The Many Paths, Part 1 of 4: Pocket Calendar Salvation

On the flight from Newark to Delhi, I sat on the aisle in a partial row of three seats near the back of the aircraft. The middle would remain mercifully empty throughout the trip, but when I sat down the window seat had already been occupied by a middle-aged man. His hair was graying, if not gray, and he wore glasses and a mild, benignly blank expression. He was a large man, and although not fat, his full cheeks and jowls bespoke a comfortable life. As I am not of the temperament to begin conversation with strangers, even those whose company I will share for the next thirteen hours, he addressed me first; he had the sort of smooth, drawling southern accent that I associate with televangelists and football coaches. He was going to India to visit his wife, he told me. She was finishing her second and final ("she told them she's not coming back") three-month stint conducting training for Indian employees of United Health Care in Delhi. The visit, his first to the country, would last a week, and then he would fly home, his wife following the next day. They wouldn't fly together, he told me, in the event some tragedy should befall the flight: "We couldn't do that to our kids." The kids, as it turned out, were in their thirties with lives of their own; he and his wife had recently celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary. I congratulated him and commented, out of politeness and possibly for the lack of anything better to say, that it was rare in this day and age for a marriage to last so long. "We got married real young," he said. "In South Carolina. She was sixteen, and I was eighteen, so we kind of grew up together."

There are two things I can't tolerate in strange travel mates: incessant talk (or general noisiness) and overly familiar talk. Fortunately, this man, whose name I've forgotten, indulged in neither. When he spoke it was to comment generally about his life and interests or to inquire after mine, or, less frequently, to make a passing observation regarding Indian culture (usually prefaced with the caveat or commendation--I wasn't sure which--"my wife says"). However, at one point he managed to steer the conversation to religion, and I immediately felt that this transition had a hint of the non sequitur in it--I suspected that he had intended to steer there all along. "We're Baptist," he told me strangely, almost sheepishly. He plunged on: he had accepted Christ a few years before. I braced myself, certain the conversation could go only one of two places from here: a personal recounting of his journey to faith in God, or else the dread question, Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?

But my panic proved unfounded. He took a third tack, asking merely whether I had any background in "the church." My attempt to describe the unique character of the Mennonites, I think, thoroughly flummoxed him. "So they're Christians?" he asked at the end of my spiel, which, despite its regular and longstanding employment, has never achieved coherency, even to my own ears. Later in the flight he wrestled an impressive Bible from the overhead compartment and took to studying intently by the overhead light. Every other page of the Bible was blank, permitting the reader space for liberal note-taking and reflection, a feature he was evidently proud of: "I really like it," he drawled, in typically understated fashion. Meanwhile he scribbled away in pencil.

On our descent into Delhi, we wished each other good luck, and he hurriedly reached into his breast pocket and pressed a small white rectangle, inscribed with red script, into my hand. It was a pocket calendar from the Monnett Road Baptist Church of Julian, North Carolina. "We started handing these out a few years ago," he said, by way of explanation. He cited a figure, which I've forgotten--the number of pocket calendars his church had distributed, some several thousands. I wondered if he equated this figure with a lesser, but still quantifieable number of souls saved as direct consequence. Perhaps his church had some formula for pocket calendar salvation (for every 100 calendars distributed, seven souls come to God), as fundraising organizations do for calculating the success of direct mail campaigns or phone banks.

The reverse of the calendar featured red letters, bold and underlined, in all caps: GOD'S SIMPLE PLAN OF SALVATION. Five steps to salvation followed: 1. Realize that you are a sinner; 2. Realize that sin brings forth death; 3. Realize that God still loves you; 4. Realize that salvation is a free gift. Finally, unnumbered, but having the additional emphasis of italics: Call upon God and receive His free gift! Which sounded to me as if salvation were the sweatshirt one receives along with his Sports Illustrated subscription. (Calleth our operators and they will sayeth unto you: Behold, I send to you my only sweatshirt, and it shall be called Warmer of Arms, Concealer of Guts, Absorber of Beer Spills, Cradler of Remote Controls, Proclaimer of Everlasting Love for Thee, Sports Illustrated.) And at the bottom in eye-straining script: (Please let us know of your decision for Christ). In order to refine the formula no doubt.