Given all our hard work in the Christian Right to establish ourselves within the Republican Party, many of us could no longer mask our disenchantment with those who appeared so impotent in Washington. Jim Dobson, for one, had even threatened to leave the party if the leaders weren’t more responsive to religious conservatives and things didn’t change. And yet, for me, perhaps because of all the turmoil, I came into my own during the nineties; my ministry expanded, my roots deepened, and my work became a point of reference for those on the right.
In only five years, our little group had gone from just an idea to an established organization with almost unrestricted access to the most important decision makers. I routinely attended social functions at the Supreme Court, and our monthly events in the Capitol were packed. When I sent out a news release, the media often quoted me verbatim. With only an hour’s notice, we turned out record numbers of reporters and cameras in front of the Supreme Court Building, on the steps of the Capitol, or at the White House gates. Despite clear challenges, evangelicals—and, more broadly, all brands of conservative Christians—were firmly cemented into the Republican Party platform and strategy. When top-level operatives of the RNC met, they included me. At the Conservative Political Action Conference—the major yearly gathering of conservatives hosted by the American Conservative Union—I led a panel discussion. I was writing a book on the public display of the Ten Commandments, and many others cited me in their books.
I felt consummately able to handle any controversy, and I was rewarded for engaging in the fray. It was there I received the praise and unconditional admiration that fed me. When I entered my ministry world up on the Hill, with the people in power, my confidence knew no bounds. Especially during an election year. Especially when I had become so important.
My opinion of myself was reinforced when I was invited to fill a seat on the board of governors for the Council on National Policy, the most influential group of conservative thought leaders in the country. The CNP had been formed in 1981 by one of my heroes, Baptist celebrity pastor, writer, and speaker Dr. Tim LaHaye, who, with his wife, Beverly, had made such an impact on my early marriage with their Christian manual on sex. He was the author of the blockbuster The Battle for the Mind, an exposé of secular humanism that forcefully positioned evangelicals against what we viewed as the dominant culture. Having stepped down from his church to focus on political activism, Dr. LaHaye enlisted the help of Nelson Bunker Hunt, the Texas billionaire oil tycoon, and together they recruited the CNP’s four hundred members who were the cream of the crop among conservative leaders.
Ministers, moguls, corporate executives, politicians, think tank scholars, and intellectuals joined. It was a veritable who’s who of powerful conservatives whom I had come to respect and from whom I longed for approval. Richard Viguerie, the all-time greatest direct mail fund-raising genius; Paul Weyrich, the brilliant strategist behind the Heritage Foundation and Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority; and even Oliver North, Reagan’s clandestine military operative, were all members. Add to these boldface names nearly two hundred wealthy CEOs, Fortune 500 chairs, and entrepreneurs, and the Council for National Policy was ground zero for the conservative elite. For a membership fee of $5,000 a year, which I eagerly paid, I was included in the three annual, private, off-the-record meetings, in which we discussed everything from the Defense of Marriage Act and anti-abortion strategies to military defense and a return to the gold standard.
It was at a CNP board meeting where I first heard about the possible presidential candidacy of George W. Bush, the scion of George H. W. Bush and the colorful governor of Texas. Bush was often complimented for getting Democrats to go along with his policy initiatives and soon began to win large numbers of mainstream conservatives and evangelicals to his side. The younger Bush wasn’t the fervent pro-life candidate I’d hoped for, but begrudgingly I conceded he was our only hope for a morally responsible standard-bearer. Any hesitation I may have harbored was immediately dispelled during a primary debate when Bush was asked, “Who is your favorite philosopher?”
“Christ,” he responded. “Because he changed my heart.”
That cinched it. By now, not only did we have a true conservative, but we had a born-again believer with a clear testimony of personal salvation.
My publications in those days identified the sanctity of human life, marriage, the family, and religious freedom as important to God, to our Founders, and to us. I told provocative stories about life under Bill Clinton and the Democrats—how he aggressively persecuted pro-lifers and dragged them in front of a secret grand jury. How he instituted a “Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual Day” for federal employees. How he embraced liberal religious leaders over bedrock Christian traditionalists. I would contrast this iniquity by describing our Republican “brothers and sisters” who had weathered those storms. Steve Largent, a popular, good-looking, pro-football Hall of Famer representing Oklahoma; Helen Chenoweth-Hage, a tongues-speaking, miracle-believing charismatic who was the only Republican woman to ever represent Idaho; Mark Souder, the rock-solid Hoosier and quiet-as-a-church-mouse elder; Tom Coburn, the pro-life Oklahoma country doc. They exemplified the qualities and convictions we held dear, and when I mentioned them, I could see the nods of agreement in the congregations where I preached. My approach was successful. Standing in the lobby after my sermon, shaking hands with parishioners and chatting, many would say something like, “You helped me make my decision about the upcoming election. It’s clear Bush is God’s man.” I smiled with silent agreement, never having mentioned the nominee.
Of course, I knew if we had to, we’d get through another Democratic administration just as we’d managed Clinton’s eight years, but we needed to bring in fund-raising dollars. By now I had engaged marketing and fund-raising companies that used the technique they called “Fear and Anger.” One of our consultants explained that if we told people about our programs, we would likely get a little money. But if we instilled fear and anger, if we made our readers very afraid and very mad, they wouldn’t send just a little money, they would send a lot of money. And he was right.
As Election Day approached, Faith and Action employees and volunteers planned for our “A game” should Bush win, which would entail a formal event at our new building, followed by various inaugural galas. If Gore won, we would implement our “B game,” in which our deep bench of experienced pastors and street-level activists would be deployed throughout key areas in Washington to loudly and visibly denounce what we then considered to be the ungodly, militantly secularist, morally compromised future of the presidency, the executive branch, and the Democratic Party. It would not only get attention, it might provide some catharsis for our disappointed supporters.
Tuesday, November 7, began with a morning prayer service at our ministry center. Contrary to Jesus’ admonition “When you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret,” I put out a press release announcing our gathering. As television lights glowed and video cameras and tape recorders whirled, Paul, Pat Mahoney, and I convened a small circle of pro-life leaders, many in clerical collars. The room was filled with media, some supporters, volunteers, and other clergy. “Lord, let righteousness roll down today and deliver our nation by giving her your servant in the White House,” I implored. There were many audible amens. Another beseeched, “Oh God, we pray for victory for George Bush, a man who loves and serves you. Use him as the chief executive of this country and commander in chief of our armed forces.”
That night, pivoting back and forth between victory and defeat for our candidate, our prayers alternated between praise and lamentation, between A game and B game. For two weeks the election hung in the balance, mostly because of the way punch-hole ballots in Florida were counted—and for which candidate. House Majority Whip Tom DeLay, with whom I had developed a close relationship, tipped me off with details gathered by staffers he had dispatched to observe vote counting procedures in the Sunshine State. As the outcome came down to just a few hundred votes, lawsuits were filed by both sides. I knew the case was likely headed for the high court, and on Saturday, November 25, the clerk’s office announced oral arguments would be heard that Friday, December 1.
I was determined to attend and thought that I might have a tempting barter deal for the chief of the court’s police department. I told him that our office would provide facilities for the hundreds of people who were bound to be in line for the arguments if he would reserve two seats in my name. He agreed. By Wednesday morning there were pup tents, clusters of golf umbrellas, and beach chairs near the court building. The line would grow to over four hundred. I recruited two dozen volunteers to work three daily shifts, and my three paid staff members worked round the clock.
Early in the morning on December 1, Paul and I went across the street and took our reserved places in line. Groups of ten at a time were escorted into the courtroom. There had already been several court decisions regarding what was going to happen, but the one at issue that day was from the Florida Supreme Court, which had ordered a statewide manual recount. We listened to the arguments and prayed silently for Bush’s success, sometimes holding hands. It was like staring at a coin on its edge: one side meant the grim continuation of the pro-abortion, pro-homosexual, liberal policies of the Clinton administration; the other meant a new beginning with a conservative, born-again Republican. The stakes could not have been higher for the country—or for us. That next Monday morning, when the justices filed their unanimous order vacating the Florida Supreme Court’s decision, I wasn’t sure whether God had granted our entreaties or not. The election outcome remained in question.
A week later the drama continued when the case came roaring back from Florida. This time I watched it unfold at the Supreme Court inside the office of the marshal of the court because the courtroom was filled. As I listened to an audio feed of the arguments, I saw Senator John Ashcroft just outside in the reception area. He was a superstar in my world. His father, Dr. J. Robert Ashcroft, was a revered academic who had developed several Assemblies of God colleges into credible institutions of higher education. I had spent time with then senator Ashcroft in his cramped Capitol Hill apartment while he played his favorite hymns on a battery-operated keyboard. But the election of 2000 handed him a defeat, and he looked forlorn when I came up to him and assured him that God had much bigger plans for him.
The next day, satellite trucks lined the entire city block, reporters did stand-ups in front of cameras, and police officers struggled to separate crowds of protestors on either side of the political divide. Evening had fallen and it was dark as I stood on the court’s front steps. A news producer finally scrambled from the clerk’s office and down front to his waiting correspondent. The reporter flipped through the pages as others tried to read the text over his shoulders. “Bush wins,” he said. “Bush is the president-elect.” The emotional rush put beads of sweat on my forehead.
All my hard work behind the scenes paid off with fifty tickets to the official swearing-in ceremony at the U.S. Capitol in January 2001. We invited many of our most generous donors and, under cloudy skies, listened to Bush’s thoughtful, values-filled speech that spoke to what we agreed was most important in America: “That edifice of character is built in families, supported by communities with standards, and sustained in our national life by the truths of Sinai, the Sermon on the Mount, the words of the Koran, and the varied faiths of our people,” he said. We applauded, some of us with tears in our eyes. At last we had an administration that would protect the unborn, strengthen traditional marriage and morality, and support religious freedom, especially our rights as Bible-believing Christians. That he watered down that declaration with politically correct jargon about the other religions didn’t matter. We knew he meant the best parts. And, most important of all, we had a chance to get solid socially conservative justices on the Supreme Court. What a glorious contrast to the previous eight years!
Thus began the halcyon days for my brother and me, our ministry team, and our constellation of churches, volunteers, donors, and political allies. Evangelical and Catholic conservatives pretty much had the run of the Bush White House. Pentecostal John Ashcroft was picked for attorney general, and Bible study leader Don Evans became secretary of commerce. Tim Geoglein, a Missouri Synod Lutheran—the closest thing to a fundamentalist in the German Reformed Church—worked in the White House’s Office of Public Liaison, which assured an open door to conservative Christians of every stripe. People like Jerry Falwell, James Dobson, Lou Sheldon of Traditional Values Coalition, Jay Sekulow, and Chuck Colson were regular visitors there. The new arrangement assured me of plenty of access to the administration. I led Bible studies and prayer meetings, delivered invocations and benedictions, and said grace at all kinds of functions at the various departments, State, Commerce, Labor, Health and Human Services, Justice, and the Pentagon. With Republican majorities in the Congress, the door to the legislative branch was also wide open, which meant that when lawmakers wanted to determine the moral underpinnings of a piece of legislation—like the Defense of Marriage Act, for example—they turned to me and a cadre of friends for help. I had virtually unlimited access to U.S. Capitol venues for our numerous ministry functions. Our pro-life gatherings, news conferences, panel discussions, Bible studies, and prayer services often took place in conference rooms, hearing rooms, and auditoriums within the Capitol complex. We held the keys to the kingdom.