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May 22, 2002, 8:45 a.m. Most Hated U. A visit to Bob Jones. By Jay Nordlinger, from the July 17, 2000, issue of National Review

Greenville, S.C.

unny, but they don't look like beasts. They don't have horns and tails. Neither are they wearing white sheets. On the contrary, these students at Bob Jones University seem astoundingly kind, sensitive, bright, and sincere. They attend what must be the most hated university in the country. Their school has become a symbol of much that is repugnant in American life. And they have had no real chance to defend themselves in the long, trying months since "February."

That's what they call it: "February." All over campus, this word is shorthand for the controversy that occurred at the time of the South Carolina primary. Having lost to John McCain in New Hampshire, George W. Bush arrived in this state needing a victory. He hightailed it to Bob Jones, obviously trying to appeal to bedrock conservatives. It seemed nothing out of the ordinary: The school had long been a stop on the Republican trail. Ronald Reagan had been here; the first George Bush had been here; Bob Dole had been here. But when George W. Bush addressed these students — giving his usual, milquetoast speech — a storm broke out. Its reverberations are being felt still.

The school was held to be a) racist and b) anti-Catholic. Bush, unlike the pols who had preceded him, was tainted. McCain and the national press played the governor's visit for all it was worth. Bush won the South Carolina primary, but stumbled again in Michigan. McCain's camp placed calls to Catholic households — these were the notorious "Catholic Voter Alerts" — warning that Bush was in league with the worst element. Liberal journalists who had never before had a friendly word to say about religion suddenly had an opportunity to pose as Defenders of the Faith. Sen. Bob Torricelli, Democrat of New Jersey, introduced a resolution condemning the university. Bush went on to secure the nomination, but Democrats — gleeful — vowed to hang Bob Jones around the candidate's neck all the way to November.

These same Democrats have labeled Bush's recent travels the "Bob Jones Redemption Tour." The Democratic National Committee even had T-shirts printed up to this effect. The committee has advised candidates around the country to "play the Bob Jones card" against the GOP this fall. So damaging is Bush's Bob Jones appearance thought to be, many believe that he must name a Catholic running mate, as though in repentance. (Of course, they also think that such a move would be wise politics even if "February" had never taken place.) BJU — a Christian-fundamentalist institution founded in 1927 — is now not only the most despised school in America; it is also one of the best known.

All of this leaves people on campus shaking their heads in amazement. "It's crazy," says the school's president, Bob Jones III. "Just crazy." Students report that, before the controversy, some of their friends thought BJU was a golf school — as in Bobby Jones. Still others thought of Kool-Aid — as in Jim Jones, who led a mass suicide in the 1970s. Says one sophomore, Adam Lee, "The coverage has been unreal. I mean, why are we so important? Of course, we believe we are very special, but this is kind of ridiculous." People here agree that the controversy has strengthened them: renewed their commitment to their faith, their campus, and one another. A senior, Eva Motter, points out that Christians are enjoined to "rejoice in adversity" and to "confound the wise." She and others view "February" as God's way, however unexpected, of lifting the university up.

Naturally, not everyone here is totally at ease with the school's widespread notoriety. When fundamentalists brush up against the larger world, they tend to get burned. Members of this community are distrustful of journalists, who make little effort to understand them or their doctrine. They are happy to stand apart from the world — it is a matter of honor, and Biblical injunction — but they would also like to be understood, listened to, rather than dismissed as bigots, boobs, and worse. A university spokesman, Jonathan Pait, notes that most outsiders assume "we're a bunch of kooks in high-water pants — polyester, of course." Complains Eva Motter: "People don't bother to find out who we are. Our accusers haven't been here. They're influenced by the media, and they take what the media says at face value."

BLACK AND WHITE
The indictment against Bob Jones contains the two aforementioned counts: racism and anti-Catholicism. The charge of racism stems mainly from the school's most infamous rule — a ban on interracial dating. In fact, this is the issue over which Bob Jones lost its tax exemption in 1983. The policy was rescinded in March of this year, following the Bush-McCain fiasco. (Said McCain, speaking rhetorically to the campus, "Thank goodness: Now you're into the 18th century. Try the 21st century.")

One of the problems with the rule, BJU-ers plead, is that it was next to impossible to explain to outsiders. However you sliced it, it looked baldly and obnoxiously racist. The ban, they say, had nothing to do with true racism — the belief that some races are inferior to others. Rather, it related to doctrinal notions involving one-world government, the Antichrist, and ecumenism generally. To an ear not attuned to fundamentalism, it has something to do with the U.N. In any case, says President Jones, "the policy was never talked about, never preached about, never taught about — was no big deal. But to the media, it was everything. They made it the defining fact about BJU. And it's just not us. We are not racists. And I was tired of seeing them do that to us. Our mission here — our God-called mission — is so much greater, so much more important. So I said, 'If this thing is standing between us and that mission, let's leave it aside, so we can get on with life.'"

The student body, unsurprisingly, is largely white, although not without some color — a stroll through the dining hall is proof enough of that. Kids come here from all 50 states and over 40 different countries. Ask about racial numbers, though, and school officials bristle. They argue a case that, years ago, would have been regarded as nobly liberal. "We don't concern ourselves with racial statistics," says Jonathan Pait, "because we treat our students as individuals, as sons and daughters of God, as members of our family. We don't have any quotas here or anything like that. We're just people." He makes the point that it is other, secular schools that are obsessed with race — not Bob Jones. These other institutions think according to race, admit by race, organize by race. "And here it means nothing. Yet we're the ones who are supposed to be racist! It makes me mad."

The students, too, are stung by the image of racism. "That's what hurts the most," says David Schwingle, a senior. "You know you're not a racist, but people may assume you are." To be a BJU student is, in a sense, to be presumed guilty. Indeed, these kids bear a burden that is probably unique in all the land: They are required to defend their school, and to justify their presence at it. Adam Lee had a particularly troubling experience. "I was undergoing some medical treatment, and was taking some stress tests. In the middle of them, the doctor asked me where I was from, where I went to school — the normal questions. And when I told him, he blew up at me. He totally ignored the tests." Talk about stress.

Another senior, Catherine McQuaid, emphasizes that about 40 percent of the students here do volunteer work in Greenville — out among the poorest, who are predominantly black and Hispanic. She says, not a little peeved, "I grew up in Chicago, and my best friends were black or other minorities. I have had two minority roommates since I came here. It's just not something we think about. I work with black kids, help them with their homework before their parents get home so they don't have to be latchkey kids. Really, I don't think I've ever run into someone here at Bob Jones who's manifested any sort of racist attitude at all."

Some find it particularly painful that black high-school students — fundamentalist ones — may shrink from attending BJU because of what they hear about it. "So," says Adam Lee, "there's a joy in my heart when I see a black freshman on campus. I go out of my way to get to know him. In my church back home" — this is in Jamesburg, N.J. — "there are all kinds of people: from Africa, from the islands, and so on. I like that sort of environment."

All of us have been conditioned to scoff at defenses of the some-of-my-best-friends-are-black variety. But, when utterly earnest — even importunate — they have a certain power.

CHURCH VS. CHURCH
Then there is the matter of anti-Catholicism. When George W. Bush had piqued interest in the school, it was noticed that BJU had on its website some harshly anti-Catholic material. This was found in the (electronic) archives of a magazine called Faith for the Family, published at Bob Jones from 1973 to 1986. Articles from this periodical include language that shocks the modern sensibility. "Satanic," for example, is not the fare of everyday conversation in most places. But to contend that these writings are especially anti-Catholic is somewhat curious. They oppose (to put it mildly) any religion at all that differs from Bob Jones-style fundamentalism. They give hell — literally — to Mormons, Christian Scientists, Jehovah's Wit nesses, "liberal Protestants," and other Christian sects, to say nothing of Muslims, Hindus, and so on. One piece is entitled "Seventh-Day Adventism: Christian or Cult?" (In the world of BJU, this is not exactly a stumper.)

Yet, in the midst of all this equal-opportunity vituperating, it was the anti-Catholicism that hogged most of the attention. All of it, really. Exhibit A in the case against the university was "Romanism and the Charismatic Move ment" by Bob Jones Jr., late father of the current president (and son of the school's founder). The article's subhead? "Because they ignore the Word of God, both papists and charismatics are doing the work of the devil." Rough stuff. But John McCain did not issue "Charismatic Voter Alerts" in Michigan. And there is no clamor for Bush to anoint a charismatic running mate (though a little charisma never hurt a candidate).

As with the interracial-dating question, BJU-ers find it hard to explain to others that, despite their extraordinary language, they are not anti-Catholic or anti-anyone else. The problem, they say, is that society at large does not take religion seriously and is "theologically illiterate." Many here stress that they have better relations with serious Catholics — orthodox, true-believing ones — than they do with those who are merely social, or casual, Catholics. In other words, Bob Jones III would be more comfortable with a traditional priest or nun than with a Massachusetts political hand. People who are adamant about religion, one way or another, tend to understand one another, to know what is at stake. And they are also apt to be, like the BJU community, defiantly anti-ecumenical.

As Jonathan Pait puts it, "We don't seek dialogue, we don't seek common ground, we don't make concessions. We stand firm on what we believe. But we accept people where they are. And the Bible commands us to love." In modern America, says President Jones, you don't say the politically correct thing, or if you stand strong on what you believe — in our case, salvation by grace through faith in the shed blood of Jesus Christ; if you're not promoting the ecumenical agenda, where everybody's beliefs have to be on parity and equally right — this whole postmodern idea that two opposing views can both be right; if you don't do that, why, you're a bigot or you're intolerant. And that is nonsensical."

Kristel Pender, an education major from Kansas City, gets to the nub of it: "We're trying to serve the Lord here, as best we can. That doesn't mean we hate other people. Just the opposite." Adds Catherine McQuaid, "I come from a Catholic background. I was raised a Catholic, and my father is a Catholic. It was hard for him at first, but after years of contact with Bob Jones, he has come to trust the people here and know that they do not hate Catholics, that they have a love for all people, and that he can trust them with the education of his children."

Jeremy McMorris, a recent graduate from Mio, Mich., is forthright, in typical BJU fashion: "If what we say is true, then what Catholics say cannot be true; and if what they say is true, then what we say cannot be true. It's not that we hate them. It's just that, when you have 100 percent gusto about something, you are often required to say no and refuse to accept something else. The world may see that as hatred, and if we're coming across in a hateful manner, then shame on us and we need to change. But our message is one of love, and that was Christ's message."

'STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS'
This is a far, far cry from your standard American university: outwardly, inwardly. The people — young and old — are almost freakishly polite. They talk openly about God and their Savior, as others might talk about politics, sports, or sex. They say grace before meals. Their campus is dotted with Biblical quotations. They don't have to lock up their belongings. There is no litter, no graffiti, no blaring rock music (or any, for that matter), no cursing, no drinking, no smoking, no shouting. In other words, it is hell for most college students. But for these, it is very heaven. The rules and atmosphere, they insist, are liberating, enabling them to concentrate on what matters: becoming "soldiers for Christ."

BJU kids know full well that they are different; they have no illusions about what others think of them. They can't help wondering, though, why, in a country chock-full of differences — one that prides itself, increasingly, on differences — they are singled out for calumny. They pounce on the fact that Al Gore, also during the primary season, spoke at an Orthodox synagogue in New York. Only men and boys were allowed to hear him; women and girls stood outside. Yet no one tagged him with sexism. The vice president had merely met Americans where they were. No political rival and no journalist pretended that Gore had endorsed the views or practices of his audience.

One of the things that "February" has done is fire up school spirit. An embattled platoon is likely to be a feistier, gutsier one. A high moment occurred on March 3, when President Jones appeared on Larry King's CNN program to explain himself and his campus. People here have tremendous respect for King, and an almost pathetic gratitude to him, for what they see as his fairness. On the big night, the students watched on wide-screen TVs. There were cheers, tears, high-fives. Says Jeremy McMorris, "It was kind of like watching your team win the Super Bowl." David Schwingle allows that "I was so excited, I went out and bought a new [Bob Jones] T-shirt."

If BJU is a mystery to the rest of the world, the rest of the world is, to a degree, a mystery to BJU. Says Adam Lee, "Yes, we dress differently, we act differently. When people come here, they see people who are clean-cut, who have morals and standards, who stand up for something they believe in, who just want to help others and love and spread the Word of the Lord . . . and they balk. Why?" And yet the students don't spend too long fretting over general opinion. "We know that the world will frown on us," says Jeremy McMorris. "We expect that. The time to be worried is when the world smiles on us. We are supposed to be strangers and pilgrims," journeying toward a "strait gate."

No one here seems weary of the fight, or oppressed by societal ridicule, or tempted to draw back. Adam Lee puts it with a fervency rarely witnessed: "Christians are supposed to have a joy when they suffer for Christ. Christ suffered for us. I don't necessarily relish it, but it's just another way of saying, 'Lord, I love you, I want to serve you, I want to stand up for you.' In the early church, people were really persecuted. We face nothing by comparison. People were imprisoned, forced into catacombs, set on fire, fed to lions. They would die for their faith. They believed in something We believe in something. We know we're different from the world, sure — but because of Christ. Because of our love for him."

Damn strange kids, these. They appear, like the Biblical Nathanael, wholly without guile. They are unfazed by materialism. They can lift their gazes above their own groins. They think, evidently, on high things. Is there room for them in this allegedly diversity-mad country of ours? Can we spare them a tile in our "gorgeous mosaic"? Are they so leprous that they are unfit even to be spoken to by presidential candidates? The weird thing is this: For people who are supposed to be such haters, they are startlingly loving, gentle. And because they stand with their chins up against the majority's scorn, they are brave.

You could say — and hardly anyone would contradict you — that Bob Jones students are the uncoolest kids in America. But that, of course, would depend on what you mean by cool.