Airplane Rides by Jake Alexander Page A

I asked, my eyebrows probably halfway
up my forehead.
    Daniel laughed out loud at the transparency of my inquiry.
    “Methodists don’t have formal confession the way Catholics do,
but I have counseled many people who have come to me with their problems.”
    “Then how does the whole absolution thing work?”
    “God forgives those who ask for it, regardless of ceremony,”
Daniel responded with almighty patience.
     
    We were interrupted by the flight attendant who was balancing a
cocktail glass on a small silver tray, announcing the contents as she placed it
on my armrest.
    “Stolichnaya rocks,” she proclaimed, as though it were a party
guest I hadn’t yet been introduced to.
    “As much as it may look as though I need this, I didn’t order
it,” I stated, politely rejecting what I knew was probably an excellent
suggestion.
    The flight attendant looked at me blankly and without
acknowledging the mistake picked up the glass and moved it to the same position
one row back.
     
    I returned to Daniel, trying to regain the momentum.
    “How many people are in your congregation?” I asked, trying not
to sound overly focused on market share.
    “We have about seven hundred people.”
    “Is that a lot?” I asked, looking for a benchmark.
    “Not really, business is not so good,” he replied, graciously
speaking my language.
    “Why is that?”
    “I expect it’s because people are less certain about why they
want faith to be a part of their lives.”
    His delivery was laced with understanding.
    “This must be frustrating for you?”
    “Not really.  Religious faith is very abstract and life is
filled with tangible distractions.”
    Once again I found myself holding my tongue.
    “Does this affect how you feel about being a minister?”
    “I love my job, if that is what you are asking,” he retorted.
    “What I am asking is, has it ever caused you to question your
own faith?” I responded, perhaps more directly than he was accustomed to.
    “No way you’re sidestepping this one,” I thought to myself.
     
    Daniel paused and his eyes narrowed as I watched him, waiting
for the response.
    “Yes, something happened that caused me to rethink things,” he
replied.
    “Will you tell me what it was?”
    Daniel folded his hands across his lap and let out a sigh that
sounded like a door opening to a difficult memory.
    “A woman in our congregation came to me to let me know that she
was leaving the parish.  She had been with us for twelve years and I was surprised,”
he stated honestly.
    “Did you ask her why?”
    “I did,” replied Daniel. “She told me that she was looking for
something different.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “I wasn’t sure, but it was something different from what our
parish offered,” he replied helplessly.
    “Did you take this personally?”
     
    Daniel sat back in his seat and once again gave me his patient
smile.
    “Of course not.”
    I didn’t believe him, but pushed on anyway.
    “So where is the part about questioning your faith?”
    I suspected that the story had been a diversion to buy time.  I
waited patiently, respectfully giving him the room to continue.
    “About two weeks later, I received a phone call.  A young girl
from our congregation had committed suicide,” Daniel said heavily.
    “Nothing abstract about that. How old was she?”
    “Sixteen.”
    “Did she have problems?” I asked, giving him the opportunity to
point me in the direction of the various unspoken.
    “No,” he replied, as if it were a question he had asked himself
a thousand times.
     
    I sensed the older man’s difficulty and called a time-out.  I
hailed the flight attendant and requested a couple of vodkas, figuring that
Daniel could use the hard stuff.  The woman returned in a first class minute
with her little silver tray.
    “I don’t really drink.”
    “Sure you do,” I replied, lifting my glass to him.
    Daniel lifted his glass hesitantly to the same height.
    “Believe me, it will