Evangelical elitists: the exclusive church where Washington's conservative power brokers pray.

• Author: McGarvey, Ayelish
• Position: 10 Miles Square - Falls Church

The widely-agreed-upon lesson of the '04 race is that the Democratic Party's Beltway leaders were too insulated in their elite bubble to understand the evangelically-tinged culture of red America. Yet one of Washington's dirty little secrets is that its GOP leaders live in a very similar bubble. Few of them, for instance, would be caught dead in one of the down-market mega churches that have been cropping up in the exurbs of greater D.C. Rather, on any given Sunday, if you want to rub elbows--or touch knees--with Washington's conservative power elite, the place to go is The Falls Church, an old, tony Episcopal parish in the leafy northern Virginia suburb of the same name.

The Falls Church is actually two houses of worship in one. The old church, built in 1769, is a quaint, red brick Federalist building straight out of Colonial Williamsburg. Inside its spartan white-walled sanctuary, priests don long robes and clerical collars, and an organist pounds out hymns from the official Episcopal hymnal; many of the tunes date back to the 18th century when George Washington himself worshipped here. But behind the old church, amidst a parking lot filled with Volvos and Subaru Outbacks, is a bigger, newer church, tastefully made to look old, with lush strands of ivy cascading down pillars. The inside is laid out amphitheater style with floor-to-ceiling windows that bathe the vast sanctuary in sunlight. The priests wear suits, and although they still recite the Nicene Creed and the rest of the traditional Episcopal liturgy, they mix it up with characteristically evangelical, ad-libbed prayer. Instead of organ music, there is a "worship team" of guitarists, vocalists, and a drummer. Occasionally the congregation--the women in pearls and khakis, the men in blue blazers and khakis--clap along to the songs, of lift their hands up, although their pew mates sometimes look slightly uncomfortable at such overt expressions of praise.

These are the Sunday school nerds of yore, the kids who memorized their Bible verses before everyone else. They went to graduate schools and worked on Republican Senate campaigns. And now they have their very own church. That man walking in with the soft, slightly chubby face and horn-rimmed glasses, with his son dangling from his arm--it's Michael Gerson, the president's chief speechwriter! And that tall guy with the bow tie--it's Tucker Carlson! Indeed, The Falls Church membership directory reads like the White House Christmas...