"Lord, we pray that in the process of coming together as a group, we will hold each other accountable. As we finish the school year, Lord, I pray that these guys will be able to get their work done without letting down their guards. I know it's hard, but I know they can do it."

Next, the guys go around the table in sequence to talk about the Bible reading they've been doing. A muscled guy in a camouflage shirt has been going through the book of 2 Peter. A husky mustachioed guy next to him has been reading a devotional book about G.o.d's will. A hipster with Buddy Holly gla.s.ses and an "I [Heart] Jesus" sticker on his Nalgene bottle is immersed in the gospel of Matthew.

For the first ten minutes, Every Man's Battle seems no different from my Friday night Bible study. The guys are drinking iced tea and pa.s.sing Doritos around the table as they talk. Nary a mention of p.o.r.n or s.e.xual sin. I begin to wonder if I stumbled into the wrong room.

"Okay," Pastor Rick says, thumping his Bible on the table. "Victories and falls. Let's hear 'em. Brett, start us off."

Brett, the mustache wearer, begins. "This week has been a mixed bag," he says. "For a long time, I was having a lot of victory. My time with the Lord was awesome. Then I got sick a week ago, and laying in my bed, my thought life started to go down the drain. On Sat.u.r.day morning, I was praying, I was reading the Bible, but I knew something was missing. Then G.o.d sent me a sign. Sat.u.r.day afternoon, I started feeling really, really sick. I ran to the toilet and started puking everywhere. I mean, I didn't think G.o.d was punishing me or anything, but hey, if he has to stick me to the toilet with a stomach virus to get me to think about holy things, so be it."

"Praise the Lord!" Pastor Rick says. "Any victories?"

"I've been putting up some safeguards," Brett says. "I found myself making an account on a website to post photos that I had taken, and I caught myself looking at other people's beach pictures. I thought, whoa, this is not going anywhere good, so I deleted it."

"And what can you do to make sure you don't fall again?"

Brett shrugs. "I've been trying to find some filter software for Macintosh. I've started to leave the windows open in my room. I've stopped changing into an undershirt and boxers when I get back to my room. I put worship music on really loud and make sure the door is open."

Pastor Rick nods, and we continue around the circle. Alex, a timid, skinny guy who hasn't looked up from the ground since I arrived, says that he m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed for the last time sixteen days ago.

"I had a rough night the other night, but I managed to get through it," says Alex. He points to Shawn, his roommate. "Luckily, this guy was in the room. And we always joke with each other when we're on our laptops."

Shawn laughs. "I'll be like 'Hey, buddy, whatcha lookin' at?' "

"And I'll stutter, and be like 'Uh, uh, nothing. Uh . . . Jerry Falwell pictures! Right here!' "

"And then he'll get the message and put away his laptop."

"It really helps."

Pastor Rick smiles and points to the next guy, a tall black man named Horace.

"I've been using this software on my laptop," Horace says. "It's called x.x.xChurch.com. It keeps a log of every site I visit, and then it e-mails the log to my youth pastor at home. So if I visit anything raunchy, he hears about it. And that ain't good."

The guys chuckle. Pastor Rick gives Horace a golf clap.

"But I did have a small fall yesterday," Horace continues. "I saw a girl in cla.s.s the other day, and I kept telling myself, 'Close your eyes, that's not your wife.' She was looking good, though."

After Horace finishes, Pastor Rick points to me. I decide to talk more generally about my problems with l.u.s.t. Pastor Seth is one thing, but I'm not ready to reveal my onanistic habits to a bunch of strangers.

"Well," I say. "It's getting warm outside, so girls are wearing less clothing . . ."

This half sentence is all it takes to send the room into groans.

"Dang, man, I hate this time of year," says Horace. "I wish it was cold again."

"Spring is my Achilles' heel," says a guy named George.

Brett chimes in with a story.

"Just yesterday, I was walking in the hallway on the way to chemistry, and there was this girl walking right in front of me. Now, I don't know how this girl pa.s.sed dress code at all. Her skirt was the size of a washcloth. So I kept looking down at the ground, repeating to myself 1 Corinthians 6:18, "Flee from s.e.xual immorality." Flee, flee, flee. And it wasn't working, so I decided to grab my stuff and run ahead of her so I wouldn't have to look at her backside. So I zip past her, and she says out loud, 'Hey, where's that guy going?' "

Brett lets out a hearty laugh. "I just kept walking, thinking 'Boy, I'm not gonna have her walking in front of me!' "

After a few more stories about sin avoidance, Pastor Rick gives us the "Nine Fs to Victory" (Feed on the Word, Follow Christ, Faithfully pray, Fall in love with Christ, Fellowship, File away sins, Flee, Foresee, and Fortify). Then, he asks for our "battle plans."

Shawn says, "Well, my parents were planning to get a wireless router, but I asked them not to. Our only Internet access right now is next to a big picture window that looks into our neighbor's house, so I'm not tempted to do anything bad because they might see me."

"We have wireless Internet in my house," says George. "I struggle at night. I'm going to turn my bed around so it faces the door, so people who walk in can see what I'm looking at on my laptop."

"I think that's a very good idea," says Pastor Rick.

We spend ten more minutes brainstorming ways to keep ourselves pure over the summer, including avoiding the beach, keeping a small Bible in our pocket at all times, and setting up regular meetings with an accountability partner. At the end of the hour, Pastor Rick doles out hugs and parting words of encouragement.

"Love you, man," he whispers in my ear, clutching my head to his chest. "Hang in there."

On the walk back to my dorm, I start to feel a number of the same emotions I felt after I went to see Pastor Rick about his conversion program for gay Liberty students. Sadness for the guys of Every Man's Battle and the epic wars they're forced to wage against their hormones. Mild disappointment with Pastor Rick, who sees managing these struggles as his divine calling. Frustration with a religious system that gives issues of personal s.e.xuality higher spiritual priority than helping the poor or living a life of service.

But I also feel a new sort of empathy. I can't really identify with a gay Liberty student working to become straight, but I can identify with these guys. After three months here, I know how it feels to struggle against temptation. I can sympathize with the Liberty students who pray for stricter rules, for longer skirts on girls, for stronger Internet filters. I've felt the guilt that comes with a moral lapse. I keep replaying in my mind what Alex, the smallest and shyest of the guys at the session, said about his masturbation struggle: "Right after you fall, you feel like everybody's looking at you. And you're thinking, what if they knew what I just did? You go to church on Sunday feeling so dirty. You feel like you're throwing mud on the Lord."

All semester, whenever I've seen Liberty students beating themselves up over minor piccadilloes, I've wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shout, "It's okay! It's really okay!" I've fantasized about whisking them away to the secular world, where they'd be free to l.u.s.t and covet with the rest of us. And part of me still dreams of staging some sort of intervention. But maybe these guys need to be here. Maybe they need each other. As frustrating as the fight for purity may be, I suppose it's easier when you've got company. After all, it's not One Man's Battle.

Two days later, after my Wednesday night choir rehearsal, I walk into Paul Maddox's room to ask him about the due date of our Evangelism 101 paper. When I knock on the open door, he looks over, sees it's me, and waves me into the room.

"Yo, Kev, you got a minute?"

I nod.

"All right, all right, close the door."

I sit down on Paul's bed, and he brings his chair over next to me. He's shirtless, with a gold chain around his neck, and he's rubbing his hands together anxiously, like he has something pressing to tell me.

"Man, I need your advice," he says. "I'm having this problem with Lauren, and I don't know what to do about it."

He looks down at the floor, then back up at me.

"She's . . . bi."

Last night, Paul explains, he was browsing his girlfriend's Mys.p.a.ce profile when something made him look twice. Under Orientation, Lauren had listed herself as "Bis.e.xual." Paul a.s.sumed it was either a joke or a typo, but just to make sure, he brought it up during their nightly phone call.

"Baby, you're not bi, are you?"

"I'm dating you, aren't I?" she replied.

"Yeah," he said. "But if we broke up, would you date guys or girls?"

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe both."

Paul had to adjust his ears. "Baby, you're joking."

"I'm not," she said. "Why would I joke about something like that?"

Paul was floored. Bis.e.xual? They read the Bible over the phone every day! How could she do this to him?

"I just don't understand it," he tells me. "I mean, I've been doing everything right since I gave my life to G.o.d. I found a Christian girlfriend, and I've been giving everything to this girl, man. And now she's bi? It doesn't make any sense."

Over the phone, Paul tried to explain to Lauren that she couldn't follow G.o.d and be a bis.e.xual at the same time. He read her Bible verses like 1 Corinthians 6:9-10, "Do not be deceived: Neither the s.e.xually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prost.i.tutes nor h.o.m.os.e.xual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of G.o.d."

"And what did she say?"

"She didn't believe me. She was like, 'Maybe I was born like this.' And I told her: 'No, baby, you weren't born like this. If you were meant to be with a girl, you would be a boy.' And she was like, 'Well, G.o.d works in mysterious ways.' "

Paul takes his head in his hands and rocks back and forth.

"What do I do, Roose? I mean, I love this girl, and I'm not gonna break up with her for this. I don't want to break up with her. But I know in my heart that what she's doing is wrong. And I want to help her change."

I sit there with Paul for four or five minutes, listening to him weigh the pros and cons of breaking up with Lauren and offering whatever emotional support I can. I tell him that he should wait until he's calmed down to make a decision. I don't think I'm helping him much. As I talk, he's still rocking back and forth in his chair, head in hands, emitting quiet groans, like he's being hit in the stomach with a series of tiny fists.

Paul is in an understandably tough spot. His Liberty cla.s.ses have taught him that bis.e.xuality is a sin--and not just any sin, but a sin above all sins, a lifestyle choice that represents a total disregard for G.o.d's will. As a new Christian who has struggled to grow in his faith all semester, Paul can't afford to be "unequally yoked" with a sinner, as the Bible says. Still, he isn't prepared to end his relationship with Lauren over it.

This conversation brings up a question I've been thinking about a lot today. Namely, what happens when a Liberty student's instilled values clash with his personal experiences? What happens when the moral system we're taught in our cla.s.ses--a system in which everything is clear-cut, black or white, good or evil--comes into contact with the messy, complicated world? Do the values flex to fit reality? Or is Liberty's theological inculcation so powerful that it can convince its students--people like Paul--to override their social inclinations?

What originally brought this to mind was a conversation I overheard last night between Jersey Joey and his roommate Jonah, the strait-laced pastor's kid. Joey and Jonah were talking about Travis, their non-Christian roommate. Jonah was prodding Joey to witness to Travis, but Joey seemed reluctant.

"I don't know about all that," he said. "I mean, I know what the Bible says about Jesus being the only way to heaven, but I feel like Travis is making his own path, you know?"

"But how can you make your own path to heaven?" said Jonah. "G.o.d made heaven. G.o.d's in charge. And he said, 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.' "

"Don't preach at me, Jonah," said Joey. "I know what the Bible says. All I'm saying is that, look, my grandfather's not saved. He's the best person I know. Just a fantastic human being. And I've tried witnessing to him tons of times, but he's not getting it. He just doesn't want to believe it. So tell me this: how can the meanest old Christian who's the biggest d.i.c.k--who gossips, lies, beats his wife--how can he go to heaven over a guy like my grandfather? I don't get how that happens. It doesn't make sense."

"It just happens, Joey," said Jonah. "I mean, it's hard for me, too. I have a lot of unsaved people in my family. Aunts, uncles, cousins. And I've tried to witness to them, too. I wish so badly that they would just accept it."

"So you think your aunts and uncles are going to h.e.l.l?" Joey asked.

"I mean, yeah," said Jonah. "Jesus is the only way. I wish it wasn't the case. But it's not our choice. It says it in the Bible."

"I guess you're right," said Joey. "But I just hate it when people say, 'Oh, Mother Teresa is in h.e.l.l, the Pope is in h.e.l.l. I have a lot of Catholic friends back home, and that offends me. It's not for us to judge. I mean, yes, you have to accept Christ, but let G.o.d decide, you know?"

Just as Paul is struggling to plug Liberty's teachings on same-s.e.x attraction into his relationship with Lauren, Joey is struggling with the interpretation of scripture that sends all non-evangelicals to h.e.l.l. It seems too harsh. It's not something a loving G.o.d would do. And he's willing to bend Liberty's bedrock beliefs to bring them more into line with his own values.

Does it mean that Liberty students are straying from conservative theology? Probably not. At the end of the day, Paul is still convinced that bis.e.xuality is wrong, and his first inclination upon hearing that Lauren is bis.e.xual is still to help her change. Joey still believes that the only way to heaven is through Jesus, even if he's not happy about it. I wouldn't say that these conversations indicate a hidden ec.u.menical streak at Liberty or a new move toward tolerance. But it is nice to see that once in a while, amidst the hard-line dogmatism of a Liberty education, human decency still shines through the cracks.

The next day, I'm on the phone with my friend Einat, a loveable Jewish girl in my cla.s.s at Brown. Einat mentions that she's taking a trip to Israel next week, and the Middle East being what it is, she's getting antsy about her safety.

"I'll pray for you," I say.

There's a long pause on the other end of the line. Like all of my other secular friends, Einat has never heard me talk about prayer. I picture her gaping, open-mouthed, into the phone.

"Sorry," I say.

"No, no, it's okay," says Einat. "That's sweet of you. A little weird, but sweet."

I couldn't help it. I decided about a week ago that since I was getting so much out of my prayer chapel sessions with Zipper, I ought to start praying on my own. So I did, and I think I may have gotten a little out of control.

What opened the door for me was a conversation I had with Pastor Seth. During last week's breakfast discipleship meeting, I brought up prayer. I told him I still had a bunch of questions about the practice. Like, how does it work? Do prayers actually change G.o.d's mind? If so, then why do so many prayers go unanswered? Why does Liberty's football team lose any games? Why is the dining-hall food still terrible? And if prayer doesn't change G.o.d's mind, why do we pray at all?

Pastor Seth smiled.

"First," he said, "I want you to think about it this way: G.o.d is our father, and we are his children. How would you feel if your children didn't talk to you? A relationship with G.o.d isn't a one-way street. G.o.d wants us to ask for things, even if he already knows what's going to happen. We have to supplicate, to put ourselves in his will."

His second point was even better. "Prayer may not always be entirely about G.o.d," he said. Here, Pastor Seth quoted the famous Christian author Oswald Chambers, who wrote: "It is not so true that prayer changes things as that prayer changes me and I change things."

"When you pray for other people, your own heart will be transformed," Pastor Seth said. "You'll find yourself living for others, making decisions with others in mind, putting the concerns of others ahead of your own. It's a way to connect to other believers in the way G.o.d wants you to connect."

Pastor Seth's pep talk helped me get over my hesitations about prayer. Even if G.o.d wasn't listening to my requests, I reasoned, the process of making those requests would be good for me and good for the people around me. So this week, I committed myself to praying for half an hour a day, an amount of time my Evangelism 101 professor recommended.

It's not easy to fill thirty minutes with prayers, and I don't always make my quota, but I'm getting close. I pray the Lord's Prayer when I wake up. I pray the ACTS method (Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication) in the shower. At lunch, I go through the daily list of prayer requests my GNED professor sends out on behalf of the students in our cla.s.s (e.g., "Elizabeth's uncle pa.s.sed away, pray for family; Ashley's stepfather was in mine accident, pray for health; Mich.e.l.le's grandmother having hip replacement, pray for doctors"). Before bed, I pray for my family. When I run out of family members, I pray for friends from Liberty. When I run out of those, I move to friends from Brown, friends from high school, friends from middle school, celebrities, politicians, colleagues of my parents, right on down to the helpful baristas at the Lynchburg Starbucks.

And by the time I've spent my day like this, dredging up every person in my life who could possibly be undergoing any amount of hardship or strife and praying for their needs, a few things happen.

First, all my problems snap into perspective. Compared to a girl whose stepfather was in a mine accident or an old lady having her hip replaced, nothing in my life seems all that pressing. Instead of obsessing over the History of Life quiz I bombed or the parking ticket I got, I'm focusing more and more on people with real hardships. I put myself in the shoes of a guy on my hall who just totaled his car on the freeway or my aunt Cindy, whose house in California just burned down. Eventually, I go back to worrying about my tiny problems--I can't help it--but for those thirty minutes, I'm at least going through the motions of compa.s.sion.

Second, the compa.s.sion I dig up during those thirty minutes sometimes carries over to the rest of my day. This past weekend, for example, I was praying for Mike, a guy in my a cappella group at Brown. Mike was having a terrible week: a messy breakup with his long-term girlfriend, a bad stomach flu, and a bout of the pinkeye that was being pa.s.sed around Brown's a cappella community. And after praying for him, I felt myself wanting to write him a letter. I never write letters, but on a whim, I sat up in bed, tore a page out of my Theology notebook, and began to scribble. I wrote about how I hoped his pain would turn into something positive, how I thought the struggles he was going through would make him stronger in the end. Halfway down the page, I almost quit--Mike and I have an ultra-sarcastic friendship buffered by a lot of macho restraint--but I forced myself to keep going. I sent the letter off, and today, Mike wrote me back. His message began: "I got your letter the other day, and it brought tears to my eyes." He continued to say how unexpected it had been and how much it had lifted his spirits.

For the next two or three hours, I walked around campus glowing, doing all the small acts of kindness I typically overlook. I held open doors. I said, "Thank you, ma'am" to the lunch lady, whom I typically greet with a nonchalant grunt. I felt a metaphysical connection with everyone--and everything--around me.

I'm still not totally settled on prayer. Part of me still thinks it's a waste of time, and another part of me wonders whether I could be increasing my levels of compa.s.sion some other way--watching Nancy Grace every day, maybe, or reading news stories about famine in third-world countries. It's probably a bad sign if the only way I can tone down my narcissism is by forcing myself to believe that G.o.d is monitoring my thoughts. But for now, it doesn't seem to be hurting anyone, so I guess I'll keep at it. When I think of the benefits I'm reaping, a little cognitive dissonance seems like a small price to pay.

After our s.e.x-themed chat last week, Luke, the smooth-talking lothario of Dorm 22, decided that I needed to meet some girls. He figured that unless he stepped in, I'd be destined for eternal bachelorhood. So he set me up with his friend Aimee.

"You guys will get along really well," he said. "She's sort of the Paris Hilton of Liberty."

An interesting way to describe an evangelical girl, I thought. How is that even possible? Is she an heiress? Has she starred in grainy s.e.x tapes?

"No, no," Luke said. "She's just very popular. Kind of a socialite."

I understood when I looked at her Facebook profile. Only a freshman, Aimee already has eight hundred friends at Liberty. And judging by her picture, she's very attractive--long brown hair, slender frame, and a pair of dark, pouty eyes. Her profile reads: Basically, here's me in a nutsh.e.l.l: I love G.o.d, and I'm committed to His service for the rest of my life. I love to have fun, and I'm ALWAYS up for hanging out. :) Basically, here's me in a nutsh.e.l.l: I love G.o.d, and I'm committed to His service for the rest of my life. I love to have fun, and I'm ALWAYS up for hanging out. :) Luke was right. I do need to get out more. And although I'm not sure why he thought a socialite would be a good match for me, Aimee sounds like a fun date. So last night, after Luke introduced us, I sent her a Facebook message asking if she wanted to grab a bite to eat. She responded this morning: "Aww that's sweet. Yeah, I'd be down for hanging out."

Tonight, I drive over to Aimee's dorm to pick her up. She emerges from the building with a smile on her face. She's wearing a billowy purple blouse and tight black pants.

"I brought something for you," she says. "Don't laugh." She takes out her purse and extracts a business card. The card contains her name, e-mail, and the URL of her Mys.p.a.ce profile, all surrounded by a border of red roses.

"What's this?" I ask.

"It's my card," she says. "My mom made them for me before I came to Liberty. She wanted me to meet a boy, so she made me a box of 250, and I'm supposed to give them all away by the end of the semester."

Before our date tonight, Luke warned me that Aimee was on a "serious husband hunt." He told me that by going on a date with her, I'd be putting myself on her radar of possible spouses. But the way Aimee tells it, the husband hunt wasn't her idea.