By midsummer it was clear that Watergate might well become Waterloo. Senator Sam Ervin opened the Senate hearings by announcing the investigating committee’s intention to uncover all the relevant facts “and spare no one, whatever his station in life might be.” John Dean pointed his finger at several folk of quite high station, and Alex Butterfield astonished the committee and the public by revealing that nearly all of the conversations in the Oval Office since early 1971 had been taped on a secret recording system. Now, with the possibility of finding out exactly what had gone on in that office, no series of “picture situations,” however well orchestrated, stood a chance of diverting attention from Watergate. This was the story, and it would be played out to the end.
Graham had not visited the White House since the inauguration and had talked with the President on the telephone only four times since February, so his views on Watergate were necessarily rather speculative. In one of his more memorable speculations, he ventured that Watergate was just “another sign of permissiveness,” a diagnosis that seemed a bit off the mark when applied to Gordon Liddy and John Mitchell, who helped plan it, and the arrow-straight gentlemen in the White House who helped cover it up. He also volunteered that it was too early to make any moral judgments about what had happened, apparently overlooking the fact that if the conspirators in the case had not considered burglary and illegal wiretapping to be at least borderline behavior, they would probably not have made blackmail payments and suborned perjury to try to keep it from coming to light.
As the year ground on, Nixon’s situation worsened. Spiro Agnew, a man seldom accused of permissiveness, resigned in disgrace after pleading no contest to government charges of income-tax evasion related to kickbacks received from government contractors when he was governor of Maryland. Nixon at first refused Judge Sirica’s request that the secret tapes be turned over to Watergate special prosecutor Archibald Cox. Then he fired Cox and lost Attorney General Elliot Richardson and Deputy Attorney General William Ruckelshaus in the infamous Saturday Night Massacre. Faced with the growing threat of impeachment, he finally agreed to release the tapes. In the face of this monumental and truculent recalcitrance, Graham issued a Thanksgiving statement in which he said, “I applaud the President for his courageous revelation of detailed facts of Watergate. I think the people want the facts and I am confident he will continue to give them.” Despite his ability to discern courage where few others spotted it, Graham could not avoid seeing that his friend was in deep trouble. Still, he expected him to survive. Those who suspected he was weakening physically and psychologically should be reassured, he said, adding that “it is quite evident that the President is not going to resign, and . . . I doubt that the Senate would vote to remove him from office. If that is the case, and I believe it is, we should rally around the three branches of our government with our prayers and our support.” Then, in the first of what would become a series of subtle distancing maneuvers, Graham admitted that “I do not always agree with the judgment and policies of his Administration, but President Nixon has my support and prayers.” Since “even the dissenters and the doubters should realize that, in all probability, Mr. Nixon will be the only President we have for the next three years,” he thought it reasonable that “all Americans, Democrats and Republicans, liberals and conservatives,” offer that same kind of support. He concluded the statement with the hopeful prediction that “the tragic events of Watergate will probably make him a strong man and a better President.” It was less than unqualified approbation, and it lacked the usual promise of certain victory, but Richard Nixon could not afford to turn down any offer of support. On Thanksgiving afternoon the President called Graham at his home in Montreat to thank him for his kind words.
On Sunday, December 16, Graham officiated at the White House Christmas service and, either before or afterward, spoke briefly with the President by telephone. In a letter thanking Nixon for the invitation and the conversation, Graham reaffirmed “my personal affection for you as a man, my appreciation for our long friendship, and my complete confidence in your personal integrity.” Later that week and again in a note at Christmas, he complimented Nixon for being so “chipper” and “full of fun” in the face of adversity. “Certainly the Lord has sustained you in a remarkable way. Lesser men would have folded long ago.” Then, offering a prediction that showed the wisdom in his consistent rejection of the status of prophet, he said, “I am sure that this coming year will be far better than 1973.”
The new year began on a low note for the President, as his old and dear friend put a bit more distance between himself and the mess of Watergate. In an interview published in the January 4, 1974, edition of Christianity Today, Graham decided he finally had sufficient evidence to justify handing down a moral decision. He characterized both the break-in and the cover-up as “not only unethical but criminal,” and said, “I can make no excuses for Watergate. I condemn it and I deplore it. It has hurt America.” While acknowledging that Nixon had shown poor judgment “especially in the selection of certain people,” he noted that there was as yet no proof the President was directly involved in either the break-in or the cover-up, and he reasserted his continuing confidence in Nixon’s integrity. He had made mistakes, to be sure, but if he admitted them and thereby regained his credibility with the public, he could be a stronger President than ever before. In a similar vein, Graham denied that his having spoken at the White House Christmas service was in any sense a benediction of what had been going on there.
Graham gave Nixon advance warning of the CT interview and wrote a note thanking him for understanding why he felt it necessary to say what he had said. Nixon’s actual response has not been preserved, but some of his supporters regarded Graham’s statements as little short of outright betrayal. A staunch Republican business executive, George Stringfellow, wrote to ask why he had found it necessary to note that Nixon had made mistakes—“Did you need publicity?” He noted further that in a television speech Graham had made a point of associating himself with the late President Johnson. “I suppose this was done to further disassociate yourself [from] President Nixon.” Then, in a parting shot, Stringfellow reported that he had recently attended a dinner at which Graham’s remarks had been brought up, prompting an observation by one of the men present that “Nixon’s ship is listing. When the water reaches the upper level the rats leave the ship.” In concluding his letter, Stringfellow noted the diners had agreed that “the ship will right itself by next June and, if it serves your vanity at that time, you will be headed up the gangplank again.” Stringfellow was not alone in his judgment of Graham’s behavior and motives. Norman Vincent Peale, who reaffirmed his own admiration and affection for Graham, wrote to say, “Billy, I have just got to tell you that I was saddened by your recent reported statements about President Nixon. It appeared that you were trying to get out from under and were not standing by the man for whom you have professed abiding friendship.” Peale had seen a copy of Stringfellow’s letter and, while admitting it was “direct,” said, “I must confess that it represents the views of many, myself included. As for me, I am sticking with President Nixon one hundred percent, all the way. I believe in him absolutely and have been totally unaffected by the vicious attacks upon him.” Peale subsequently sent a copy of his letter to Nixon, who responded with a gracious note of appreciation.
Graham, however, was not alone among Nixon’s friends in seeing the need for the chief executive to admit his mistakes. Charles Colson, regarded as one of the toughest in Nixon’s inner circle, the man said to have boasted he would run over his grandmother if she got in his way, responded to the pressures of Watergate by accepting an invitation to join a small group of Washington political figures who met regularly for prayer and discussion. Within a short time, Colson experienced what the intervening years have shown to be a genuine, life-changing conversion. When word of that conversion leaked out, cynics hooted at what they took to be a blatant effort to gain sympathy with the public and, more importantl
y, with any judge or jury that might try him for his role in the Watergate cover-up. Internal White House memos, however, suggest that Colson’s transformation was not only genuine but posed a bit of an inconvenience for the staff. In late November, as he looked ahead to the National Prayer Breakfast in January, Colson complained to the President that the breakfast had become “simply another big Washington gathering that people ‘must’ attend.” Asserting that “its religious significance as a day for government leaders to join together in sincere prayer has been lost,” he urged Nixon to schedule a second, smaller breakfast with a bipartisan group that “unanimously wants to pray with and for you.” Colson believed such attention to spiritual matters was essential: “I have thought long and hard about how the ordeal of Watergate will finally come to an end. I believe that the country has to be lifted out of the doldrums of Watergate. Our best hope is to bring about a rebirth of faith and a renewed commitment to God; it is that national commitment that has seen America through its darkest and most perilous times. . . . I know that there are millions of Americans who would pray with and for you if they were asked to do so. The experiment may well in fact renew the American Spirit. . . . I believe, too, that this would begin the reconciliation that would enable you to lead the country out of these troubled times.” Colson continued to press for a second, “real” prayer breakfast, but Nixon brought the matter to an end by dispatching a succinct verdict on the matter: “Two breakfasts are too many.”
As one of the prayer breakfast’s pioneers, Graham saw no particular need to revamp its format, but he did think it would be a splendid opportunity for the President to come clean. On several previous occasions, he had offered suggestions as to what Nixon might say in addresses before religious groups. His recommendations for this occasion included the statement “I hope I shall not be judged as hiding behind religion when I say that I have, like many of my predecessors before me, been driven to my knees in prayer. . . . [W]e are all in need of God’s forgiveness, not only for mistakes in judgment, but our sins as well.” He also urged the President to sprinkle some verses of Scripture into his talks. One of the most appropriate, he thought, might be God’s instruction to King Solomon in II Chronicles 7:14: “If my people, who are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.” For a closing line, Graham suggested that the President say, “I want to take this opportunity today to rededicate myself to the God that I first learned about at my mother’s knee.” The White House was not thrilled to receive Graham’s suggestions. Alexander Haig passed them along to Nixon with the recommendation that he read them, “since [Graham] may ask about them,” but he characterized them as “replete with Watergate mea culpa” and branded them “totally unacceptable from my point of view.” Apparently, Nixon also found them unacceptable. He recalled a conversation with his Quaker grandmother about prayer but chose not to use the breakfast as an occasion either to confess fault or rededicate his life to Christ.
In the months that followed, the President was named a Watergate coconspirator, his top aides were sentenced to federal prison, and after resisting a House Judiciary Committee subpoena on grounds of executive privilege, Nixon finally released extensive edited transcripts of the White House tapes. In recalling that period of national anguish, Graham has often claimed that he had been informed that Nixon had told his staff, “Don’t let Billy Graham near me. I don’t want to drag him into this mess.” Without claiming perfect recall, he has told various inquirers that he and the President talked once, twice, or perhaps not at all between January 31 (the date of the prayer breakfast) and August 23, when Nixon resigned, and that several attempts to reach Nixon met a stone wall. The White House contact file lists four conversations between the two men, one each in February, April, May, and June, but only one of these lasted more than six minutes. Charles Colson did not remember any such directive from Nixon. “I wasn’t aware of it,” he said, “and it would surprise me if that were true. I don’t know how Watergate would have touched Billy. In those days, [Nixon] was looking for friends, and I would think Billy could get through just like that.” Haldeman echoed Colson’s skepticism. “Based on my knowledge of Nixon and the way he worked,” he said, “I would need a lot more proof before I would believe it.” The contact file, which records uncompleted calls or the name of the person who took the call in the President’s stead, reflects no unsuccessful attempts. Whatever the precise details, it is clear Graham had only limited contact with Nixon during his last seven months in office, at least in part because he spent much of that period in South Africa, Korea, and Europe.
On the last day of April, Nixon went on television to announce that he was releasing edited transcripts of the Watergate tapes. The House Judiciary Committee insisted that edited transcripts were not an adequate substitute for the tapes themselves, but the transcripts were hardly a disappointment to those who had long viewed Richard Nixon as the dark beast of American politics. As excerpts began to appear in the national media, reporters pressed Graham for a reaction. In a striking manifestation of an all-too-common tendency of Fundamentalists and Evangelicals to focus on readily observed and easily categorized externals of behavior rather than on deeper and more fundamental pathologies, Graham fastened on the omnipresent profanity in the conversation between Nixon and his aides, a characteristic of the transcripts that made expletive deleted a household phrase for a time. Though he recognized that Nixon was not the first occupant of the White House to use profanity, he could not agree with Father John McLaughlin’s blithe dismissal of the President’s language as “a form of therapy . . . with no moral meaning.” He noted that “I have known five Presidents, and I suspect if we had the transcripts of their conversations, they too would contain salty language.” Still, he confessed, “I just didn’t know that he used this type of language in talking to others. I rarely heard him say anything except ‘hell’ or ‘damn,’ and he would usually say, ‘Excuse me, Billy.’” That the President of the United States, a man he considered to be one of his dearest friends, a man charged with conspiring to commit and cover up political espionage and facing almost certain impeachment, had been revealed to the world as a secret swearer seemed almost incomprehensible. “I don’t approve of that kind of language,” he said. “God will not hold him guiltless.”
After the first of these reactions had been reported, Nixon reached Graham early one morning in his hotel room in Scottsdale, Arizona, the day before he would begin a crusade in Phoenix. They talked for only three minutes, and Graham reported that “he just wanted to say hello.” Perhaps the President hoped for some expression of forgiveness, which Graham would surely have given if asked. More likely, since he knew what else the transcripts told and Billy did not, he wanted one last conversation, however brief, in which at least a remnant of the mutual assumptions that had sustained their friendship for nearly twenty-five years was still intact.
Graham finished the Phoenix crusade (attendance 240,195, with 9,718 inquirers) in mid-May and returned home to Montreat. At first he avoided the grim task he knew he must eventually face. But finally, after fretting and moping about for several days, he shut himself in his study and began working through the New York Times edition of excerpts from the transcripts. What he found there devastated him. He wept. He threw up. And he almost lost his innocence about Richard Nixon. “Those tapes revealed a man I never knew,” he confessed. “I never saw that side of him.” Recalling his profound disillusionment years later—Ruth called it “the hardest thing that Bill has ever gone through personally”—he confided to an inquirer that “I’d had a real love for him. He’d always been very attentive to his friends, he never forgot a birthday. He seemed to love his country, love his children, love Pat. His thoughtfulness—there’s a reason why so many people were loyal to him for so many years. I’d thought he was a man of such great integrity. I really believed, I really looked upon him as t
he greatest possibility ever for leading this country on into its greatest and finest days. He had the character for it. I’d never, ever, heard him tell a lie. But then the way it sounded in those tapes—it was all something totally foreign to me in him. He was just suddenly somebody else.” The pain of that perception grew even sharper as Graham confronted the possibility that Lyndon Johnson and John Kennedy and Dwight Eisenhower might also have shown him only one of several faces. And inevitably, he had to confront his own possible, if unwitting, collusion in helping to do unto others as had been done unto him.
Graham told one reporter that as he pored through the transcripts, there were moments when “I thought like Wesley when he said: ‘When I look into my heart, it looks like hell.’” That may be, but a few days later, when he issued a press release containing his considered reaction to the transcripts, his angst had shrunk back to quite manageable dimensions. One might reasonably have hoped that he would comment on the manipulation of appearances, on the cynical use of power and people, on the willful obstruction of justice, on the threat Watergate posed to a government of laws. Instead, the transgression Graham once again singled out as most distressing to him was one whose guilt he did not share. “I must confess,” he said, that “this has been a profoundly disturbing and disappointing experience. One cannot but deplore the moral tone implied in these papers, and though we know that other Presidents have used equally objectionable language, it does not make it right. ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain’ is a commandment which has not been suspended, regardless of any need to release tensions.” He then offered the surprising observation that “a nation confused for years by the teaching of situational ethics now finds itself dismayed by those in Government who apparently practiced it.” This oblique admission that profanity did not exhaust the evil practiced in the White House was welcome, but the implication that burglary, bribery, extortion, and perjury were somehow the result of an ethical approach whose primary tenet was, “In all situations, seek to perform the truly loving act,” underscored the truth in Graham’s frequent insistence that he was no scholar. He did, however, claim to be a faithful friend, and he reiterated that claim in this statement. Nixon, he said, “is my friend, and I have no intention of forsaking him now. Nor will I judge him as a man in totality on the basis of these relatively few hours of conversation under such severe pressure.”
A Prophet with Honor Page 65
