Maybe it’s because I’ve lived as a member of the evangelical Christian community so long, but I really didn’t understand the novelty of the red T-shirts. I saw them everywhere on campus, of course, and I knew what they meant. I just couldn’t understand why it was such a buzz-worthy topic of discussion. In every coffee shop and study lounge you could hear the murmured questions: "Is this some sort of secret society?" "Do you think this is some administration gimmick?" Or the most frequent query of them all: "Who is Sam?"

A few weeks earlier I’d sat in the third row of folding chairs in St. Bede’s chapel. About a hundred people sat with me, people who I recognized as fellow William & Mary students and, more importantly, believers. I knew most of them by name, but a few faces were new to me. Most sat quietly — the room took on a hushed, almost solemn air.

Sam Pritchard stood up in front of us and explained the T-shirts. Sam is nice, obliging, personally humble yet publicly exuberant. He has messy hair and plays a ripping bass guitar for various on-campus Christian fellowships as well as a jazz group. He sometimes walks around barefoot in August, when the Burg’s atmosphere is a step above a dense marsh. He is a breed of man whose zeal renders him attractive.

Sam was calm and straightforward. The T-shirts weren’t a new idea for campus evangelism, he explained. They’d been tried before, at Penn State, UC Berkeley and the University of Florida. It was a simple yet effective advertising tactic, originally spearheaded by Campus Crusade. Shirts are distributed with a simple statement, "I agree with ..." and the first name of a student. On the back of the shirt, a date, time, and place are listed. When the date rolls around, Christians invite their friends and other curious parties to attend, not telling them what will happen at the event. When they arrive, the students listen to Sam give his testimony, the gospel message and an altar call. It’s stripped-down evangelism, and a good way to spark interest from an otherwise stagnant campus community.

Here at W&M, Sam was counting on support from various Christian groups, not just one organization. Catholics, Baptists, Lutherans, Methodists, non-denominational … all of us paid for our T-shirts, red with white letters. Speaking to Sam after he was done talking, he asked what I thought of the whole thing. All I remember saying is that even if this evangelistic campaign planted one seed, moved one heart a little ways toward Christ, or if one person came up at the alter call, it would all be worth it. That God would use the T-shirts, and Sam’s message, however He wanted.

I looked at my T-shirt when I got ready to leave. The front said "I agree with Sam" in block letters. On the back, it said "W & M Hall. September 11, 2001."

We prayed and went out, none of us knowing what was coming.

The shirts caused a ruckus by the second day. Everyone wanted to know who Sam was, and there were the most elaborate theories circulating the campus. Some students decided that it was really a "Sam Sadler thing;" he’s the Vice President of Student Affairs, and one of the college administration’s most recognizable faces. The reliably clueless campus newspaper, The Flat Hat, tried to figure out who was involved by calling random InterVarsity staff members and asking for Sam’s phone number and ran nasty editorial cartoons. WMTV, the student cable access station, looped an anti-Sam editorial.

Perhaps it says something about how boring Williamsburg really is, or how small a spark it takes to light a fire — either way, the topic dominated campus discussion for a week and a half. Most people figured out that the event was "something Christian," and a few fashioned anti-Sam T-shirts ("I disagree with Sam," "I agree with Darwin," and my personal favorite, "I agree with the Lions. Throw ‘em in!").

Meanwhile, inside the campus’ Christian community, a debate was raging. Some were uncomfortable with the T-shirt tactic, arguing that the message it sent was a false one, that people would show up feeling tricked, that non-Christians would be driven away. Rev. David Hineman, campus minister for the United Methodist Church, told The Flat Hat that "[I]t's very important for Christians to share their faith, but it's more important to do it openly so people don't feel snookered."

Others felt that the shirts were just an effective way to get a campus talking. Instead of printing shirts that said "Come see Sam Pritchard talk about Jesus," which would have drawn an admittedly smaller crowd, the campaign would generate a sense of mystery to draw in the students. It’s the same type of thing that some students do to publicize a visiting speaker — sneaking into empty classrooms to write "Jon is Coming" in big letters for the next class to read. It’s a nice method to get people talking.

I can understand the concerns that I heard voiced by many believers during the week. Christianity isn’t something that should be packaged in ways that conflicts with its ultimate message, but evangelism in practice isn’t something that can’t be intelligent and non-fanatical. It’s one thing to be deceptive — it’s another to just be good advertising. Sam was acting as a fisher of men, with the red T-shirts as his hook.

When Sept. 11 came around, the whole Sam controversy seemed minuscule in comparison to the events on the television screen. Still, more than 300 people turned up to listen to Sam’s message as he stood in the cavernous hall, wearing a shirt that read "I Am Sam." He spoke for about half an hour, talking about his search for something to fill the hole in his life, offering a comparison to "American Beauty’s" protagonist, Lester Burnham.

"He [Lester] knew there had to be a better life out there and he was determined to find it at all costs," Pritchard said. "These holes have been filled in my life by God through a relationship with Jesus Christ."

On William & Mary’s campus, the "I agree with Sam" campaign has already faded away. Sam walks around campus without hearing threats or being attacked. People still wear their shirts now and then. The Christian community is more unified that it was before the event, and many say the event revitalized their faith in God. Other campus groups have even borrowed the tactic; the track team wears shirts that say "I agree with Graham," after their speediest runner.

My shirt has sat in my closet since September, but I think I might wear it again today. After all, if one person asks me what it means, it’ll be worth it to explain why I agree with Sam.

For more information, see:
http://www.psw.org/Do_You_Agree/DYAintro.asp