Most Hated U.: A visit to Bob Jones

National Review, July 17, 2000 by Jay Nordlinger

Greenville, S.C.

Funny, but they don't look like beastly. 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.'"