Mitt's Mission

For Mitt Romney, it all started in a two-story, wood-framed house on a busy street in Pontiac, Mich. Painted beige, encircled by an asphalt lot that would hardly hold a dozen cars, the building manages to look both decrepit and picturesque, like a million other urban churches across the country. Today it houses the Unity Church of Practical Christianity, but until Romney was 10, it was the Mormon church he attended with his family—at least twice a day on Sunday, and one night a week for youth group.

Another presidential candidate, upon learning of a reporter's visit there, might jump on the opportunity to reminisce about the faith of his childhood, to trot out fond stories about his pastor and the inspirational lessons learned at his knee. But not Romney. Seated in a plane between campaign stops near the olive groves of northern California, Romney hears of such a visit and the wattage seeps out of his smile.

"In Pontiac?" he asks.

Yes, the reporter answers.

"Oh, yeah. Wow. I don't know where that is," Romney says.

It's still a church, the reporter says.

"Oh, it is. Oh, interesting."

Full stop. Never has a man so polished looked so uncomfortable.

Nothing is more politically vexing or personally crucial for Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney than the story of his faith. Raised in a devout Mormon family by parents who were both principled and powerful, Romney has downplayed both his religion and his own family history. Instead, he has talked up his résumé as a private-sector "turnaround artist" who reversed the fortunes of troubled companies and the faltering Salt Lake City Olympics and now can come to his party's—and country's—rescue. Mindful of the sway of evangelical Christians over the GOP base, he has positioned himself as the candidate with conservative principles and strong faith, even adopting evangelical language in calling Jesus Christ his "personal savior" (vernacular not generally used by members of the Mormon Church). But when he's pressed on the particulars of his own religious practice, his answers grow terse and he is quick to repeat that his values are rooted in "the Judeo-Christian tradition."

It makes sense that a candidate seeking to be the first Mormon president would be hesitant to talk about his faith. More than 100 years after it outlawed polygamy, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints remains an object of mystery and ridicule for many in the country. In the new NEWSWEEK Poll, only 45 percent of registered Iowa Republicans say America is ready for a Mormon president—in spite of the fact that he's the front runner in the state. Romney's candidacy will be many voters' first glimpse into the world of Mormonism, a world that embraces American ideals of hard work, frugality, self-reliance and optimism, as well as more off-putting aspects—such as a zeal for evangelism, an image that some see as overly wholesome and plastic, and secret temple rituals like baptisms for the dead. Romney's biography is fully Mormon. When asked by NEWSWEEK if he has done baptisms for the dead—in which Mormons find the names of dead people of all faiths and baptize them, as an LDS spokesperson says, to "open the door" to the highest heaven—he looked slightly startled and answered, "I have in my life, but I haven't recently." The awareness of how odd this will sound to many Americans is what makes Romney hesitant to elaborate on the Mormon question.

This strategy has served him—to a point. Thanks to an efficient campaign organization, he is currently the front runner in New Hampshire and Iowa, where he leads his nearest competitor, Fred Thompson, by nine points in the NEWSWEEK POLL. While Romney still lags behind rivals Rudy Giuliani, Thompson and John McCain in national polls, many Republicans think his early-state lead and his personal wealth make him the most formidable candidate in the GOP field.