Keeping the Faith

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The candidate is an ordained and militant Protestant minister, crusading to wrench his party from the clutches of the moderates he scorns. But he does so < in the manner of a polished TV performer: he is immaculately attired in a dark suit, handsome, poised, physically commanding, capable of speaking with cool irony as well as passionate rhetoric. His constituency, built on a network of local churches, follows him with a fervor that is the envy of more conventional politicians. He provokes so much opposition from his party's mainstream that only a miracle could win him the 1988 presidential nomination, yet the candidates who have a realistic chance at that prize treat him gingerly, with a mixture of respect and fear. The reason: he might bring millions of new voters flocking to the party banner, but he might also cause them to rebel and in frustration shun the party.

Who is this galvanizing and polarizing force in presidential politics? Ironically, the description applies equally well to two clergymen who are antipodes in almost every other way: Pat Robertson on the Republican right and Jesse Jackson on the Democratic left. Though both speak in the cadenced tones of the pulpit and address themselves to a constituency that feels embattled and disenfranchised, they differ in race, personality, theology and cultural attitudes. From opposing ends of the political spectrum, each of them is playing a similar role in his party's early maneuvering for 1988 -- and playing it with a gusto that promises (or threatens) to alter significantly the shape and outcome of the long presidential campaign that lies ahead.

The potent appeal of each was on display last week. Jackson, 44, gave an uncompromising keynote at the annual convention of Operation PUSH, the civil rights group he founded 15 years ago, a day after playing host at a dinner for Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega. Robertson proved in Tuesday's Michigan primaries that he can turn his faithful flock into grass-roots political organizers and then headed off to Iowa, where the first real presidential caucus will be held almost 18 months from now. In the long run Jackson is likely to wield more clout. One reason: he can make a credible threat of mounting a disruptive third-party candidacy should he fail to swing the Democrats to the left. Robertson, 56, insists, "I work at coalitions. I wouldn't dream of doing anything to hurt the Republican Party."

Robertson, the smiling televangelist who is the founder and star of the Christian Broadcasting Network, is winning more attention at the moment, in part because of the novelty of his latest cause. Last week he did well enough & in the first round of Michigan's convoluted delegate-selection process to put himself firmly on the G.O.P. presidential map. The results hardly added up to the "absolutely amazing victory" that Robertson quickly claimed. Yet he made a more than respectable showing in the number of his supporters who won election as delegates to county conventions, much better than anyone would have expected even a few months ago from a preacher little known outside the ranks of Evangelicals. In doing so, he forced George Bush, Michigan's nominal winner, to make a costly effort to retain his status as front runner far earlier than the Vice President had intended. He also denied Congressman Jack Kemp the chance Kemp sought to emerge as the clear alternative to Bush.