It's Gov. George W. Bush's last campaign stop in California, and instead of an ocean of rah-rahs and the three-fingered "W" sign his fans make by thrusting out their three middle fingers, Bush has chosen instead to come to a house of God. We're at CityTeam Ministries, a privately funded addiction program and homeless shelter -- which Bush is heralding as an example of the kind of faith-based program he thinks government should be helping to fund -- and in the midst of the tour, one of the recovering addicts starts crying.

The drama begins when Bush walks into a room where two of the addiction program's residents are playing table tennis while four others watch.

"I got a heckuva forehand," Bush says as he shuffles in with his wife, Laura.

"Let's see," says one of the men.

"Not that good," Bush jokes. The place erupts with laughter. "What's happening here besides a hot Ping-Pong game?" Bush asks. He sits down between two of the men, on the arm of a sofa.

"We're living for Christ here," says Mark Meeuwissen, 27.

"That's good," Bush says.

Meeuwissen, a resident for 16 months, immediately begins telling of his attempts to follow God's way. An added bonus, he says, is that "being here, we get to meet you."

"That may not be the top prize," Bush laughs. He has kept his presidential opponent, Al Gore, crisscrossing the country on defense this week, trying to shore up support in states he'd never expected to be close. Bush, meanwhile, has been the cock of the walk, prancing and mugging and dancing like a mid-'80s NFL receiver in the post-TD end zone. But CityTeam brings out a strong humility, which the men seem to respond to.

"Thank you for sharing that with us," Bush tells Meeuwissen when he finishes speaking, patting him on the arm. He turns to his right where Dominadur Limosnero, 31, sits, and asks him to tell his story. As Limosnero begins, Bush turns back to Meeuwissen, winks and pats him on the arm.

It doesn't take long before Limosnero starts sobbing. It's unclear if this is because he's nervous, or especially fragile, or supremely comfortable in Bush's presence -- or, most likely, a stirring combination of all three. But Limosnero, a recovering alcoholic and former drug-addicted gang member, says, "The Lord opened the door for me here ... I'm just sick and tired of gangs and you know, everything."

Bush and two other residents pat the man's arms and back reassuringly. "I love it here," Limosnero says. "It's a better life." There's a pause.

"That's about as powerful a statement as you can get," Bush says. "That's why we're here. God bless you."

"OK," Bush says, calling an end to the proceedings. It turns out that the "OK" just applies to the media.

And as the dozen of us in the Ping-Pong room are escorted into the next room, Bush takes a moment alone with the men. I linger and try to eavesdrop.

"I appreciate your testimony," Bush says sincerely, no cameras or reporters around.

"You're a man," he reassures Limosnero.

It's recovery-speak with a born-again foundation. He tells them how important it was that members of the media heard their testimony, but before I can hear why that is, a Bush press aide pulls me away.

This is the most appealing side of Bush, the side that honestly seems to care -- about addicts, about kids in failing schools. The side that has taken away the substantial edge Gore once had with female voters. If every voter could see this display, Bush could put this election away for good.

It is tough to imagine Gore connecting so well with these recovering addicts. He is almost always incapable of communicating deep and sincere emotion in settings like this without coming across as a phony. At a rally last week in Kansas City, Mo., for instance, Gore paused a moment in the midst of a tribute to the late Gov. Mel Carnahan. He sighed. He slumped a bit. And it seemed completely disingenuous, as if someone had scripted the expression for him ahead of time.

You can't dismiss Bush's ample heart as a campaign strategy. Marvin Olasky, one of Bush's main advisors on "compassionate conservatism," once told me that Bush "has the view that people can change. And one reason I suspect he has that view is that he changed himself, through God's grace." Indeed, Bush touches on this himself in his Tuesday speech on faith-based programs, before the CityTeam crowd and assorted Silicon Valley guests. "I quit drinking in 1986, and I haven't had a drop since then," Bush says. "And it wasn't because of a government program, by the way. It was because I heard a higher call."

His compassion seems to extend to the borders of what he himself has gone through. But how far beyond?

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