The Ambition

by Lee Strobel

  For the past four Friday evenings, O’Sullivan had been one of twelve people in a semicircle of chairs inside a classroom at Diamond Point Fellowship, there to discuss their struggles with betting on everything from horses to cards to the number of points Kobe Bryant would rack up in the next Lakers game.

  Tom avoided Phillip’s gaze. “Yeah, I’m wrestling with some stuff,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  Phillip said, “Tell me.”

  Tom looked around. He started to say something, then hesitated. “How about if I walk you to your car?”

  Neither of them in a hurry, they exited through a pair of double doors and emerged on a sidewalk, ambling side–by–side toward the church’s enormous parking lot, where sodium–vapor lights illuminated a smattering of cars.

  The air was cool and humid; they sidestepped puddles from a thunderstorm that had snarled rush hour traffic earlier in the evening. A few people were milling around, none of them close enough to overhear them.

  “I was doing some reading today,” Tom said, his hands clasped behind his back as they strolled with their heads down. “And I’ve become concerned about the conversations that occur in our group.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I think everyone assumes we’ll have confidentiality about things we admit to each other — and I’m sure that’s everyone’s intent.”

  “It’s a core value. What’s said in the group stays in the group.”

  “Yeah, so you’ve said.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You may want things to stay confidential, but this afternoon I was looking at the Illinois statutes. The law says that if someone confesses something to a priest, or pastor, or rabbi, or imam — the exact word the law uses is ‘clergyman’ — then the clergyman can’t be compelled to disclose that conversation in court.”

  Phillip was sifting Tom’s words as he spoke. “But we’re not clergymen,” he said as he thought through the implications of what Tom was saying.

  “Exactly. I know everyone intends to keep things secret, but if push comes to shove, could a judge compel them to disclose what’s been admitted in the group or to one another? What happens if a member of the group is subpoenaed to testify in front of a grand jury that’s investigating whether another member has committed a crime? Would you be allowed to keep the group’s conversations confidential? Not under Illinois law. As I read the statute, a grand jury could force you to testify about any admissions that have been made.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like that. How could a grand jury force someone to testify if he doesn’t want to?”

  They slowed their pace. Tom said, “If someone refuses to disclose the information, he could be thrown in jail for contempt. Technically, he could be locked up for the term of the grand jury — and a judge can extend its term almost indefinitely. Potentially, a person could be jailed for years.”

  Phillip stopped and looked at him, incredulous. “Is that a realistic scenario?”

  “Absolutely. One guy in Pennsylvania was locked up for contempt in 1995 for refusing to testify about the whereabouts of some money in a civil case involving his ex–wife. Guess how long he spent in jail?”

  Phillip shrugged.

  “Fourteen years. So, yeah, contempt is serious stuff.”

  “That’s amazing. You’re the first person to ever raise this. The church never said anything about this to me as a volunteer leader, and I’ve been doing this for quite a few years.”

  “This could be an enormous problem for the church,” Tom continued. “Think of all the volunteers who serve at every level of the organization, doing all sorts of ministry with all kinds of people. Everyone’s encouraged to be candid, to admit their sins, to confess their wrongdoing, to come clean about their past. The assumption is that everything’s secret, like there’s some sort of legal confidentiality, but actually that’s not guaranteed by the law.”

  “Wow,” Phillip replied.

  Tom continued, clearly in counselor mode: “Now, someone could fight the contempt charge by claiming they should be included in the definition of ‘clergy’ because they’re serving a similar function. After all, Diamond Point teaches that every Christian is a minister of sorts, right? But the courts tend to construe statutory definitions pretty narrowly. My guess is they’d lose — and get locked up if they refuse to testify.”

  Phillip’s eyes scanned the skies, as if he were searching for guidance from above. “Well, Tom, I don’t know what to say. It’s like getting sick and finding out you don’t have any health insurance.”

  Tom chuckled at the analogy — but Phillip was right. The two of them resumed sluggish steps toward the parking lot. As they reached the curb, Phillip said, “I’m betting you weren’t just reading the statute for kicks. You must have had a reason to be researching this. Honestly, what’s got you concerned?”

  Tom threw up his arms in mock exasperation. “I wish I could say, Phillip — but weren’t you listening? You’re not a clergyman!”

  Phillip joined in the laugh. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

  Before long they arrived at Phillip’s old Pontiac, a once–white sedan in decent shape despite some pitting in the front and smudges of rust nibbling the chrome around the windows. Not bad for 176,400 miles.

  Phillip leaned against the driver’s door as if basking in the overhead lights and crossed his arms, his rolled–up sleeves revealing colorfully etched reminders of his years in the Navy.

  “I’ve really been benefiting from the group,” Tom said after a while. “No doubt about it. The best news is that I’m here at church tonight instead of at the poker game on Taylor Street. That’s huge for me.”

  “And …”

  “And I’ve been making progress. The first couple of steps weren’t a problem. Admit I’m powerless over my gambling? C’mon — I’d be an idiot not to admit the obvious. And I’ve really come to believe there’s a higher power that can help me with my compulsion. I don’t doubt there’s a God.”

  For a while, neither spoke. Tom kicked a stone that tumbled through the grate of a storm sewer, and then he took a step over to Phillip’s car, half–resting against the hood.

  “I’m thinking ahead to the step where we admit our wrongdoing to God and another person,” Tom said.

  “Don’t look ahead; concentrate on where you’re at right now.”

  “Yeah, I know. But still, it’s talking about this stuff with another person that bothers me. I’ve got to have more than just a promise of confidentiality, Phillip. I need to know the law is on my side. That not even a cop or a prosecutor or a judge or a grand jury could coerce that other person into revealing anything.”

  Phillip studied his new friend’s face. Tom’s eyes were dark and sunken and blood–shot, his pale skin jaundiced under the yellowish lighting. He looked gaunt and exhausted.

  “Obviously, you’re dealing with some pretty heavy stuff,” Phillip said. Tom’s sigh was heavy. When he didn’t offer anything, Phillip continued.

  “If you’re talking about having legal protection from what you admit, then this must involve more than just stealing twenty bucks from your girlfriend’s purse to bet on a long–shot in the fifth at Arlington Park.”

  Phillip’s observation came with a good–hearted chuckle, but all Tom could return was a weak smile. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sad: “As I said, Phillip — you’re not a clergyman.”

  II

  On the Tuesday after his chat with Phillip, Tom O’Sullivan was sitting in his office behind an impossibly cluttered desk, littered with case files and half–used yellow legal pads and scraps of notes and dogeared depositions with dialogue highlighted in yellow. His secretary was standing over him while clutching a handful of pink phone message slips and a stack of letters — mostly bills.

  “Your two o’clock called — he’s gonna be late,” Beth said.

  “Uh–huh. Paulie, right? That’s the third time.”

  She nodded. “But he’s paid
up — in cash — so I’d cut him some slack.”

  He looked up at her, annoyed. She handed him the pile of phone messages, which he quickly and mechanically reviewed — his look of disinterest never changing — and then he handed them back to her, one by one, with terse instructions on how to respond to each of the callers: “Tell him to make an appointment … tell him to screw himself … tell him to go somewhere else … tell her I’m slapping a lien on her house … tell him to give me another week … tell him I’m not a mind–reader; I can’t predict when the judge will rule …”

  Beth dutifully collected the slips, making mental notes of Tom’s instructions. “You want the mail?” she asked when he finished.

  Tom grimaced. “If they’re bills, hang onto ‘em as long as you can.”

  She turned and started to leave, but then she stopped and took a step back toward the desk.

  “I wasn’t sure about this one,” she said, tossing a white envelope on his desk. “There’s no return address and it says ‘personal.’ “ With that, she closed the door behind herself.

  For a moment Tom considered the envelope, which was devoid of clues, and then sliced the top with his letter opener. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a hand–scrawled note from Phillip Taylor. Tom struggled to make out his writing.

  You looked awful Friday night. I don’t know what’s weighing on you, and I don’t need to know. But I do know you’d better deal with it. King David wrote:

  “When I refused to confess my sin, I was weak and miserable. My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat.” Whatever you’re dealing with, it’s going to keep eating away at you like acid. Don’t wait — deal with it. I ain’t clergy, but I can hook you up.

  Phillip was right about one thing — he felt awful. Every time he would see a news article about Reese McKelvie and his possible elevation to the highest legislative body in the land, he would flash back to that encounter in his chambers, the same queasy cocktail of fear, revulsion, and anger churning inside of him.

  But — confess? Phillip had no idea what he was suggesting. What — he should call the U.S. Attorney’s Office and rat on the mob? Tom let out a small laugh at the very idea. His life would be over — one way or the other. He couldn’t even send an anonymous tip about McKelvie to the news media; Dom would instantly know where the leak came from.

  Confession might be good for the soul, Tom concluded, but it sure seemed bad for the body. Maybe he should just let it go — why worry about one more dirty politician ending up in the Senate? Most were crooks anyway.

  Tom’s antique chair groaned as he swiveled, letter still in hand, toward the window that looked directly into a dirty, unkempt alley that dead–ended into the weathered brick of the building next door.

  What a view, he mused. It was like looking at his soul. He had become what he never wanted to see in his father, let alone himself. To acknowledge one indicted the other.

  He glanced again at the letter: “My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat.” He didn’t know much about this David guy, but that wasn’t a bad description of how he was feeling.

  He reached down and buzzed the letter through his shredder.

  III

  Ken Underhill phoned in the tip to the news desk at Channel 5, just in time for its top–rated ten o’clock newscast. Reese McKelvie is dining with his wife right now at a seafood restaurant just off Michigan Avenue. You might get a shot at a comment.

  The media were still chattering about the Examiner’s disclosure that McKelvie and Eric Snow were vying to succeed Senator Barker. Typically, McKelvie was insulated from the media at the courthouse, so the news editor jumped at the chance to ambush him. Of course, Underwood never identified himself as McKelvie’s public relations agent.

  McKelvie emerged from the back door of Gills, looking dapper in a blue blazer and khaki slacks, his halo of white hair neatly trimmed that morning. Holding hands with his wife, Chelsea, a handsome woman with her hair pulled back in a sophisticated chignon, he feigned surprise at the reporter who thrust a microphone at him.

  McKelvie planted his feet and stared with confidence into the camera. He never heard the reporter’s question; it didn’t matter anyway, since his response had been scripted earlier with Underhill’s help.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that I’m being considered for the Senate,” he said, a smug look of self–satisfaction on his face. “But we’re living in challenging and dangerous times, when we need mature and proven leadership at all levels of government. My life has been devoted to serving Illinois and the country, and I look forward to any opportunity to make a positive difference for justice, peace, and prosperity.”

  Taken aback that he didn’t have to chase an uncooperative McKelvie through the parking lot, the reporter was caught without a follow–up question. He blurted, “What do you know about Eric Snow?”

  McKelvie pursed his lips. “Reverend Snow? I know he’s the pastor at an evangelical church in the suburbs — an evangelical congregation in Diamond Point, I believe — but I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him.”

  Less than fifteen seconds after McKelvie’s brief interview aired on the news, Eric Snow’s phone rang in his family room.

  “That’s it,” declared Debra Wyatt. “He’s thrown down the gauntlet.”

  Snow was already in his pajamas. “I saw it,” he said, using the remote to click off the TV. “Any ideas?”

  “The Illinois Organization for Foreign Relations has a meeting in Chicago next week; the deputy Secretary of State for Middle East Policy is speaking. You should show up. I can try to wrangle a slot for a short speech; you’d be in demand right now, given the news about the Senate seat.”

  As usual, her advice seemed solid. “I like it.”

  “It’s perfect — diplomatic setting, highly respected organization, nonpartisan, in fact, left–leaning. I’ll make some calls tomorrow.”

  Snow stood and stretched with his free arm. “I’ve already taken a sleeping pill so I can’t talk long, but you should know that the governor called about half an hour ago.”

  “Really? What did he say?”

  “Just staying in touch. He confirmed it’s between me and McKelvie; he didn’t let on which way he was leaning.”

  “Was he upset about the leak to the Examiner?”

  “Not particularly. He said it was bound to get out.”

  “What else?”

  “He said he had a meeting with Halberstam and was glad everything was checking out. Then he told me that he likes the idea that I resign from the church.”

  Debra paused. “Only you can make that decision.”

  “He said he’d prefer referring to me as a ‘former pastor.’ He encouraged me to consider it.”

  Debra still questioned the strategy. What pretense was he going to use for resigning? Would it be too obvious of an attempt to divert attention from his evangelicalism? Would it damage his standing among conservatives because it would look like he was embarrassed about his affiliation with the church?

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that short of denouncing my faith or abandoning my family, I’d do whatever it takes to get this appointment.”

  “Good answer!” she said.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  I

  Eric was the dreamer, Art was the implementer. Theirs was a partnership forged by respect and fueled by mutual dependency.

  What started as Art Bullock’s attempt to pitch life insurance to Eric Snow quickly developed into an abiding friendship that benefited each of them in different ways.

  They immediately resonated with each other the first time they met. Eric liked Art’s tenacity, focus, and intensity, and Art was intrigued and even bemused by Eric’s over–the–top success. They both liked baseball — Eric was an inveterate Chicago Cubs fan, while Art played shortstop in a summer league with the vacuum–cleaner prowess of his favorite player, Don Kessinger of the 1969 Cubs.r />
  After Eric’s spiritual turnaround, their friendship deepened, fueled by common dreams, goals, and plans. A former youth pastor, Art tutored him in theology and the ins–and–outs of practical ministry, while Eric expanded Art’s leadership experience by giving him carte blanche to manage his nascent church. Most of all, they simply liked each other. Laughter was frequent; hanging out became a favorite pastime. Their hearts beat in unison for the same objectives.

  Over the years, though, they found that building a church was a lot easier than deepening it. Staging a slick Sunday service was nothing compared to creating an authentic Christian community, a place with single–minded devotion to the teachings of Jesus, where sanctimonious piety was chased away by honest self–reflection and transparent fellowship. A body in which people candidly admitted their sins in a supportive environment, characterized by an abundance of forgiveness, acceptance, mutual support, and grace.

  As Art saw it, it was his job to shrink the gap between that ideal and the reality of the local church. Increasingly, his progress has been frustrated by the sheer complexity of managing such a large organization. And that’s what has been gnawing at Art. While he’d been engulfed by administrative details that kept multiplying out of control, Eric Snow had been free to dream new dreams — including a radical new vision in which the church’s central role was elbowed aside by political ambition.

  “Eric, I’m telling you, this is wrong, this is trouble, this isn’t the right door to charge through,” Art insisted. It was the Monday after Snow dropped the bombshell about his Senate aspirations in his meeting with the church’s inner circle.

  Art had stopped by Eric’s office unannounced the first thing in the morning, catching Snow just as he was hanging up from a phone call with an aide to the governor. Eric remained seated; Art stayed standing — leaning forward, his posture aggressive — on the other side of Snow’s imposing desk.

  “God knows what he’s doing,” came Eric’s measured reply. “If he allows my appointment, then that will be confirmation that this is the right path.”