Pope John XXIII signs the encyclical Pacem in Terris.

The nuns and priests of St. Gregory's anchored me in a Catholic religion circumscribed by rules of conduct as detailed as a tax code—but without loopholes. That structure provided me comfort and security as a thirteen-year-old graduating from elementary school. I had learned much of my religion by rote and did not question it. The lines were sharply drawn. Along with my parents and relatives, I followed the rules of our faith, and the rituals brought us together. I connected Sunday Mass with Sunday evening with the extended family and Lenten fasting with a love of chocolate I shared with my mother. The Sisters of Mercy made sure that the holy water Father Joseph Foley sprinkled on my head when he baptized me two weeks after I was born found its way into every pore of my childhood.

Non-Catholics, and indeed most young Catholics, perhaps including my own children, are likely to find the scrupulosity that I exhibited in the 1950s mystifying: some might find my conduct incomprehensible. But those who were immersed for sixteen years in the Catholic education and Catholic families of the 1940s and 1950s will remember how little space the Church then left for the exercise of individual conscience. It was a time of meticulous adherence to carefully crafted rules found in the questions and answers of the Baltimore Catechism. Catholic doctrine was articulated by nuns, priests, and bishops who spoke with one voice. In those pre-Vatican II days, the clergy wrote, in identical penmanship, directions for a laity whose obedience was taken for granted and unquestioning.

At the ranch on December 29, 1965, I presented "The Great Society—A Second Year Legislative Program," as vast an agenda as he had sent to the first session of the 89th Congress. He loved it. I think he realized that I had internalized the words he spoke to at least once a day, "Do it now. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Not later this afternoon. Now."

• Establishing a civil rights commission
• Providing for another assistant attorney general
• Securing means to protect the right to vote
• Providing tougher sanctions on contempts of court growing out of civil rights cases.

The first time in my government service that I was asked to lie came in April 1965. On April 14 the Washington Evening Star reported that the Democratic Party had not reimbursed the Pentagon for LBJ's political trips on Air Force One during the campaign. White House aide Bill Moyers called me to inquire as soon as the story broke. I investigated and found that the report was correct: In late 1964, the Pentagon had billed the Democratic National Committee $149,019.69 for the cost of political campaign trips. The committee had complained about the amount and hadn't paid; the Pentagon had made no effort to press for payment.

Late that afternoon, Moyers set up a conference call with Treasury Secretary Henry (Joe) Fowler, who had just assumed his post, and me. Moyers said the DNC would backdate a check, and he wanted us to say that the bill had been paid and the story was incorrect.

I said it wasn't worth lying about because it would hurt our credibility on other matters, and noted the fearful price President Kennedy and the Pentagon had paid for some corner cutting with the Cuban missile crisis.

Fowler agreed.

Moyers—obviously under enormous pressure from the President—pressed hard for us to say the bill had been paid. I stood fast and finally said that I would not lie. So did Fowler. "The check is written, dated April 1, two weeks before the story. It's probably already at the Treasury," Moyers said. "So the bill's been paid. You have to make some kind of statement."

"All right," I said. "I'll issue a statement that the Democratic National Committee paid the bill in full by a check dated April 1."

Fowler stuck with me. Moyers backed down, hoping the reporter would not pick up the artful wording (which in turn would subject him to the President's wrath). Walter Pincus, the reporter for the Star, was too smart for that; he wrote a page 1 story the next day:

Califano, special assistant to Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, released a statement to the press that said "the Democratic National Committee paid the bill (for the use of presidential aircraft) in the full amount … by check dated April 1, 1965."

Califano in making his statement failed to add that the check—though dated April 1—was delivered to the Treasury Department less than an hour before he made his announcement.

When I read the story, I thought, I'm glad I love working for McNamara, because there's no chance now of my ever being on the White House staff.