The Shadow President Read online

  Lewis’s analysis overlooked a significant signal in the final phrase—“and God bless you”—offered by the vice president when he spoke at the cabinet meeting. Easy to regard as a kind of rhetorical tic, like the “God bless America” that presidents tack on to the end of formal addresses, Pence’s call to the deity reminded conservative Christians that their champion was alert to his duty. In fact, as one of Pence’s closest aides would explain, the vice president actually believed he could bring Trump to Jesus and, like Jesus, he was willing to do whatever was necessary to help save Trump’s soul.

  Pence was also calling attention to his own piety, which his supporters valued above all his other qualities. Long disappointed by Republicans who appeared to share their faith but failed to create the society they desired, many Christian Right voters had supported Trump—the most profane candidate in modern times—because of Mike Pence. Like them, the vice president imagined America’s conservative Christians to be the modern equivalent of ancient Jews exiled to a wilderness that just happened to look like a comfortable, modern society. This is why Pence said, “No people of faith today face greater hostility or hatred than followers of Christ,” he said in 2017.

  Pence’s hope for the future resided in his faith that, as chosen people, conservative evangelicals would eventually be served by a leader whom God would enable to defeat their enemies and create a Christian nation. Devoted to the dream of a nation guided by Christian Right beliefs, his preternaturally serene presence reminded the devout that Trump was the instrument of God and that they—the Jews of this era—were closer to their goal than ever before. This pursuit would be aided by a host of allies, including Trump’s election guru, Stephen Bannon, who would use Facebook and other social media as weapons in a “culture war.”

  Backed by reclusive billionaires Robert and Rebekah Mercer and their firm, Cambridge Analytica (CA), Bannon would disseminate vast amounts of false information intended to motivate conservative Christian voters and discourage their opponents. The ultimate aim of this information warfare (as described by former CA employee Christopher Wylie) was the election of Trump and Pence, who would then roll back the rights of women and gays while empowering religious conservatives and businesses. In the world at large, Trump and Pence were expected to disengage America from broad agreements on trade, environmental protection, and security.7

  Key to his election, more than 80 percent of evangelical Christians had voted for Trump. This support perplexed those who considered his lifelong record of sex scandals, bankruptcies, and public displays of cruelty, who wondered how this group could stand with him. The question confounded those who assumed that politically active conservative evangelicals applied conventional morality in a consistent way. In fact, their kind of Christianity placed a higher value on the professions of faith and relied on supernatural assumptions to justify political expediency. Descendants of Luther and Calvin, their emphasis on statements of belief over evidence of personal conduct (with faith, all is forgiven) made it possible to overlook the president’s massive and widely publicized record of immorality. At the same time, they yearned for protection, as they lived in what they considered to be the wilderness of national affairs.8

  Among white conservative Christians of Pence’s sort, modern developments such as marriage equality for gay and lesbian citizens, made possible by recent Supreme Court decisions, marked them as latter-day versions of the exiled Israelites of the Bible. Despite their vast numbers and influence and their sense that, like the Jews, they were God’s “chosen” people, they saw themselves as victims. Their champions were politicians like Pence, who proclaimed their faith as the basis for their policies. Consistent with Luther’s theology, they believed that faith made their actions righteous. This contrasted with Aristotle, whose Ethics said good deeds make a good man.

  Although these leaders could only do so much against the powerful—as governor, Pence had tried but failed to enact policies to permit antigay discrimination—they were nevertheless revered by the faithful. In the White House, Pence could act on their behalf. As the pastor of Pence’s church back home in Indiana once explained, the wily Daniel occupied a place “like the vice presidency” and served both God and the king of Babylon. As the king, Trump could be dangerous and disturbing, but the threat was less frightening with Daniel, or rather, Mike, by his side. Besides, if the worst comes to pass, and the world is engulfed by the apocalypse of Bible prophecy, the chosen will be saved.9

  For more than a century, American evangelicals of various stripes had forecast the arrival of the apocalypse, often on specific dates, only to find life continuing, and even improving, for most people long after the appointed time. Though others would view these missed deadlines as evidence of errors, the mistaken prophets would be forgiven by believers who consider a profession of faith far more important than any accurate predictions about the end of days. In this way, faith became a substitute for facts and permitted believers to assert their superiority even as they proclaimed their humility. In the same way that President Trump insisted his genes made him better than others, this type of Christian assumed extra insights on an ontological basis: faith, rather than might, makes right. Such a belief permitted the faithful to claim humility in the shadow of God’s grace while also feeling just a little (or a lot) superior to others.10

  Humble superiority had been Pence’s default setting during his twelve years in Congress and four as Indiana’s governor, where his blending of religion and politics had alienated fellow Republicans, who noted he could be harsh in his treatment of his opponents and stubborn in his beliefs. When Pence denied climate change or questioned the fact that smoking causes cancer, they saw unseemly and irrational arrogance. His disregard for science and other realms of expertise made him more like President Trump than many Americans understood. It was also consistent with the habits of mind that allowed him to tolerate the scandals that plagued the president and those he brought into his administration.

  Dogged by three separate investigations into Russian interference in the 2016 election and possible connections to his campaign, Trump had seen four close associates charged with crimes. White House staff had been fired and replaced at an alarming rate. Amid the churn and uncertainty, the unflappable Pence reassured many that should Trump leave office, someone with a steady temperament would be there. Although it was never stated openly, he was already functioning as a kind of shadow president, taking on so many domestic, foreign, and partisan political assignments that he seemed more engaged in serious matters than the TV-addicted president himself.

  With few connections in Washington or to the broader Republican establishment, Trump had relied on Pence to populate his administration. The vice president began this work as he headed the group that managed the transition with the Obama administration. Wherever possible, Pence supported the appointment of like-minded Christians such as Scott Pruitt, who was plucked from his post of attorney general of Oklahoma, to be administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA).

  Pruitt had proved his Christian Right bona fides as a state lawmaker who twice proposed laws that would give fathers property rights over fetuses in the mothers’ wombs. These efforts failed in the Oklahoma legislature but succeeded in establishing Pruitt as an antiabortion extremist. In his subsequent position as Oklahoma’s attorney general, he repeatedly sued the EPA to challenge its regulation of air and water pollution. Like so many on the Trump team, Pruitt would soon be engulfed by controversy over his spending and relationships with lobbyists. However, he was protected by his Christian Right allies and kept signaling his faith by joining Pence at regular Bible study meetings organized for cabinet members. The sessions were organized by Ralph Drollinger, a seven-foot-two-inch former NBA player turned evangelist who had said women with young children didn’t belong in state office and that Catholicism “is one of the primary false religions in the world.” Among the other regulars at the prayer meetings were Department of Education Secretary Betsy DeVos, Dep
artment of Housing and Urban Development Secretary Ben Carson, Department of Agriculture Secretary Sonny Perdue, and Secretary of Health and Human Services Alex Azar. Azar, DeVos, and Perdue were longtime Pence allies.11

  The prayer meetings demonstrated to the faithful that their votes had produced real change. Likewise, whenever possible, Pence returned to the theme he had sounded during the campaign—that Trump was God’s instrument. The theology behind this notion depended on the Calvinist belief that God elects those who will prosper on earth and that their successes prove they are His favorites. Perfectly circular, this idea credits the powerful with spiritual superiority that cannot be called into question. It also indicates that suffering—poverty, illness, et cetera—is a matter of a destiny determined before one’s birth. Of course, determining how God works through a person would depend on when one decides to consider an individual. Viewed at the height of his power, Richard Nixon would have seemed to be blessed. Soon after, God’s displeasure would have been there for all to see.

  Believers who assume that God chooses winners and losers before they are born typically cite a verse from the Bible’s book of Jeremiah: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” The verse is Pence’s favorite bit of scripture, and it is written on a plaque he hung over the fireplace in the vice president’s residence in Washington. Depending on the day, he could look at it and take solace in the fact that God had plans for him to prevail after a momentary setback or find support for his belief that a given triumph fulfilled His plan. Either way, he comes out on top without bearing much responsibility.

  Although it wasn’t likely that Donald Trump could cite Jeremiah, Calvinism dovetailed with his long-standing belief that he was born to greatness. Conservative Christianity gave him the chance to put a less egoistic gloss on this assumption, and whenever he could, Trump tried to demonstrate piety. At Pence’s urging, Trump declared May 3, 2018, as a National Day of Prayer and signed an executive order to ensure that the federal government was partnering with faith-based organizations. This initiative stemmed from the belief promoted by Pence and other conservatives that religious freedom was under attack from the Left. Trump’s executive order included a dubious passage that also played up a right-wing theme—that the Founding Fathers had sought to protect America as a Christian nation, that “religious people and institutions were free to practice their faith without fear of discrimination or retaliation by the federal government.”

  Pence also wanted to leave the impression on his religious base that he was drawing Trump toward a life of faith. Pence, who was not very accessible in general media forums, readily discussed Trump’s turn to prayer in an interview on the Christian Broadcasting Network (CBN). “There’s prayer going on on a regular basis in this White House,” Pence said. “And it’s one of the most meaningful things to me, whether it’s public meetings or not, I’ve lost count of the number of times that the president has nudged me, or nudged another member of the cabinet and said, ‘Let’s start this meeting with prayer.’” Pence sat down for the CBN interview on the same day that Trump acknowledged that he had lied about porn actress Stormy Daniels and that he did know his lawyer Michael Cohen had paid a $130,000 hush payment to her just before the presidential election.12

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  In addition to helping Trump name his team, Pence served as a guide on Capitol Hill. Like Joe Biden before him, who complemented Barack Obama’s charisma with a deep understanding of Washington’s ways, Pence knew the key figures in the House and Senate and could help Trump navigate toward his goals. The Biden comparison reassured those who feared the worst from Trump, but the example broke down when the two men were examined more closely. Both were lawyers, but while Biden had practiced as a public defender and founded his own firm, Pence had worked in the law only briefly on minor civil cases without distinction. Prior to being elected vice president, Biden had been a senator for thirty-six years, during which he chaired both the Foreign Affairs and Judiciary Committees, becoming highly expert in these two areas of government. A tireless worker, Biden sponsored hundreds of pieces of legislation that became law, including the landmark Violence Against Women Act. Pence was a five-term member of the House who had focused on climbing the ladder of party leadership but never chaired a major committee or authored a single successful piece of legislation. Just as many evangelicals believed that worldly success was a matter of God’s favor rather than individual effort, Pence made his choice to become a conservative, pro-business, antiabortion Republican, and he trusted God would make him successful.

  As politicians, Biden and Pence established vastly different records, but they were even more distinct as personalities. Biden was an openly emotional man who made his feelings plain at every occasion, and he walked Capitol Hill as if it were his hometown neighborhood. He might have been the most popular senator in the chamber in the time when he served and was beloved by Republicans as well as his fellow Democrats. In the House, Pence was considered likeable enough, but he was not personally popular. His guarded manner combined with his assertive push for a leadership post inside the GOP caucus, despite scant accomplishments, caused some members of his own party to keep him at arm’s length. Democrats, even those who were on the Indiana delegation, found him inscrutable. When we spoke, Baron Hill, who served with Pence in Congress for four years, struggled to describe the man. “He was never disagreeable,” said Hill in 2018. “He was always nice,” he added, echoing comedian George Carlin’s bitter riff about people who cover their true personalities with a veneer of niceness. “But I can’t say I ever saw past the surface to the real Mike Pence.”

  The real Mike Pence has been elusive, even to many who support him, throughout three decades of public life. Indeed, the word that is used over and over again when people talk about Pence—“nice”—may be the least distinct descriptor that could be attached to any person, place, or thing on earth. However, according to those who know him well, it does apply. Pence is also well practiced at striking a kindly pose. Study a hundred photos of Mike Pence and you’ll see the consistent image of a man who has spent a lifetime learning to avoid offense. It is a style that has permitted him to advance generally unpopular political positions—privatization of Social Security, opposition to gay rights, climate change denial—without alienating too many voters.

  A pleasing demeanor made Pence popular in some corners of Indiana politics, where recent history is full of congenial characters, but it’s certain that the majority of Americans had little knowledge of Pence, let alone of his political views, prior to the 2016 campaign. Even after Donald Trump selected him as a running mate, Pence was recognized primarily for his demeanor and not his policy priorities. Anyone seeking to know more would have to dig into the public record he had established, and even there, the truth of the man would be difficult to see. Except for a nasty losing campaign for Congress, which he openly regretted, and an ill-fated attempt to legalize discrimination against gay and transgender people, Pence had steered clear of controversy. And though he received thousands of notices in Indiana’s press, he had submitted to very few extensive interviews. No major magazine or television show had profiled him in depth. No documentarian had recorded his rise. Instead, for years, Pence controlled and executed the construction of his reputation. This he accomplished as the folksy and well-spoken host of The Mike Pence Show, airing daily on statewide talk radio, and as an interviewer on a weekly TV program by the same name. Through these broadcasts, which put him on the public airwaves for thousands of hours each year, he won the trust of people for whom he represented not politics or policies but an indistinct country-kitchen, biscuits-and-gravy kind of comfort.

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  To sort the pieces of Mike Pence and assemble a clear political picture, one must begin with the understanding that in this age of media proliferation, when vast amounts of information are available about most public figures, his compara
tively thin record could only be achieved through a series of deliberate choices. Indeed, Pence was, starting in the 1990s, a careful architect of his own bland image. On his statewide radio show, for which few transcripts or recordings could be found, Pence spoke directly to his audience in such a pleasant way that he called himself “Rush Limbaugh on decaf.”

  In fact, Pence shared many political views with Limbaugh and other talkers who blustered and bullied their ways across the airwaves, but he was so measured and so respectful of others that even his political opponents seemed to forget that he had smeared Democratic incumbent Phil Sharp in a failed attempt to win his congressional seat and used his campaign’s checkbook to pay his own personal bills. That Mike Pence seemed all but forgotten, replaced by an agreeable fellow whose hair had turned a premature but distinguished white and who, with each broadcast and chamber of commerce luncheon speech, became a more perfect—perhaps the most perfect—Republican candidate for national office, one who could appeal to libertarian economic conservatives as well as right-wing Christian social issue voters without fully alienating those independents and Democrats who might vote for a Republican who doesn’t scare them.

  Pence’s demeanor made him appealing to activists who, beginning in the late 1970s, put together large and well-funded efforts to identify, train, fund, and promote future leaders who would dominate politics and policy on the local, state, and national levels. In the beginning, these programs could be divided into distinct parts. One, symbolized by Rev. Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority, pushed a religious agenda—antiabortion, anti–gay rights, pro–school prayer—and organized through churches and religious broadcasters. Funding for this activity and for favored candidates came from TV viewers, church members, and rich family foundations like the Dick and Betsy DeVos Family Foundation, which was built on the Amway home products company. In explaining their giving, Betsy DeVos noted, in 1997: