Nixon's 'Evil Genius' Dies

In the Nixon White House, Charles Colson was known as an "evil genius," a master of "dirty tricks," the guy who (reportedly) said he would walk over his own grandmother to ensure the re–election of Richard Nixon.

He was more than 18 years younger than Nixon so, I suppose, it was appropriate that he should die nearly 18 years to the day after Nixon did.

And, to many, I suppose, his story is an inspiring one, even if Nixon's is not — a man who spent the first half of his life exploiting the weaknesses in the system and the second half of his life trying to repair them.

It is a story, I guess, of one man's quest for redemption, and that is something I can appreciate. Once, when I was filling out a job application, I had to answer the following question — "What is your favorite word and why?"

My answer was that my favorite word was redemption because it suggests that no mistake or bad decision a person makes in his/her life is permanent, that a second chance is always possible.

And, in hindsight, it is clear Colson's life — well, the first half of it, anyway — was loaded with mistakes and bad decisions.

He was involved in the decisions to develop and fund the infamous White House Plumbers unit to gather intelligence on the Democrats, and at least one recording of a conversation he had with Nixon in June 1972 indicates his early involvement in efforts to obstruct justice in the Watergate investigation.

Colson was in prison when Nixon resigned the presidency, and he emerged about five months later with a new purpose in life.

It is understandable, I presume, that those who had been the targets of his wrath were skeptical, but Colson apparently was a changed man. And, on the occasion of his death, that unwillingness to acknowledge that Colson turned over a new leaf offends his defenders.

"Prison opened his eyes not only to God," writes Fr. Johannes Jacobse in The Observer, "but the desperate conditions of other prisoners."

He points out that Colson founded Prison Fellowship, a Christian outreach program for prisoners and ex–prisoners and their families.

"The world has lost a good man," asserts Fr. Jacobse.

In the South Florida Sun–Sentinel, James D. Davis laments the overemphasis in the media on Colson's political career and under–emphasis on his faith–based activities.

"Even in reporting his death, not everyone grasped the spiritual side of Colson," writes Davis, observing that "[o]f the 57 paragraphs in the Washington Post's obituary, only seven or eight dealt with the faith that steered his life for more than 38 years — and three of the paragraphs mentioned the 'skepticism and even hilarity' from many columnists who heard of his conversion."

Personally, I always felt Colson was sincere in his expression of faith. I was still young when he was released from prison, and I was no more certain then than I am today that I shared his beliefs, but the things he said seemed genuine to me.

I was brought up in the buckle of the Bible Belt, so when I say Colson's words and actions seemed plausible to me, you can believe it. I think I know the real article when I see it.

That doesn't mean that it wouldn't be possible for someone to fake the "born again" experience.

And, to be sure, I have seen my share of people who fooled others with some well–chosen words and phrases. Sooner or later, their deceptions were exposed.

But Colson matched the words with deeds for four decades.

If he started out as a phony, a disbeliever, he must have become persuaded at some point. It would take a remarkably skilled hypocrite to pull off such a charade for that long.

Colson was always true to his conservative beliefs, which he reconciled with his religious beliefs. He opposed homosexuality, and, although he never (to my knowledge) contended that Hurricane Katrina was some sort of judgment or punishment from God, he did say it was a "warning" from God and implied that there would be worse to come if it was ignored: "[O]ne lesson I learned from Katrina is that we had better win the war on terror and resolve to prevent another 9–11. Katrina exposed how easy it would be to take a city out."

Ironically, it seems to me, Charles Colson, who spent a significant portion of the first half of his life driving wedges between people went on to spend a significant portion of the second half of his life trying to bring them together.

And Sarah Pulliam Bailey of GetReligion.org wishes more of the writers who seem to remember only the first half of that life would move on.

"It's clear that some reporters are stuck in the 1970s," Bailey writes, "apparently unaware of how the state of evangelicalism was shaped by Colson's complex life and legacy."

Maybe that is Colson's real legacy. Perhaps, in Colson's own story of redemption is a cautionary tale for the rest of us about our relationships with each other.

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Mom's Milestone

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Today would have been a milestone for my mother — if she had not died in a flash flood 16 years ago.



Today would have been her 80th birthday — and, if nature had not intervened, I am quite sure she would still be with us today.



I can't know a thing like that, of course. But I know the family history, and I know what Mom's health was like on the day she drowned. At the time she died, I believed she could have been with us for another 20 years, at least, and I still believe that today.



Anything else could have happened in the last 16 years, though. Family history isn't infallible. Mom's father died of a heart attack in his sleep when he was 70. The same thing could have happened to her.



But my grandmother outlived my grandfather by nearly 20 years — even though the quality of the last 10 years of her life is debatable. She suffered increasingly from dementia, and I know that Mom feared a similar fate.



She never said so, but she didn't have to.



Mom was a first–grade teacher. At times, it seemed to me that she drew energy from the 6– and 7–year–olds in her classroom. They kept her young, and I realized, after she died, that a significant part of her was afraid of ending up like my grandmother, unable to recognize those who came to see her, unable even to communicate in her final years.



Funny thing — when Mom died, she was the subject of several newspaper articles because she had been recognized for her classroom innovations. Someone (and I can't remember now whether it was an administrator or another teacher or a parent who said this) was quoted as saying Mom was "everyone's favorite grandmother."



I had trouble seeing her as a grandmother. Mom was a free and independent spirit. She also had a childlike fascination with things that I'm sure made her popular with the children who spent their first year in elementary school in her classroom. It permeated her life — and I never realized that until after she died.



I remember one day when I was sorting through my mother's belongings following her death. My father walked into the room while I was looking at a special vest Mom wore on an excursion to St. Louis with some of her colleagues. The vest was covered in buttons she got at a Cardinals baseball game.



One button was equipped with a music player. When you pressed it, it played "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I pressed it, listened to it, looked up and saw my father, who had entered the room without my notice. He smiled. "Your mother was a child," he said, turned and walked out of the room.



Yes, she was. Maybe that was what made her such a great mother — and a great teacher (and, by extension, everyone's favorite grandmother). Above all other things, my memory is that it was fun having her for my mom. She made everything an adventure. I'm sure it was that way for the children in her classroom.



I am about to begin my second year of adjunct teaching in the local community college, and I am trying to apply things she taught me in my classroom. It is a work in progress.



After she died, a family friend sought to comfort my brother and me by observing that Mom "went out at the top of her game."



At that time and under those circumstances, it simply wasn't possible for me to be comforted by that thought — I didn't want her to be gone, still don't, and no thoughts that indicated an acceptance of the new reality could be tolerated — but I have drawn some comfort from it since.



I wish Mom was still with us, but if she was spared her mother's fate, then I am thankful for that.



You see, I understand now, in a way that I really didn't before, that no one lives forever. Oh, I said things like that, but it was more of an expression for me, I guess. I didn't really think about the truth of those words or however subtly they might be influencing me (sort of like the Pledge of Allegiance I dutifully recited each morning as a child). I do now.



I understand that, while no one really wants to die (probably because none of us can be absolutely sure what happens when we die — we may think that we know, but no one who is living can really know), it's going to happen to all of us. I can't imagine what that will be like, but I've concluded that there would be no advantage in living forever — not even if one could strike some sort of deal and be sure never to age or lose one's mobility.



Since such a Faustian arrangement is not possible — at least as far as I know — I would rather not linger past the time that all my contemporaries have gone. I would rather be taken when I am still alert and capable — and the people I leave behind believe there were still things I didn't do that I should have done before I died — than to overstay my welcome and die long after my quality of life began to decline.



Whichever it turns out to be, I would just prefer that my death wouldn't be an excessively painful or lingering one. I don't even have to know it's happening. My grandfather died in his sleep — wouldn't any of us choose that over being conscious?



Mom's quality of life definitely did not decline — and I can only hope that she did not experience too much pain. But that is something I will never know.

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Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Mom's sense of humor. It was different, but I really miss it.



Mom had a great knack for laughing at herself.



When I was a child, she used to make a beef–noodle casserole that was absolutely delicious. As far as I could see, it was perfect. Mom used to rave about how easy it was to prepare, and I don't exaggerate when I say it was one of my favorite dishes. I actually looked forward to evening meals when I knew it was on the menu.



She served it once when some friends came over, and they went wild, insisting that Mom give them the recipe. She promised that she would.



Never one to put off such things, Mom typed the recipe on an index card the very next day and passed it along to her friend while she was out running errands.



(Now, when I say "typed," I mean that — literally. It was long before personal computers and word processors with spell checkers or any of that other stuff. Mom used a typewriter — and it was the old–fashioned, manual kind, too.)



Mom didn't proofread the card first, and it turned out she had typed an o instead of an e in the word "noodle" in the title of the recipe (which was something very basic, like "Beef–Noodle Casserole," but, with the typo, it read "Beef–Noodlo Casserole").



Someone noticed the typo and remarked that the dish was "Goodloe's Noodle–ohs." Mom liked that. We ate it at least once a week every week — and we called it "Goodloe's Noodle–ohs" for about as long as I can remember.



It became kind of a family joke. I can remember having friends over to spend the night, and I would ask Mom what we were having for dinner. She would reply "Goodloe's Noodle–ohs," seemingly oblivious to the fact there was a guest in the house who wasn't familiar with the joke.



Mom also liked to joke about what she called the "Goodloe luck." It was sort of a family variation on Murphy's law. I'm not sure if she originated it or not — or if perhaps my father played a role — but if something went wrong, we were sure to hear the "Goodloe luck" mentioned.



The photo of Mom sitting in our foldout camper was taken on the occasion of my favorite example of the "Goodloe luck." We had driven from Dallas to South Padre Island during the Christmas holidays — about an 11– or 12–hour drive, as I recall. It was something we had done — without incident — the year before, and the entire family was looking forward to some sand, surf and fresh seafood.



The picture that shows Mom smiling and laughing in our camper was taken about an hour after our arrival. The weather was gorgeous, and everyone was in a jovial mood. But, during the night, a storm front moved in, and we spent the next couple of days huddled around that small table, eating modest meals and playing card games while wind and rain pounded the tiny trailer outside.



Finally, my parents decided that we had had enough, and we left on the third day. We took down our camper in a pouring rain and began the long drive back to my grandmother's home in Dallas. On the way, we heard on the radio that the storm was the worst to strike the area in decades. Boats were missing at sea.



That, my parents agreed, was the "Goodloe luck."



I guess the most extreme example of the "Goodloe luck" was the flash flood that took Mom's life. But that would be a real misnomer. There was nothing lucky about that night.



Well, anyway, today would have been her birthday. It isn't the anniversary of her death. It's an appropriate time to remember who she was, not how she died.



I can't help feeling somewhat wistful on this day. I think of the world that existed on the day Mom died and the world that exists today, and I can't help wishing she had lived to see some of the things I have seen.



The flip side of that, of course, is that I'm glad she was spared some of the things that have happened since her death — so I suppose it is something of a tradeoff, as it is in every life, be it wealthy or privileged or longer than most.



In the great scheme of things, I guess one life is pretty much the same as the next. Some are longer than others. Some are more accomplished.



Religious people often speak of "God's will" and his "plan." I guess it is the only way some people can make sense of the irrational. There must be a reason why terrible things happen. We just aren't smart enough to figure it out.



I guess it's comforting, in a way, to believe that things that appear to make no sense — like the deaths of children — really do have a purpose. And some people believe the purposes for all things will be revealed to us when we die.



But some people will tell you that, whatever the reasons for these things may be, those reasons are God's, not man's — and God is under no obligation to explain himself.



So life continues to be, as it has always been, unfair. Some lives end far too early while others go on for a century or more, and there is no justification for it. Some lives are harder than most while others are easier, and there is no obvious justification for that, either.



I don't think I ever discussed this with Mom during her life. I know she believed in God, but I don't know what her conclusions were about the inequities of life.



Mom's life could have been longer than it was. Perhaps it could have been more accomplished.



But today, I want to remember Mom's life, and I want to do something to mark the occasion. Today is Saturday, and I'm going to the cemetery.



Maybe it seems odd to say that, but it isn't. Not really. In the years since Mom's death, the cemetery is the only place where I can feel close to her. I don't know if it is her "spirit" or not. I just know that is the way it is.



I used to go there every year on the anniversary of her death. I preferred going to the cemetery in May over going there in August, even though going there in May always seemed like more of an observance of her death than her life. It's always hot here in August — and it has been especially hot this summer.



But, since this would have been a milestone birthday for Mom, I will brave the elements, however severe they may be, and pay a visit in the morning hours. I'll keep it short, though. Classes at the community college begin next week, and I have last–minute preparations to make.



Mom would have understood.

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Hate Crimes Decline

David Gibson, the religion reporter for Politics Daily, wrote last month that, according to the FBI, "the number of reported hate crimes dropped significantly in 2009 from the previous year, to their lowest point in more than 15 years."

This happened, Gibson observed, "despite the deepening recession and growing social tensions."

And that's a good thing — if you can verify that hate–inspired crimes actually did drop, but that isn't as easy to verify as you might think.

I'll grant you that sometimes it's obvious — like that case a dozen years or so ago when the black man was dragged to his death by a group of white men in a pickup truck.

Sometimes it's a matter of suspicion. You may think that a crime was motivated by hate because the victim(s) belonged to a particular race or religion or gender — but suspicion alone is not sufficient to charge anyone with a crime, whatever the motivation.

I would argue that, at least to a degree, all crimes are hate crimes so I'm not sure how I feel about the special designation in the criminal code for hate crimes.

I understand what lawmakers are trying to do, but it seems to me that it is an invitation for the implementation of George Orwell's Thought Police — and I really don't believe that is what anyone really wants in America.

The laws already regulate — as much as is possible — the actions of the citizens. Do we also want to regulate the people's thoughts?

Gibson reports that the faithful are hailing the news, which is to be expected, I guess, in this season of love and hope and joy.

"[R]eligious groups are giving thanks for the decline," Gibson writes, "even if they have no clear explanations for the drop."

I guess no explanations are needed — except, perhaps, in Room 101.

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A Matter of Faith

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"I don't see how we can have a separation of church and state in this government if you have to pass a religious test to get in this government. ... [I]f you demand expressions of religious faith from politicians, you are just begging to be lied to. They won't all lie to you, but a lot of them will. And it will be the easiest lie they ever had to tell ..."

Arnold Vinick
The West Wing

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A couple of days ago, I examined the likelihood that Barack Obama will have the opportunity, either this year or next, to nominate the replacement for Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens.

I discussed a number of the issues involved. But there was one angle I didn't explore. Today, Nina Totenberg of NPR did bring it up, and I am glad. Not because it matters to me but because it could influence the debate over Obama's nominee.

The angle Totenberg brought up? "[W]hen Justice Stevens retires, it is entirely possible that there will be no Protestant justices on the Court, for the first time ever."

That might not be an issue. When Stevens retires and Obama announces his choice for a successor, that successor could turn out to be a Baptist or a Methodist or a Presbyterian — or a member of another Protestant denomination.

But what if he nominates a Catholic? Or a Jew? Totenberg points out that three of the people who are frequently mentioned as the leading contenders are Catholic or Jewish.

And can you imagine the reaction if Obama nominates a Muslim?

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"In fact, six of the nine justices on the current court are Roman Catholic. That's half of the 12 Catholics who have ever served on the court. Only seven Jews have ever served, and two of them are there now. Depending on the Stevens replacement, there may be no Protestants left on the court at all in a majority Protestant nation where, for decades and generations, all the justices were Protestant."

Nina Totenberg
NPR

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Given the fact that, as Totenberg observes, "almost nobody has noticed" the impact that Stevens' departure could have on the religious balance on the court, it might not be important to many Americans.

On the other hand, when you consider the issue of child sexual abuse that has plagued the Catholic church, adding a seventh Catholic to the Supreme Court might do more than raise a few eyebrows.

And if another Jew was nominated to the highest court serving a self–identified Christian nation (where less than 2% of the population is Jewish), there might be some backlash in the Christian community.

Personally, I don't think a jurist's religion should be of any more consequence than his/her political party affiliation. It smacks of a litmus test, like inquiring about a potential nominee's views on abortion.

But that's probably a perfect world we're talking about — and God knows this world is far from perfect.

The fact that a nominee has a religious faith — whatever it may be — seems to me to be a good thing. It shows that he/she has given a lot of consideration to issues that affect the human condition, that go well beyond his/her personal circumstances. Even if a nominee is an agnostic or an atheist, that, too, suggests the nominee has thought about things that are bigger than himself/herself and has come to a conclusion with which he/she is comfortable.

Such a demonstration of mental acuity does have meaning for me because it shows that the nominee (or, if confirmed, the justice) is capable of evaluating an issue from many sides and arriving at a fair and reasonable conclusion. That is relevant to all sorts of matters that could come before the Supreme Court — not just cases involving religious freedom.

In my own case, I am a journalist. I believe that freedom of speech and freedom of the press matter, and protecting those freedoms is paramount to me. I believe that all of our freedoms are important, but everything else depends on those freedoms.

Justice Louis Brandeis, the first Jew appointed to the high court, penned perhaps the greatest defense of freedom of speech in the high court's history in his concurrence in the Whitney v. California (1927) case (in which the concept of a "clear and present danger" played a prominent role):

"Those who won our independence by revolution were not cowards. They did not fear political change. They did not exalt order at the cost of liberty. To courageous, self–reliant men, with confidence in the power of free and fearless reasoning applied through the processes of popular government, no danger flowing from speech can be deemed clear and present, unless the incidence of the evil apprehended is so imminent that it may befall before there is opportunity for full discussion. If there be time to expose through discussion the falsehood and fallacies, to avert the evil by the processes of education, the remedy to be applied is more speech, not enforced silence."

I am a Protestant, but I would support whole–heartedly the nomination of anyone — Catholic, Jew, Protestant, whatever — with that kind of agile mind.

It doesn't seem to me that it could be said of a nominee who has simply shown no interest in religion (or, at least, not enough to form an opinion) that he/she has an agile mind — beyond cynically calculating how an expression of religious faith (sincere or not) could help his/her career goals.

And, as Arnold Vinick implied on The West Wing, some potential nominees will say whatever they think their listeners want to hear if they believe it will make it easier to get what they want.

A nominee's religion could be very important to some Americans, though, and for good reason. Supreme Court justices are not subject to the whims of voters so Stevens' successor could very well be on the court for two or three decades.

If a Protestant is not nominated, some Protestants in America might wonder if their interests will be represented in the high court's rulings.

Timing, as they say, is everything, and a lot may depend on whether Stevens decides to leave this year or next year.

Few Republicans in Congress have shown any interest in cooperating with Obama, and it is reasonable to expect that any new Republicans who are elected this fall will be unlikely to extend an olive branch to the administration.

If Stevens retires this year, Obama knows he will have 59 Democrats in the Senate who are likely to support his choice. But, rather than risk a messy confirmation proceeding that could further endanger Senate Democrats (nearly half the Democratic seats on the Senate Judiciary Committee will be on the ballot this year, and two are already believed to be at risk of a Republican takeover), he might choose a safe nominee (which might include picking a Protestant).

If Stevens waits until next year, it's anyone's guess at this point whether Democrats will still be in the majority in the Senate. But Obama will know that the next election will be more than a year away. If he prefers a nominee who breaks boundaries, 2011 may be a better time to do so — although not if his party loses its majority.

Given all the political considerations Obama will have to juggle, one would be justified in wondering whatever happened to the (alleged) separation of church and state.

Or, to quote an exchange from The West Wing, when Vinick asked President Jed Bartlet that question, Bartlet replied, "It's hanging in there, but I'm afraid the Constitution doesn't say anything about the separation of church and politics."

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The Shortest 'Papacy'

It has not been unusual for America to have two presidents in a single calendar year.

It has happened whenever an election has produced a new president — because either the incumbent president did not run or the incumbent president was defeated. When that has happened, America has begun Inaugural Day (for many years, March 4 — now January 20) with one president and ended it with a different one.

Additionally, there have been eight times when a president has died in office — and once when a president has resigned. On those occasions, the vice president has succeeded the president. Most of the time, the president who died (or resigned) had been in office for more than a year.

Only twice in American history has this nation had three presidents in a single calendar year. On both occasions, a duly elected president–elect has taken the oath of office and then died before the calendar year ended. In those years, America has had the president who was in office when the year began, then the president–elect was sworn in, and then the new president died in office within the same calendar year and the vice president succeeded him.

Of course, the American presidency has only existed for 220 years, and there have been 43 occupants of that office.

The papacy, on the other hand, has been around much longer — nearly 2,000 years — and there have been more than 250 people who have held that title. And, while there have been popes who reigned for decades, others have been in office for a few weeks, sometimes only days.

Consequently, there have been times when the Roman Catholic church has had at least three popes in the same year.

I'm not Catholic, but in some ways the pope transcends religion. He is a global figure, and his authority is at least perceived as political as well as religious. Having been raised Protestant, I can't say that I know the history of the papacy, but my understanding is that, in the early days, a pope enjoyed political as well as spiritual authority. Today, the pope's authority is mostly spiritual in nature, but what he has to say about the issues of the day still commands a lot of attention from non–Catholics as well as Catholics.

Once elected by the College of Cardinals, a pope reigns until his death. He does have the option of resigning, but Gregory XII was the last to exercise that right more than 600 years ago.

After his death in 2005, John Paul II was said to have considered resigning when he neared his 80th birthday in 2000, but he clearly did not do so. When he died, his reign had lasted more than 26 years. But even if he had been alive for the last five years, his reign still would not match that of Pius IX, who reigned longer than any other pope — excluding St. Peter, who is considered the first pope even though the title of pope did not exist in his lifetime.

There haven't been many popes in my life, but there was one year — 1978 — when there were three popes.

In that year, Pope John Paul I succeeded Paul VI, then served just over a month before dying suddenly. He was succeeded by John Paul II, who was the only pope that most people under 35 knew until Benedict XVI succeeded John Paul II.

John Paul I's papacy seemed short — and it was — but the shortest papacy wasn't even a papacy in the traditional sense.

On this day in 752, a priest of Rome named Stephen was elected to succeed Pope Zachary, but Stephen died of a stroke a few days later — before being ordained a bishop.

I don't know much about Stephen — except that he is remembered in history as Pope–elect Stephen — and I don't know if he dreamed of becoming pope, but if he did, his life and death are reminders that, even if you believe that you have reached the pinnacle of your profession, it can be taken from you in the blink of an eye.

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