"I told my mom, 'No, Mom, I don't have a boyfriend yet, and that's okay.' She didn't understand why I didn't want to get married at the age of eighteen."

For dinner, Aimee and I head to a local T.G.I. Friday's knockoff, the kind of place with faux 1940s kitsch on the wall--wooden tennis rackets, Radio Flyer wagons, Rosie the Riveter signs. We sit down in a corner booth, order two sandwiches, and get down to the business of introducing ourselves. Very quickly, it becomes clear that we have absolutely nothing in common. Aimee is a homeschooled navy brat, I'm an anti-war Quaker boy. Her mom went to cosmetology school, my mom barely owns makeup. She's a chocoholic, I'm lactose intolerant.

Midway through the meal, she tells me about Click, Click, the Adam Sandler movie she just saw, and how it reminded her of the sin of pride: "The main character was a greedy, ambitious businessman, and he ended up with nothing," she said. "And while I was watching it, I was thinking about all the people out there who don't know Christ, who live completely for themselves, and how I just wish they could know that there's something better for them. If they follow G.o.d, they'll have something else to live for." the Adam Sandler movie she just saw, and how it reminded her of the sin of pride: "The main character was a greedy, ambitious businessman, and he ended up with nothing," she said. "And while I was watching it, I was thinking about all the people out there who don't know Christ, who live completely for themselves, and how I just wish they could know that there's something better for them. If they follow G.o.d, they'll have something else to live for."

Tonight isn't the first date I've been on at Liberty. There was Anna, of course, but after things ended with her, I spent some time with Bethany, another girl from the sister dorm. Bethany, a short, tomboyish girl with a pair of deep dimples, was just as poor a match for me on paper as Aimee. She's a pastor's daughter, she's demure and shy, and like Aimee, she seems to mention G.o.d in every other sentence.

Neither Aimee nor Bethany appeal to me in the same way Anna did. They're both engaging and adorable, but they're too pious, too innocent for me to consider dating seriously. I need a girl with a little irreverent sa.s.s. Plus, the religious disparity is just too much. Anna I can handle--she's a bit milder in her beliefs--but I'm not sure I could ever date a girl who firmly believed my entire family was bound for h.e.l.l.

That said, there are some things about Liberty's dating scene that I sort of enjoy. At first, I thought "The Liberty Way" and its rules against physical contact would ruin the dating experience. But strangely, I'm not feeling frustrated on these dates. In fact, having preordained physical boundaries takes a huge amount of pressure and anxiety out of the process. Think about it: at the end of tonight's date with Aimee, I won't have to worry about how to secure a good-night kiss or an invite to her room. My friend Luke might be able to seduce innocent Liberty girls, but for me, it's just not happening. No chance. And that's a very freeing feeling. When dinner dates aren't just preludes to hooking up, you end up truly listening listening to each other. The conversation is the centerpiece, and what emerges is deeper and more intimate than if you had been spending your time trying to Don Juan your way into her bed. to each other. The conversation is the centerpiece, and what emerges is deeper and more intimate than if you had been spending your time trying to Don Juan your way into her bed.

Recently, I've been reading I Kissed Dating Goodbye I Kissed Dating Goodbye, the book Luke mentioned during our s.e.x talk last week. The premise of the book is that Christian teens should, as the t.i.tle suggests, stop dating. We don't actually get to know the people we date because we're caught up in the pursuit of physical intimacy. Christians should replace dating with "courtship," close platonic friendship that leads right into engagement.

Now, that last part scares me. Going straight from friendship to marriage seems reckless, like buying a house sight unseen. But I'm thinking about a line I read the other day that resonated with me. The author writes: "Dating creates an artificial environment that doesn't require a person to accurately portray his or her positive and negative characteristics."

One of my secular friends called me the other night for girl advice. He's pursuing a girl at his college, and he's going through the cla.s.sic "tell her I like her without telling her I like her" phase. He wanted to know how to seduce this girl without seeming like he was trying too hard.

"I have to make her think I'm interested, but not that interested," he said.

This is a popular notion in dating circles at secular college--the idea that to be an effective Casanova, you've got to employ a little bit of circ.u.mlocution and trickery. Hedge your enthusiasm. Make the girl work for your affection. If she asks you to buy her a drink, say, "How about you you buy buy me me a drink?" a drink?"

I have to say, after talking to my friend, it was hard not to feel like I have the better deal at Liberty. Sure, it's frustrating not to be able to relieve s.e.xual tension, but with that option off the table, I'm free to be totally transparent. The whole interaction feels more honest, more straightforward. In the words of I Kissed Dating Goodbye I Kissed Dating Goodbye, "our entire motivation in relationships is transformed." I've said things to Aimee tonight that I would never say to girls back in the secular world for fear of alienating them. Strange things to say to a girl who looks really beautiful--like, "You look really beautiful."

Tonight, Aimee and I stay at our antique-decorated restaurant for almost three hours. The waiters eventually stop coming back to refill our water gla.s.ses, and we sit there in our booth, talking, laughing, and generally having a wonderful time. At the end of the date, when I drop her off at her dorm, I have a fleeting thought about what it would be like to venture back out into my old world, the melange of frat-party hookups and free-flowing s.e.xuality, and say to a girl: "Listen, I just want to get to know you. No physical stuff."

I'm guessing she'd laugh. Or a.s.sume I was doing method acting for a revamp of the 40-Year-Old Virgin 40-Year-Old Virgin. But after tonight's success, I decide I'm going to try it, just a few times, just to see how it feels.

The next Sunday is Easter, the most important day on the entire Christian calendar, the commemoration of the risen Lord.

I've always loved Easter. When I lived at home, my parents and I would drive over to my maternal grandparents' house in the Cleveland suburbs for Easter dinner. As churchgoing Episcopalians, my mom's parents were the most traditionally religious people in my family, and I remember eating my grandmother's lamb-shaped Easter cakes after dinner. We'd all hold hands around the table while my grandfather said grace, a stock Episcopalian blessing he rattled off so quickly that it sounded like one long word: "BlessolordthisfoodtoouruseandustothyserviceinJesusnameamen."

I suspect this year's Easter celebration will be less cake, more Christ. Earlier this morning, Liberty held a special SonRise church service on the lawn outside Dr. Falwell's office. It was scheduled for 6:30 AM AM, and I was planning to go, but I stayed up too late on my date last night, and by the time I managed to pry myself from bed, I was an hour late. So I contented myself with the 8:30 service at Thomas Road, which, as a member of the choir, I'm required to attend anyway.

Easter morning at Thomas Road is a momentous occasion. The normally bare stage has been filled with beautiful white lilies, and silhouettes of three giant crosses have been projected on the wall above the choir loft. The crowd is standing-room only for the first time since Dr. Falwell's "Myth of Global Warming" sermon, and so many choir members showed up that, for the second time this semester, I got stuck with a comically large robe. This one isn't as enormous as the one I got on my first day, but it's big enough that I have to bunch the excess fabric in my hand when I walk, which keeps the bottom hem safely off the ground and also makes me look sort of stupid, like an Elizabethan d.u.c.h.ess making her way to the ball.

The way Thomas Road celebrates Easter, you'd think no one had ever heard about this Jesus-rose-from-the-dead thing before. As choir director Al leads us in resurrection-themed hymns ("Christ the Lord Is Risen Today," "Jesus Is Alive," "He Lives"), the scene out in the sanctuary looks more like a Rolling Stones concert audience than a Baptist congregation. People are smiling open-mouthed, clutching each other lovingly, waving their hands in the air like windshield wipers. The camera zooms in on a middle-aged woman jumping up and down in pious joy while her teenage son looks on in mild embarra.s.sment.

Today, Dr. Falwell's sermon is t.i.tled "The Fact, Force, and Faith of the Resurrection of Christ," and it's mostly standard Easter fare-- a brief recap of the empty tomb story, a few unnecessarily graphic details of Jesus' crucifixion ("his lacerated body hung limp on the brutal cross, the thorns had been crushed into his skull, the blood and spittle dripped from his lifeless form," et cetera, et cetera), and a short lesson about what the resurrection should mean to us as believers. It's over in about thirty-five minutes, and after the altar call, the choir sings again as the Thomas Roaders file out of the sanctuary.

To accommodate the ma.s.sive Easter crowds, Thomas Road is holding two identical services today at 8:30 and 10:30. And during the second service, while I'm singing the same three resurrection hymns I sang last time, I find myself getting swept up in the ma.s.s joy. During the last verse of "He Lives," the soloist hits the climactic high note, and I feel a little tingle start in my fingers. The tingle works its way up my arms, into my shoulders, and up my neck into my head, and pretty soon, I feel euphorically light-headed.

I've gotten this sensation twice this week. The first time was during Wednesday's Campus Church. This week, in honor of Holy Week, Liberty held a special communion service in the basketball arena. It was a pretty spectacular sight. A hundred-foot cross was constructed on the floor of the arena, with thousands of grape juice-filled plastic cups and industrial-size buckets of communion wafers sitting on top. The whole thing was spotlit from below, which gave it a strange ethereal glow.

The communion service itself wasn't particularly memorable. A campus pastor gave a bland sermon on the resurrection, we all filed down the aisles to take our juice and wafers, and on the pastor's cue, we partook in the Lord's Supper. Afterward, the campus praise band played a song called "Make a Joyful Noise to the Lord." It's a catchy, upbeat number, and the only thing that distinguishes it from the twenty other catchy, upbeat numbers in the praise band's repertoire is that this one has built-in audience partic.i.p.ation--when the front man sings the t.i.tle line, the congregation whoops and hollers, literally making joyful noises.

That's when it happened. When I heard thousands of Liberty students erupting in joy all around me, in a dark arena with a huge glowing cross, I got that same tingling sensation. This time, it began to feel like there was a string connected to the top of my head, and it was being pulled slowly upward, toward the ceiling. Pretty soon, I was joining the rest of my cla.s.smates in shouting and cheering--not out of any duty or desire to blend in, but because in that moment, I couldn't restrain myself.

What's happening to me? Two weeks ago, I was bored out of my skull in church. I was getting as much spiritual nourishment out of my Sundays at Thomas Road as I get from clipping my toenails or reading Harper's Harper's on the toilet. And now, I'm finding myself actually looking forward to services. I smile when I put on my choir robe. I chuckle at Dr. Falwell's hacky political jokes (e.g., "Chelsea Clinton was interviewing a marine coming back from Iraq, and she asked him what he was most afraid of. He replied, 'Osama, Obama, and your mama.' "). Last week, I went to Thomas Road on Sunday evening, even though I'm only required to attend the morning service. on the toilet. And now, I'm finding myself actually looking forward to services. I smile when I put on my choir robe. I chuckle at Dr. Falwell's hacky political jokes (e.g., "Chelsea Clinton was interviewing a marine coming back from Iraq, and she asked him what he was most afraid of. He replied, 'Osama, Obama, and your mama.' "). Last week, I went to Thomas Road on Sunday evening, even though I'm only required to attend the morning service.

If I had to guess, I'd say that the meaning of church church is changing for me. I used to define church as a series of events--the sermon, the worship music, the collection, the altar call. Now, when I think of church, I think of George, the elderly man in the choir who greets me with a "h.e.l.lo there, Mister Kevin" every week. I think of Mac, the sixty-five-year-old tenor who always updates me on his son and daughter--an engineer in Gary, Indiana, and a sales representative in Charlottesville. On Wednesday nights, I think of Campus Church as the guys I sit with--Jersey Joey, Paul, Eric, Zipper--instead of the laser light shows or the fog machines. is changing for me. I used to define church as a series of events--the sermon, the worship music, the collection, the altar call. Now, when I think of church, I think of George, the elderly man in the choir who greets me with a "h.e.l.lo there, Mister Kevin" every week. I think of Mac, the sixty-five-year-old tenor who always updates me on his son and daughter--an engineer in Gary, Indiana, and a sales representative in Charlottesville. On Wednesday nights, I think of Campus Church as the guys I sit with--Jersey Joey, Paul, Eric, Zipper--instead of the laser light shows or the fog machines.

The benefit of this is obvious: it's much easier for me to enjoy church when I conceive of it as a gathering of people. I still don't agree with Dr. Falwell's sermons, and I still have serious problems with some of the doctrines being preached at these things, but I can appreciate the feeling of singing in a choir with three hundred other people. I can appreciate the comfort of having a stable, predictable period of diversion every week at exactly the same time, and I know why it's appealing to take part in a communal activity, to feel like I'm part of something bigger than myself.

The downside of thinking of church this way is that it's not always easy to separate the feelings of joy from the beliefs that give rise to them. When thousands of Liberty students are all praising the Lord at the top of their lungs, it's hard to step back and ask myself: what exactly are they so happy about? Does it really have anything to do with a sandal-wearing rabbi who lived two thousand years ago? Would they be praising just as hard if Liberty were another kind of religious school, and the song lyrics said "Buddha" or "Gaia" or "Allah" instead of "Jesus"? Would it still seem so attractive to me?

There's a difference, it seems to me, between the form of religion and the content of religion. Right now, I've got all of the form and not much of the content. I pray like a Liberty student, I read the Bible like a Liberty student, and I sing in the choir like a Liberty student. I even go on dates like a Liberty student. And for the most part, I've enjoyed living this way. But I still don't believe the same things Liberty students believe about G.o.d. I still don't believe, as Dr. Falwell said during Easter services this morning, that "the resurrection of Christ is an indisputable fact." And yet, the possibility is entering my mind.

Earlier this week, I reread a book by the anthropologist Susan Harding. One of her points. .h.i.t particularly close to home. Harding says that although most people think of religious conversion as a one-step process, it's really two steps. First, you pa.s.s into what she calls the "membrane of belief." That happens when you absorb the language and mannerisms of a religious community and begin to frame your thoughts and actions the way the community does. After that, you pa.s.s out of the "membrane of unbelief." You decide to abandon your skepticism and make the community's creed your own, becoming a true believer. The second step is a conscious choice, says Harding, but the first step often happens without your knowledge--or permission.

I used to think that I had control of my spirituality. I pictured a mental spigot that regulated the flow of faith into my brain. But I'm starting to understand that it doesn't work that way. Not for me, at least. I'm not a perfect rational being. I'm susceptible to the same emotional tugs and visceral urges as my Liberty friends, and I'm capable of shoving logic aside to make room for transcendence. And if Harding is right, the fact that I'm realizing these things means I'm probably much closer to conversion than I think.

Give Us Aid Against the Enemy

After my shower on Monday morning, I check my e-mail and see a message from Liberty's administration with the subject "Urgent Prayer Requested for Virginia Tech."

As I'm opening it, Jersey Joey bolts into my room.

"Rooster, you have to see this."

He reaches over my shoulder, types " CNN.com" into my browser, and reads me the breaking news.

"Thirty-two dead at Virginia Tech," he says. "A student gunned 'em down during their morning cla.s.ses. It's a freaking Van Damme movie."

It's true. This morning, the deadliest school shooting in American history was conducted at Virginia Tech, only an hour and a half's drive from Lynchburg. As Joey and I read on, it only gets worse. The disturbed, introverted gunman. The Holocaust-survivor professor who blocked a door and took a bullet to save his students. The deed was perfectly scripted, perfectly executed, and perfectly awful. We sit in silence for two minutes.

Within half an hour, Liberty is in emergency prayer mode. Signs are posted all around campus saying PRAY FOR VA TECH PRAY FOR VA TECH. Facebook groups sprout up: "Pray for Virginia Tech," "VT in our prayers," "Liberty is praying for VA Tech." Outside my window, ten or twelve students are kneeling in the gra.s.s, holding an impromptu prayer circle for the victims.

I stay in my room all morning, missing my cla.s.ses because I can't bring myself to leave my bed. Maybe it's because I'm living in the same state as the shooting, or maybe it's because I have a few friends at Virginia Tech (all safe, thankfully), but today's news. .h.i.t me incredibly hard. I can't watch the news without wanting to curl up in a ball for the rest of the month.

In mid-afternoon, Liberty's campus pastors call an emergency prayer vigil in honor of the victims and their families. I need some way to process my feelings, so I decide to pull myself out of bed and go. When I get to the prayer room where the vigil is being held, twenty or so students are already seated on the floor. As I slip in beside them, one guy is praying softly.

"Father, I pray for those injured and killed at Virginia Tech. Bless them and heal them, Father. I pray for the families. I pray for the school, for the leaders having to deal with this chaos."

When he finishes, a brunette with a thin, wispy voice says simply, "Father, please help the people there."

We proceed around the circle in order, each person praying in turn. And halfway around the circle, I find myself choking up. This is really awful. There is nothing in the world more unnerving, more senseless than a school shooting. Of all the answers I've found this semester, I still can't fathom why things like this happen. I've got nothing.

Prayer seems to be helping everyone else in this room cope with their sadness, but I'm having problems mustering any pet.i.tions of my own. After all, if G.o.d really is listening to these prayers, if he really is an omnipotent micromanager, then why didn't he just prevent the killing in the first place? If comforting the victims' families isn't too much to ask of G.o.d, why couldn't he have spared them their grief altogether?

Of course, I'm hardly the first person to ask these questions. For thousands of years, an entire branch of Christian theology, called theodicy, has been devoted to the question of why an omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent (all-loving) G.o.d would allow human suffering. Job wrestled with the question in the Bible itself. And needless to say, millions of believers have made peace with the issue using a variety of theological work-arounds (for two well-reasoned--and opposing--perspectives on theodicy, I recommend the books G.o.d's Problem G.o.d's Problem by Bart D. Ehrman and by Bart D. Ehrman and The Problem of Pain The Problem of Pain by C. S. Lewis). But I can't do it. For me, no amount of theological ma.s.saging can resolve the central issue--if G.o.d could have stopped the Virginia Tech killings from happening, he would have. I can't see any way around it. by C. S. Lewis). But I can't do it. For me, no amount of theological ma.s.saging can resolve the central issue--if G.o.d could have stopped the Virginia Tech killings from happening, he would have. I can't see any way around it.

At Liberty, where almost everyone believes in an omnipotent, omniscient, omnibenevolent G.o.d, there seems to be two kinds of responses to tragedy.

The first kind is the blind prayer for healing--people simply saying, "G.o.d, I don't know why you would let something like this happen, but I pray that you'll help the people who are hurting." Most of the prayers I've heard today have been of this ilk. And even though I'm having a lot of trouble believing in a G.o.d who could allow this, I can see why it's comforting to think that someone is looking out for the victims and their families.

The second kind is the one I don't understand at all. This is the kind of prayer that says, "G.o.d, you let Virginia Tech happen, and I know exactly why you did." These prayers a.s.sume that G.o.d has an ultimate plan in mind, and that any event--even a horrifically tragic one--should be considered either a judgment of G.o.d or a strategic move on his part. Halfway through today's prayer vigil, the proceedings take a turn in this direction.

It starts when one of the campus pastors concocts a prayer that makes me wince: "Lord, we know that you use catastrophes like this to bring people to you. What happened at Virginia Tech today was awful, but I pray that you'll use this situation to make people see their need of a savior. I pray that you would send believers to Virginia Tech, to spread the gospel to people who are grieving right now."

"We talk about the separation of church and state a lot," says another campus pastor. "But as soon as something like Virginia Tech happens? Even liberal Democrats liberal Democrats are saying 'We're praying for the families.' " are saying 'We're praying for the families.' "

"Let's keep things in perspective," says a skinny guy with a bowl cut in the corner of the room. "This was only thirty-three people. Millions of murders happen in the United States every year through legal abortions."

"Yes," says the pastor. "Can't forget that."

I sat in the prayer vigil fuming. This sort of opportunistic partisanship is the same thing that happened after 9/11, when Dr. Falwell used the opportunity to claim that the Twin Towers had been hit because G.o.d was judging America for its sins. It's the same thing that happened when the Rev. Pat Robertson stated that Hurricane Katrina was a blessing insofar as it distracted the American public from the impending Supreme Court nomination of John Roberts, saying that "out of this tragedy, the focus of America is going to be on these victims" and that opposition from Democratic senators during Roberts's confirmation hearings was "just not going to play well now."

The twin responses to today's tragedy point to one of the central issues I've been struggling with all semester. At Liberty, I've met hundreds of people whose lives have been made better and more virtuous by their faith. But I've also seen a process whereby some reasonable, humble believers are taught to put their religious goals above everything else. This is how you get gentle Christian kids condemning strangers to h.e.l.l in Daytona Beach, and it's how you end up with a group of Liberty students sitting around a prayer room talking about the ideological crops that can be reaped from a national tragedy.

This dark side of Liberty reminds me of a pa.s.sage from one of my favorite Nathaniel Hawthorne novels, The Blithedale Romance The Blithedale Romance. At one point, Hawthorne's narrator reflects on the inhabitants of Blithedale, an experimental utopian community whose goals were ultimately derailed by quarreling and infighting among the leaders. Hawthorne writes of their flawed ideology: [It] grows incorporate with all that they think and feel, and finally converts them into little else save that one principle. . . . And the higher and purer the original object and the more unselfishly it may have been taken up, the slighter is the probability that they can be led to recognize the process by which G.o.dlike benevolence has been debased into all-devouring egotism. [It] grows incorporate with all that they think and feel, and finally converts them into little else save that one principle. . . . And the higher and purer the original object and the more unselfishly it may have been taken up, the slighter is the probability that they can be led to recognize the process by which G.o.dlike benevolence has been debased into all-devouring egotism.

Twenty-four hours later, I'm still depressed and anxious. All the major news networks are still in wall-to-wall Virginia Tech coverage, and people on campus are still worrying, praying, and crying about the tragedy there. I haven't heard any more of the "school shootings are a blessing from G.o.d" rhetoric, but I haven't really been looking for it, either. I've been busy calling my mom in various stages of agitation, biting my nails to the stubs, and going on nervous eating binges.

Oh, and I've been fighting with my roommate. That's another reason my mood is unusually dark this week. Henry, my twenty-nine-year-old crank of a roommate, has decided very recently that he hates me.

I still barely know Henry. Three months as his roommate, and I don't know whether he has siblings, or what his favorite ice cream flavor is, or why he came to Liberty in his late twenties. He's never volunteered the information, and I've never felt comfortable enough around him to ask.

The one thing I have known for some time is that Henry is obsessively h.o.m.ophobic, an extreme case even by Liberty standards. First, you'll remember, there was his conversation with Eric, during which he spoke in favor of beating gays with a baseball bat. Then, there was Fight Night, when he decided that most of the guys on our hall are gay. Now, I think he's added me to his list of closeted h.o.m.os.e.xuals.

Mind you, Henry doesn't think I'm gay for the reasons people have always thought I was gay. It's not the fact that I used to sing in an a cappella group that tipped him off, or the fact that I have a subscription to Details Details. It's not even the fact that just a week ago, my friend David-- a real, live h.o.m.os.e.xual--was sleeping in our room at my invitation. (Not that I told Henry about David's s.e.xual orientation, but you'd think a guy with a h.o.m.ophobic streak like that would have a halfway decent gaydar.) In the end, what made Henry suspect I was gay was that I defended my Evangelism 101 professor, Pastor Andy Hillman.

Henry has always harbored a secret suspicion that Pastor Andy is gay on account of his high-pitched speaking voice and penchant for semi-tight sweaters. But I like Pastor Andy. He's one of my favorite professors on campus--a bright, somewhat neurotic guy who seems genuinely kind and non-threatening. So last night, when Henry and I got back to the room from our Evangelism 101 section and Henry kept referring to Pastor Andy as "that queer," I felt I had to say something.

"Hey, man, go easy on him. He's a good guy."

Henry's lip curled. "You think Andy Hillman is a good guy?"

"Yeah," I said. "I think he has a good heart, and I don't think he's gay. In fact, I'm sure he's not gay."

"Why are you defending him?" Henry snapped. "You've seen him prancing around that cla.s.sroom. Come on, man. Put two and two together."

Henry sounded angry, so I didn't press my case, but I gave him what I considered to be sufficiently judgmental looks for the rest of the night. Then, this morning, as I was brushing my teeth in my boxers, I heard his voice boom down from his bunk bed.

"Put some clothes on, f.a.ggot."

I looked up to glare at him, but he had already rolled over onto his stomach. He didn't say anything to me for the rest of the morning, and he hasn't said anything to me since.

It's easy enough to write Henry off as a basket case. Between his inexplicable anger and his bizarre episodes of gay panic, he's obviously struggling with something much bigger than he's letting on, and I'm certainly not a.s.signing myself the job of psychotherapist. What's amazing, though, is that he's not being disciplined--even mildly reprimanded--for any of this. Guys on the hall know he's odd, and they talk about him in wary tones, but they're certainly not concerned enough to take any sort of action.

This semester, I've developed a numbness to h.o.m.ophobia. I don't like it, but it's unavoidable when you're in a climate like this, where h.o.m.os.e.xuality is talked about at near-Tourettic frequency. Every day, I've heard someone worrying about gay people, praying for gay people, talking about the scientific evidence against the alleged "gay gene." I've heard ten times as many conversations about h.o.m.os.e.xuality at Liberty than I ever heard any place where gay people existed in the open.

Kurt Vonnegut once wrote that there were two things about American culture a Martian anthropologist would never understand. Upon visiting the United States, his Martian's first comment was: "What is it, what can it possibly be about b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs and golf?"

I'm utterly convinced that the same Martian, invited to Liberty, would take one look around this campus and say, "What is it, what can it possibly be about two dudes kissing?"

Wednesday morning, I wake up to a buzzing campus. Today's convocation speaker is Sean Hannity, host of FOX News's Hannity and Colmes, Hannity and Colmes, longtime friend of Dr. Falwell's, and apparent hero of the Liberty student body. All morning, the parking lot behind the Vines Center is packed with photographers, autograph seekers, and a group of guys from a neighboring dorm who made a twenty-foot-long sign reading " longtime friend of Dr. Falwell's, and apparent hero of the Liberty student body. All morning, the parking lot behind the Vines Center is packed with photographers, autograph seekers, and a group of guys from a neighboring dorm who made a twenty-foot-long sign reading "YOU'RE A GREAT AMERICAN, SEAN!" which they plan to unfurl during his speech. Most of our guest speakers get polite applause, but when Hannity walks to the lectern, a rafter-shaking roar fills the arena. Students throw streamers and blast air horns, and the standing ovation lasts for nearly a minute.

"You know, there's a lot of pessimism about the youth in America," says Hannity. "It's pretty inspiring to come to Liberty University and see people putting G.o.d first in their lives."

It's hard to imagine a more receptive audience for this speech than the LU student body. After a few sincere remarks about the Virginia Tech tragedy, Hannity--who looks a lot more like Fred Flintstone than I remembered--cracks a few Ted Kennedy jokes, then veers into a lengthy a.s.sault on liberalism paired with a drooling paean to Ronald Reagan. It's not a particularly inspired speech, but with this crowd, Hannity could draw an encore by reciting his grocery list. When he mentions FOX News, everyone cheers. John Kerry, everyone boos. ("See why I love Liberty?" he says.) I've been thinking a lot about politics this week, both because of Sean Hannity's Harold Hill-esque campus visit and because right now, Liberty students are starting to talk about the candidates for next year's presidential election. It's not yet clear who the GOP nominee is going to be, but none of the front-runners seems to have a particularly large fan base on campus. I used to think this was because all three viable candidates at the moment--John McCain, Mitt Romney, and Rudy Giuliani--have thus far gotten tepid support from the evangelical community. But this week, I began to wonder whether I might be seeing symptoms of a more general political apathy at Liberty.

Let me explain. When I arrived here in January, I thought I was coming to America's most politically active university. I pictured ten thousand future White House staffers, right-wing think tankers, and budding conservative lobbyists. I a.s.sumed that "Champion for Christ" was coded language and that Dr. Falwell really wanted to train an army of Republican policy wonks. But that hasn't been my experience at all. Liberty students have political opinions, of course, and I'm sure most of them will vote for the Republican candidate no matter who gets the nod, but I've come to expect a certain detachment from my Liberty friends when it comes to the actual machinations of the political process.

I started to feel this way after I read a New Yorker New Yorker article several weeks ago about Patrick Henry College, a small evangelical school in Purcellville, Virginia, that was started as a training ground for conservative Christian political groups. According to author Hanna Rosin, Patrick Henry students spend a lot of their free time talking about arcane legislation, watching polls, and beefing up their political resumes. Liberty students, on the other hand, don't seem consistently interested in actual Beltway politics. If you press them, they can all tell you where they stand on the left/right spectrum (actually, it's more like the right/far-right spectrum), but issues outside the evangelical voting trinity of abortion, gay marriage, and school prayer rarely come up, and I can count on one hand the number of article several weeks ago about Patrick Henry College, a small evangelical school in Purcellville, Virginia, that was started as a training ground for conservative Christian political groups. According to author Hanna Rosin, Patrick Henry students spend a lot of their free time talking about arcane legislation, watching polls, and beefing up their political resumes. Liberty students, on the other hand, don't seem consistently interested in actual Beltway politics. If you press them, they can all tell you where they stand on the left/right spectrum (actually, it's more like the right/far-right spectrum), but issues outside the evangelical voting trinity of abortion, gay marriage, and school prayer rarely come up, and I can count on one hand the number of McLaughlin Group- McLaughlin Group-caliber political discussions I've heard this semester.

I had lunch the other day with Max Carter, Liberty's whip-smart incoming student body president and a guy with both feet firmly planted in the civic process. He agreed with me about the backseat nature of Liberty's politics.

"It's hard to get into a discussion of conservative policy here," he said. "Even with the professors, it's all about the same two or three social issues. Very few people can tell you anything about the arguments for limited government or the nuances of fiscal conservatism. There's political activism on campus, but it's all sort of shallow."

To the extent that Dr. Falwell seems to be training front-line conservatives, rather than simply reliable Republican ballot-punchers, his efforts seem to be focused on two groups: the debate team and the law students. Liberty's debate team consistently ranks among the top in the nation, has a six-figure budget and a full scholarship program, and was profiled in a 2006 New York Times Magazine New York Times Magazine feature called "Ministers of Debate." Dr. Falwell speaks fawningly of the debaters and openly hopes for many of them to become conservative politicians. The Liberty School of Law has only been in operation since 2004, but it's already becoming another central component of Dr. Falwell's political mission. At the law school's opening, he said that his intent was to "infiltrate the culture with men and women of G.o.d who are skilled in the legal profession." feature called "Ministers of Debate." Dr. Falwell speaks fawningly of the debaters and openly hopes for many of them to become conservative politicians. The Liberty School of Law has only been in operation since 2004, but it's already becoming another central component of Dr. Falwell's political mission. At the law school's opening, he said that his intent was to "infiltrate the culture with men and women of G.o.d who are skilled in the legal profession."

Liberty's law school is hardly huge, though--only about two hundred students--and the debate program is much smaller, which leaves thousands of Liberty students who aren't being explicitly trained as professional culture warriors. Maybe that shouldn't be surprising. After all, according to pollsters who have a handle on this stuff, today's young evangelicals are much less attached to the Moral Majority-style culture war than the evangelicals of their parents' generation. I read a book the other day called unChristian unChristian, written by the president of the Barna Group, an evangelical polling firm. According to the book, 47 percent of born-again Christians under age forty think "the political efforts of conservative Christians" are problematic for America. Add to that a recent Pew Research Center study that revealed that the percentage of white evangelicals between the ages of eighteen and twenty-nine who identify as Republican has decreased from 55 percent in 2001 to 40 percent in 2007, and evangelical college students aren't looking so monolithic these days.

So what about Liberty? Is Bible Boot Camp on the verge of becoming a haven for liberals? Somehow, I doubt it. Liberty students may be less involved in the political scene than in years past, but between the GNED curriculum, Dr. Falwell's political legacy, and the fact that the university is overseen by the Thomas Road Baptist Church, it's pretty likely that in ten years, your average Liberty student will still be staunchly conservative, even if his politics only revolve around a few issues.

My suspicion is bolstered at the end of today's convocation, when Dr. Falwell steps to the lectern. He announces that he has a piece of breaking news for us, something we'll all want to hear.

"I just got a text message," he says. "The ban on partial-birth abortions went before the Supreme Court today, and about ten minutes ago, according to my text message--and I hope it's true--the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the ban, 5-4."

Students in the rows around me look at each other in utter shock. Then, as if every seat in the arena had simultaneously caught fire, they rocket to their feet. The ovation lasts for one minute, then two, then three. People are high-fiving and cheering at the top of their lungs. The video cameras zoom in on Sean Hannity, who looks a little taken aback. I guess you don't see manic pro-lifers every day--not even at FOX News.

During Thursday's lunch, Marco plops his tray down on the table with a thud.

"Okay, guys. Deep theological discussion time."

Guys look at him quizzically. This is not the right place to have a deep theological discussion, nor the right crowd to be having it with. I'm sitting in the middle of the dining hall with Jersey Joey, Travis, and several other members of Dorm 22's rebel crowd, and for the past ten minutes, I've been listening to a l.u.s.t-filled conversation about Christine, a girl in the sister dorm who has apparently been blessed with a rather sizeable bosom (or, as Travis puts it, "huge chesticles").

Luckily, Marco is kidding. The deep theological discussion he wants to have, he says, is simple: "Hottest Disney princess . . . go!"

"Belle," says Ernest, a quirky music major from down the hall.

"Jasmine," says his friend Patrick.

"Belle, no doubt," Ernest repeats.

"Pocahontas," offers Travis.

"Little Mermaid," says Jonah.

"Dude, it's got to be Belle," says Ernest. "Did you see her in that yellow dress? Plus, she's a sweetheart. She didn't judge the Beast on his looks."

"Shut up, Ernest," says Travis. "She knew he was a king. That's why she hooked up with him!"

"Pocahontas is better looking anyway," says Marco. "Her b.u.t.t, dude? You could see the bulges in her b.u.t.t."