Their Own Obama

Jindal is hardly ashamed of his heritage; at Brown he once answered a professor's hypothetical question—"If a high school only took the brightest students, would it be mostly white or mostly black?"—by slipping Ahsanuddin a note that read "all Asian." But he's also been careful not to rock the boat by suggesting, as Ahsanuddin puts it, that he "[sees] himself as a minority"—much, in fact, like Obama. Even now, asking Jindal if he's ever felt out of place elicits an assurance that he's "an American … who had birthdays at McDonald's like everybody else." "Bobby's just logical and analytical," says Daly. "He sees what he wants to accomplish and knows how to do it."

Together, Jindal's adaptive instincts and intellectual drive fueled his conversion to Catholicism. At 12, an evangelical friend named Kent gave him a paperback Bible for Christmas. Raised in a "strong Hindu culture," Jindal considered himself "anti-Christian" and stashed it in a closet. But a crush, Kathy, soon convinced him to read the book "from cover to cover." Jindal gradually warmed to the Scriptures, and while watching a Passion film at Kent's church, he was suddenly "convicted" of his "sinfulness and [his] need for a savior." Most conversion narratives end there. But Jindal's doesn't. Ever the A student, he studied Kent's Bible "by flashlight" and even "learned bits of Latin, Greek and Hebrew." After a long stretch of soul searching, Jindal concluded that Protestantism lacked "scriptural cogency" and decided to become a strict Catholic instead. ("Bobby said he trusted God to put his own house in order," recalls Ahsanuddin.) Although critics have questioned the governor's motives—Hindu activist Ramesh Rao recently wrote that "Jindal knew well that [conversion] was the only way, as an Indian-American Hindu, he could achieve his political ambitions"—his deeply Catholic views, including a "100 percent" opposition to abortion "with no exceptions" for rape, incest or health of the mother, undoubtedly anger more voters than they attract. "If I wanted the aesthetics without the inconvenient morality," he wrote in 1998, "I could become Episcopalian."

Nowhere is Jindal's commitment to Christianity more evident than in the 15 essays, Obama-esque in their self-scrutiny, that he published in the New Oxford Review and other Catholic journals between 1991 and 1998. In the most controversial, he details an amateur exorcism he witnessed at Brown. One day, a friend—called Susan in his 1994 account—confessed that she'd started seeing "visions" and smelling sulfur when doctors discovered a cancerous lump on her scalp; soon after, she fell to the floor at a prayer meeting and started "thrashing about." As Susan screamed "Bobby," the group pinned her down and chanted, "Satan, I command you to leave this woman." But Jindal was too terrified to "confront the demon." Eventually, the struggle subsided; Susan claimed she felt "healed." A short time later, surgeons removed the bump—and, according to Jindal, "found no traces of cancerous cells." The account has already raised eyebrows among skeptics who find it difficult to reconcile the governor's Brown biology degree with a belief in demonic possession—liberal bloggers, for example, now call Jindal "the Exorcist"—but he seems unfazed. "It's important to share your spiritual experiences with people who might benefit," he says. "There are a lot of things in this life that we won't understand, and that's OK. How do you explain the Sacraments? How do you explain the Resurrection? Those are hard concepts. So I didn't try to interpret it or declare what happened, because I don't know."

Holding court at the Breaux Bridge city hall, Jindal isn't discussing "The Brady Bunch," or the Bible, or his encounter with "an evil force." He rarely does. Instead, the governor is repeating the sunny speech he delivered two hours earlier in Longville. The concept is simple: Jindal as both the embodiment and the architect of a "New Louisiana." In 2003, the story goes, the D.C. hotshot returned to Baton Rouge and vowed, if elected, to reverse Louisiana's brain drain by spurring growth and combating the state's storied corruption. Attacked as a bloodless bureaucrat, Jindal, then 32, lost to Kathleen Blanco. But after Blanco botched the response to Hurricane Katrina, voters developed buyer's remorse—and chose the competent wunderkind by a 37 percent margin in the next election. Shortly after assuming office in January 2008, Jindal convened two special sessions of the state legislature to kick-start his agenda, and he spends much of today's speech listing key accomplishments: sweeping ethics reforms that catapulted low-ranking Louisiana to the top of watchdog lists; tax cuts worth more than $500 million; a smooth, widely praised response to Hurricane Gustav; a major workforce-development program; and a new plan to control Medicaid costs and improve coverage for low-income residents. Local critics—on both the left and the right—often complain that Jindal, eager for national attention, claims more credit than he deserves, and he faces serious challenges in the near future, including a $1.3 billion budget deficit. But in person—and on paper—it's difficult to deny that he is an effective rookie.

Competence, it seems, is the cornerstone of his post-Bush appeal—both within the party and, perhaps, beyond it. Satisfy the right with your personal convictions; sway the center by actually solving problems. "Jindal can play up the wonkier side of his résumé because he already has this visceral, implicit connection with rock-ribbed social conservatives," says journalist Reihan Salam, coauthor of "Grand New Party." "Everyone can see what they want in him: the reformers and traditionalists battling for control of the GOP, as well as the independents who will decide future elections." In Breaux Bridge, Jindal doesn't boast about the bill he signed allowing public schools to teach intelligent design. He doesn't have to. Instead, he can focus on more pragmatic achievements—and build chic postpartisan cred in the process. As Jindal finishes posing for photos, Gloria Kern, a blind, 83-year-old lifelong Democrat, saunters over and touches his shoulder. The governor leans in. "I didn't vote for you," she says. "But I've been impressed." Back in Baton Rouge that evening, Jindal attributes his 69 percent approval rating to "authenticity." "Even when the voters don't agree with you on everything," he says, "if they see that you have relevant solutions, they'll support you."

Three days later, an influential crowd fills the West Des Moines Sheraton: Republican Sen. Chuck Grassley, evangelical activist Chuck Hurley, Washington Post reporter Michael Leahy, Amy Lorentzen of the Associated Press and hundreds of local Christians, who collectively paid $150,000 to behold the next Reagan. Onstage, Jindal jokes that "any of you [who] came to hear a political speech … might want to consider getting involved in some kind of recovery program," but organizers privately acknowledge that Iowa is Iowa, and tongues will wag. Aware, it seems, of the searing national spotlight, the governor avoids abortion, gay marriage and intelligent design in favor of less combustible topics like "the coarsening of our culture," the future of the GOP and, of course, bipartisanship. "It's time for us to work together," he says. "Whether you voted for [Obama] or not … [he's] our president, [and he] need[s] our prayers." As the Grand Ballroom empties out, most attendees don't seem to mind the omissions; after all, they're certain that Jindal "shares their values," as Michelle Fetters-Steen, 54, puts it. "He even reminded me a little of Obama," adds Kristen Anderson, a home-school mother. The day's only complaint, in fact, comes from retired physician Oscar Beasley, 81, who grumbles that "these people" are invading Iowa "a little earlier than usual." "Also, the guy talks too fast," Beasley adds. "He should probably slow down.

© 2008