Lean in a little closer

Yesterday I flew in to town on what people may call a "puddle jumper:" a small comercial airplane. Maybe 25 people were on the plane, all told. As I got to the very back of the plane I noticed that there was a man in my seat--my window seat--the very back corner seat. He was disheveled and was intent on looking out the window. He also already had his seatbelt fastened. In my seat.
Excuse me sir, you're in my seat.
He jerked his head around. Oh, are you supposed to sit here, ma'am?
I nodded and he slid out of the seat so I could climb in next to the window. As he slid in beside me, my nose told me that he was well acquainted with alcohol.
His red nose and the sores and blackheads all over his face and neck filled in some of the details.
Where are you headed today? I asked.
Penneldon, he slurred back, a little too loudly. The woman ahead of us winced.
He smiled broadly at me. I could see the remains of his last meal caked on his front tooth. How 'bout you, ma'am?
Oh, just to--
--Yeah--I grew up there and lived there all my life. Before I could reply, he continued, I'm just coming back from Alaska. I've been up there for four months. Just got out today before the ice came. I could uv been snowed in then I never would have been able to get out.
Wow!
He leaned into me, pressing me even further into the corner. So I am very glad to be sitting beside you on this plane today!
I smiled back. I hope he'd noticed my wedding ring. His breath was nauseating.
Just then, the woman across at the end of the next row leaned over and started to engage me in conversation. She was an acquaintance, and we had mutual interests. As I responded to her questions, looking past my seatmate, he grunted in approval, and a couple times chuckled at my comments. Then, realizing that he was obstructing my view of the woman, he leaned back in the seat and averted his eyes.
A few minutes later, he lurched around in his seat to face a teenager next to him.
How old are you? His voice was entirely too loud for polite conversation.
Thirteen.
Thirteen! he bellowed. I remember being that age when I used to live here. The kid cringed and focused on the man's mouth as he spoke.
Maybe my seatmate realized something about him was inappropriate, because he suddenly fell silent. A few minutes later, his head was back on the headrest and he was asleep, mouth wide open.
I busied myself with grading papers. As I wrote, the man leaned into me as he slept. His arm and left leg were pressed against me, and his head began to lag toward me. Oh please! I silently thought.
But just then the flight attendent came through offering beverages. He lit up and ordered wine. I should have known. He looked delighted as he slugged it down.
I decided to engage him about some topic--the town in which he grew up. Every response he made was shallow, agreeable, and extremely loud. So I returned to grading papers and he drifted off again, leaning into me once more.
What would Jesus have done with someone like this? Engage him in conversation about his eternal soul? Touch on the very pains that made him turn to drinking? Reassure him somehow? Would Jesus have talked to him about other aspects of his life to point out that his value and experience is about much more than what he ingests? Would he have offered some suggestions about how to stop drinking? Should I talk with him as a therapist, a representative of Christ, a nurse, or a friend? Which language would be appropriate? Should I ask him about his family--children, wife, mother, father? Would it be appropriate to ask him about his line of work? Would that just be mockery, since I couldn't see how he might even hold a job, as saturated with alcohol as he was. I sat, studying the tip of my pen, as I tried to think how to interact with this man that would make some sort of difference in his life--or in mine.

All I could come up with was that I didn't want to treat him in a less than respectful, honoring way--even if he is a drunk, or whatever else he might be. I'd been pleasant to many irresponsible, womanizing, drinking, controlling men on airplanes before. They just hadn't been as drunk as he was.

As I pondered what to do, it dawned on me that I might be like this man in many ways. I eat too much--gluttony, it's called--and it doesn't seem to go away, but get worse and worse with time. What makes me so different than him? Clean teeth, minty breath, clear skin, ability to think clearly, a bank account, and probably much less pain in my life. But if the flight attendant had offered us chocolates, I'd have gobbled one down and wished for a second. So what should I do about this guy? Who was I to do anything? What made me better?
Maybe the only thing I could do would be to stay with him--sit with him shoulder to shoulder, and feel the commonality of being just one more member of the human family for whom Christ died. And so the drunkard and the glutton rode quietly together for the duration of the flight.

As we lurched and soared into our final destination, two people, greatly in need of God's grace, sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what God would do in their lives. Wherever he is now--waking up from a bender, or on his way to church, God is as merciful to him as He is to me--loves him no less and no more than me. He is no better and no worse than me. We all need what Jesus came here to give us. Every one of us.