Current is grateful for P&R Publishingâs permission to serialize Marvin Olaskyâs memoir, Pivot Points: Adventures on the Road to Christian Contentment.
Chapter 13: Second Time Around
George W. Bushâs campaign staff runs by me the speech he plans to give when he formally kicks off his run for president on July 23, 1999, at a Methodist church in Indianapolis. He embraces our task forceâs recommendations, saying, âGovernment can spend money, but it canât put hope in our hearts or a sense of purpose in our lives. This is done by churches and synagogues and mosques and charities that warm the cold of life.â
In Indianapolis, church choirs rev up the multiethnic crowd. Bush hugs several church leaders and proposes that âresources should be devolved, not just to states, but to charities and neighborhood healers.â He stipulates that âwe will never ask an organization to compromise its core values and spiritual mission to get the help it needs.â
Bush emphasizes the importance of religious groups being religious. They should not have to become government look-alikes to gain access to resources. He makes a promise: âWe will provide for charity tax credits. . . . Individuals will choose who conducts this war on povertyâand their support wonât be filtered through layers of government officials.â
My volunteer membership on Team Bush means recusing myself from editing any World stories on the GOP presidential contest, but Iâm free to talk to the reporters from the East and West Coasts who come to Austin puzzled about Bush. Iâm a faculty fellow at a UT dorm, which gives me free dining hall privileges. Much to the dismay of the journalists who call, we eat in the dining hall. Over pizza or burgers, I tell them my role is highly informal and my contact with Bush rare. At least one tells me later he assumes Iâm being coy: anyone who downplays his access must have huge access.
The more I truthfully downplay my role, the more my supposed status rises, as press accounts move from the accurate âinformal Bush advisorâ to âthe revered intellectual guru of Governor Bush.â The Washington Post elevates me from âBush advisorâ to âBush counselorâ to âa close policy adviser to George W. Bush.â One German publication dubs me his âear-whisperer.â The Moscow Times makes me Bushâs âclosest domestic adviserâ and âsoulmate.â
In addition to interviews, I also play tour guide for print and broadcast reporters eager to see compassionate conservatism in action. I point them to homeless shelters and programs for addicts and ex-cons. Reporters visit my church, interview our pastor, and set up elaborate recording sessions in my living room. A New York Times reporter writes, âWhen I ask one of Bushâs top aides to explain what a compassionate conservative administration might look like, he says simply, âTalk to Marvin.ââ
As the campaign heats up, it becomes increasingly clear to both me and Bush staffers that Iâm not ideally suited to the role of designated talker. I like to think itâs my unwillingness to be put in a box, but maybe Iâm just a loose cannon. In 1999, after praising the work of nineteenth-century women who
headed charitable enterprises, I say their twentieth-century entry into the corporate workforce hurts American society because it takes them out of volunteer work. Ouch. A book cleverly titled Bushwomen says, âOlasky is not a fan of highachieving women.â
I justify my lack of discipline by saying I donât work for the campaign but make another unforced error in February 2000 by writing a column that plays with Tom Wolfeâs fanciful novel A Man in Full. Wolfe has his protagonist, in Atlanta, face a crisis and come to belief not in Christ (as many Georgians do) but in Zeus. I then call the 2000 GOP presidential sweepstakes a contest between Bushâs emphasis on charity and love and John McCainâs
stress on the classical virtues of honor and duty: Christianity versus âthe religion of Zeus.â
My column in the Austin American Statesman goes on to criticize three New Yorkâbased, McCain-fan journalists who are not doing hard reporting about the candidateâs acceptance of cash from lobbyists. I say McCain is âas erratic as the Zeus of mythology, with a history of throwing thunderbolts in all directionsâ and âleading reporters are proselytes in the religion of Zeus instead of tough reporters.â
Ouch again. The statement is not unreasonable but it is unseasonable in the midst of a hard campaign. Worse, to some McCain supporters Zeus almost rhymes with Jews, which the three columnists I criticize are. Obviously, they say, Iâm making an antisemitic dog whistle. I call one of my critics and say, truthfully, that while knowing one of the columnists is Jewish, I live in Texas and didnât know that about the other two. Heâs a New Yorker and replies, âHow could you not know?â
Crazy, but political crudity did not begin in 2016, and political wisdom means knowing that anything you say or write can be used against you. As some journalists defecate concrete, I step in it. In June a senior Bush aide and I travel to London to discuss with members of the Conservative Party whether
compassionate conservatism will work in a British context. The aide, with incredible discipline, turns almost any question back to a prepared talking point. When a reporter asks me an interesting question, though, I often stroke my beard, clear my throat, and give a speculative answer.
British reporters say Iâm one of those disreputable American televangelists. The Observer opines, âOn the endless plains of Indiana [Bush] repeated the phrase âcompassionate conservatismâ 15 times. Bush had borrowed it from a man [whoâs] got a beard. Heâs called Marvin. What more need be said?â Something more, it turns out. As âspiritual overseer of George Bushâs Texasââthat will go great on business cardsâI am a âborn-again Christian who watched Bush from afar, on television, with a glow of satisfaction and a job in the White House awaiting him.â
When a 60 Minutes story slams me on the eve of the Republican convention, Team Bush sees me as more trouble than Iâm worth to the campaign. I canât dispute that judgment. The whole experience makes me grateful to be out of Washington, but a little wistful as well: itâs fun to see delegates at
the 2000 Republican convention in Philadelphia wearing âIâm a compassionate conservativeâ buttons.
I still need to fulfill speaking commitments. The most memorable is an October 2000 lecture at Washington University in St. Louis. Ten young women walk in wearing lime green T-shirts that proclaim in black letters, âIâm a compassionate conservative because . . .â Hurrah, I finally have groupies. Not
quite: my speech begins, and they stand up, turning their backs to show the continuation of their message: â. . . because Iâm racist, sexistâ and so forth. They do sit down after several minutes and politely listen to the rest of my yakking. Several realize theyâve been misinformed, and they give me an extra T-shirt afterward.
On election night, my family and I head to a plaza near the Texas capitol. Television crews have set up a tall grandstand where they conduct interviews. The illuminated red granite capitol building provides the backdrop. Big screens show the network television feeds. At the top of the grandstand at 9 p.m. a BBC interviewer, assuming Al Gore has won, asks me with a sneer, âLooking at the returns, would you agree that compassionate conservatism hasnât much of a future?â A roar from the Bush crowd drowns out my answer. Florida, earlier declared a Gore conquest, is once again in playâand maybe compassionate conservatism is still alive.
Five weeks after the 2000 election, the US Supreme Court confirms the election of George W. Bush. On December 13, Bush gives his first speech as president-elect: âTogether we will address some of societyâs deepest problems one person at a time, by encouraging and empowering the good hearts
and good works of the American people. This is the essence of compassionate conservatism.â
Eight days later, Bush meets at Austinâs First Baptist Church with thirty ânational faith-based leadersâ and me, a journalist-historian. Sitting on plastic chairs arranged in a circle, we each have thirty seconds to express directly to the president-elect how we hope the administration will empower good heartsâand maybe hire us. My turn: I say Iâll continue to edit a politically independent magazine and âweâll zing you at times.â Bush seems momentarily surprised but then laughs and says, âJoin the club.â
He closes the short meeting with a wry comment: âI hope that a year from now no one is going to be able to say that this was all just smoke and mirrors.â But thatâs what one of the leading evangelicals of that era, Prison Fellowship head Chuck Colson, thinks is likely.
With Bush not yet in the White House, Colson writes me a long letter that describes how leaders in Philadelphia are kicking Prison Fellowship off the committee for a Philadelphia project designed to bring together groups devoted to fighting crime, drugs, and other negative aspects of gang life. The reason: other members are uncomfortable with Colsonâs talk about âevangelizing the streets of Philadelphia, bringing people to Christ.â
In his letter, Colson describes his conversation with an âeminent social scientistâ regarding a young man who has become a Christian and is now âon the streets preaching and reading the Bible to members of gangs.â Colson sees this âtransformed lifeâ as an example of success, but the academic disagrees. The results need to be peer-reviewed, he says.
Colson is prescient. I expect President-Elect Bush to select former Indianapolis mayor Steve Goldsmith, a decentralizer, to head up the White House Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives. Instead, Bush names John DiIulio, the same eminent sociologist who upset Colson. DiIulio is a Catholic and Democrat, so he checks some boxes politically, but back in Austin I share Colsonâs concern. My outsider status guarantees that I have no input.