the person at Liberty who has the most day-to-day contact with real, live h.o.m.os.e.xuals is also one of the mildest in rhetoric. It affirms my optimism that once Liberty students go out into the world and meet happy, healthy gay people, they'll have a tougher time vilifying h.o.m.os.e.xuality.

But despite my best efforts, I can't stifle my sadness. I'm sad for Liberty's gay students, who must be going through untold pain. And I'm sad that Pastor Rick, a guy with compa.s.sion bursting through his sweater seams, has chosen to put his gifts to use in such an odd way. As I leave the office, I recognize a guy sitting on Rick's waiting-room couch, waiting to go in. He's an RA in a dorm near mine, a musician, a real campus figure, and it surprises me to see him sitting there. He looks down and away, not wanting to be noticed. But it's not quick enough. We make eye contact. He gives me a faintly sympathetic look, as if to say, hey, we're all in this together. hey, we're all in this together.

When I get back from Pastor Rick's office, I have an e-mail sitting in my inbox from Dr. Falwell's secretary about the interview I requested. Dr. Falwell "would be willing" to talk to me, she says.

As I reread the secretary's e-mail, my hands start to tremble. This is exciting news, but also terrifying. It's extremely rare that a Liberty student gets to spend one-on-one time with Dr. Falwell. What if he doesn't like me? What if one of his staffers background-checks me before the interview and finds out who I am? Or what if he's right about all this religion stuff and he can use his divine powers to see right through me?

This week, I've been spending time with a truly impressive Liberty student. His name is Max Carter, and I met him at a meeting of the Liberty College Republicans. I've been dropping in on the Republicans' Tuesday night meetings for six or seven weeks now, partly to meet Liberty's young politicos and partly because the club doles out free pepperoni pizza.

Max, a broad-shouldered junior who looks a little like NFL quarterback Tom Brady, first entered my radar when he made a speech at the second Republicans meeting I attended. Whereas most of these meetings are spent hypothesizing about all the ways America would go down the drain if Hillary Clinton were ever elected to the presidency, Max gave a flawless twenty-minute discourse on supply-side economics and the shifting electoral map. It was the kind of speech you'd expect to hear over afternoon tea at the Kennedy School of Government, not while scarfing Domino's off paper plates in Lynchburg.

It made sense, then, when a friend told me that Max is typically acknowledged as one of the brightest, most accomplished students at Liberty. In addition to serving as secretary of the College Republicans, Max is the president of Liberty's Stand with Israel club and the current vice president of the student body. During the summers, he works for a high-powered conservative lobby headquartered in Washington, D.C., and he's planning to apply to top-flight law schools like Stanford, Duke, and UVA. Two weeks ago, he ran for next year's student body president post and won in a Reaganesque landslide.

I've gotten to know Max well this semester, and he's a humble, even-tempered guy. (When I e-mailed him to congratulate him on the presidential win, he wrote back: "It wasn't a very close election. If anything, I sort of feel like a jerk for being ultracompet.i.tive about it.") So on Tuesday, when we go out to lunch at a local restaurant, it surprises me when he begins complaining about Liberty's administration.

"They pretend like student government is a legitimate body, but it's sort of an empty gesture," he says. "We have almost no power."

Incidentally, he's not lying. Student councils in general aren't known for being particularly robust, but Liberty's Student Government a.s.sociation (SGA) might be the least authoritative governing body in America. I went to an SGA meeting last month, and the members make a good show of it. They wear suits, they debate in parliamentary procedure, they pa.s.s important-sounding resolutions. Students campaign for office on issues like relaxing dress code and reducing the number of mandatory convocations per week, but everyone knows it's mostly a moot process. At Liberty, very little change occurs unless word comes from Dr. Falwell's office. While combing the university archives the other day, I found some examples of the SGA's failed efforts through the years. For example, in 1999, back when Liberty women were required to wear knee-length skirts or dresses unless the day's predicted temperature was 34 degrees or below (in which case pants were allowed), the SGA pa.s.sed a resolution raising the cutoff to 40 degrees. The administration vetoed it. The administration also put the kibosh on a student bill that would have moved curfew back from midnight to 2 AM, AM, and on a 1992 "Dorm Bed Policy Bill" that would have allowed students to move their beds around in their rooms and un-stack their bunk beds. and on a 1992 "Dorm Bed Policy Bill" that would have allowed students to move their beds around in their rooms and un-stack their bunk beds.

"It's frustrating," Max says, shaking his head. "We pa.s.s a bill, then it goes up to the vice president of the university. He turns it down, no matter what it is."

It's strange that Max would volunteer to serve in what he seems to think is a pretty useless student government. If I had to guess, I'd say he's doing it mostly out of boredom. Max is coasting through Liberty, and I get the distinct sense that he'd rather be somewhere else. When he found out I came here from Brown, he emitted a little sigh, as if to say, "but why?" Every time we hang out, he comes up with a half-dozen more questions about my old school. What kinds of political groups are there? Is the campus nice? How big is the endowment?

Today, he says, "You know, I thought about transferring."

Max tells me that he began itching to leave Liberty after just one semester on campus. His parents had urged him to go to a Christian school, and Liberty seemed like the cream of the crop, but before Thanksgiving had pa.s.sed, he was filling out transfer applications to schools like Notre Dame and Grove City College. Eventually, though, he decided to stay--too much inertia, too many new friends to pack up and start all over--and over the past three years, he's learned to appreciate Liberty's strengths. He's thankful for the school's Christian environment, he's gotten close with a number of his professors here, and he's optimistic that next year, as student body president, he'll be able to cut through some red tape. Overall, Max says, his Liberty experience has been positive. But it hasn't been perfect.

"Liberty is not the real world," he says. "I mean, take my government cla.s.ses. There's a debate, but it's not a realistic debate. In cla.s.s, you have your typical Republicans and your Liberty arch-conservatives. No one would ever tread on moderate or liberal ground."

Part of Max's frustration with Liberty has to do with the law school application process he's preparing to trudge through. He's applying to the nation's top schools, and he's worried that his LU transcript will raise eyebrows among the secular admissions committees.

"There's just such a stigma about being a.s.sociated with Jerry Falwell," he says. "I'm just hoping that it will work to my advantage. Every law school needs a crazy fundamentalist token, right?"

For the rest of our meal, Max talks more optimistically about his vision for Liberty. He'd like to see a College Democrats club, he says, and an alternative newspaper where students could voice their opinions without faculty censorship. He's been a longtime advocate for a system in which students could appeal their undeserved reprimands to a student court. His ideas seem sound, and he seems confident that Liberty's administration is more willing to hear student input than it has been in the past, but there's still a palpable note of resignation in his voice.

"I hate that I'm so anti-establishment here," he says. "I mean, it's natural to want to go against the grain. But I think I'm going against a grain that I support just because this place indoctrinates people so heavily."

Unlike me, Max is actually qualified to pa.s.s judgment on the whole of a Liberty education. He's taken dozens more cla.s.ses than I have, gone through the entire Government Department curriculum, and he's come out of it thinking, from the sound of it, that Liberty's academic scene could use some work.

I'm inclined to believe him, though I will say this: it's bizarre to be talking to a Liberty student who's more cynical about Liberty than I am. At one point, we're talking about my upcoming interview with Dr. Falwell, and Max tells me that I should ask him about the time he "outed the purple Teletubby." I remember learning that, contrary to popular belief, Dr. Falwell's comments about Tinky Winky may not have been entirely his--they originated in an unsigned editorial in his National Liberty Journal National Liberty Journal newsletter. I bring this up with Max, and then it hits me: I just defended Jerry Falwell to Liberty University's incoming student body president. That's one line I never expected to cross. newsletter. I bring this up with Max, and then it hits me: I just defended Jerry Falwell to Liberty University's incoming student body president. That's one line I never expected to cross.

On Thursday night, the men of Dorm 22 a.s.semble for Fight Night, our semi-frequent hall tradition.

Once every few weeks, someone on the hall calls, "Fight Night!" Guys emerge from their rooms and gather in the hall in a tight circle. Then, someone shouts out a pairing. The chosen hallmates conduct a shirtless wrestling match while everyone else watches and cheers. When there's a clear winner, another pairing is shouted out. Another fight. This goes on for an hour, or until someone gets hurt. It's not a fancy affair, but at Christian college, anything that keeps boredom at bay is worth doing.

Tonight's Fight Night was well attended, maybe thirty-five guys in total. My name never got called, but there were some decent matchups, including Zipper versus Jersey Joey (Joey won, but it was closer than you'd expect).

After the last match ends, I come back to my room to find my roommate Henry pacing the floor, raging mad.

"I cannot take all the f.a.ggots around here," he says. "It's worse than San Francisco in this dorm. These guys aren't even good Christians. Bunch of queers."

As you can see, Henry's all-too-familiar hostile streak is alive and well. In the past few weeks, Eric and I have seen our roommate turn the focus of his vitriol from Paris Hilton and Al Sharpton to something closer to home--namely, he has become suspicious that Dorm 22 is full of closeted h.o.m.os.e.xuals. Henry sees Fight Night's shirtless wrestling and Jersey Joey's naked skateboarding as instances of a general trend of h.o.m.oeroticism on the hall, and it makes him very, very angry.

At this point, it's become pretty clear that Henry has some kind of hang-up about h.o.m.os.e.xuality, or a general issue of paranoia, or perhaps a more serious chemical imbalance. His reputation has gotten so bad that the RAs are afraid to punish him. He didn't show up for curfew the other night, and when Fox came to check on us, he just shrugged, as if to say, "I should give him reprimands, but that guy is nuts nuts."

After my talk with Pastor Rick on Monday, seeing my hallmates react so negatively to Henry has been slightly rea.s.suring for me. It's taught me that while being anti-gay is the norm at Liberty, once you start being too too anti-gay, people wonder what your problem is. Measured h.o.m.ophobia isn't the optimal scenario, but it's better than if Henry's hate speech were greeted with yawns--or worse, with nods of affirmation. anti-gay, people wonder what your problem is. Measured h.o.m.ophobia isn't the optimal scenario, but it's better than if Henry's hate speech were greeted with yawns--or worse, with nods of affirmation.

Two things worry me, though. First, although Henry has spent the better part of three months ranting about liberals, gays, and non-Christians (he had a particularly juicy bit about "satanic Jews" the other day), he hasn't actually broken any of Liberty's rules. Racial hara.s.sment is prohibited in "The Liberty Way," but almost anything else goes, and unless Henry acts on his feelings somehow, he'll steer clear of Liberty's disciplinary system. Second, I'm worried that both Eric and I seem to have made Henry's list of possible h.o.m.os.e.xuals. I'm not sure what roused his suspicions--the pink tie I wore the other day? Eric's partic.i.p.ation in Fight Night?--but Henry apparently complained to one of our hallmates that both of his roommates were "filthy queers."

Tonight, after Henry's outburst, I go next door to Zipper's room to ask for his advice.

"This just isn't normal," I say. "He's so furious."

Zipper shrugs. "Well, should we pray for him?"

I've asked a number of my hallmates for advice about Henry, and they've all suggested the same thing: pray for him. At Liberty, prayer is seen as a panacea, and with no other options on the table, I suppose it's the only thing I can do.

"Sure. Let's pray."

We bow our heads, and Zipper begins. "Father G.o.d, thank you for the perseverance you've given Kevin, the patience not to give up on his roommate. Father, we ask you tonight, light a flame of hope in Henry's heart, G.o.d. Teach him to follow you. Teach him to be a peacemaker, and ease the tension in his life. Only you know his heart, G.o.d. Bring him closer to you."

The next morning at convocation, a Christian relationship counselor named Dr. Gary Chapman takes to the pulpit.

"This morning, I'd like to speak to you on the cultural phenomenon of falling in love," he says.

Dr. Chapman, a pastor from North Carolina, is the author of the Five Love Languages series, a best-selling book franchise that has become as ubiquitous among Christian couples as What to Expect When You're Expecting What to Expect When You're Expecting is among pregnant women. He's a bespectacled man with a cla.s.sic pastor's comb-over who speaks in a syrupy drawl, and today, he's telling us about a romantic phenomenon he calls "the tingles"--which, in his accent, sounds like "the is among pregnant women. He's a bespectacled man with a cla.s.sic pastor's comb-over who speaks in a syrupy drawl, and today, he's telling us about a romantic phenomenon he calls "the tingles"--which, in his accent, sounds like "the tangles tangles."

"When you see certain people," says Dr. Chapman, "there's something about the way they look, something about the way they talk, something about the way they emote that gives you a little tangle tangle inside. It's the inside. It's the tangles tangles that motivate you to go out for a hamburger with someone." that motivate you to go out for a hamburger with someone."

We hear love-themed convocation sermons every few weeks, almost as often as sermons about finding G.o.d's will for our lives and sermons about America's eroding moral base. Of the three genres, I like the last two best. Not that I'm anti-love, but hearing people talk about dating and relationships always makes me think about Anna, the girl from Bible study.

Things between me and Anna are officially over. We haven't gone on a coffee date in more than a month, and aside from the occasional cordial instant message, we almost never talk these days. I never gave her a real reason for the breakup, so I a.s.sume she just thinks I grew uninterested. But since my dorm sits next to hers in convocation, we make eye contact fairly often, and when we do, I always try to give her a look that says both "I didn't mean it like that" and "I'm attracted to you. Really, I am." Apologizing telepathically might not be as effective as, say, opening my mouth and telling her I'm sorry, but I'm not brave enough for that yet. As they say, you go to war with the army you have.

This morning, there was no way Anna and I were going to avoid making eye contact. Not only was the convocation speaker talking about love and dating, but he mentioned eating hamburgers, which was what happened on our first date back in February. When he said the hamburger line, I looked to my right, toward Anna's seat, and found her glancing at me. She looked away, then looked back a second later. Our eyes connected. We both smiled.

Man, this kills me. If Anna and I had met anywhere other than Liberty, I'm almost positive we'd be dating by now. Since I'm in such a peculiar situation here, though, what with my hidden Quakerism and my secret writing project, I just can't bring myself to get involved with her.

Some of my friends have suggested trying to find another girl, but I'm not optimistic about my wooing skills. Most of the Liberty girls I've met seem to like macho, ultra-conservative guys who watch The O'Reilly Factor The O'Reilly Factor and bench-press hundreds of pounds in their spare time, not English major milquetoasts who drink mango smoothies and listen to the latest Michael Buble alb.u.m. For now, singledom seems to be my only option. and bench-press hundreds of pounds in their spare time, not English major milquetoasts who drink mango smoothies and listen to the latest Michael Buble alb.u.m. For now, singledom seems to be my only option.

Every day, I have a first-time experience that would be old news to kids who grew up in a Christian home. My newest young Christian cliche: being bored in church.

This month, Thomas Road is holding its annual stewardship month, which, if you're not familiar with megachurch life, is sort of the evangelical equivalent of an NPR pledge drive. Every sermon this month has been a thinly veiled and euphemized request for money, and while I realize that a huge operation like Thomas Road needs a lot of cash to operate (and it gets it, to the tune of $12 million a year in t.i.thes and offerings), the ritual fleecing of the flock doesn't exactly make for thrilling sermon material.

To combat boredom, I've developed a few church games to play by myself from the choir loft: * Spot the Hats: Thomas Road, unlike Liberty's ultra-casual Campus Church, is still largely a formal affair. The elderly women of Thomas Road love wearing ornate hats to church, and from time to time, I like to imagine that the grandmothers are pitted against each other in an intense game of headwear one-upsmanship. Last week, one little old lady who sits about ten rows back wore a round hat with a few colorful feathers on the brim. Today, a lady on the other side of the sanctuary knocked her from her pedestal by wearing a white pillbox topped with what looks to be an entire family of peac.o.c.ks. * Sign Language Sleuth: During Thomas Road's services, an interpreter in the front of the sanctuary translates Dr. Falwell's sermons into ASL for deaf parishioners. I spend a few minutes per service watching her, and while my ASL vocabulary is still tiny, it's expanding every week. From what I can tell, * Sign Language Sleuth: During Thomas Road's services, an interpreter in the front of the sanctuary translates Dr. Falwell's sermons into ASL for deaf parishioners. I spend a few minutes per service watching her, and while my ASL vocabulary is still tiny, it's expanding every week. From what I can tell, t.i.the t.i.the looks like a thumbs-up, and looks like a thumbs-up, and h.o.m.os.e.xual h.o.m.os.e.xual looks a little like the Fonz combing his hair back, neither of which seems entirely coincidental. looks a little like the Fonz combing his hair back, neither of which seems entirely coincidental. * Name That Secular Tune: A lot of the schmaltzy Christian pop songs we sing in the choir are just secular hits outfitted with evangelical lyrics. "Breathe on Me" sounds to me like a dead ringer for Elton John's "Can You Feel the Love Tonight." "Cry Holy," a ma.s.sive, escalating rock ballad with soaring guitar solos, is what Journey's "Open Arms" would sound like if Steve Perry had gone to seminary. * Name That Secular Tune: A lot of the schmaltzy Christian pop songs we sing in the choir are just secular hits outfitted with evangelical lyrics. "Breathe on Me" sounds to me like a dead ringer for Elton John's "Can You Feel the Love Tonight." "Cry Holy," a ma.s.sive, escalating rock ballad with soaring guitar solos, is what Journey's "Open Arms" would sound like if Steve Perry had gone to seminary. * Find Mr. Smiley: There is a man who comes to Thomas Road every Sunday for the eleven o'clock service who looks like the filmmaker John Waters, with a side part in his hair and a thin little mustache. He sits in a different part of the sanctuary every week, and he smiles beatifically through the entire service, no matter what topic is being discussed. I love it. Dr. Falwell will be talking about the demons in h.e.l.l, and he's out there looking like the star of his own private allergy medicine commercial. * Find Mr. Smiley: There is a man who comes to Thomas Road every Sunday for the eleven o'clock service who looks like the filmmaker John Waters, with a side part in his hair and a thin little mustache. He sits in a different part of the sanctuary every week, and he smiles beatifically through the entire service, no matter what topic is being discussed. I love it. Dr. Falwell will be talking about the demons in h.e.l.l, and he's out there looking like the star of his own private allergy medicine commercial.

For the first two months of the semester, going to Thomas Road on Sundays was one of the highlights of my week. I loved the adrenaline rush of singing with the choir on national TV, vainly craning my neck to catch glimpses of myself on the Jumbotron screens. I loved hearing the world-cla.s.s soloists, and the fifteen-piece band that accompanies them. I even began to enjoy watching Dr. Falwell in action, despite the fact that he carries about as much spiritual authority with me as the guy who cuts my bagels at Panera Bread.

I think part of the reason I enjoyed Thomas Road was because it was so novel. Growing up in a Quaker home, I never got to witness a three hundred-person choir, a televised service, or a world-famous preacher. The Quaker services I attended as a kid were held in a little brown house with stone steps in the middle of my town, and when my parents and I went (which wasn't often), we would sit on chairs arranged in a circle and meditate silently for an hour. This is how a Quaker church service--called Meeting for Worship--operates. There's no sermon, no scripture readings, no preplanned music. Unprogrammed Quakerism, as my family's branch is called, is totally free-form. Usually, members of the meeting stand during the hour of silence to give short messages on topics of their choice--ruminations on G.o.d, poems about faith, stories somehow related to spirituality. But sometimes, no one is inspired to say anything, and the entire hour is spent in silence.

You can see why I didn't go to meeting much. As a kid groomed on cartoons and video games and Little League, an hour of motionless silence was excruciating. At Thomas Road, on the other hand, there's almost too too much stimulation. The stage lights, the one hundred-decibel praise songs, the bright purple choir robes, the tempestuous bellowing of Dr. Falwell--it's an hour-long a.s.sault on the senses. And all you have to do is sit back in your plush, reclining seat, latte and cranberry scone in hand, and take it all in. It's Church Lite--entertaining but unsubstantial, the religious equivalent of a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. And once the novelty wears off, once the music becomes familiar and the motions of praise become pro forma and mechanized, you start to realize that all the technological glitz and material extravagance doesn't necessarily add up to a spiritual experience. much stimulation. The stage lights, the one hundred-decibel praise songs, the bright purple choir robes, the tempestuous bellowing of Dr. Falwell--it's an hour-long a.s.sault on the senses. And all you have to do is sit back in your plush, reclining seat, latte and cranberry scone in hand, and take it all in. It's Church Lite--entertaining but unsubstantial, the religious equivalent of a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. And once the novelty wears off, once the music becomes familiar and the motions of praise become pro forma and mechanized, you start to realize that all the technological glitz and material extravagance doesn't necessarily add up to a spiritual experience.

Today, from my perch in the Thomas Road choir loft, my mind wandered back to the little brown house with stone steps. I think I'd appreciate the minimalist Quaker worship more now than I did as a kid. It didn't have Jumbotron screens or a five thousand-watt sound system or a cafe in the lobby, and it wasn't run by a world-famous televangelist with millions of followers. But at least it felt real.

There Is Nothing Covered, That Shall Not Be Revealed

Springtime at Liberty is almost criminally beautiful. The Blue Ridge mountains are filling out with lush greens, purples, and reds, the temperature rarely dips below seventy, and students spend their afternoons playing Frisbee on the lawn in front of Dr. Falwell's office. Construction workers are putting the finishing touches on the mountain monogram, which consists of mammoth piles of rock and brick arranged in the shape of a giant LU on the side of Liberty Mountain. The weather has even brought out a little G-rated mischief. A few days ago, a student prankster poured laundry detergent into the courtyard fountain, turning the whole thing into a huge bubble bath. When the wind blows, clumps of foam break off and float around the courtyard, smacking unsuspecting pa.s.sersby in the face.

Maybe it's the weather, but I'm finding it hard to study for my cla.s.ses. My Bible skills are getting better, and I'm fairly confident in my ability to answer quiz questions like "True or False: According to Acts 20:21, both repentance and faith are necessary for salvation." (True, for the record.) Even my History of Life cla.s.s is getting a bit dull. We've been talking about the fossil record this week, and Dr. Dekker's lectures have been very dry and science heavy, filled with words like chondrichthyes chondrichthyes and and coelacanth coelacanth. I don't get it. Isn't the appeal of young-earth creationism supposed to be its simplicity? If I say I don't believe in evolution, can I get an A and skip the rest of the semester?

With the coming of spring, a wave of romance seems to be sweeping Liberty's campus. And unlike the purity-laced Valentine's Day romance wave, this one doesn't seem to be all sugar and spice.

Last week, I took a walk around campus with Samantha, a girl who came on the Daytona Beach evangelism trip with me. Samantha, a soph.o.m.ore from Wisconsin with opalescent blue-green eyes and a blonde ponytail, has always struck me as a very typical Liberty girl. Her Facebook profile reads: "I luv G.o.d, I luv my family, I luv softball and my dog Sandy!" We've hung out a few times since our mission trip, and she often sends me perky text messages like "hope u have a good day!!!"

So you can imagine my surprise when Samantha told me she had just been busted for violating "The Liberty Way" ban on s.e.xual intercourse.

"I can't believe it, Kevin," she said. "It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Tears welling in her eyes, Samantha told me the whole story. About a week ago, she snuck out after curfew to visit the off-campus apartment of a guy she'd been dating. They fooled around a little, lost control, and ended up having s.e.x. When she returned to campus the next morning, she told her roommate about her sordid affair. Her roommate, after much prayer and contemplation, decided to "do the Christian thing"--she turned Samantha in to the dean of women. Samantha was served with the maximum punishment a Liberty student can get without being expelled: thirty reprimands, a $500 fine, and thirty-five hours of community service.

I couldn't imagine why Samantha was telling me all this. We're friends, but not extremely close friends, and she's the only Liberty girl I've ever heard talking about her s.e.x life. I guess she needed the emotional support, both because of her disciplinary trouncing at the dean's hands and because she was terrified about what her parents will do when they find out.

"Will they be mad?" I asked.

Samantha grimaced and pointed to her purity ring. "Why do you think I wear this? My parents think I'm a virgin. They might have heart attacks."

Samantha's anxiety had an undercurrent of anger, both because she felt betrayed by her roommate and because she felt singled out for committing what is, according to her, a fairly common transgression.

"I know so many girls who have had s.e.x," she said. "Even some of my best friends."

"Would they admit that to me?" I asked.

"No way. There's a double standard at Liberty. If you're a guy, you can have s.e.x and repent for it, and everything's okay. But for girls, if it gets out that you're not a virgin, you're pretty much a leper. No one will date you. Like, now, I have this reputation as a s.l.u.t! And I had s.e.x with one guy!"

I had no reason to doubt Samantha's claims, but they were still hard to believe. All my evidence seemed to point to a chaste student body. In GNED II cla.s.s the other day, we had an hour-long discussion of the question "Where should Christian couples draw the line?" Dr. Parks gave us seven choices that ranged from "no physical contact" to "s.e.xual intercourse," and we decided as a cla.s.s that it would be best to stop at "light touching." According to a schoolwide survey cited in that cla.s.s, 85 percent of Liberty students have pledged to remain virgins until marriage.

Samantha turned out to be right about at least one thing: Liberty's guys have a lot easier time talking about their s.e.xual histories than their female counterparts. After the conversation with Samantha, I started asking around in Dorm 22 about guys with active s.e.x lives. I expected to get stonewalled, but most guys seemed all too eager to tell me about their exploits. No one told me that they were currently s.e.xually active, but several guys admitted flat-out that they had slept with their high school girlfriends, and several more admitted that they had lost their virginity in one-time lapses. Some seemed repentant, others not so much.

One of the most surprising confessions came from Luke Hatton, a biology major who lives down the hall. He's an ultra-pious Prayer Leader, and we have lots of instant-message conversations like this one from last night: Luke Hatton: what up roose Luke Hatton: what up rooseKevin Roose: chillinKevin Roose: wasting timeLuke Hatton: maybe you should read G.o.d's word This afternoon, I walk to lunch at Pizza Hut with Luke, and during an unrelated conversation, he brings up the fact that he only ended up at Liberty because his parents made him come. He actually wanted to go to Duke.

"I'm glad I came to Liberty, though," he says. "I mean, I know I never would have gotten into drinking or drugs at Duke, but I would definitely have gotten into trouble with girls."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Roose, I've hooked up with more girls here than ever before," he says. "Can you imagine what it would be like if they could be in the dorms with us?"