Most people who have stuck around this long will answer "guilty," Scott says. Then, you hit them with the kicker: D (Destiny)--"If you're guilty, where do you think you will spend eternity--heaven or h.e.l.l?"

"This step is where people realize they're h.e.l.l-bound, and they make decisions for Christ to save themselves," he says.

A soph.o.m.ore named Samantha raises her hand and asks the question we've all been considering.

"But what if they don't?"

"Good point," Scott says. "These people may not be ready to accept Christ, but we can plead with them to consider it, because h.e.l.l is a real place. So just ask them two or three times: Why would you not not consider this? Why would you think it consider this? Why would you think it doesn't doesn't matter?" As Scott says this, fourteen skeptical faces stare back at him. Team Daytona seems to have realized en ma.s.se that these conversations will only remain matter?" As Scott says this, fourteen skeptical faces stare back at him. Team Daytona seems to have realized en ma.s.se that these conversations will only remain hypothetically hypothetically awkward for a few more minutes. awkward for a few more minutes.

"Never forget, guys," he says, "What we're doing is kind! Many Christians don't share Christ because they feel like they're bothering people. But we're sharing the information that will help them avoid G.o.d's wrath and go to heaven! We're doing something better than the best Christmas present they'll ever get!"

Before we go, we pray.

"Lord, prepare the hearts of the spring breakers," says Scott. "Make the issues at stake clear to people, Lord, and draw them to yourself. Let us turn them from their ways."

Five minutes later, as Scott steers the Jesusmobile to the beach, he swivels to face us.

"Oh, and don't forget, guys: keep a journal of your witnessing experiences, so you can remember who you talked to."

Yes, sir.

1300h: Reece

Today, we will be doing our beach evangelism in pairs. The fortunate part of this arrangement is that I'll be able to see other members of my group in action. The unfortunate part: I'll probably be expected to partic.i.p.ate. Luckily, my first partner, a soph.o.m.ore named Claire, is what the cognoscenti call a "bold witness." Claire, a brown-haired bombsh.e.l.l who wears those trendy drink-coaster-size sungla.s.ses, agrees to let me watch the first few times, since I hinted when we started that I was new at this.

Here's what they don't tell you in evangelism training: being a bold witness doesn't matter if no one is listening. Claire approaches two dozen people in five minutes, none of whom stay with her past the first question. Spring breakers don't like to be interrupted, and when she tries a more direct approach, saying, "Excuse me, I'd like to talk to you about G.o.d," it's not pretty. Sorority girls laugh in her face. Bikers stare at her chest, then laugh in her face.

When Claire finally gets someone to hear her out, it's a Rastafarian-looking guy sitting on a bench, wearing parachute pants and a green and yellow basketball jersey. He introduces himself as Reece.

"Reece, would you consider yourself a good person?" she asks.

"Yeah, I guess."

Reece answers the WDJD questions nonchalantly. "Yeah, I've stolen. Yeah, I've disobeyed my parents. Yeah, I'm probably guilty." When Claire gets to D, the one about heaven and h.e.l.l, Reece rubs his eye with the back of his hand.

"I'm gonna live forever," he says. "Heaven is a state of mind, you know? You ever watch the Matrix Matrix? When Neo went to the Oracle, and he's like 'Am I the one?' and she's like 'No you're not, because you don't know.' It's like that. You gotta know, you know?"

"No, I don't know," Claire says.

Reece tells us he's sorry, but he has to go meet some friends at a different part of the beach. Claire prays for him quickly, and Reece goes on his way. As we continue down the boardwalk, Claire turns to me.

"I think that man was on drugs."

1315h: Janice

Two failed approaches later--an old lady who shooed us away and a biker who was "rushing to meet some buddies"--Claire tells me it's my turn.

When Scott started schooling us on the Way of the Master method, it became clear that over the course of the week, I'd be expected to push Christianity to strangers. This made my conscience's usual swampy mora.s.s a little swampier. At Liberty, see, no one asks me about my faith anymore, so to blend in, I rarely have to do anything more active than keep up my Christian signifiers--going to Bible study, praying before meals, being on time to church. This is what pa.s.ses for ethical conduct in my world. It probably wouldn't fly in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee, but it's how I sleep at night.

Evangelism to strangers, though--that doesn't sit nearly as well with me. So while Scott was talking, I set some guidelines for my Daytona mission that made me a little more comfortable. First, I would distance myself reasonably from evangelical theology. If I told someone about Jesus, I'd begin, "Well, according to one one reading of the Bible . . ." or " reading of the Bible . . ." or "Some Christians think . . ." Second, I wouldn't condemn anyone. And third, if things ever got to a point where I was doing Christians think . . ." Second, I wouldn't condemn anyone. And third, if things ever got to a point where I was doing too too well, where someone was on the verge of converting, I'd find a way to get out of the conversation quickly, no matter how out of character it was. well, where someone was on the verge of converting, I'd find a way to get out of the conversation quickly, no matter how out of character it was.

I may never have to put these rules into effect, though, because I'm too scared to make my first approach. I wander the sand with Claire for five or ten minutes looking for a suitable target. The two middle-aged men checking their BlackBerries? The preteen boys stomping on a sand castle? No, won't do. I almost approach a pack of hot, bikini-clad girls, but I stop short due to my recurring fear that all hot, bikini-clad girls are linked by some sort of high-tech underground network, and blowing it with one group of them will permanently ink my name on the blacklist.

Claire points to a guy in a beach chair. "How about him?"

"It looks like he's about to leave. Doesn't it?"

"Okay, the guy next to him."

"He's tanning. We probably shouldn't disrupt him."

After a dozen of these, Claire looks a little irritated. "You know, you shouldn't be afraid," she says. "You have Holy Spirit boldness inside you."

Finally, I see a thirty-something brunette sitting on the flatbed of her pickup truck, legs dangling over the end. I look at Claire, who nods. She'll do. I steel myself and walk toward her, feeling my palms moisten.

"h.e.l.lo there."

"Uh, hi." She's a Hispanic woman wearing a pink bikini, drinking Rolling Rock with a foam koozie. I introduce myself, and she tells me her name is Janice.

"Janice, I was, uh, wondering if I could ask you a question."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Would you consider yourself a good person?"

She pulls off her sungla.s.ses and looks at me queerly. "Yeah, I guess I'm good."

"Do you think you've kept the Ten Commandments?"

"Probably not."

"Have you ever told a lie?"

"Of course. I've committed a whole bunch of sins."

"So where do you think you'd . . ." I realize I'm about to ask the questions out of order--D instead of J--so I self-correct. ". . . Uh, I mean . . . if G.o.d judged you by the Ten Commandments, do you think you'd be innocent or guilty?"

She leans forward. "Are you trying to convert me?"

I look back at Claire, who nods. "Well, yeah, but . . ."

"Listen," she snaps, "this is pretty rude of you. I'm out here trying to enjoy my day at the beach, and you're coming over here telling me that I need Jesus. Or are you with the Mormons?"

I squeak out, "No, ma'am, not with the Mormons."

She smiles snidely, puts her sungla.s.ses back on.

"Well, I don't want to hear it, thanks very much. Man, the Bible-thumpers are the ones you gotta watch out for. They're some sick a.s.sholes--no offense."

As we turn and walk away, Claire sighs. "Well, I think her soul is hardened, but at least we got to tell her about h.e.l.l. That's a start, right?"

Even before this trip, I hated confronting strangers. I had a summer job once at a Manhattan juice bar. Every day, my boss would stick me on a SoHo street corner handing out coupons for raspberry smoothies. It was miserable. I'd spend five hours a day waving coupons at pa.s.sersby, and when they didn't completely ignore me, they'd look at me like I was trying to stab them with a dirty syringe. One middle-aged lady swung her purse at me.

But this was worse. I haven't really processed Janice's rejection yet, so I don't know whether to brush it off or feel personally offended. Even though I don't believe in my product, as they say in business, it's still not fun being the target of a stranger's wrath.

1430h: Rick

Claire has decided that I'm not a very competent evangelist, so she took on the next dozen approaches. So far, she's doing better, but I suspect there are other factors in play. Every few minutes, Claire walks up to a group of guys and engages them in small talk. The guys--and it's always the smarmy, sleeveless-shirt and hair-gel types--take this to be some kind of coy flirtation ritual. They sidle up to her, tossing each other looks of smug satisfaction that say: Dude, that girl is totally into me. No freakin' way, dude, she talked to me first. Dude, that girl is totally into me. No freakin' way, dude, she talked to me first.

I want to warn the guys telepathically, but it's too late. They smile and nod and answer Claire's initial questions, and then she drops the hammer: "If a holy and righteous G.o.d judged you on the Ten Commandments, would he find you innocent or guilty?"

I've noticed a range of reactions to Claire's hammer drops so far: * Some people give the hidden-camera-show look. The guys let out a small chuckle, perhaps thinking Claire has just mastered the practice of deadpan irony. Then, when they see her waiting unblinkingly for a response, they sweep the landscape, looking for a tech crew. * A few people get genuinely angry. One biker said, "If I wanted to hear I was going to h.e.l.l, I'd call my ex-wife." * A few people get genuinely angry. One biker said, "If I wanted to hear I was going to h.e.l.l, I'd call my ex-wife."* Then there's the you-poor-things response, which thus far has come exclusively from old ladies. When Claire begins her spiel about accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior, these ladies' faces soften into sympathetic smiles. They listen patiently, like a grandmother hearing a Girl Scout sputter through her cookie pitch--then they turn Claire down as politely as possible. One woman, who looked like Mrs. b.u.t.terworth in a one-piece, asked us, "Now, who put you two up to this?"

Needless to say, Daytona is not the world's easiest place to make disciples. Trucks drive up and down the beach with thousand-watt speakers in the flatbeds blasting Jay-Z. There's an ongoing best buns contest at Spanky's Tiki Bar ($50 cash prize). Claire and I cut a sharp contrast to the bikinied, board-shorted ma.s.ses in our polo shirts and backpacks stuffed with gospel tracts. So our failure, if not totally expected, at least is understandable.

Claire's other problem is total linguistic isolation. She, like many other Liberty students, speaks in long, flowery strings of opaque Christian speak. When a twenty-something guy named Rick tells Claire he doesn't believe in G.o.d, Claire sighs and says, "Listen, Rick. There's a man named Jesus Christ, and he came into my heart and changed me radically. And there is a G.o.d who loves you, and who sent his son to die on the cross for you, to take away your sins and my sins, and G.o.d shows himself to me every day. When I don't have hope for tomorrow, Jesus never fails. His love is never ending."

While she's speaking, my eyes never leave Rick. I recognize his confused expression as what mine must have been on my first-ever visit to Thomas Road--the same sense that two people, both speaking English, are not exactly communicating. Rick listens to her prattle on for several minutes, and then apologizes.

"Not interested," he says. "But thanks."

Claire thanks Rick and walks away downtrodden, kicking up sand with each step.

1520h: Names Unknown

I approach three girls tanning on beach towels. They're good-looking girls, maybe a year or two out of college. One is reading a Patricia Cornwell mystery, and the other two are on their stomachs, listening to their iPods.

"Hi there," I say, trying to sound as peppy as possible. The Cornwell reader looks up from her book, eyebrows raised, and one of the iPod girls takes out her earbuds.

"I was just wondering if I could give you guys a million dollars."

When Scott was teaching us to evangelize, he gave us several gimmicky icebreakers to use when beginning conversations. This one is a fake million-dollar bill with a message printed in tiny letters on the back: The million-dollar question: Will you go to Heaven? Here's a quick test. Have you ever told a lie, stolen anything, or used G.o.d's name in vain? Jesus said, "Whoever looks upon a woman to l.u.s.t after her has committed adultery already with her in his heart." Have you looked with l.u.s.t? Will you be guilty on Judgment Day? If you have done those things G.o.d sees you as a lying, thieving, blasphemous, adulterer at heart. The Bible warns that if you are guilty you will end up in h.e.l.l. That's not G.o.d's will. He sent His Son to suffer and die on the cross for you . . . Please, repent (turn from sin) today and trust in Jesus, and G.o.d will grant you everlasting life. The million-dollar question: Will you go to Heaven? Here's a quick test. Have you ever told a lie, stolen anything, or used G.o.d's name in vain? Jesus said, "Whoever looks upon a woman to l.u.s.t after her has committed adultery already with her in his heart." Have you looked with l.u.s.t? Will you be guilty on Judgment Day? If you have done those things G.o.d sees you as a lying, thieving, blasphemous, adulterer at heart. The Bible warns that if you are guilty you will end up in h.e.l.l. That's not G.o.d's will. He sent His Son to suffer and die on the cross for you . . . Please, repent (turn from sin) today and trust in Jesus, and G.o.d will grant you everlasting life.

"Sure," Cornwell girl says. "I'll take one."

"But first," I say, "I have to ask you the million-dollar question."

"Shoot."

I take a deep breath. "Do you know Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"

The iPod girl's eyes bulge. "Excuse me?" She pokes her friend, who turns over onto her back, takes out her earbuds, and stares at me.

"Um . . . do you guys know Jesus . . . as your savior?"

Cornwell girl says pointedly, "We're Jewish."

"I'll take that as a no?" I say. They don't laugh. Not even the faintest trace of a smile. I turn and walk away, mumbling thanks under my breath.

As I go, I hear them talking: "What a creep," one says.

After this rejection, I start to get angry. How could Scott make evangelism seem so easy? Doesn't he see that this is torture? When Claire and I return to the Jesusmobile for our appointed meeting time, the rest of the group looks a little sh.e.l.l-shocked. Faces are sullen, postures slumped.

"That was the hardest day of my life," says Samantha.

"Any decisions for Christ today?" Scott asks. No hands go up.

"Well, that's okay," he says. "Decisions or not, we're planting seeds the Lord will water in time!"

Back at the host church, Scott explains that beach witnessing is just half of our agenda. Tonight, we'll get another chance at the nightclubs. We spend half an hour in prayer before dinner. It is, I suspect, the saddest prayer circle ever convened.

"I lift Emmanuel and William up to you, Lord," says James from Baltimore. "They didn't seem interested when I told them about you today, but I pray that they'll think about what I told them, and that they'll come to a saving knowledge of your son, Jesus Christ."

"Lord, I pray for the medical student I met today," says Scott's wife Martina. "Being a hotshot doctor at a big hospital is not going to help her when she has to face you, Lord. Even though she brushed me off, I pray she'll reconsider later."

"I pray, Lord, for the old man who spit on me," says Charlotte, a blonde from Arkansas. "Satan had such a strong grip on him, and I just want to see him know you, Lord."

Claire is the last to pray: "Lord, let them be nicer to us tonight."

2310h: Jason

Around eleven o'clock, the Jesusmobile pulls up to Razzle's. Razzle's is a Wal-Mart-size nightclub with a squadron of earpieced bouncers manning the velvet rope and a set of revolving laser lights that overflow onto the sidewalk. We won't be going inside, Scott says, but we'll stand just outside the rope, witnessing to people waiting in line.

The first surprise is that there are at least two other groups of Christian evangelists here. One group, a youth team from a Florida church, has set up a shaved-ice machine on the sidewalk. They're making sno-cones for the Razzle's patrons, which almost seems like cheating. (Some Christians call this "gastro-evangelism.") The other group, which is affiliated with Campus Crusade for Christ, has done something truly brilliant. A well-funded national organization, Campus Crusade rented the ballroom at a hotel next to Razzle's and set up a fake party inside, complete with strobe lights, a security team, and attractive models paid to stand outside the hotel and gossip loudly about the great party inside. great party inside. When would-be clubbers enter the room, they quickly realize they've been duped--instead of bar specials and trance music, they get gospel tracts and a salvation message. When would-be clubbers enter the room, they quickly realize they've been duped--instead of bar specials and trance music, they get gospel tracts and a salvation message.

Our group has no such Trojan horse, just the same Way of the Master routine we used on the beach. (Though at one point, a film crew working on a Girls Gone Wild Girls Gone Wild-style doc.u.mentary sets up their equipment next to us, so we get a nice little a.s.sembly line going.) Witnessing at Razzle's, where everyone we meet is either drunk or well on the way, makes communication a little harder. Two conversations I had in the first ten minutes: "Excuse me, miss. Do you ever think about spiritual things, like heaven and h.e.l.l?" "Excuse me, miss. Do you ever think about spiritual things, like heaven and h.e.l.l?""Woooo!!! I love to party party!!!" "Excuse me, sir. Would you help me with an opinion poll?" "Excuse me, sir. Would you help me with an opinion poll?""Sure, go ahead.""Who is the greatest person you know?""Hmm . . . gayest person I know. . . . I'd have to say Richard Simmons."

We have an odd number of evangelists tonight, and I managed to snag the solo spot. Without Claire watching me, I no longer have to be pushy. I'm just asking people about their religious beliefs and letting them speak if they wish--which clears my conscience a little, and also makes me the worst evangelist in history. One guy I talked to actually said, "You must be new at this."