Opinion

Son of a Preacher Man / How John Ashcroft's religion shapes his public service

Of all the Bible stories John Ashcroft knows by heart, none mirrors his own life like the Old Testament melodrama of Daniel.

As a Hebrew captive exiled to Babylon, Daniel worked his way into the palace and was promoted to a high-ranking administrative position. The powers- that-be saw him as smart and politically ambitious, but also as a sanctimonious prig. His religious rectitude invited ridicule, as when he refused to "defile" himself by partaking of the rich food and wine of royalty because his God favored a vegetable-and-water diet.

So his critics set him up, persuading King Darius to outlaw worship of anyone else but the king. Daniel kept praying. They dropped him into a den of lions.

This was a lesson that John David Ashcroft absorbed as a Pentecostal minister's son reared in an Assemblies of God congregation in Springfield, Mo. The moral was clear: Never waver, never doubt, never permit skepticism and mockery to deter you from the course you believe is right.

Today Ashcroft -- the Bush administration's front man in its war on terrorism -- is expanding his power as attorney general with a stunning degree of moral certitude. Never one to see issues in shades of gray, he believes America's campaign against terror is as black and white as it gets.

Supporters cheer him as a moral avenger. Foes consider him a pharisaical vigilante whose willingness to trample civil liberties is scary.

One thing is clear: While other politicians pick up religion as a fashion accessory, Ashcroft exudes it from his core.

Says Franklin Zimring, law professor at UC Berkeley and a law school classmate of Ashcroft: "You'd learn a heck of a lot more about John Ashcroft researching his church than you would turning the University of Chicago Law School upside down. What's problematic about his career as attorney general is not his technical legal training. It's his values."

It's impossible to understand Ashcroft's view of the world without understanding his view of God, whom he says he "invites" into all his daily activities. And it's impossible to overestimate how deeply Pentecostal biblical training permeates his view of right and wrong -- and stiffens his spine against criticism.

History is written by the winners, and they may or may not get it right, Ashcroft is fond of saying. "I don't particularly care if I do what's right in the sight of men. The important thing is for me to do right in God's sight. . .

. The verdict of history is inconsequential; the verdict of eternity is what counts."

That unblinking certainty bothers some people.

"There is a rigidity there that is very troubling," said Ralph Neas, head of the liberal People for the American Way, who maintains Ashcroft is suited to direct the Moral Majority, not the Justice Department. "He is so confident of his world view that he doesn't have to seek any advice that would challenge his opinion . . . or interfere with his bending the law his way by executive fiat.

"John Ashcroft thinks John Ashcroft knows what's best."

Ashcroft may be in worldly Washington, but he clearly is not of it.

A bemused national press has made much fun of the fact that he is an attorney general who doesn't drink, smoke, dance, sleep around, swear or otherwise defile himself. Even activist Phyllis Schlafly was taken aback when he balked at buying a raffle ticket for a Rush Limbaugh book at a right-wing fund-raiser because that would be gambling.

Yet to catalog his abstinences is to but scratch the surface of his makeup.

His rectitude has made him the Bush administration's heat shield for controversy.

It has kept the attorney general from flinching in the face of concerns that he too blithely puts the Constitution "on hold" under the guise of pursuing potential terrorists, an investigation that to date has yielded few tangible results. (Of some 1,200 "material witnesses" initially detained domestically after 9/11, none has been charged with terrorism.)

And it unquestionably has made him the favored son of his much-maligned Assemblies of God, whose practice of charismatic "spiritual gifts" such as healing and speaking in tongues historically prompted some other denominations to regard it as a hillbilly "Holy Roller church."

Many people mistakenly assume that Ashcroft is a fundamentalist. Actually, fundamentalists tend to take a dim view of Pentecostalism. (Bob Jones Sr., founder of ultraconservative Bob Jones University, once referred to it as "Satanic doctrine" -- so when Ashcroft infamously accepted an honorary degree at the college and declared, "We have no king but Christ," he was actually bridging a historic gulf.)

Ashcroft, a fervent lifelong member of the Assemblies of God, has brought the denomination more mainstream recognition than any of its earlier conspicuous congregants, including Aimee Semple McPherson, Elvis Presley, Jimmy Swaggart, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker and former Reagan administration Interior Secretary James Watt.

"We joked among ourselves that John must have felt like he was in the lion's den during his Senate confirmation hearings, but being attorney general he's continued to endure a tremendous amount of pressure and criticism and attack," said Wayne Warner, director of the Pentecostal Heritage Foundation. "Fortunately, he was raised in a family with a long tradition of standing strong in the faith -- whether the world understood or not."

Trace the legacy back to Ashcroft's Irish-immigrant grandfather, who packed his family under the oilcloth canopy of a Chevrolet bearing the handmade signs "Where Will You Spend Eternity?" and "Jesus is Coming Soon!" and set out to save lost souls all up and down the Atlantic seaboard. "Evangelist Ashcroft" would regale revival meetings with his testimony about how an exploding gasoline can turned him into a human torch -- until God gave him a "miraculous healing."

"We were gypsies almost, traveling in that car. Sometimes we slept in the car," Ashcroft's father, the late J. Robert Ashcroft, told a church historian. He recalled the flat tires, the meals of nothing but cereal for weeks at a time, how much he missed going to school -- and how he developed an obliviousness to public scorn. "At street meetings, they would (sometimes) throw stones and eggs and tomatoes at us . . . But I don't know -- it never embarrassed me or gave me fear or anything."

John Ashcroft admired his father's "ability to take the tough road, to put off pleasure for something else, (that) was my dad's north star of navigation. " He said his father was a "chair gripper" -- a dental patient who opted to get teeth drilled without Novocaine.

J. Robert Ashcroft exhibited his own public-opinion-be-darned attitude, although his rebellion came against the Assemblies of God's habit of shunning education. Among Pentecostals of his generation, "worldly schools provoked suspicion at best, hostility at worst," wrote Duke University religion Professor Grant Wacker. There seemed little need for education when Pentecostals assumed the second coming of Christ and the end of the world were imminent.

But when J. Robert Ashcroft's application to be a chaplain in World War II was rejected over his lack of education, it inspired him to pursue a doctorate in psychology at New York University. He completed everything but a dissertation. He then helped persuade the wary Assemblies of God -- inclined to see higher education as the source of social woes -- to establish their own liberal arts colleges, and he became president of a few.

Now the largest predominantly white Pentecostal denomination in the country,

the Assemblies claim 2.5 million adherents nationwide, outnumbering Episcopalians.

The church's global headquarters are in Ashcroft's lifelong home, which in the local vernacular sounds like "Sprangfield Mizzourah." It's an overwhelmingly white, country-music-loving city in the Ozarks along old Route 66. Brad Pitt grew up here -- although he's long since gone. Now, tourists use it as a pit-stop on the way to Branson, a place Bart Simpson aptly described as Las Vegas designed by Ned Flanders. Branson's strip boasts "the biggest names in show biz today, like Andy Williams, Tony Orlando and the Lennon Sisters" -- stars many people outside that orbit might assume are dead.

This territory continues to be Ashcroft's lodestar -- up until the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, he was making weekend pilgrimages back to attend his church and relax on his 155-acre farm. As he puts it, "It's comfortable, and I like comfortable."

The town hasn't changed much since he was an Eagle Scout and a star high school quarterback who earned extra money working at the local Dairy Queen.

J. Robert exposed his three boys to Wordsworth and Shakespeare, to Ralph Ellison and Mahalia Jackson, but he also instilled what John Ashcroft remembers as a "razor sharp focus on the eternal." They were forbidden to ride bikes on the Sabbath and barred from the movie theater: Paying 15 cents for a picture show means 7 cents would "go to support a Hollywood lifestyle we disagree with."

He recalls awakening each morning not to the smell of brewing coffee or fried bacon but to the loud exhortations of his father on his knees in prayer: "a magisterial wake-up call." J. Robert Ashcroft wasn't praying that his sons find happiness or achieve great things -- John remembers instead that his father prayed for them to have noble aspirations, believing the rest would fall into place.

John Ashcroft no longer speaks publicly about his own "baptism of the spirit" or speaking in tongues. Although the church considers speaking in tongues a sign of higher spiritual attainment, only about half of Assemblies of God members actually do so, according to Assemblies of God seminary professor Gary McGee.

In the New Testament Book of Acts, the "Day of Pentecost" relates how, after Jesus' resurrection and return to heaven, God sent down his Holy Spirit to his disciples. Recipients are described as speaking in tongues, which mainline Christian denominations once regarded as a temporary miracle that allowed them to evangelize people who didn't speak their language. Over time, the practice faded from Christian churches.

But at a revival in Topeka, Kan., in 1901, Bible college students suddenly began to babble in unknown "languages" and a fervor spread for this new Pentecostalism, whose flamboyant evangelists cut across racial and gender lines. They railed against dance-hall frequenters, dope-peddlers and other sinners, often staging spectacular shows. McPherson's sermon "Throw Out the Life Line" featured a dozen nightgowned maidens clinging to the Rock of Ages amid lightning and thunder before being pulled to safety by the "sailors of the Lord."

It was in this milieu that the Assemblies of God was established.

While adhering to the beliefs of the denomination, J. Robert Ashcroft frowned upon evangelists who began sermons by having themselves wheeled onstage in coffins, or those who used what he called "crude" syntax and boasted they had no need for education. He was always dignified, clad in the white shirt he considered the "mark of a civilized man."

Today, some Pentecostal churches still feature services where congregants are "struck by the spirit" and lapse into trances, writhing on the floor or shaking uncontrollably. Many, however, do not. At the Ashcrofts' home congregation, 3,000-seat Central Assembly Church in downtown Springfield, services are less theatrical, although someone speaks in tongues, on average, a couple of times a month.

Some people raised in a Pentecostal church were quick to shed its precepts as they gained a more worldly education. Not John Ashcroft.

From the day he left for Yale in 1960, Ashcroft was a self-labeled "odd duck." He certainly knew no fellow Yalies who were Pentecostal. His father wrote the freshman letters literally every day to tether him to his roots. Fellow students from the University of Chicago Law School remember John as a churchgoer on the straight-and-narrow there too -- listening to fiery radio sermons and selling his plasma to help pay the bills.

Today, living in Washington, John and Janet Ashcroft attend an evangelical church that meets in Union Station, with a rock band and a young, ethnically diverse congregation.

Although he has been both governor and U.S. senator from Missouri, you could say he got where he is by being a loser. He lost his first congressional race, his first run for statewide office, his bid to head the National Republican Committee and most notoriously, his last race: the 2000 Senate re- election bid he lost to Mel Carnahan, a Democrat who had died in a plane accident.

But Ashcroft's faith again frames his view: "For every crucifixion, there is a resurrection," he says. Losses paved the way to his first office -- he was appointed state auditor of Missouri -- and his current office as well.

At tense confirmation hearings, his former Senate colleagues wondered whether the religious prism through which he views the world would distort his ability to execute the laws of the land. Time and again, he said no.

"It's against my religion to impose my religion on other people," he repeated.

There were examples to prove the point. For instance, despite his vociferous opposition to gambling, as Missouri governor he helped set up the required mechanism to run a lottery after voters approved one.

Still, his record gave critics doubts. There was his gubernatorial veto of a bill to allow liquor sales on Sundays, and another veto on relaxing restrictions on candy containing alcohol -- he said he didn't care to make it easier for children to consume booze. There was the time he warned: "A robed elite have taken the wall of separation built to protect the church and made it a wall of religious oppression."

Potential nominees for judgeships recalled that Ashcroft questioned whether they were faithful to their spouses and whether they drank -- although those who reported only social drinking were not disqualified.

Missouri is no bastion of the right wing, but Ashcroft didn't succumb to the common political practice of commissioning polls and focus groups to shape his policies. To the contrary, Chip Robertson, his first chief of staff and later a Missouri Supreme Court justice, told the St. Louis Post-Dispatch: "One of the things I loved about Ashcroft was that he'd see a poll and say, 'My negatives aren't high enough -- I need to take on some tough issues.' "

Ashcroft's record registers none of the usual tabloid scandal scars, unless you count the time his wife pulled strings to get the Missouri State Library opened on a Sunday so their youngest son could finish a homework project.

It's easy to present his views in unflattering ways. He once told a religious magazine, for example, "I think all we should legislate is morality. " In context, he goes on to draw a contrast between morality and spirituality, which he says can and must never be legislated.

Among his colleagues he was still a little strange -- a guy who had his father anoint him with cooking oil from the kitchen before taking office. Cynics dubbed him "The Crisco Kid." And his voting record led the John Birch Society to rank him favorably, right alongside Sen. Jesse Helms.

Although Ashcroft won Senate confirmation to be attorney general, the vote was brutal: 52-48 -- the lowest margin of any Bush nominee.

At the Justice Department, his record has been a mixed bag. Setting aside his personal religious beliefs, for example, Ashcroft has ordered federal marshals to protect doctors who perform abortions.

Despite his longtime defense of states' rights, he unleashed federal action to block the wishes of Oregon voters who voted to legalize assisted suicide, and California voters who approved medical use of marijuana.

And his daily devoutness again became a novelty when he held voluntary office prayer meetings before work, and when aides draped the exposed breasts of partially disrobed statuary inside the Justice Department.

Some observers thought Ashcroft seemed almost bored with his new job. But on Sept. 11, on a flight to Milwaukee, he took a call over his secure phone, hung up and announced to aides: "Our world has changed forever."

In the 11 months since, Ashcroft has applied his good-versus-evil paradigm to the war on terrorism. He has become chief crusader in his own holy war -- not against Muslims, but against perceived terrorist threats.

"His religion teaches him there are concrete, clear-cut right and wrong answers to things," said Julie Ingersoll, assistant professor of religious studies at the University of North Florida, who until recently taught in Springfield. "Someone else might look at Christianity and Islam as two different constructs of reality. Certainly he wouldn't."

Ashcroft has no patience for introspective doubters who question the morality, constitutionality or even the wisdom of military tribunals, secret detentions, expanded wiretapping, blocking of Freedom of Information Act requests and eavesdropping on lawyers.

"Those who scare peace-loving people with phantoms of lost liberty, your tactics only aid terrorists, for they erode our national unity and diminish our resolve," he scolded the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Just days ago, the House stripped from the Homeland Security Bill the Ashcroft "TIPS" plan to recruit millions of amateur observers -- meter readers,

mail carriers, cable installers and the like -- to keep their eyes peeled for "suspicious activities" and report on fellow Americans.

Lately, even some conservatives are fretting about Ashcroft's zeal to infiltrate subversive groups -- they fear a future Democratic administration could turn the tactic against them.

To Ingersoll, the conflict simply reflects a paradox between two competing strains of Ashcroft's Pentecostalism: a libertarian belief that the government should mind its own business and a fundamentalist faith in law and order. "He's had to appeal to the fundamentalists to build his political base, and he's now the nation's top law enforcement officer, so that side is winning out in him."

Now White House sources are beginning to grumble anonymously to reporters that Ashcroft is too overtly political, and tends to grab headlines instead of being a team player.

It's doubtful any of this criticism is giving Ashcroft second thoughts about his mission.

Although he gives lip service to the value of "creative self-doubt," there isn't much evidence he engages in it. In his memoir he tries to demonstrate the value of self-doubt by relating a tale in which the press and an opponent once criticized him. But the unintentionally comic moral he offers is not that he was wrong, but that he forgave them for being so wrong about him.

Is this sense of self-righteousness, this imperviousness to criticism, a virtue or a fatal flaw?

Julian Bond, chairman of the NAACP, has observed that Ashcroft "knows something about the Taliban, coming as he does from that wing of American politics."

Not surprisingly, the Christian magazine World has chosen Ashcroft its "Daniel of the Year" for withstanding "scorn and harassment." Ashcroft's Bible encourages him that Daniel emerged from the lion's den without a scratch.

A coda: the Hebrew name Daniel means, literally, "God is my judge."