The next night, I go out in search of fun with my next-door neighbor Zipper. Finding enjoyable nighttime activities in Lynchburg isn't the easiest task, but I figure taking along the human equivalent of a sunny day can't hurt my chances.

Zipper is cheerier than usual today, mostly on account of his "media fast," a spiritual exercise he learned from a Christian devotional book. A media fast, he explains, is a sort of spiritual detox period during which you cut yourself off from all forms of secular entertainment and devote that time instead to Christian activities like prayer and Bible study. Zipper liked the idea of jump-starting his faith, so he decided to try it out. For the next three weeks, he's swearing off TV, secular music, video games, and time-draining websites like YouTube and Facebook. Instant messaging is allowed, he decided, but only for spiritual communication--sending prayer requests to his Christian friends back home, for example.

"It's an awesome exercise," he says. "It's really changing my life. I'm only on day four, but I already feel the world slipping away and the Lord coming into focus."

If you were a conservative evangelical parent, Zipper is exactly the son you'd want. He wants to be a youth pastor when he grows up, and his personal hero, "after Christ, of course," is his grandfather, who has read the Bible cover to cover more than fifty times in his life. He's proudly inexperienced with girls and has decided to save his first kiss until his wedding day. ("I just want to make sure it's the best kiss of my life!" he says.) For the first few weeks of school, Zipper's eternally upbeat personality was novel and refreshing. Whenever he'd come into my room to tell me about the great things G.o.d was doing in his life, I felt William James's "better moral air" washing over me. But now, after this week filled with debates and doubt, his unflinching piety seems a little unrealistic. I keep wondering: What's he hiding? Can any nineteen-year-old male really be this squeaky-clean?

Later in the drive, I decide to press him for signs of moral weakness.

"Here's a question for you," I say. "Do you ever get the itch to be at a secular school, where life would be a little less restricted?"

He looks at me sideways.

"You wouldn't have to drink or anything," I add.

Zipper does some calculations, cross-checking this new information with the rule book in his head. "Umm . . . let's see . . . secular school . . . not drinking . . ."

"You like to dance, right?" I interject.

"Yeah, I like to dance," he replies, still squinting in deep thought. "Well, depends on what type of dancing. I'm not a big fan of the humpin'-and-grindin' junk."

He opens his eyes and gives his verdict: "Yeah, I guess being at a less restricted school would be okay. I mean, in high school, I never really did a whole lot in the party realm. Me and my friends, we'd just find random hilarious stuff to do, and we'd go do it. We'd run through McDonald's wearing different costumes, stealing food from each other in the car, stuff like that."

"Yeah, but do you ever feel like Liberty is too legalistic?" I ask.

He thinks for a while, rubbing his index finger along his upper lip.

"I mean, I know Jesus was down on the Pharisees for legalism. But I don't really know about all that. I guess the best thing to do is go back to the Bible and see what it says. I think once you start going too deep, is this too legalistic, is it too this or too that, then you start getting distracted from the real message of Christ. That's what my pastor tells me."

Forget it. If Zipper has a wild side, it's buried beneath a hundred layers of austere Christian piety. And now, I feel like a jerk for digging.

After a little more driving, we find our entertainment: a mini-golf course that will be open for another twenty minutes. We've got time for nine holes if we play quickly, the manager says.

As we step out of the car, I say, "Zipper, you are a great man."

He puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Kevin Roose, I serve a great G.o.d."

Unlike every other time I've hung out with Zipper, this time I come away feeling slightly depressed. Hearing about his relationship with G.o.d reminds me that although we live in adjacent rooms, we're still miles apart in the belief department. I've never felt the kind of intense divine presence Zipper seems to feel every time he wakes up, and I'm not sure I ever will. In fact, my spiritual life hasn't budged in several weeks.

I think part of the problem is that, while I'm getting a lot of impromptu spiritual tutoring from my hallmates, I have no regular sources of wisdom, no adult mentors. It seems like every time I talk to Zipper, he tells me something his pastor said or something his youth group leader gave him to work on. His spiritual life has a support staff.

The next day, I decide to get some help. I ask James Powell, my hall's Spiritual Life Director, how I could get a regular mentoring session going with a pastor on campus.

"Prayer group not doing it for you?" he asks.

In truth, it's not. We mostly sit around and talk about our March Madness brackets and our love interests. I tell James I'm just looking for an adult mentor, someone who can give me answers with experience behind them.

"Yeah, I understand," he says. "You should e-mail Pastor Seth."

Liberty's Campus Pastors Office is a vast, multifaceted operation with a half-dozen ministers a.s.signed to various aspects of the school's spiritual life. Pastor Seth Holland is the discipleship coordinator, the guy who trains Liberty's SLDs and mentors students on the side. I e-mail him, asking if he would be willing to meet with me. He writes back a few hours later: "Kevin, I really enjoy talking with guys and discipling others." He agrees to mentor me and tells me to come by his office for a preliminary meeting. He signs his e-mail "Steadfast in His Service, Seth."

I go to Pastor Seth's office the next day for our appointment. He's a young guy, midtwenties, with short brown hair, a too-big black suit, and a cell phone clipped to his belt. He's also a big C. S. Lewis fan, judging from the Aslan posters adorning his walls and the Narnia figurines arranged in battle formation on his bookshelf, next to the stack of Dr. Falwell's books.

Pastor Seth sits down facing me.

"So tell me about yourself," he says.

"Well, my name is Kevin, and I . . ."

"Wait, I know," he says. "Have you ever heard of the naked method of getting to know someone? Like, getting naked?"

Hold the G.o.dd.a.m.ned phone. Did he say getting naked? Am I locked in?

"Ha!" he says, laughing and slapping his thigh. "Don't worry. It's an acronym. You ask a person in order: name, address, kin, experiences, dreams. The N.A.K.E.D. method. I use it all the time."

The color returns to my face, and I remove my fingernails from my knee. Wow. What an awful name for an icebreaker. No, that's not even an icebreaker. That's an ice maker.

After we go through the N.A.K.E.D. method, Pastor Seth asks me a few more questions about myself, then shows me a goal sheet he made before today's meeting.

Purpose: * To a.s.sist and give guidance to Kevin in his personal walk with the Lord, his understanding of G.o.d's Word, and to hold him accountable in any ways he asks. * To work with Kevin on developing a committed, serious prayer life. * To work with Kevin on developing a committed, serious prayer life.* To help Kevin understand what it means to be an authentic man of G.o.d.

As Seth talks to me about his intentions to help me with my spiritual life, I start to warm up to him. "I want you to know that I am an open book," he says. "I may not have all the answers, but G.o.d has given me a lot of experience helping people, so as we talk through things, feel free to ask me anything. No question is too small or too big for us to work through."

Before I leave, Pastor Seth gives me a Bible a.s.signment. Before the next time we meet, he wants me to read the books of James, Ephesians, and Galatians and take notes on anything that jumps out at me as particularly wise or challenging. "And don't skim," he says. "I'll know if you skimmed."

I'm actually sort of excited about being Pastor Seth's disciple. Despite the fact that I'm not quite an "authentic man of G.o.d," as he puts it, I really enjoy talking about theology and belief, and I'm really trying to wring some spiritual truth out of this semester. If anyone is qualified to answer my questions, it's a pastor on Liberty's payroll. So I pledge to use my sessions with Pastor Seth wisely. I'm going to do all my a.s.signments, and I'm going to use him as a sounding board for all of my spiritual struggles.

"I barely know Kevin, G.o.d, but I'm excited to get to know him," he prays. "I pray that you'll use me in his life to grow him to be more confident. I pray that you'll bless the next few months of our time together, that you'll have it be very fruitful to both of us, G.o.d."

Later that night, while Eric and I are working on our homework, Henry--our twenty-nine-year-old roommate--barges into the room with something to say.

"You know who I can't stand?"

Eric rolls his eyes. "Who, Henry?"

"Sharpton."

"Sharpton? You mean Al Sharpton?"

"Yeah, that guy. He has corrupted the name of the Lord. You can't be a Christian minister and preach the stuff he preaches. Alternative lifestyles, polygamy, h.o.m.os.e.xuality, and all that. Sharpton supports that kind of junk. He's a charlatan."

"Oooo-kay," says Eric. "Gotcha."

In the past few weeks, my domestic situation has gotten a little dicey. After his bizarre rant about h.o.m.os.e.xuality, Henry's angry streak has only gotten more intense. Every few nights, he pops out from behind his desk to make a new comment about the sociopolitical ill occupying his mind. I'd compare him to an amateur Rush Limbaugh, but I think even the dittoheads would blanch at the things that come out of Henry's mouth. So far this week, he has sounded off on Paris Hilton ("She's a wh.o.r.e, and I can say that because it's a word in the Bible"), girls with short hair ("If my wife ever cuts her hair, I'm going to teach her about female submission to her husband"), and Andy Hillman, our Evan gelism 101 professor ("that guy is a f.a.ggot").

Eric, for one, is getting sick of it. He agrees with Henry that h.o.m.os.e.xuality is sinful, of course, but he seems just as put off by his pathological rage as I am. In one of his GNED essays, Eric used Henry's aggressive h.o.m.ophobia as an example of poor Christian behavior, comparing it with a secular person who has a phobia of Liberty students without ever having met them.

Partly to avoid the growing enmity between Eric and Henry, I've been spending a lot of time outside the room, wandering Dorm 22 in search of late-night theological discussions.

They aren't hard to find. You'd think that after a full day of sermons, Bible lessons, and prayer groups, the guys on my hall would be sick of talking about religion, but most nights after curfew, you can find dozens of conversations about every theological issue under the sun. In the past few nights, I've heard guys hashing out theories of salvation, discussing the book of Revelation, and debating the biblical stances on everything from alcohol use to capital punishment. Once in a while, I'll hear someone talking about the ACLU or abortion, but that's about as partisan as it gets. Other than my roommate Henry, no one in Dorm 22 is having any truly crazy discussions.

In the wake of the Rational Response Squad debate, and the near-universal acceptance of the fact that Dr. Caner got beat pretty badly by the professional atheists, I wondered whether there would be ma.s.s spiritual panic among my friends. But that hasn't happened. Church attendance is still high. Guys are still praying and reading the Bible as often as they always have. The day after the debate, the SLD James Powell taped an index card to his wall with a quote from a Christian author named Elisabeth Elliot: "Don't dig up in doubt what you planted in faith." But even Powell told me the other day that his relationship with G.o.d is "really, really strong right now."

The reason Dr. Caner's flameout didn't make a bigger dent in this school's spiritual life, I think, is that Liberty students have much more pressing things to do than contemplate the existence of G.o.d. There are papers to write, grad school applications to complete, girls to ask out. Even if you were convinced by the Rational Response Squad, entertaining a crisis of faith would mean reevaluating every aspect of your life, from the friends you hang out with to the cla.s.ses you take to, really, whether you should be at Liberty at all. In a faith system as rigorous and all-encompa.s.sing as this, severe doubt is paralyzing. Better just to keep believing, keep living life, and take up the big questions later, when not so much is at stake.

Tonight, I spend some time in Brad Miller's room. Brad, the guy who seemed most worried after the Rational Response Squad debate, has been too busy planning his wedding to become an atheist. He and his fiancee Lydia are getting married in July, six weeks after school lets out. Brad and Lydia are the archetypal twenty-first-century evangelical couple--he with his hipster-next-door vibe, she with her flowing blond locks and impossibly peppy mien. Their engagement photos, thumbtacked all around Brad's room, show the lovers cavorting on the beach, hair blowing in the wind, both chiseled faces looking reverential and pure, the whole thing looking very much like the photos that come inside new picture frames.

With the wedding coming up so soon, a lot of the late-night talks in Brad's room have centered on topics like love, family, and parenthood. Tonight, Brad, his roommate James, and Jake, one of the hall's Spiritual Life Directors, have spent nearly an hour talking about something called the Quiverfull movement.

The Quiverfull movement, I learn, is a small, highly controversial subgroup of evangelical Christianity whose members attempt to have as many children as is biologically possible. Quiverfull couples (the movement takes its name from a Bible verse that praises a man "whose quiver is full" of children) swear off all forms of contraception-- including sterilization and the rhythm method--and attempt to produce as many offspring as they can, as fast as they can. The logic goes like this: a Christian couple wouldn't turn down perfect health or ma.s.sive amounts of money, so why would they turn down children, the biggest blessing of all? Some Quiverfull couples top out naturally at two or three kids, but more often, the number climbs to twelve, thirteen, fourteen, or higher before menopause hits.

Brad, James, and Jake are all tentatively committed to having Quiverfull families. Brad is being forced to make a decision soon, as his wedding is less than four months away. If he decides to go the Quiverfull route, by my calculation, Lydia will likely be in her third trimester this time next year.

"So wait," I say. "You guys all want to have as many kids as possible?"

"Yeah," says James. "Why wouldn't you, Roose? G.o.d commands us to be fruitful and multiply."

"I can't wait to have a whole bunch of kids," adds Jake.

"But what about money?" I ask. "What if you have more kids than you can afford?"

"Then your priorities are wrong," says Brad.

"Yeah," says Jake. "Plus, G.o.d knows how much money I've got. If he knows that one more kid will bankrupt me, he'll close my wife's womb until my financial situation improves."

"Totally," says Brad. "G.o.d is the only contraception that works a hundred percent of the time."

Okay, okay, I take it back. Some Some people are having crazy discussions. people are having crazy discussions.

Well, it's almost the halfway point of my semester--two days until Spring Break--and I feel great. In nearly two months of booze-free Christian living and twice-a-week jogging, I've lost fifteen pounds without trying, and I forget what a hangover feels like. Every morning, I jump out of bed and greet myself in the mirror, like a character from a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. All college students should do a semester at Liberty for the health benefits alone.

Also, maybe it's the exercise endorphins at work, but my mood has improved tenfold from this time last week. This morning, I tried to come up with possible explanations for my mental turnaround, and I thought of a bunch: * First, I'm busy. Frighteningly busy. These days, I'm taking six cla.s.ses, singing in the Thomas Road church choir, playing on an intramural softball team with my hallmates (team name: the Billy Goats), running around to every extracurricular meeting I can find, and trying to spend a few hours a day taking notes. It's exhausting, but I've always been happier when I'm constantly on the move. It's my natural pace. No time to mope. * First, I'm busy. Frighteningly busy. These days, I'm taking six cla.s.ses, singing in the Thomas Road church choir, playing on an intramural softball team with my hallmates (team name: the Billy Goats), running around to every extracurricular meeting I can find, and trying to spend a few hours a day taking notes. It's exhausting, but I've always been happier when I'm constantly on the move. It's my natural pace. No time to mope. * Second, I've been spending a lot of time with Jersey Joey and his band of Christian rebels. It's not exactly spiritual time--lots of video games, lots of raunchy s.e.x talk--but getting to know those guys has freed me up to be more honest at Liberty, since I know that I can be different and still be accepted. Now, inspired by Joey and Co., I joke around with the guys on my hall, and I tell them stories from my time at Brown. I even told Joey the other night that I had once dated a Jewish girl. (His response: "Rooster, let's be realistic here. We both know you only date dudes.") * Second, I've been spending a lot of time with Jersey Joey and his band of Christian rebels. It's not exactly spiritual time--lots of video games, lots of raunchy s.e.x talk--but getting to know those guys has freed me up to be more honest at Liberty, since I know that I can be different and still be accepted. Now, inspired by Joey and Co., I joke around with the guys on my hall, and I tell them stories from my time at Brown. I even told Joey the other night that I had once dated a Jewish girl. (His response: "Rooster, let's be realistic here. We both know you only date dudes.") * Finally, I'm starting to appreciate the rigid behavioral structure of Bible Boot Camp. This week, I've been reading a devotional book called * Finally, I'm starting to appreciate the rigid behavioral structure of Bible Boot Camp. This week, I've been reading a devotional book called Every Young Man, G.o.d's Man Every Young Man, G.o.d's Man. The book devotes a fair chunk of text to devil avoidance. The author says that Satan can cause you to sin by tempting you to give up your moral self-control, a process he calls "yielding." He lists several examples: "Chris keeps copies of Maxim in his apartment bathroom. "Chris keeps copies of Maxim in his apartment bathroom. Yielding Yielding." "Tim says that oral s.e.x with his girlfriend is, technically, not having s.e.x. "Tim says that oral s.e.x with his girlfriend is, technically, not having s.e.x. Yielding Yielding." "Sean totally plagiarized major sections of his sociology paper so that his sociology teacher would give him an A. "Sean totally plagiarized major sections of his sociology paper so that his sociology teacher would give him an A. Yielding Yielding."

I'm a long way from believing in a personal Satan who goes around tempting innocent Christian kids, but I am starting to understand how when your life is a constant battle against "yielding" and "falling," the resulting feelings of restraint can be triumphant.

Think about it this way: one day as a Liberty student is filled with a hundred chances to sin, and at the end of that day, if you've kept all hundred at bay, you lay your head on the pillow feeling like you've just reached the end of a moral marathon. You think: I could have skipped church today, but I didn't. I could have looked at the girl in the short skirt, but I averted my eyes. I could have skipped church today, but I didn't. I could have looked at the girl in the short skirt, but I averted my eyes. It's what Plato called "suppressing the appet.i.tes." It's what Plato called "suppressing the appet.i.tes."

The other day, I read some research by a sociologist named Margarita Mooney. Mooney studied both religious and non-religious college students and demonstrated that students who attended religious services weekly or more were both happier and more successful in school than their non-religious counterparts. As she put it, "religious observance increases students' satisfaction with academic life, social life, and the college experience in general." And while I'm not sure that the strictness of Liberty's rules has a direct correlation to happiness, there does seem to be an overall personality trend at this school. Liberty students seem less cynical than the secular students I've known. They seem more optimistic, more emotionally fulfilled. And after two months of living with them, sharing in their moral victories, I think that optimism and fulfillment may be rubbing off on me.

I still don't feel like I fit in here, for reasons too numerous and obvious to list. But, against all odds, I'm starting to have a good time. I suppose I'm just going through the same process as anyone touching down in a foreign land would--acclimating, coping, making lemonade out of lemons. This might not be true happiness I'm feeling. But for now, it's enough.

The Workers Are Few

Scott shouts to be heard over the crowd.

"FATHER G.o.d, standing here, we know how you must have felt watching SODOM AND GOMORRAH SODOM AND GOMORRAH. We know how your APOSTLE PAUL APOSTLE PAUL must have felt watching the must have felt watching the DEPRAVITY AT CORINTH DEPRAVITY AT CORINTH. Heavenly father, help us drive SATAN FROM THIS PLACE SATAN FROM THIS PLACE!"

We unbow our heads and our mouths hang open as the twin sights of Spring Break: Daytona Beach come into view.

On the right, it's a sea of leather. This is the tail end of Daytona Bike Week, and over the last six days, half a million motorcycle enthusiasts have made the pilgrimage to these beaches, bringing with them an insatiable thirst for domestic beer and a staggering quant.i.ty of Hulk Hogan mustaches. Their T-shirts say things like, "You can ride my bike if I can ride your b.i.t.c.h!" and "Welcome to America. Now speak English or get out!"

On the left, a more traditional spring break scene unfolds. Hundreds of rowdy coeds are packed into Froggy's Saloon, where a waifish, nubile blonde gyrates seductively on top of the bar, her belly b.u.t.ton ring shimmering like a ba.s.s jig in the sun. Motley Crue's "Girls, Girls, Girls" plays to wild cheers as the blonde fishes bills out of the empty beer pitcher marked "Tips for t.i.ts."

When the blonde--who is maybe maybe eighteen--removes her tube top to reveal a pair of star-shaped nipple shields, Brandon, a short, demure Liberty soph.o.m.ore from New Hampshire, holds his beach towel over his eyes. On his wrist sits a white "LivePure" bracelet. Scott, our group leader, rubs Brandon's back. "Satan is strong here," he says. "But remember: every person is a person for whom Christ died, whether they're wearing a lot of clothes or no clothes at all." eighteen--removes her tube top to reveal a pair of star-shaped nipple shields, Brandon, a short, demure Liberty soph.o.m.ore from New Hampshire, holds his beach towel over his eyes. On his wrist sits a white "LivePure" bracelet. Scott, our group leader, rubs Brandon's back. "Satan is strong here," he says. "But remember: every person is a person for whom Christ died, whether they're wearing a lot of clothes or no clothes at all."

I guess I should explain myself. Back in February, on a lark, I attended the Mission Fair, a large meeting for Liberty students interested in going on evangelism trips around the world. Missionary evangelism, the act of proselytizing in non-Christian communities, is an integral part of the Liberty experience. Some Liberty students will become full-time missionaries after graduation, but many more will dabble in missions, going on one or two short-term trips during their four years of college. This year, teams from Liberty are slated to go to Haiti, China, and Indonesia, among others.

During the Mission Fair, I heard a pitch for Daytona Beach, the only domestic mission trip Liberty offers. I was confused. Evangelizing to secular spring breakers in Florida struck me as an enormous waste of time. Why not go somewhere where Jesus would be an easier sell? Like Islamabad? Or a Christopher Hitchens dinner party?

I understood better when the Liberty mission coordinator explained that Daytona's baccha.n.a.lian atmosphere is part of the allure--it's what's called "battleground evangelism."

"If you want to go to Florida," he said, "be warned: This is going to be 24/7 spiritual warfare. We're talking about Satan's home turf here."

As he spoke, I felt that familiar intrigue, the one that brought me to Liberty in the first place. I knew I had to go. After all, one of the things I haven't seen yet is Liberty students outside their insular safe s.p.a.ce, in real-world settings where they have to interact with people like, well, me. Or at least the old me. So a short application, two weeks, and a $600 trip fee later, I was in a white Ford panel van, making my way down I-95 with fourteen Liberty students and two group leaders.

Scott, a sprightly fifty-eight-year-old with a high-pitched Carolina tw.a.n.g and a full head of silver hair, is by all appearances the LeBron James of evangelism. Twenty minutes after our van pulled out of campus, he stopped at a gas station to fuel up and spent five minutes telling the cashiers about Jesus with amphetaminic enthusiasm. Later in the ride, he proselytized two waitresses, a parking lot attendant, and a Georgia tollbooth worker.

On the twelve-hour van ride to Daytona, I had a chance to meet the other members of the team. There's James, a Baltimorean with a soul patch; Aaron, a quiet black guy who speaks in a low rumble; Valentina, an Italian girl from New York City with lips on loan from Angelina Jolie; and a gaggle of vaguely attractive all-American girls, none of whose names I remembered five minutes after our introduction.

After our first traumatic stroll on the beach, we climb back into our white panel van (which Scott has dubbed "the Jesusmobile") and head to the First Baptist Church of Daytona Beach, our Daytona headquarters. By special dispensation of the FBCDB staff, we'll be eating meals and sleeping on air mattresses in the church's Sunday school wing for the next eight days.

Scott and his wife Martina, a friendly Jamie Lee Curtis-looking woman who came along as the trip's coleader, guide us through an all-morning training session on the whys and hows of evangelism. We sit on folding chairs in the Sunday school room and eat snack-size bags of pretzels while Scott recites the "Great Commission," the verse that serves as the theological frame for all missionary work. It's found in Matthew 28:19, when Jesus says to his disciples, "Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

"The first thing you should think when you meet anyone," Scott says, "is 'Are they saved?' " It's safe to a.s.sume that almost everyone coming to Daytona for spring break is unsaved, he says, adding, "It's a very dark place out there."

Before we take our evangelical Delta Force to the beach, though, we need to learn how to witness.

First, a few words on lingo. There are several words for what exactly will be transpiring here. "Spreading the gospel," "sharing the faith," and "evangelizing" are all common terms for the act of attempting to convert nonbelievers, but "witnessing" seems to be the most all-purpose. From what I understand, you can "be a witness," you can "witness to" someone, or you can "witness" generally, like on a street corner. "Fishing," a more insidery term, refers to Jesus' claim that he would make his disciples "fishers of men." (When we arrived at our host church, the pastor thanked us for coming to fish in his pond.) I should also say that what we're doing would strike many Christians as odd. Proselytizing to strangers, which one Christian I know calls "cold turkey evangelism," is a dying art, and many evangelicals prefer less confrontational methods. There's friendship evangelism, which means spending time with a nonbeliever, establishing rapport for months or even years before you bring up the subject of G.o.d. There's lifestyle evangelism, in which you do Jesus-like good deeds in the hope that nonbelievers will be so impressed that they'll begin to link moral goodness with Christianity. There are doubtless others, but on this trip, we'll only be using the cold turkey method. All strangers, all confrontation, all day.

The best witnessing tactic, Scott says, is beginning conversations subtly, so strangers don't grasp your intent immediately. He suggests opening with "Hi, I'm taking opinions today. Would you be willing to help me out?" Then, he suggests following up with a weed-out question, like "Who's the greatest person you know?" or "What's the greatest thing that has ever happened to you?"

Unless the person answers "Jesus Christ" or "Getting saved," Scott says, you can be fairly sure you're talking to a non-evangelical. Then, you transition to a more direct question: "Do you ever think about spiritual things, like heaven and h.e.l.l?" "Do you ever think about spiritual things, like heaven and h.e.l.l?""What do you think happens to us when we die?""Would you consider yourself a good person?"

This last one--"Would you consider yourself a good person?"--is the first step in the Way of the Master evangelism program, Scott's favorite technique. The Way of the Master, which was formulated by a New Zealand pastor named Ray Comfort and marketed by Growing Pains Growing Pains actor and evangelical pitchman Kirk Cameron, is based on a four-question sequence designed to demonstrate systematically to a nonbeliever that he or she is not, in fact, a good person--that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of G.o.d. actor and evangelical pitchman Kirk Cameron, is based on a four-question sequence designed to demonstrate systematically to a nonbeliever that he or she is not, in fact, a good person--that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of G.o.d.

The four questions, Scott says, can be remembered with the mnemonic WDJD. ("What Did Did Jesus Do?") Jesus Do?") W--"Would you consider yourself to be a good person?" W--"Would you consider yourself to be a good person?"

Usually, Scott says, a nonbeliever will say "yes" or "generally," at which point you move on to: D--"Do you think you've kept the Ten Commandments?"

Again, a nonbeliever will typically say "for the most part" or "usually." If so, Scott says, we should lead the nonbeliever through some of the commandments. ("Have you ever disobeyed your parents? Taken the Lord's name in vain? Stolen?") Any honest person will agree that he or she has broken some or all. "The commandments act as a mirror for our sins," he says.

J (Judgment)--"If G.o.d judged you by the Ten Commandments, would you be innocent or guilty?" J (Judgment)--"If G.o.d judged you by the Ten Commandments, would you be innocent or guilty?"