Christian Nation (18 page)

I did not see it that way. 7/22 was real, not some Terry Schiavo–like controversy cooked up to mobilize the movement. And whatever ulterior motives Palin and Jordan may have had in crafting their response, they were right about one thing. We didn’t get it right the first time, and no one would be safe until the Islamist threat was somehow eradicated.

In late October, Sanjay gave a speech at the New School in New York that was advertised as “How to Take Over the USA.” I kidded him about the title. “They’ll think you’re some sort of anarchist. Some anti-globalization crusader. They’ll be tapping the phones of all your friends. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I need to think like
them
. The evangelicals have said their goal is to acquire political control and use that control to implement their agenda. About this they are entirely transparent. There is no need for analysis or speculation regarding what they would
do
with political control should they achieve it. But
how
will they achieve it? That is the question. Implementing their stated agenda requires casting aside the constitutional mandate for separation of church and state. It requires changing the nature of our republic from one governed by the laws of men to one governed by the ancient laws of a single religion. It would be, really, nothing less than a takeover of the country. That is certainly what
they
would call it if it were communists or socialists or Islamic fundamentalists pursuing their agenda through the consolidation of political power.”

“You’re right,” I replied. “This is the question—and maybe, San, the answer. After all, how can you take control in a sustainable way when less than half the population is with you? And with all the protections built into the Constitution?”

“Right. So I have read everything their leaders have ever said on the subject. I have studied Steve Jordan and the way he thinks, pretended I am he, and then outlined the strategy he must be following. A strategy for how to take over the country. That is what my talk is about. Why mince words?”

I
HAVE LOOKED
long and hard in Adam’s files to find a copy of the speech. It’s not there. Before the Holy War, scholars were already labeling it as “historic.” I remember an opinion piece in the
Times
during the siege that called it one of the most prescient works of political and cultural analysis in American history. For the five hundred of us packed in the Tishman Auditorium at the New School that night, it was a riveting experience. Sanjay was a compelling speaker. After only a few minutes, the audience intuited that he was an utterly sincere man, and scrupulously honest. He did not play with their emotions. He did not dumb down his speech, nor did he indulge in unnecessary jargon or convoluted analysis. He laid out the facts, thoroughly and methodically.

Sanjay started by reminding his audience about the path followed by most revolutionary movements, starting from the fringes and proceeding to the legitimate mainstream and then insinuating themselves into the very power structures they seek to overthrow. This of course had already been accomplished. But the Christian fundamentalists, according to Sanjay, had four other, more unusual strategies, each of which, he argued, had the potential to be successful. These included moving the Christian religion itself from its moderate Protestant roots to the fundamentalist beliefs in biblical literalism and godly authority, the reinvention of American history to establish the origin myth of America as a Christian Nation, the inculcation in all Christians of a strong sense of victimization and threat, and preparing the ground for the inevitable necessity to use violent means to achieve the final transition to the theocratic utopia. I remember that he closed by reminding his audience of Hannah Arendt’s conclusion regarding the driving motive behind all totalitarian revolutions: “unwavering faith in an ideological fictitious world, rather than lust for power.”

His audience was shocked but at the same time motivated. For the first time I saw the sort of visceral fear and determination to act that would later come to unify New York and power its resistance.

After San’s speech, we went back to his apartment for a drink. I thought that the speech had been truly brilliant and told him so.

“Greg, I wish to ask you something. I know it will cause you distress, and for that I apologize in advance. But I must ask.”

“Jesus, San. You don’t have to apologize. You can ask me anything.”

“Thanks. Greg, I want you to come and work with me at TW. I have decided that I cannot shoulder this burden alone. 7/22 and a second term for Palin changes everything. We are now in the final stages, and what we do in the next year could mean everything. I do not wish to sound presumptuous. But for the first time I have a clear vision of how this can play out. I also now know what needs to be done, what needs to be said. And I also know my limitations. You know them better than I do. And we complement each other, G. You know the law and you know Wall Street. You know how to get things done. We will need lots of money. We will need powerful allies. I need a partner who can talk to these people. I need someone to watch my back. In short, and to be blunt, I need you to leave RCD&S and join me as co-head of TW. And I need you to do it now. That is what I am asking.”

I felt I had been punched in the stomach. He saw this on my face.

“G, I am sorry. I should not have asked.”

For a few moments I could not speak. I realized it was the decision I most wished to avoid, the choice I most wished to be spared. I flushed with anger at having to confront it.

“You bastard. I mean, Sanjay, I’ve killed myself for eight years. I’m up for partner
next month
. What are you thinking? You cannot, you just cannot lay this on me now. Not now.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I know you,” Sanjay said.

My initial anger passed, and I started to regain some control.

“San, I’m sorry. I know you mean well. You’re a fucking saint. It’s hard to have a best friend who’s a saint.”

“I am no saint,” he said.

“Look,” I continued, “I’m not like you. I am not a person of passion. I’m practical. I have made choices in life. I chose to pursue a career in the law. I chose to try to make partner. I am a person who makes choices and then lives with them. I am reliable, steady, and predictable. And I’ve got to tell you, San, I respect your work. I hear your arguments; I respect your conviction. Even though what you said tonight was awesome, really scary stuff, everything inside me, everything I’ve learned, everything I know about the world and how it works, every instinct and belief and calculation tells me the same thing: You’re wrong. You’re wrong because it can’t happen here. It’s America in the twenty-first century and it cannot happen here. I should have told you before, San. I’m sorry. But I believe you’re wrong. It just can’t happen here.”

Sanjay laughed out loud and the tension instantly broke. I laughed with him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Have you read Sinclair Lewis?” he asked.

“Sinclair Lewis? In high school, I think.
Main Street
or
Babbit
, I get them confused. What …”

Sanjay was rooting around one of the many bookshelves that lined the walls of his tiny apartment.

“Here. Here’s a Sinclair Lewis I bet you never read.”

He handed me a small volume.
It Can’t Happen Here
.

“He wrote this for you. Yes, really. I insist. You must read it.”

As was the case with most of Sanjay’s books, the upper right-hand corners of dozens of pages were folded over, and the text was heavily annotated with circles, underlines, exclamation points, and question marks. I flipped open to one of the turned-down pages and read out loud the underlined bits:

“Why, there’s no country in the world that can get more hysterical—yes, or more obsequious!—than America. Look how Huey Long became absolute monarch over Louisiana, and how the Right Honorable Mr. Senator Berzelius Windrip—”

I interrupted myself, “Who was Senator Windrip?”

“It’s a novel. He’s the demagogic character who suspends the Constitution.”

I continued,

“Senator Windrip owns his State … Remember the Ku Klux Klan? Remember our war hysteria, when we called sauerkraut “Liberty Cabbage” and somebody actually proposed calling German measles “Liberty measles”? And wartime censorship of honest papers? Bad as Russia! … Remember when the hick legislators in certain states, in obedience to William Jennings Bryan, who learned his biology from his pious old grandma, set up shop as scientific experts and made the whole world laugh itself sick by forbidding the teaching of evolution? … Remember how trainloads of people have gone to enjoy lynchings? Not happen here? Prohibition—shooting down people just because they might be transporting liquor—no, that couldn’t happen in America! Why, where in all history has there ever been a people so ripe for dictatorship as ours!”

I had nothing to say.

“You,” Sanjay said, “studied history.”

“Lewis was a socialist, wasn’t he? I mean, it was the mid-1930s … This is different.” I trailed off lamely.

“All I ask is that you use your skills as an historian. Your perspective. This is what is required here. A serious historian could never say ‘it can’t happen here.’ A serious historian would ask what were the conditions under which fascism prospers, and ask—”

“Fascism,” I interrupted. “Give me a break.”

Sanjay looked out the window.

When I got home, I did not tell Emilie what Sanjay had asked me to do. Let’s just say I did not sleep very well that night.

O
N
N
OVEMBER
6, 2012, Sarah Palin was reelected with 56 percent of the popular vote and an even stronger majority in the electoral college. Riding the wave of 7/22, the election would doubtless have broken the same way had the Houses of Worship Free Speech Restoration Act not been passed early in Palin’s first term and ultimately survived constitutional review in a 5–4 decision by the Supreme Court. But the election was notable for being the first where the evangelical churches, the threat to their tax exemption removed, spent heavily on political advertising. The mega-churches themselves became centers for partisan political action by conducting elaborate get-out-the-vote and phone-bank efforts and other political activities. The full consequences of this legislation would not be generally recognized until four years later. The other thing driving the 2012 results was the remarkable success by Steve Jordan in forging such a close alignment between the Tea Party and the Christian right that the media had started to call it the Teavangelical movement. During the campaign, Ralph Reed boasted that he had the cell phone numbers of 13 million Teavangelical voters.

In addition to the reelection of the Palin/Brownback ticket, the House and Senate both returned to Republican control, and the new Congress included a large number of new members who had ridden an ugly wave of post-7/22 anti-immigrant Christian nationalism.

A
WEEK AFTER
the national election, I received a phone call from the law firm’s chairman at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. As soon as I saw his number flash on the screen of my phone, I knew I had been elected partner. We all knew that the chairman had the happy job of informing the lawyers who made it. Had the head of my practice group appeared in my doorway, I would have known instantly that it was bad news. The rest of the afternoon, a parade of partners called and dropped by the office to congratulate me. I was startled just now to remember how euphoric I felt that afternoon and to realize how devastated I would have been had the result been different. Sanjay used to say that attaining a thing ardently sought usually results in disappointment. In this case he was wrong. It was even better than I had imagined. My only dilemma that afternoon was about two friends who were up for partner and did not make it. I debated whether to go see them to offer condolences or whether my presence might cause them pain by letting them see my happiness. I decided to wait a day or so. At 5 p.m. I was dragged off to Harry’s Bar with a group of younger partners and other associates for a celebratory drink. Emilie came downtown to join us. That night in the black car driving home to our apartment, in a throwback to the first year of our relationship, she snuggled up, kissed me warmly, and said, “You’re a rock star and I really do love you.” I told her that it was her victory as well and I couldn’t have done it without her. I meant it. That night I did not think once about Sanjay or the theocratic peril that held him in its thrall.