Hypernews and the life of faith

When a life-or-death crisis landed Paul Weyrich in the hospital, the conservative patriarch found himself plugged in medically, but unplugged from newspapers, talk radio and the Internet.

There was a television in his room, but he didn't watch in July. It didn't matter. The same mediastorm was raging when he left the hospital as when he went in. The buzz was all Chandra Levy, all the time. When the medical staff heard he was politically connected, people started asking him for gossip.

"Sex sells," admitted Weyrich, in a news commentary (www.FreeCongress.org). "But what does that say about us as a people that we would contribute to these ratings? Why do we get wrapped up in this on-going soap opera?" And what does it say about the state of cultural affairs that so many voters question whether they can judge Rep. Gary Condit?

That's life. That's our culture. Hurricane Chandra may have weakened, but it won't take much to revive it. Rest easy, consumers, it won't be long before another blast of what media scholar Quentin Schultze calls "hypernews" reaches our screens and rocks our souls.

"Viewers anticipate the plot. We take sides, cheer for our heroes and hope for the best. ... It is real-life drama in actual time," according to the Calvin College professor. "Hypernews is like a global extension of the human nervous system, putting our emotions on alert and immersing our minds in a chaotic blitz of anticipation. ...

"Hypernews is a technological triumph, but a spiritual roadblock."

Biblically speaking, time is crucial, he noted. There seems to be so little time to ponder what is happening in the world, let alone to pray about it. There 's no time to think about news events, but "only to feel them."

Get this -- Schultze wrote those words a decade ago, in reaction to the Persian Gulf War and the hearings to confirm Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. This was before OJ, Tonya Harding, Princess Diana's funeral, Monica and Columbine. This was before The Drudge Report, Salon.com and today's satellite news wars. This was long before the Comedy Channel became a news source for millions.

Hypernews is no longer a novelty. It's normal.

Way back in the early 1990s, Schultze was concerned that the manic pace of the news was producingfear and anxiety, as opposed to understanding and hope. He noted that the ancient Psalmist calledbelievers to, "Be still, and know that I am God." This command now seems like a message from another planet.

"All news conveys its own implicit worldview," said Schultze. "Hypernews tends to portray a worldout of control, and in purely human hands. ... If the world is a mere stage, with no eternal screenwriter, we are all in deep trouble."

These days, Schultze is pondering the spiritual implications of life in the treacherous territorybetween information and gossip, between news and entertainment. His next two books will focus on the interaction between Christian faith and mass media and the all-too-hazy concept of ethics in cyberspace, that online zoo in which anonymous anecdotes rule and urban legends keep getting resurrected.

"Whether its rumors or gossip or some off-the-wall opinion piece, it really doesn't seem to matter much. It's all news to somebody. At least, it looks like news. It's in print," he said. "In the digital world, information just explodes and takes on a life of its own. ... We live in an age in which totally unsubstantiated rumors can affect the stock market. Our leaders have to react to this stuff, whether its true or not."

Schultze doesn't think it's time to boycott the news. But gossip is a sin and cynicism is spiritual acid that corrupts hearts and minds. His advice is simple: read the Bible, as well as the newspaper. Delete more email. When faced with hypernews, ponder its impact on others, especially children. Turn off the television, hold hands and pray. Calm down.

The goal, he said, is to "pray for our world as concerned citizens rather than as frenzied viewers. ... Perhaps only the Good News can curb our appetite for hypernews."

God, man, hobbits & Tolkien

In the beginning was Eru, the One, who also was called Iluvatar.

"And he made first the ... Holy Ones, who were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made. And he spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad."

This "Great Music" went out "into the Void, and it was not void." But something went wrong. The greatest archangel, Melkor ("He who arises in Might"), became proud and rebelled. Great was his fall into evil and he became Morgoth ("Dark Enemy of the World"). His chief servant was Sauron, who created rings of power to rule the world and "One Ring to rule them all."

The rest is a long story. Like all myths, those who want to understand "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy must start at the beginning -- with the author's creation story in "The Silmarillion." J.R.R. Tolkien knew what he was doing in his tale of elves, dwarves, hobbits and men.

"The Lord of the Rings," he wrote to a friend in 1953, just before book one was published, is "a fundamentally religious and Catholic work; unconsciously so at first, but consciously in the revision." Yet Tolkien also told Father Robert Murray it was his desire to stay theologically orthodox that led him to avoid being too specific, despite the biblical parallels in the creation story.

"That is why I have not put in, or have cut out, practically all references to anything like 'religion,' to cults or practices, in the imaginary world. For the religious element is absorbed into the story and into the symbolism," wrote Tolkien.

The result is a stunningly ambitious myth, yet one that lacks the clear symbolism of an allegory or parable. Believers who share Tolkien's faith can follow the roots into Catholic imagery and tradition. Clearly the evil in Middle Earth is good that has been twisted and perverted. The humble are tempted, yet triumph through sacrificial love. One age passes away, before a glimpse of a world to come. There is much more.

Yet millions have read an epic tale of non-doctrinal good vs. undefined evil -- period. It all depends on one's point of view, especially when it comes time for other artists to re-create the myth with the help of a camera lens. When "The Lord of the Rings" begins reaching theaters in December, will the myth remain centered in its creator's faith?

"Tolkien could not create from nothing. Only God can do that. But he was able to sub-create an entire world using his imagination, his beliefs and his experiences in the world around him," said British writer Joseph Pearce, author of "Tolkien: Man and Myth."

"That is certainly what he set out to do with 'The Lord of the Rings.' ... But if you tear the myth away from Tolkien's worldview, then the story isn't going to make sense any more. It may, literally, become incoherent -- a neo-pagan fantasy."

This is especially true since Tolkien's work includes images and ideas drawn from legions of myths, legends and traditions. His goal was to create a myth that combined elements of others, Pearce said, "with the whole story illumined from within by a Trinitarian, Christian light."

Now, new artists will be "sub-creators" of movie versions of "The Lord of the Rings" that will cut and mold 500,000 words of prose into six hours of multiplex magic. Millions will see these movies and most will use this lens to interpret the books -- if they read or re-read them. The official website (www.lordoftherings.net) offers no sign of Tolkien's faith or worldview.

There is no telling what may end up on the screen, Pearce said.

"The great strength of Tolkien's work may, in the end, be its weakness. He has created truth in a form that is truly sublime -- myth. Yet that is also a form of art that can easily be twisted. He was writing a myth, but he wanted it to be a True Myth, a myth rooted in Truth with a capital T. Take away that truth and you change the myth."

Catholic vote? Which Catholic vote?

The aging patriarch's hands and voice shook, but his moral vision was solid as a rock.

America's pilgrim president sat solemnly while Pope John Paul II waded into the tense debate over stem-cell research. This week's summit produced images that White House strategists hope will linger in the minds of Catholic voters, long after the divisive details have faded.

"A free and virtuous society, which America aspires to be, must reject practices that devalue and violate human life at any stage from conception until natural death," said the pope, condemning research on manufactured embryos. "In defending the right to life ... America can show a world the path to a truly humane future in which man remains the master, not the product, of his technology."

Millions of traditionalists will say "amen." The problem for President Bush is that millions of Catholic modernists will mutter curses about Rome kneeling with the religious right. And what about the less doctrinaire folks caught in between?

Politicians and pollsters are learning that there isn't one "Catholic vote." It's also too simplistic to say there is one "evangelical vote." Someday, it may even be hard to predict the actions of black Protestants and Hispanic Catholics.

But one statistic has politicos buzzing. Call it the pew gap.

Two-thirds of those who never attend worship services voted for Al Gore, while an almost identical percentage of those who say they worship each week voted for Bush. More than four-fifths of evangelicals who regularly attend church went to Bush. Catholics? Nearly three-fifths of those who frequently go to Mass voted for Bush.

"Issues of morality and faith are crucial," said John Green, director of the University of Akron's institute for applied politics. "The key is not what people say they believe, but the intensity with which they practice that faith."

Since the election, Green and a network of colleagues have been dissecting interviews with 4,004 voters, charting beliefs and votes. For example, nine out of 10 evangelicals who backed Bush said the Bible is the "inerrant Word of God," while only two-third's of Gore's evangelicals did so.

There were symbolic issues in other pews. While most Catholics affirm papal authority -- to one degree or another -- those who are migrating toward the GOP are much more intense about this conviction. These traditionalists were three times more likely to affirm private confession and nearly five times more likely to pray the rosary.

This is news, because of historic ties between Democrats and Catholics. But it's important to ask if the numbers of traditional Roman Catholics are growing nationwide, as opposed to those of "American Catholics" who reject church traditions or want to see them modernized. Politicians also haveto avoid offending the less-committed "centrists" who claim to cling to Catholic beliefs, but are unsure about most details.

"What if traditional Catholics are, slowly but surely, becoming statistically less numerous? Most polls show that they are," noted Green. "In that case, Bush's strategy of courting them may seem unwise. But what if, at the same time, these Catholic traditionalists are becoming more active politically and are swinging toward the GOP on moral issues? Which of these two trends do you choose to emphasize?"

Similar patterns can be seen in other flocks. Traditionalists are, by definition, those who defend creeds and institutions. Their activism is fueled by a fear of compromise on ancient truths. Thus, any compromise is a defeat. This breeds a unique sense of commitment.

The religious left yearns to update old creeds in the name of tolerance. But modernists face a unique challenge, noted Green. Those who rebel against religious structures rarely turn around and invest their time and money in building new ones. Try to imagine a Unitarian megachurch.

"Traditionalists do have structures they can depend on, structures they can use to have an impact in the public square. That's important," he said. "Nevertheless, you would have to say the direction of American culture is going against them. It's hard to see their numbers growing. ... Their approach to life is based on making moral judgments about what is right and what is wrong and most Americans don't feel comfortable doing that anymore."

Those online puzzles for churches

Creekside Church visitor cards contain all the data slots and questions one would expect at a seeker-friendly establishment in a wired Colorado suburb.

Newcomers can inquire about salvation, baptism, the Bible, youth activities or private concerns. A visitor may share his or her age, marital status and kid statistics. The candid can review the quality of the service. Next to a telephone number, a visitor can provide a home email address, a work email address and then another email address at work.

"It seems like almost everybody has two or three these days," said Teena Stewart, who helps buildlay ministries at the young congregation in Aurora, Colo. "It would be a full-time job just keeping up with them. ... If someone is going to do that, they have to have a passion for it."

An evangelical zeal for email addresses? The digital sea keeps getting bigger and, these days, scores of local religious leaders are trying to discover how to tame it.

It's easy to dream up idealistic proposals for using the Net. Everyone wants to help people with common concerns form bonds and meet each other's needs. Everyone wants to build a stronger church community and networks of smaller, personal groups inside that larger body. But matters get complex when real people try to nail the details.

A few months ago Stewart was convinced more congregations should start digital versions of their weekly or monthly newsletters. After all, "e-zines" are more timely and can offer savvy readers multi-media links to sermons, music, educational materials and other online resources. Stewart wrote about this in Leadership, a major ministry journal.

"Thus, CreekVision E-zine was born," she wrote. "The e-zine is working well. It's cheaper to produce than the usual printed versions most churches can afford. It's colorful. And we're in contact with our congregation."

But by the time that article came out, CreekVision was off-line. What happened?

For starters, it was hard to decide exactly what an e-newsletter was and exactly what it was not,said Stewart. One popular way to produce a digital newsletter is to store a file of well-produced pages of text, graphics, photos and media clips on a church website and then email subscribers a click-on link that connects their computers to those pages. Others send out packages of digital text and graphics that readers have to download using special software.

What about the cyber-challenged sheep in the flock? What about members whose low-rent or free email services cannot automatically link to the World Wide Web? What about the elderly who have tiptoed online with simple email devices that can't surf the Web? In the end, every innovation that includes some tends to exclude others.

"When we started thinking this through," said Stewart, "we realized that the big question was, 'Who are we really trying to reach?' "

An online publication that targets the unchurched needs to be written differently than one for active members or even those who have enrolled in "Creekside 101" to prepare for membership. A veteran might be miffed by entry-level emails. A newcomer might be offended by chatty material for insiders. Digital technology creates smaller and smaller niches.

Then there is the issue of privacy, especially with Web sites or email lists that allow readers to sign up online. It may be funny when a newsletter goofs and prints a funny typo, such as the classic, "Don't let worry kill you. Let the church help." But a print newsletter rarely travels far outside the pews. The Internet goes everywhere.

This isn't funny. The same technology that lets members of a church family share private concerns may, with a few mouse clicks, put sensitive info about events, names, addresses and telephone numbers into the hands of strangers lurking online.

Stewart doesn't think congregations should give up. It's amazing to be able to send out prayer requests to Sunday school classes or to blast out an urgent calendar change to 1,200 worshippers. This stuff can work.

"But it's tricky, even something simple like a newsletter, " she said. "The church is only getting started trying to think through all the technical, legal and even religious issues linked to the Net. It's all so complicated."

Listening to the voices inside China

Han Dongfang's passport says Hong Kong, but his voice says Beijing railway worker.

When mainland listeners hear Han on Radio Free Asia, they can tell that he spent years riding the rails, seeing first-hand the trials of workers across China. He sounds like a man who has suffered on the inside, even if theauthorities now force him to live on the outside.

"In China you can tell the truth or you can tell the lie," said Han, who in 1989 formed the land's first independent labor union since the triumph of Communism. "If you tell the lie, you climb higher. If you tell the truth, you are a threat to those whose power is built on lies."

Han paused. His English is excellent, but he still struggles to find the right words, especially when his Christian faith bleeds into his socialist convictions and his hopes wrestle with his fears.

"It is easy to get angry," he said. "There is so much injustice. ... But we must control our anger and not give in to hate. After all, Communism is built on anger and class struggle. God wants us to tell the truth. That will be enough."

When describing his work, Han stresses that he is labor activist focusing on workers' rights. He smiles, but visibly winces, when anyone calls him the "Lech Walesa of China." He publishes the monthly China Labor Bulletin, but does not consider himself a journalist. Short-wave broadcasts carry his voice across China, but he does not consider himself a professional broadcaster. He has declined appeals to slip religious messages into his radio work.

Whatever Han is today, it's easy to pinpoint the moment when he found his calling. It was in April 1989 that Han and his wife first noticed a rally in Tiananmen Square. Student leaders were pushing the common workers back into a corner and Han quickly found other activists who shared his concerns. Soon, he helped set up a broadcast booth and called the first meeting of the Beijing Workers Autonomous Federation.

After surviving the June 3rd military crackdown, Han refused to confess to wrongdoing. Then he contracted tuberculosis in prison. Faced with global protests, Chinese officials let him go to America in 1992. After all, he was almost dead.

Minus a lung, Han returned to Hong Kong the next year and made several futile attempts to enter China. Today, the 38-year-old activist, his wife and their two American-born children have settled in Hong Kong. Nevertheless, Han remains hard-wired into the mainland. The concept behind his radio work is simple. He uses telephone wires to build a bridge. When Chinese workers dial his Hong Kong office, he asks if he can tape their reports about local conditions. Then he airs the anonymous tapes, which generates new calls.

Han knows China's regional accents and he knows how to use telephone operators in remote areas to find the middle-management leaders and laborers who have stories to tell. Many appreciate that Han still talks about old values such as justice, "solidarity" and workers' rights. They have seen disasters, followed by cover-ups. They help him contact the families and friends of the dead and injured. There are many unheard voices.

"I get calls," said Han, at a recent Barcelona conference about faith, journalism and human rights. "The voice on the other end of the line says, 'I am a party official. I am a high party official. Do not ask me how high a party official I am. I cannot believe what I am seeing and I have to tell someone.' "

Then there are other calls that say: "Everything here is perfect. CLICK."

Han assumes that his telephone is tapped, so he focuses on simple, yet revealing questions about daily life. He refuses to air speeches about overthrowing the government. He could do entire broadcasts about religious liberty, but he has, so far, tried to avoid that explosive topic on the air.

"There is a great religious hunger inside China," he said. "This hunger is at the grassroots, out in the villages and it is spreading into the cities. Those voices will keep growing louder and louder and, soon, people will have to listen."

One TV, one family

The salesman at the electronics superstore smiled broadly, but his eyes revealed that he thought I was some kind of religious nut.

What we have here is a failure to communicate.

No matter what, I could not get him to realize that my needs were quite simple. As a journalist, I wanted several news channels and my family likes old movies. What I wanted was a digital system that connected a satellite mini-dish to my television.

"No problem," he said, patiently. Clearly, I wasn't well informed about my options. "You know, they make systems now that allow you to use your satellite dish with more than one television."

That's OK, I said. But I need to hook up one television, in one room.

Undaunted, he whipped out a brochure and proceeded: "Let me show you what everybody gets, these days. It really doesn't cost that much more to get a system that you can hook up two or three televisions. It used to be hard to do that, but not now."

No thank you, I said. I just want to be able to hook up one television set.

The salesman still didn't get the picture. "Don't you want to hook up your other TVs? You can get a system that hooks up to the sets in your bedroom and your children's rooms and everywhere else."

We don't own any other televisions, I explained. We just have one TV, in one room, in our one house, for our one family.

He regrouped. Now he knew what he was dealing with. I was in denial, still fighting the cultural gravity of modern life. I could hear him thinking: "This is one of those holier-than-thou types who think they're too good to watch TV."

I knew what he was thinking because I had to have this same chat with the cable TV people when I lived in Southern Appalachia. Next came this satellite guy in the Washington, D.C., area. I'm sure that I will soon have a similar talk with another eager envoy of the video principalities and powers now that we are moving to South Florida. We all live in the same mall.

Here is what I will say -- again.

Actually, I don't have anything against TV. I teach mass media courses and I wouldn't be trying to teach students how to work in the world of news and entertainment media if I thought it was all rubbish.

Truth is, there's a lot of good stuff -- brilliant, even -- on TV. But there's a lot of garbage, too. So at the start of each week, we try to mark up the TV schedule, looking for programs we will want to watch as a family, or that I want to tape to watch later. We talk about this all the time.

In fact, I believe that more religious leaders need to take the time to praise the good, as well as urge parents to create practical media rules and then keep them. You know that old saying in the Book of Proverbs? "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it."

Our family rule is that we strive to watch an hour a day on tape or a movie every few days. We also don't let our children watch alone -- even the teen-ager. So we have one television and we keep it in a room that is used by the whole family.

Sadly, in most American homes the television is the true altar.

There are even more options, for better or for worse, once a family is hooked up to a cable or satellite service. We must face those decisions together. We owe that to our children, because we're their parents. We don't want to turn into distant relatives who end up sitting in separate rooms, watching different shows, on private TVs, speaking different languages and living in separate worlds.

If you stand firm, someone will listen.

So far, I have managed to buy a system that will connect one receiver to our one television set, in one room, in our one house, for our one family.

Satan's throne in a Church?

The Anglican Communion's civil war has flared up again, with more headlines about sex, sin and schism.

Colorado was the front lines last week, when archbishops from Southeast Asia and Rwanda invaded Episcopal Church territory to lead rites consecrating four additional missionary bishops for America. Archbishop of Canterbury George Carey asked if they were aware "that action of this kind takes you perilously close to creating a new group of churches at odds with the See of Canterbury and the rest of the Communion?"

The African, Asian and American bishops behind the Anglican Mission in America think they know what they are doing. The crucial question is: "Why are they doing it?"

To answer that, it may help to flash back nearly a decade to words spoken at a Colorado altar by another Asian bishop. During a 1992 visit, Archbishop Moses Tay of Singapore offered a radical view of the doctrinal divisions within Anglicanism. Tay is a symbolic figure, because he later hosted the January 2000 rites to consecrate the Anglican Mission in America's first two bishops.

Tay is soft-spoken, but not timid. Speaking at Denver's Christ Church, he turned to Revelation, chapter 2, an ominous passage in a mysterious book. In this vision, Jesus is seen reigning in heaven. Christ tells the angel of the Church of Pergamum, ``I know where you are living, where Satan's throne is.''

Is it possible, asked Tay, that Satan had a throne in that church? "Would we be shocked if that is true, that Satan has his throne in some of our churches?''

The Revelation text offered two warning signs of this condition, said Tay. The first was "corrupt teachers" who brought other gods into the church through syncretistic worship. The second was compromise on issues of sexual immorality.

The archbishop didn't have to say much about sex. Clashes over sex outside of marriage -- especially homosexual acts -- had already shaken Episcopalians and other oldline Protestants for a decade. But this sermon came four years before an Episcopal court ruled that the church has no "core doctrine" on sex and marriage. It came eight years before the House of Bishops acknowledged that many believers live in "life-long committed relationships" outside of Holy Matrimony and pledged "prayerful support" and even "pastoral care" for those living in such relationships.

Sex was old news. So Tay spent more time warning that church members would have to worry about their leaders -- literally -- praying to other gods. As shepherd of a small flock in Singapore, he stressed that he knows what it's like to work in a culture packed with competing gods. He wondered aloud if Americans take this issue seriously.

"We have this pressure (to compromise) in our own place, in Singapore, in the Far East," Tay said. "I believe this is ... very prevalent within some quarters of the Anglican Communion. I say this with some shame and sadness, because this is the very thing that the Bible forbids.''

A year later, I witnessed what Tay was describing during a news event in New York City -- the annual "Missa Gaia (Earth Mass)" at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Before the bread and wine were brought to the altar, musicians offered a rhythmic chant that soared into the cathedral vault: "Oba ye Oba yo Yemanja. ... Oby ye Oba yo O Ausar. Oba ye Oba yo O Ra Ausar." This was printed in the bulletin.

As New York Bishop Richard Grein waited at the altar, the musicians sang praises to some of the gods of Africa and Egypt.

Is this kind of syncretistic worship common? Of course not. Is it encouraged by a few academic leaders and trendy liturgists? Apparently so. Have some bishops quietly tolerated the worship of other gods -- by name -- at Episcopal altars? Yes.

Are some Third World Anglicans concerned about this? Yes.

It's tempting just to argue about sex, said Tay. But after his Denver sermon, he asked this tough question: What is the meaning of unity in a communion in which some believers and even bishops may not worship the same God?

This is an explosive question. Sooner or later, the See of Canterbury will need to provide an answer.

Bono's crusade comes to DC

As lunch ended in the ornate U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee conference room, Sen. Jesse Helms struggled to stand and bid farewell to the guest of honor.

Bono stayed at the conservative patriarch's right hand, doing what he could to help. For the photographers, it would have been hard to imagine a stranger image than this delicate dance between the aging senator and the rock superstar.

"You know, I love you," Helms said softly.

The singer gave the 79-year-old Helms a hug. This private session with a circle of senators during U2's recent Washington stop wasn't the first time Bono and Helms have discussed poverty, plagues, charity and faith. Nor will it be the last. Blest be the ties that bind.

"What can I say? It's good to be loved -- especially by Jesse Helms," Bono said two days later, as his campaign for Third World debt relief continued on Capitol Hill.

The key to this scene is that Bono can quote the Book of Leviticus as well as the works of John Lennon. While his star power opens doors, it is his sincere, if often unconventional, Christian faith that creates bonds with cultural conservatives -- in the Vatican and inside the Beltway. Bono has shared prayers and his sunglasses with Pope John Paul II. Don't be surprised if he trades boots and Bible verses with President George W. Bush.

The hot issues right now are red ink and AIDS in Africa. An entire continent is "in flames," said Bono, and millions of lives are at stake. God is watching.

The bottom line is that the Bible contains 2,000 verses about justice and compassion. While it's crucial to answer political and economic questions linked to forgiving $200 billion in Third World debts, Bono said this also must be seen as a crisis of faith. The road into the heart of America runs through its sanctuaries.

"What will really wake people up," he said, "is when Sunday schools start making flags and getting out in the streets. ... Forget about the judgment of history. For those of you who are religious people, you have to think about the judgment of God."

Bono knows that this bleak, even melodramatic, message sounds bizarre coming from a rock 'n' roll fat cat. In a recent Harvard University commencement address, he said the only thing worse than an egotistical rock star is a rock star "with a conscience -- a placard-waving, knee-jerking, fellow-traveling activist with a Lexus and a swimming pool shaped like his own head."

This is old news to Bono, who has had a love-hate relationship with stardom for two decades. In U2's early days, other Christians said the band should break up or flee into "Christian rock," arguing that fame always corrupts. Bono and his band mates decided otherwise, but the singer soon began speaking out about his faith and his doubts, his joys and his failures.

"I don't believe in preaching at people," he told me, back in 1982. A constant theme in his music, he added, is the soul-spinning confusion that results when spirituality, sensuality, ego and sin form a potion that is both intoxicating and toxic. "The truth is that we are all sinners. I always include myself in the 'we.' ... I'm not telling everybody that I have the answers. I'm trying to get across the difficulty that I have being what I am."

Eventually, Bono acted out this internal debate on stage. In the 1990s he celebrated and attacked fame through a sleazy, macho, leather-bound alter ego called The Fly. After that came Mister MacPhisto, a devilishly theatrical take on mass-media temptation. The motto for the decade was, "Mock Satan and he will flee thee."

Today, U2 has all but dropped its ironic posturing and the soaring music of this tour covers sin and redemption, heaven and hell, mercy and grace. Bono is quoting from the Psalms and the first Washington concert ended with him shouting: "Praise! Unto the Almighty!"

It wasn't subtle and it wasn't perfect. Crusades rarely are.

"I do believe that the Kingdom of Heaven is taken by force," said Bono, paraphrasing the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 11. "God doesn't mind if we bang on the door to heaven sometimes, asking him to listen to what we have to say. ... At least, that's the kind of religion I believe in."

Father Scalia's vocation

As the boy grew to become a man, he explored the marble chambers that pump power into American politics.

He worked as an intern. He rode the private subway that whisks legislators to the Capitol. He took his share of power lunches. Finally, he decided that his vocation was in a higher court.

"One day it hit me," said Father Paul Scalia. "To save things, it is going to take more than a really good Supreme Court decision. Good thing, too, because we're not going to have one anytime soon. I am very, very pessimistic about the ability of government policies ... to change things."

The 30-year-old priest in the Diocese of Arlington (Va.) has not sought the media spotlight to deliver sobering opinions of this kind. This would have been easy because of his last name. Father Paul is one of the nine children of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, whose outspoken views on moral issues have made him a hero on the religious right and the bane of the lifestyle left. According to media reports, Father Paul also worked behind the scenes to help Justice Clarence Thomas return to the Roman Catholic faith.

Politics are important, said Scalia. But this is an age in which the moral decisions that shape private and public life are as likely to be affected by MTV and movies, as by high courts and legislatures.

Politics may "may slow down our cultural decay," he said. "I am not very optimistic about its ability to stop it."

Priests who observe the lives of their people know this, said Scalia, at a meeting to support gays and lesbians who strive to follow Catholic teachings. The 10th annual "Healing for the Homosexual Conference" was sponsored by Parents and Friends, a network of clergy, counselors and parents based in Washington, D.C. But Scalia's address included few references to homosexuality. Instead he covered a wider range of issues -- from families wrecked by adultery to the pressures that drive girls to hate their own bodies, from Catholics who shack up before marriage to teens hooked on cyber-pornography.

All of these issues are symptoms of a larger problem, he said. Millions of Americans yearn for sexual pleasure and for spirituality. However, many have forgotten that what they do with their bodies profoundly affects the health of their souls. Male and female bodies are not mere machines, like automobiles, that can be used for pleasure and then taken in for tune-ups at gyms and clinics.

"If the body is just something that I own, then when I am sexually involved, or when my body is sexually involved, I am not," Scalia said. "So what does it matter? What does it matter ... if I have sex before marriage? Or if I have sex with someone who is not my spouse, or if I have sex with someone of the same sex? And so on. If the body is just a tool, just an instrument, then what does it matter?"

Every human being, stressed Scalia, is not a "soul encased in a body, but a soul living through a body. ... The body is always to be treated with reverence, because the body is the expression of the image of God. The body is the way that the soul communicates."

This is a complex message and one that many hear as a radical limitation on personal freedom. This is especially true, he said, in an age in which the Supreme Court -- in its 1992 Planned Parenthood v. Casey decision -- has linked liberty to "the right to define one's own concept of existence, of meaning, of the universe, and of the mystery of human life."

With a sarcastic shrug, the priest noted that this decision was based on the "defining the universe section of the constitution." He said this has led to "a deadly understanding of freedom" and what Pope John Paul II calls a "culture of death" in which the weak -- the sick, the poor, the elderly and the unborn -- can be crushed by the freedoms of the strong.

Freedom "does not mean doing whatever we want," argued Father Scalia. "Freedom means the ability to do what we ought to do."