The Ambition

by Lee Strobel

  Fowler stepped onto the platform: “One more question, please,” he called out.

  The senior political writer for the Tribune, an elder statesman among local reporters, rose to speak. His very attendance at the news conference signaled that this was a significant political story; he didn’t waste his time on small–time affairs.

  “If you don’t get appointed to the Senate, are you planning to seek election to any other public office? This new organization looks like a launching pad to a political career. And you’ve certainly got the resources to jump–start a campaign.”

  “Mr. Thompson, my goal has always been to serve other people. That’s why I went into the ministry, and that’s why I’m starting this new multi–faith organization. What form that service takes in the future — well, that’s something I can’t foresee.”

  “So you’re not foreclosing the possibility?”

  “The demands of Serve America Together are going to keep me awfully busy. The purpose behind this group isn’t to launch careers but to deliver better coordinated, more efficient, more cost–effective assistance to people who are trying to rebuild their lives. If I can accomplish that, then I’ll be satisfied.”

  Back in the shadows of the room, still pressed against the wall, unnoticed by the media or anyone else, Debra Wyatt triumphantly pumped her fist. The press conference, in her view, was a grand slam.

  He’s a natural, she declared to herself.

  IV

  “Well, Reverend Snow — or should I say, the former Reverend Snow?”

  “I’d rather you say Senator Snow.”

  It was Governor Avanes calling on Snow’s cell phone as he and Debra rode back to Diamond Point after a celebratory lunch of salmon and steak at the Golden Parachute.

  “I’ve got you on speaker, Governor. Debra Wyatt is with me.”

  “Ah, Debra, hello. Your candidate did quite well today. I’ve seen the wire stories and the noon news. He looked great — like the leader that he is. Even Darryl Banting couldn’t find anything bad to say about Serve America Together.”

  “Yes, we were very pleased with the reception we got. You should have seen Eric fielding questions — he was masterful. He reminded me of you.”

  “Oh, flattery will get you everywhere!” Avanes replied. “How did it feel, Eric — your first foray out of the church world and into the real world?”

  “I’ll be honest, Governor — it was a little disconcerting at first.”

  Actually, the honest truth was that Snow didn’t enjoy the mental juggling he had to do as he formulated each answer: What was demonstrably false? What was merely misleading? How can I answer without giving my opponent any ammunition? Frankly, he wasn’t comfortable with the standard of truth being what he could get away with. All of which went unsaid to the governor.

  “Listen, Eric, you did the right thing,” Avanes said. “This organization breaks you out of your evangelical straightjacket. Makes you look magnanimous and inclusive and able to work with all kinds of constituencies. You’re endearing yourself to future Muslim voters, Buddhist voters, Jewish voters, and so forth — and I doubt if you’ve alienated yourself from your evangelical base. I assume you’ll continue the organization if you get the Senate appointment.”

  “Oh, absolutely. Since it’s a not–for–profit, I don’t see any conflict.”

  “Perfect. That would put you on the front page every time there’s a natural disaster. In rides Eric Snow on his white horse to save the taxpayers money and help people who are suffering. Yeah, Eric, I really like it. But I have to reiterate that I was concerned about the Examiner article on the supposed miracles at Diamond Point.”

  “Yeah, well,” Eric said, clearing his throat, “remember that more than eight out of ten Americans believe that God can do miracles.”

  “That’s in the abstract — and that’s why that number is irrelevant. Politics is always about perceptions. You start talking about little girls regaining their sight and old men throwing away their crutches, and the first thing that comes into people’s minds is some circus–tent faith healer who’s bilking the sick and gullible out of their money. I’m telling you, Eric — it’s poison.”

  “Poison? Well, governor, I—”

  Debra jumped in. “At least Eric’s not affiliated with the church anymore.”

  “Yeah, that helps. You resigned in the nick of time, Eric. If you’d waited too much longer, I would have had to rule you out. As it is now, though, well … let me put it this way, the Senate is yours to lose.”

  “Governor, that’s very encouraging,” Eric told him. “If there’s anything else I can do — “

  “You’ve already taken a big step of faith by launching this new organization. That shows grit and calculated risk–taking — two things you’ll need in the Senate. And it shows a sense of confidence in our relationship. I like that. So keep going in the direction you’re headed. Scrub yourself clean of any association with that church.

  “In fact, here’s some free advice, invite those new Hindu, atheist, Jewish, and Muslim friends of yours to dinner at a very public restaurant and tip off the press. A front–page photo of you being friendly with those folks wouldn’t hurt in dispelling the image of you as an evangelical.

  “And every time you get a new religion to sign up with your organization, trumpet it as loudly as you can. Reach out to traditional service groups too, like the Kiwanis, the Rotary, and the Lion’s Club. There are lots of older people in those organizations, and those are the most likely to turn out at the polls.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Eric, I’m telling you again, you’re the future. You’re on track, my friend. Don’t look back.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  I

  It started with a text message: “Strider, I care about u. How r u doing?” A day passed, then came the reply: “Still feeling dumped.” Next, an email: “Please don’t misunderstand. My feelings toward you haven’t changed. I’m thrilled that you asked me to marry you; I hope you understand that I can’t do that right now, for both our sakes.”

  That was followed by a brief cell phone call (Strider to Gina), then a longer call (Gina to Strider), and now two cups of cappuccino at a funky North Side coffeehouse called Hello Joe.

  There was small talk, a few laughs, a little teasing — their relationship, they were both pleased to discover, was far from iced over. Soon they were oblivious to the discomfort of the stark wooden chairs that reminded Gina of a smaller version used in her school’s kindergarten classes. They ignored the chaos swirling around them as Saturday afternoon patrons hustled in and out of the popular neighborhood gathering spot.

  Gina, wearing dark jeans and a red sweatshirt to shield her from the cool, drizzly weather, gestured toward Strider’s pocket–sized notebook, which he had casually tossed on the table, as was his custom.

  “How’s work going?” she asked.

  “Still dicey. They laid off another bunch of people, including Kurt Feldman — remember him?”

  “The federal courts guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought he was good.”

  “He was good. Journeyman. Solid.”

  “So who’s getting that beat?”

  “Nobody. They decided to send people to the courthouse on an as–needed basis, which is ridiculous. Remember when I covered the courts?”

  “You probably averaged three stories a day.”

  “Easily. And I would have missed two of them if I hadn’t been full time in the building. This kind of retrenchment isn’t just bad for people like Kurt and the paper; it’s bad for the city, it’s bad for the country, it’s bad for democracy. The watchdogs are slowly being put to sleep.”

  Strider eyed Gina’s empty porcelain cup and glanced over to the counter, where the cluster of people had temporarily receded. “Want another one?”

  Gina nodded. “It’s a little chilly,” she said by way of explanation — but it wasn’t really the damp weather or h
er thirst that prompted her reply. She had missed hanging out with Strider. Chatting on a lazy Saturday afternoon just felt so comfortable, so right, so — well, easy. The two of them, as different as they were from each other, had always blended well.

  “How’s the article on the church coming along?” Gina asked as Strider sat back down and took a sip from his replenished cup.

  Strider looked up at her sharply. “Still coming together,” he said, testing the waters.

  “Did you get a chance to interview Eric Snow before he left the church?”

  “Only briefly. What about the folks in the pews — how are they reacting to his departure?”

  “They’re disappointed, of course. His new organization sounds like a great idea, but people are wondering whether he’s settling for a lesser cause.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, lots of people are qualified to run an organization like that. But Eric seems uniquely gifted for the church. What could be more important than getting Jesus’ message out to the world?”

  “Maybe his chances of getting the Senate appointment are better now that he’s an ex–pastor. What do you think of the idea of Senator Snow?”

  Gina hesitated before answering. “I’d prefer he stay at the church,” she said finally. “But if he’s appointed, I think he’d be a breath of fresh air in Washington. He’d represent the state well, especially after Senator Barker. At least Snow wouldn’t be tempted by the kind of payoffs Barker was getting.”

  They sipped their coffee. Quiet moments were never a problem in their relationship, and for a while they just savored each other’s presence. But before too long, Gina couldn’t help but raise another issue.

  “Your article on the miracles was really good,” she said. “Were you actually there when the little girl got healed?”

  “Yeah, it was really dramatic stuff.”

  “I thought it was interesting that the atheist you quoted couldn’t offer an explanation for what happened. What about you, Garry? Do you think it could have been an actual miracle?”

  “You know me — miracles don’t really fit into my worldview.”

  Gina let out a laugh. “Then maybe you should get a new worldview!” she said, playfully jabbing him in the shoulder. Strider smiled in return, but Gina continued to press him.

  “If it wasn’t a miracle, then what was it?”

  “An anomaly, for sure. I guess I don’t know how to explain it. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a rational explanation that we haven’t discovered yet. Actually, just about any explanation — no matter how far–fetched — would be more likely than a genuine miracle. A miracle would necessitate not only the existence of God, but that he — or she — would be a personal God who listens to prayers and then decides to intervene. That’s a lot to swallow.”

  “What would it take for you to believe, Strider? Is there anything? Or have you set the bar so high that nothing could convince you that God is real?”

  Strider absent–mindedly ran his hand through his brown hair, then took off his wire–rims and massaged the bridge of his nose.

  “I’d like to think I’m always open to evidence, but frankly I’m not even sure that the words ‘evidence’ and ‘faith’ go together. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof, and the claim that there’s a good God behind this broken world would need an awful lot of evidence to back it up.”

  “But isn’t the evidence in this case pretty extraordinary? Seems like a cut–and–dried case of a miracle to me. Unless you want to believe that the little girl — what’s her name?”

  “Hanna.”

  “Right, Hanna. That somehow Hanna underwent a spontaneous healing at the exact instant Dick Urban prayed for her. If you start without any bias, then I think the best explanation that fits the evidence is that a miracle took place. And what about that other case, with the polio? This wasn’t just one isolated incident.”

  Strider frowned and slipped his glasses back on. “I know, I know. I’ve thought about this, believe me. I feel like I need to hold both these cases in tension until I see if there’s a more rational and scientific explanation. But what about you, Gina? Would anything convince you that you’re just imagining all this God stuff?”

  “It would take a lot, Strider. And not just because of these two miracles.”

  They sat in silence for a while before Strider spoke again. “When it comes to you and me, I guess it boils down to this: either I become a Christian, which is exceedingly unlikely, or you walk away from it, which doesn’t seem to be in the cards, either. But, Gina, there’s a third path.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You could practice your faith and we could agree not to let it come between us. Lots of people have religiously mixed marriages — Christian and Jew, Hindu and Buddhist, skeptic and believer—”

  “Methodist and Baptist,” she chimed in with a laugh.

  “No, seriously. I don’t see why it can’t work if both parties are committed to each other. Like that old saying — love will find a way.”

  This was too nice of a day to end with an argument. Gina wanted to say that if God is real and if he did tell his followers not to marry people outside the faith, then this was really an issue of obedience. If she believed in God, she had to trust that his ways ultimately were the best for her. But in the end, she said nothing. She didn’t want to spoil their first time together again.

  Strider saw her silence as an open door. “You know the Rosenbaums,” he continued. “Brenda’s Presbyterian and Alan’s Jewish. They’ve been married for — what? Ten or eleven years? With two boys? I don’t see them having a lot of conflict over religion. They take the kids to temple at Hanukkah and to church on Christmas. No big deal. The kids can decide for themselves what they want to believe when they get older. That seems pretty simple to me.”

  Inside, Gina was flustered. How could she even discuss this matter with Strider when they didn’t have common ground? When he didn’t understand that her faith involved far more than just going to church on Christmas? When he was glossing over the myriad ways in which their spiritually mismatched marriage would be paved with conflict all the way to the horizon?

  And there was something else that was heartbreaking for Gina. It was the sober realization that as she continued to flourish in her relationship with God, it would be like she was taking an exotic journey to a beautiful, romantic, and faraway place, enjoying fresh experiences and exciting adventures, gaining new understanding and developing deeper wisdom, with new sights and sounds and emotions — but she would never be able to take her best friend along with her.

  She would never be able to share it with him, or explain it to him, in a way that he would ever truly comprehend and appreciate. That seemed so deeply and profoundly sad to her. Such a hollow and lonely and empty way to live out a marriage.

  Still, she didn’t want to jeopardize their fragile relationship by pushing the issue any further. Instead, she chose to say cheerily: “Maybe there’ll be another miracle — something that breaks through that reporter’s veneer.”

  Strider put down his cup, now drained of coffee. “Gina — don’t get your hopes up — I am who I am.”

  “I know,” she said, “that’s why I’m not giving up on you.”

  II

  Reese McKelvie’s slate blue eyes were cold and blood–shot, slightly squinting as he scrutinized Art Bullock. Hooded by bushy white brows and underlined by puffy bags tinged the color of a faded bruise, the eyes, unblinking, bored into Bullock’s resolve. They told him in no uncertain terms that he was way out of his league. They told him that he would come to regret ever having ventured into McKelvie’s private lair.

  There was no small talk. “Well, Reverend Bullock,” the chief judge said, tossing out the word as if he were discarding a used tissue, “explain exactly why you insisted on meeting with me.”

  Hampered by rush hour traffic, Art had arrived just in time for his 8:00 a.m. meeting in McKelvie’s chambers. Th
e bailiff, Buster Marshall, had ushered him into an anteroom. “Need to search you,” he said, gesturing for Art to raise his arms.

  Art was concerned about being late for the meeting. “They already did that downstairs.”

  “It’s policy.”

  What Buster didn’t tell him is that the standard screening in the lobby was only for weapons; this pat down would detect other insidious devices: hidden mics, transmitters, wires. The kind of thing McKelvie has feared ever since the FBI brazenly bugged the chambers of a Cook County Criminal Courts judge years ago in a probe that earned that crooked jurist ten years in a federal prison. That’s why McKelvie’s chambers are swept for bugs every week.

  McKelvie’s office was designed to intimidate visitors, with its mammoth mahogany desk and his high–backed, overstuffed, black leather chair that resembled a throne, where the judge would perch like a ghostly raven in his flowing black robes.

  The paneled walls were peppered with photographs of the judge shaking hands with various dignitaries — Ronald Reagan over here, Jimmy Carter over there, a Clinton one opposite a Bush one — as well as gold–trimmed plaques bearing flowery words of appreciation from bar associations and civic groups. The built–in bookcases were packed with bound copies of the Illinois statutes and case law. Though the morning light was filtering through the partly opened shutters on the windows, the chambers retained a dim and foreboding ambiance.

  McKelvie didn’t offer to shake hands, instead fitting his ample girth into his seat and regally arranging the pleats of his robes while Art lowered himself into a simple black chair thinly upholstered with faux leather.

  The judge’s frosty demeanor didn’t surprise Bullock — and not just because Art was associate pastor of the church that had been founded by his chief rival for the Senate appointment.

  When Bullock called the judge the previous afternoon, McKelvie’s secretary refused to put him through, and so Art gave her a pointed message: “Tell him it’s about the late Tom O’Sullivan.” Within ten minutes, she called back — this time, sounding much more deferential — to set up an immediate meeting for the following morning.