| Dear Friends,
Many of you have asked about John McCain's faith. John McCain is a strong Christian, but he believes that, in the context of the campaign, his faith is a personal issue. Excerpts directly from John McCain's family memoir entitled, Faith of My Fathers, best explain the shaping and content of John McCain's faith. If you would like this document formatted for printing, please do not hesitate to contact Americans of Faith at AmericansofFaith@mccain08hq.com.
Americans of Faith for John McCain
  An officer must not lie, steal, or cheat-- ever. He keeps his word, whatever the cost. He must not shirk his duties no matter how difficult or dangerous they are. His life is ransomed to his duty. An officer must trust his fellow officers, and expect their trust in return. He must not expect others to bear what he will not. An officer accepts the consequences of his actions. He must not hide his mistakes, nor transfer blame to others that is rightfully his. He admits his mistakes openly, and accepts whatever sanction is imposed upon him without complaint. (Page 66)
My father didn't talk about God or the importance of religious devotion. He didn't proselytize. But he always kept with him a tattered, dog-eared prayer book, from which he would pray aloud for an hour, on his knees, twice every day. (Page 71)
One spring, a young interrogator I had not seen before decided to practice his English by chatting amiably with me about Western religious customs. "What is Easter?" he asked me. I told him that it was the time of year we celebrated the death and resurrection of the Son of God. As I recounted the events of Christ's passion, His crucifixion, death, resurrection, and assumption to heaven, I saw my curious interrogator furrow his brow in disbelief. "You say He died?" "Yes, He died." "Three days, He was dead?" "Yes. Then He came alive again. People saw Him and then He went back to heaven."
Clearly puzzled, he stared wordlessly at me for a few moments, then left the room. A short time later, he returned, his friendly manner gone, an angry resolve replacing it. "Mac Kane, the officer say you tell nothing but lies. Go back to your room," he ordered, the mystery of my faith proving incomprehensible to him. (Page 223)
 Once I was thrown into another cell after a long and difficult interrogation. I discovered scratched into one of the cell's walls the creed "I believe in God, the Father Almighty." There standing witness to God's presence in a remote, concealed place, recalled to my faith by a stronger, better man, I felt God's love and care more vividly than I would have felt it had I been safe among a pious congregation in the most magnificent cathedral. (Page 245) 
On John McCain Sr.'s letters to well wishers or family members of those in his command. --- His responses were almost always written in the same style. The first paragraph of each began with an expression of his appreciation for the correspondent's sympathy, and closed, almost unvaryingly with the line "God has a way of solving problems and we have great faith in the future." ...Copies of his letters are kept with my father's official papers. There are only three I have reviewed that differ substantially from the others. The first is a letter my father wrote to the wife of Colonel John Flynn. John was the most senior American officer in captivity. He had been shot down the day after I was captured and taken to the same hospital where I was held... My father wrote empathetically to Mrs. Flynn, commiserating with her that they must resign themselves to trusting God and the courage of their loved ones as the only assurance that they would come home." (Pages 277-278)
 My mother knew that my father suffered from the burden of commanding a war in a country where his son was imprisoned. She believes the strain aged him considerably. She told me later of how she would hear him in his study, praying aloud on his knees, beseeching God to "show Johnny mercy." (Page 286)
Bud designated me room chaplain, an office I took quite seriously even though I lacked any formal training for it. (Page 339)
Bud had asked Bug [a guard] for an English language Bible. Bug initially dismissed the request with a lie, claiming that there were no Bibles in North Vietnam. A few days later, perhaps remembering that his interference with the practice of our religion had resulted in the Church Riot earlier that year, Bug announced that a Bible, "the only one in Hanoi," had been located. One prisoner was to be designated to copy passages from it for a few minutes. As room chaplain, I was given the assignment. I collected the Bible from where it had been left by a guard, on a table in the courtyard just outside our cell door. Hastily, I leafed through its tattered pages until I found an account of the Nativity. I quickly copied the passage, and finished just moments before a guard arrived to retrieve the Bible. 
 On Christmas night we held our simple, moving service. We began with the Lord's Prayer, after which a choir sang carols, directed by the former conductor of the Air Force Academy Choir, Captain Quincy Collins. I thought they were quite good, excellent in fact. Although I confess that the regularity with which they practiced in the weeks prior to Christmas occasionally grated on my nerves. But that night, the hymns were rendered with more feeling and were more inspirational than the offerings of the world's most celebrated choirs. We all joined in the singing, nervous and furtive at first, fearing the guards would disrupt the service if we sang too loudly. With each hymn, however, we grew bolder, and our voices rose with emotion. Between each hymn, I read a portion of the story of Christ's birth from the pages I had copied. "'And the Angel said unto them, Fear no t: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.'"
The night air was cold, and we shivered from its effect and from the fever that still plagued some of us. The sickest among us, unable to stand, sat on the raised concrete sleeping platform in the middle of the room, blankets around their shaking shoulders. Many others, stooped by years of torture, or crippled from injuries sustained during their shoot down, stood, some on makeshift crutches, as the service proceeded. The light bulbs hanging from the ceiling illuminated our gaunt, unshaven, dirty, and generally wretched congregation. But for a moment we all had the absolutely exquisite feeling that our burdens had been lifted. Some of us had attended Christmas services in prison before. But they had been Vietnamese productions, spiritless, ludicrous stage shows.
This was our service, the only one we had ever been allowed to hold. It was more sacred to me than any service I had attended in the past, or any service I have attended since. We gave prayers of thanks for the Christ child, for our families and homes, for our country. We half expected the guards to barge in and force us to conclude the service. Every now and then we glanced up at the windows to see if they were watching us as they had during the Church Riot. But when I looked up at the bars that evening, I wished they had been looking in. I wanted them to see us-- faithful, joyful, triumphant. The last hymn sung was "Silent Night." Many of us wept. (Pages 331-332)
 After one difficult interrogation, I was left in the interrogation room for the night, tied in ropes. A gun guard, whom I had noticed before but had never spoken to, was working the night shift, 10:00 p.m. to 4 a.m. A short time after the interrogators had left me to ponder my bad attitude for the evening, this guard entered the room and silently, without looking at or smiling at me, loosened the ropes, and then he left me alone. A few minutes before his shift ended, he returned and tightened up the ropes... One Christmas, a few months after the gun guard had inexplicably come to my assistance during my long night in the interrogation room, I was standing in the dirt courtyard when I saw him approach me. He walked up and stood silently next to me. Again, he didn't smile or look at me. He just stared at the ground in front of us. After a few moments had passed he rat her nonchalantly used his sandaled foot to draw a cross in the dirt. We both stood wordlessly looking at the cross until, after a minute or two, he rubbed it out and walked away. I saw my good Samaritan often after the Christmas when we venerated the cross together. But he never said a word to me nor gave the slightest signal that he acknowledged my humanity. (Pages 227-228)
John and Cindy McCain have four children and worship at North Phoenix Baptist Church under the leadership of Pastor Dan Yeary.
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