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“Well, I said that because we’re all sinners. And the rules are guardrails to keep you on the path of Christ. I can’t withhold anything from Andrew. That would defeat the whole purpose. Which is to live a life in Christ.”

Aw, hell. Gerald was absolutely, totally, without question incorruptible. Screw it.

We had our story. The place was weird, but the people extremely nice. A good honest day’s work done, lying to God-fearing people. We’d sleep well tonight. But we decided to poke around a little more since we had some time to kill. Off to the museum, where BJU houses the largest collection of sacred art in the Western Hemisphere.

And let me tell you, it’s a lot of sacred art: Botticelli, Granacci, Tintoretto, Dolci, Rembrandt, Ribera, Rubens, Van Dyck. Twenty-seven rooms full. A priceless collection. Donated by wealthy alums? Not quite. Most of it was purchased by Bob Jones, Jr., himself, the second of the three Bob Joneses.

You see, Dr. Bob II had spent some summers in the 1930s as a tour guide in Rome, Paris, and Vienna, and had acquired a taste for fine art. Luckily, when he returned to Europe in the late forties, he was able acquire quite a bit of it at very reasonable prices. Hmmm, I thought. What do you suppose would be the chances of a white supremacist who came to Europe in the thirties knowing someone who knew someone who had recently come across some “misplaced” art in the late 1940s? In fact, I thought I recognized a couple pieces that used to belong to my grandfather, who was a big collector of sacred Christian art before he was hauled off to Buchenwald. Nah. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions.

Still with some time to kill, we decided to hop on the three o’clock tour with a delightful Christian family of four. We had a lovely time, even had some laughs, until we got to the theater, where our bluff was finally called. On the stage were several gigantic crosses, scenery for what they call “The Living Gallery.” This involves recreating great works of sacred art using real people in tableaux. I was very excited about getting Andrew to take a picture of me hanging from one of the crosses. Then we met R.J. From the public liaison’s office.

“I’ll take them from here,” R.J. told our tour guide. We didn’t like the way he said that. Nor the way he said, “Let me tell you a little about the theater. The floor is from Rockefeller Center. But it’s no Saturday Night Live.”

The jig was up.

“Can I just ask what you’re down here looking for?” he inquired pointedly.

“Well, it’s a long story,” I said, willing, but not really eager, to go into the whole boating-accident-depression-salvation-boxes-of-blood thing again.

“Uh-huh. Look. We’ve had enough of being made fun of,” R.J. said with more than a touch of bitterness. Then turning to Andrew, he added, “I hope this isn’t awkward for you.”

“Oh no,” said Andrew cheerfully. “We’ve been getting this all day.” Actually, we hadn’t. But I thought it was a nice touch.

R.J. continued. “If you’re legit, I’d be happy to show you anything you want to see. But we’re not going to put our heads on the chopping block again.” I had to admire his directness and his willingness to call us on what should have been obvious to everyone all day. And yet he had the manners to leave open the remote possibility that we were, as he put it, “legit.” And even while being hostile, he was extremely nice about it.

Accompanied by R.J., we made a show of being interested in the alumni building, the least interesting building on campus, and then were walked to our car.

And as we bid farewell to old BJU, we realized that we had learned something, not just about Bob Jones University, but about ourselves. We’d come to Bob Jones expecting to encounter racist, intolerant homophobes. Instead, we found people who were welcoming, friendly, and extremely nice. A little weird, yes. And no doubt homophobic. But well-meaning. Kind of.

More important, we learned that while we were happy that we had successfully executed our ruse and relieved it had worked on Gerald, it was not