Running on Their Faith
Bush and Gore are making religion a big issue, and praying voters buy the sermon
George W. Bush's conversion is a staple in his autobiography. "He is the prodigal son," says adviser Ralph Reed, "the baby boomer who walked on the wild side, then found God." His evangelical admirers tell it as parable: As Bush neared middle age, he'd failed at business and drank too much. But a moment of truth arrived in 1985, as he walked along Maine's craggy shores with the Rev. Billy Graham. "Are you OK with God?" Graham asked him. A pregnant pause. Then Bush's response, "No, but I'd like to be." A mustard seed had been planted. "It took a while to understand what was happening," Bush told U.S. News. "But when it happened, it happened fast." Months later, the day after he turned 40, he quit drinking cold turkey. Back in Midland, Bush immersed himself in a men-only Bible study in the Promise Keepers mode. His friend Don Evans, now his chief fund-raiser, recalls, "We talked an awful lot about our own lives and problems."
Preacher man. Bush is the first major politician to emerge from the new milieu of suburban megachurches. Eschewing tradition, Bush's evangelicalism cut a deal with mass culture, importing pop music and pop psychology, especially self-help theories. It embraced racial tolerance. If you strain to listen, you can hear the message in Bush's speeches. Pet phrases like "the commonplace miracles of faith" and "I want to share my heart" have been borrowed straight from the pulpit.
When asked to compare his faith with his father's, the affability drains from Bush's voice, "You're going to have to figure that out for yourself." But the subtext is clear: There is a gulf between us. The president never felt comfortable dealing with evangelicals, and they returned the unease. Not so the son. When the father's relations with the religious right grew tense, he'd tell advisers to consult George W.: "Junior understands them." Last spring, father and son entered a Dallas church for a meeting with evangelical leaders. Pointing to his dad, the son told the ministers, "If you think that you're going to get a rerun of this, you're mistaken."
Centrist Democrats like Gore have made much of breaking with their party's heritage of staunch secularism. Or as a Gore adviser clumsily announced, "The Democratic Party is going to take back God this time." This smacks of post-Monica posturing. But Gore has always had a social conservative streak. The centrist buzzwords--responsibility, civil society--had been Gore favorites before they acquired their current chic. Through the mid-'80s, he had even been an abortion opponent.
It's here that one can see a primary fight brewing. Liberal activists--with the notable exception of African-Americans--tend toward the secular side of the spectrum. Bradley has subtly played to these voters, emphasizing that religion is private business. When Gore said that local schools had the right to teach creationism, Bradley quickly denounced him.
However, there is a common spiritual denominator among Bradley, Gore, and Bush. All applaud federal funding of faith-based charities. With his running shoes kicked up on a patio table, Bush hints there might be other reasons he supports the programs. "I say in my speeches, clearly, that cultures change one heart, one soul. One of the ways is for religion to be introduced. You know, my heart was changed, my little old heart."
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