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THE BANQUET THAT NEVER HAPPENED

It was a Wednesday evening and, as usual, the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was ablaze in glitter and the black of tuxedos. President John F. Kennedy, and his wife Jackie, were hosting a two-stage reception. Upstairs the Supreme Court justices and their wives were being entertained. Downstairs there was a second act — a total of 565 other judges and party loyalists: “White House spear carriers,” as they were known. With the 1964 election less than a year away, Kennedy was determined to leave nothing to chance. Even if Barry Goldwater, the almost extremist senator from Arizona, was the Republican nominee — which would mean an easy win for the Kennedy-Johnson ticket — the current occupant of the White House was determined to lock in a second term early.

Well, you can read all about that Wednesday evening gala event. Kennedy walked into the room, larger than life, glowing tan, looking so robust and elegant, almost royal, in his tux. And of course, Jackie wasn’t hard to look at either. Everywhere they went, eyes followed. In William Manchester’s bestselling book, which we’re using quite a bit this week, he puts it this way:

“That [Kennedy] style had an almost magical quality. There was an air of high drama about the man; as Eisenhower put it privately, Kennedy had become ‘the darling of the population.’ Something was always happening to him — something always lay just ahead.”

Well, the evening was a smashing success. The Marine Band was there, and also the Air Force’s Strolling Strings, serenading the guests out in the lobby. My Fair Lady was very popular that November, and, of course, they had to play snippets from this Broadway classic too:

Don’t let it be forgot / That once there was a spot / For one brief shining moment / That was known as Camelot.

And it was a Wednesday. November 20, 1963. Of course, on that November, the date didn’t seem significant. November 22 was less than 48 hours away, but no one thought about that. Kennedy was heading to Texas in the morning; big deal. In fact, Manchester adds this sobering detail about the dancing at that White House party:

“Secret Service agents [cheerfully]. . . two-stepped across the waxed boards unaware that within three days the corpse of the President they had sworn to protect would lie in a wooden box on the very floor where they now pirouetted.”

They were dancing. Drinking. Having a good time. It was November 20, a festive evening. The date November 22, 1963, didn’t have the meaning for them that it does for us now, 40 years after the fact. A few months later, this writer, William Manchester, would begin to write a harrowing, heart-breaking book entitled The Death of a President, but on that Wednesday evening nobody knew that. They didn’t know.

The next morning, a little boy, not quite three, rode with his daddy in a helicopter from the White House to Andrews Air Force Base. To the Secret Service, John-John was known by the code name of Lark. JFK was Lancer, married to Lace. Their six-year-old daughter Caroline was referred to by the Secret Service as Lyric. But Lark, who adored his dad, rode on the helicopter, wearing a London Fog raincoat and a sou’wester rain hat. At Andrews, the 35th President said goodbye to his little boy. “I want to come,” John-John said, beginning to cry. “I know,” his dad said. “But you can’t.” And a Secret Service agent, a full-grown man named Mr. Foster, with a gun and training in weaponry, had the assignment of diverting Lark, this little First Son, while his daddy and mommy flew to San Antonio. So he did what every babysitter does: he told the kid stories. Secret agent Robert Foster told John-John about Bertram the Beaver, Jaggy the Jaguar, and Jasper the Jet. And finally they saw Air Force One, the presidential plane, disappear in the November clouds. John F. Kennedy had said goodbye to his son . . . but no one in the world knew it would be for the last time.

Later that day, in Houston, the second stop on this five-city Texas tour, White House photographer Captain Cecil Stoughton snapped pictures of the President and First Lady posing with muscular dystrophy patients and 700 members of the LULACS — the League of United Latin-American Citizens. There in the Grand Ballroom, Jackie addressed them in Spanish, in her soft voice, and the place went nuts. Stoughton, who had brought plenty of film, snapped some more shots. It was a wonderful Thursday of politicking. Little did he know that he was less than 24 hours away from climbing back onto Air Force One to take probably the most important picture of his career: that wrenching, black-and-white shot, taken at Love Field, of Lyndon Baines Johnson, his hand on a Bible, with Lady Bird and a new widow named Jackie Kennedy standing next to him, and with Judge Sarah Hughes presiding over the constitutional oath of office as the 36th President of the United States was sworn in. Sixteen shots, in that dark, hot, sweating, agony-filled airplane, moving his camera around and twisting his body into position so he could get an angle which didn’t show the bloodstains on Mrs. Kennedy’s pink dress. That most famous of photographs was less than one day away, but here on November 21, there was nothing but champagne and cheers. No one knew.

Well, friend, we could go on and on with these agonizing before-and-after vignettes, but I know you get the point. And really, for all of us as we move through our own calendars here in November of 2003, we don’t know either. Here on this Wednesday, November 19, we don’t know what will happen next Sunday, on the 40th anniversary of Dallas. We might be alive; we might not. Someone we love might be gone by next Sunday. We don’t know the future, do we; and the joys of today might be the sorrows of tomorrow.

If you go back to another Thursday, this one also just one day before an assassination, you find the same spirit of oblivion, of non-concern. The crucifixion of Jesus Christ was less than 24 hours away. He knew it. His enemies knew it. One disciple named Judas already knew it, that there was a cross out there with his Master’s name on it. But the eleven other disciples — and this was Thursday — had absolutely no clue. In fact, if you read this story in Luke chapter 22, you find that these men were campaigning for the next election. Their minds were on cabinet posts and promotions. Verse 24:

“Also a dispute arose among them as to which of them was considered to be the greatest.”

Can you fathom this? This is Thursday night! Jesus is about to die! He’s already said so, in fact. They’re having the Last Supper, the final White House banquet. In less than 24 hours, people will be putting Jesus’ body into a tomb. But these 11 men are posing for pictures, signing autographs, counting electoral votes, thinking about a bigger suite of offices in the West Wing of the White House.

Interestingly, in this very same chapter Jesus gives His Secret Service men, His disciples, counsel which echoes down here to the year 1998. Notice this:

“Be careful, or your hearts will be weighed down with dissipation, drunkenness and the anxieties of life, and that day will close on you unexpectedly like a thief in the night. For it will come upon all those who live on the face of the whole earth.”

Maybe you’ve read how on that Thursday evening in Fort Worth, Texas, November 21, 1963, some of the Secret Service agents went out on the town. Nine of them started out with beer and mixed drinks at the Fort Worth Press Club, and then moved on to a lively joint called “The Cellar.” Their boss, agent Roy Kellerman, didn’t know about it, but one man was actually out until five a.m. Seven-and-a-half hours later, Lee Harvey Oswald would fire his shots from the sixth floor, and this man was out drinking. Of course, he didn’t know about Oswald; he didn’t know about the School Book Depository, and the sniper’s nest up there. Four other agents who were to ride in the follow-up car showed up at the bar as well, along with some of the agents who were officially on the twelve-to-eight graveyard shift, assigned to guard the President’s bedroom door. They had some drinks too. Which, if Friday were any ordinary Friday and not November 22, 1963, would be another matter. But how could they know? How could anyone know? There’s an Old Testament verse, Isaiah 56:12, which comes right out of that Ft. Worth bar, “The Cellar”:

“‘Come,’ each one cries, ‘let me get wine! Let us drink our fill of beer! And tomorrow will be like today, or even far better.’”

“Tomorrow will be just great,” they said. How tragically ironic, wouldn’t you agree? And of course, all of us, whether we’re planning for a triumphant reelection campaign, or a successful trip to Dallas, or just an ordinary Thursday, November 20, 2003 — should remember Proverbs 27:1:

“Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring you.”

In this wrenching book, The Death of a President, William Manchester shares a couple of visual images. Over at the Trade Mart, where Kennedy was to have spoken after the motorcade through town, there was a huge electric sign welcoming him and Jackie. Late on that Friday afternoon, someone had to go out and take it down. Can you imagine? Over in the city of Austin, the final stop on this Texas trip, a caterer named Mrs. Moore was quietly throwing away 6,000 rolls, 4,000 potatoes, a half-ton of fruit cocktail, a ton and a half of tossed salad. They were ready for a president; oh, they were ready all right. There was a feast prepared, a victory dinner. But no one knew — no one ever knows, friend — what tomorrow may bring.

So watch and pray, Jesus says. Because you never know.