From the memoir, Going Out

First Class Christians: Musings from Election Day, 2006, flying into Washington, DC with Charles Colson

At the airport newsstand I pick up a bottle of water and a copy of Newsweek. There’s US flag-wrapped cross on its cover and articles on politics and Christianity inside.

November 2006

            I bring them to the counter for the casher to ring up.

            “You sure that’s all you want?” he asks me with a playful smile.

            Just what I need today—some wise-ass.

“Yeah,” I say, “You got the water, right?”

            “Yeah,” he says, “But--you sure that’s all you want?”

            “Yeah.”

            “So you’re really ready to have me ring you up?”

            “Yeah,” I smile a little, since he doesn’t seem like a creep. But I don’t get what’s going on.

            “O-kay!” he pushes a button and the total, $6.66, appears on the LED screen, “You owe me six-six-six!” he says and chuckles, “The mark of the Beast!”

            Glad he has a sense of humor, I think. That beats a self-proclaimed, end-times prophet by a damn sight. I hand him a twenty.

“And I owe you…..thirteen dollars and thirty-four cents,” he hands me my change.

            “Great,” I say, chuckling with him.

            “Hey, don’t worry,” he says, “I’m only playing around. After all, you’re only  going to fly in a plane on Election Day!”

            He’s a guileless goofball and I laugh with him.

“Take care!” he calls out as I head back to the gate for boarding.

            My partner makes this trip often in order to take care of his elderly mother. Because of that, we got a first-class upgrade on the way down—my first time in first-class--and now again on the way home.

During my maiden voyage among the privileged I discovered the real reason to like first-class flying. It’s not the roomier seats or the pillow and blankets. It’s not even the tasty snacks, although I ate more than my share of high-end potato chips on the way down. It’s the wine. They let you have a glass before take-off. And just before that sexy/scary moment when the plane rattles down the runway so fast you think you’ll either have an orgasm or a panic attack, they come and take away your empty plastic cup so nothing will fly around and stain your business suits.

Then a few minutes later, right after you’ve finished saying your frantic prayers—please God, let us not crash on take-off—and the plane has reached cruising altitude, those angels of mercy return. Chardonnay, wasn’t it? Yes, thank you. Thanks so

much. It’s snacks and wine the whole way, which is a very fine thing for a fearful flyer like me.

            Boarding begins. We file into the plane, stow our carry-ons, and glance around at the other travelers. Don’s looking for celebrities. I’m looking for terrorists.

            “Look who’s right ahead of us,” he whispers to me.

            “Who?” I whisper back.

            “Look. You’ll recognize him.”

            The man is speaking to one of the flight attendants in a resonant voice. He’s tall and she is smiling up at him. His wife is tall, too. White-haired, bulky. She wears a bright red jacket and on the lapel, a large pin of the American flag.

            “I don’t know who it is,” I whisper.

            “He’s a pastor. Just like you. Only not Lutheran,” Don says.

“That narrows it down a lot. Not Desmond Tutu in whiteface?"

            “No, this man is very, very American--.”

“Who is it?”

“Charles Colson.”

It takes me a minute, but then I remember:

“Chuck Colson? Nixon’s Chuck Colson?

            Don nods and peers through the crevice between the seats.

            “It looks as though he’s reading over the text of some prepared remarks he’s going to be making.”

            “Well, it is Election Day.” I say, “And we’re flying into Washington.” 
            “Right,” he says. Then he sits back and opens the New York Times. That’s my cue to shut up for a little bit. I ignore it.

            “Wow!” I whisper, “You must feel really safe, traveling with two men of God--me and Mr. Colson.”

            He raises his eyebrows. I wave the cover of Newsweek at him.

            “And look—see? See what’s on the cover?”

            He nods. He points to a newspaper article about whether or not the right to choose one’s gender would become a legal option in New York state.

            “I don’t think he’d support that,” I say, pointing my finger through the paper at the seat ahead of me.

            “Go ask him. Go introduce yourself to him.”

            “Right.”

            “No, I’m serious. You should do it.”

            “Yeah. And maybe I could have a talk with him about Jesus. And politics.”

The flight attendant starts down the aisle with a basket of snacks.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” Don asks.

            “No,” I say, then pause, “Only if you do.”

            But when she offers us beverages, he orders a seltzer and I begin repeating to myself my standard airplane prayer: Please keep us safe, God, and please keep me calm. Please keep us safe, God, and please keep me calm.

            Soon we’re rumbling and bumping down the runway, my heart pumping along with the speed of it all. Then the landing gear thuds into place and we’re off the ground and climbing. I don’t like the climbing part. I rifle through articles in Newsweek, but mostly focus on the pictures. At the bottom of one of the pages is a spectrum showing the relative conservatism or liberalism of American Evangelical leaders. Lo and behold, Chuck Colson’s smiling face is on the spectrum, far to the right on the right-hand page.

            I’m thinking about his face in Newsweek, about his presence in the seat ahead of me. He thinks he loves Jesus. I think I love Jesus, too. Only we don’t love him in the same way. Which way is better?

Just then the plane gives a serious jolt and even Don raises his eyes from the newspaper.

“That’s okay, isn’t it?” I ask.
            “Yeah, it’s always choppy getting through the clouds.”
            “I thought we were through them by now.”

            “There are a lot of clouds today,” he says, pointing out the window. I don’t look.

            The plane keeps bumping along, even though we have leveled off. The pilot, a woman (can women fly planes?) comes over the loudspeaker giving us details about the weather here and at our destination. She tells us it will be a pretty bumpy ride for most of the flight. There are storms along the coastline all the way to Washington.

            Now that I am supplied with that information I don’t hesitate when the flight attendant comes by at cruising altitude. I order some white wine. White wine midday seems less of a commitment to alcoholic degeneration than red wine does.