Mr. Speaker, in the passing of Chuck Colson, the earthly life of a consequential American has come to an end, and I marked that day with a sense of personal loss. Chuck Colson rose to the heights of political power and fell to the depths…
Mr. Speaker, in the passing of Chuck Colson, the earthly life of a consequential American has come to an end, and I marked that day with a sense of personal loss. Chuck Colson rose to the heights of political power and fell to the depths of disgrace, but in his fall, he found redemption in the gospel of Jesus Christ. Having been given a second chance, Chuck Colson devoted his life to carrying the Christian message of second chances to those in prison, and countless lives were changed by his compassion and example.
His voice of moral clarity was an inspiration to millions of Americans and made him an invaluable counselor to leaders in government and business. I will always count it a privilege to have been able to call him my dear friend and mentor. His dedication to moral integrity, serving his fellow man and his steadfast faith have always and will always be an inspiration to me and my family. Karen and I offer our deepest condolences to Patty, the whole Colson family and to all who mourn the loss of Chuck Colson. The below article written by Michael Gerson and published in the Washington Post on April 22, 2012, is a true testimony to the legacy left by his transformed life.
[From the Washington Post, April 22, 2012]
Charles Colson Found Freedom in Prison
(By Michael Gerson)
Charles W. Colson--who spent seven months in prison for
Watergate-era offenses and became one of the most influential
social reformers of the 20th century--was the most thoroughly
converted person I've ever known.
Following Chuck's recent death, the news media--with short
attention spans but long memories--have focused on the
Watergate portion of his career. They preserve the image of a
public figure at the moment when the public glare was
harshest--a picture taken when the flash bulbs popped in
1974.
But I first met Chuck more than a decade after he left the
gates of Alabama's Maxwell prison. I was a job-seeking
college senior, in whom Chuck detected some well-hidden
potential as a research assistant. In him, I found my
greatest example of the transforming power of grace. I had
read many of the Watergate books, in which Chuck appears as a
character with few virtues apart from loyalty. I knew a
different man. The surface was recognizable--the Marine's
intensity, the lawyer's restless intellect. The essence,
however, had changed. He was a patient and generous mentor.
And he was consumed--utterly consumed--by his calling to
serve prisoners, ex-prisoners and their families.
Many wondered at Chuck's sudden conversion to Christianity.
He seemed to wonder at it himself. He spent each day that
followed, for nearly 40 years, dazzled by his own implausible
redemption. It is the reason he never hedged or hesitated in
describing his relationship with Jesus Christ. Chuck was
possessed, not by some cause, but by someone.
He stood in a long line of celebrated converts, beginning
with the Apostle Paul on the Damascus road, and including
figures such as John Newton, G.K. Chesterton and Malcolm
Muggeridge. They were often received with skepticism, even
contempt. Conversion is a form of confession--a public
admission of sin, failure and weakness. It brings out the
scoffers. This means little to the converted, who have
experienced something more powerful than derision. In his
poem, ``The Convert,'' Chesterton concludes: ``And all these
things are less than dust to me/ Because my name is Lazarus
and I live.''
Prison often figures large in conversion stories. Pride is
the enemy of grace, and prison is the enemy of pride. ``How
else but through a broken heart,'' wrote Oscar Wilde after
leaving Reading Gaol, ``may Lord Christ enter in?'' It is the
central paradox of Christianity that fulfillment starts in
emptiness, that streams emerge in the desert, that freedom
can be found in a prison cell. Chuck's swift journey from the
White House to a penitentiary ended a life of
accomplishment--only to begin a life of significance. The two
are not always the same. The destruction of Chuck's career
freed up his skills for a calling he would not have chosen,
providing fulfillment beyond his ambitions. I often heard him
quote Alexander Solzhenitsyn, and mean it: ``Bless you,
prison, for having been in my life.''
Chuck was a powerful preacher, an influential cultural
critic and a pioneer of the dialogue between evangelicals and
Catholics. But he was always drawn back to the scene of his
disgrace and his deliverance. The ministry he founded, Prison
Fellowship, is the largest compassionate outreach to
prisoners and their families in the world, with activities in
more than 100 countries. It also plays a morally clarifying
role. It is easier to serve the sympathetic. Prisoners call
the bluff of our belief in human dignity. If everyone matters
and counts, then criminals do as well. Chuck led a movement
of volunteers attempting to love some of their least lovable
neighbors. This inversion of social priorities--putting the
last first--is the best evidence of a faith that is more than
crutch,
opiate or self-help program. It is the hallmark of authentic
religion--and it is the vast, humane contribution of Chuck
Colson.
It is a strange feeling to lose a mentor--a sensation of
being old and small and exposed outside his shade. Chuck's
irrational confidence in my 21-year-old self felt a little
like grace itself. The scale of his life--a broad arc from
politics to prison to humanitarian achievement--is also the
scale of his absence. But no one was better prepared for
death. No one more confident in the resurrection--having
experienced it once already. So my grief at Chuck's passing
comes tempered--because he was Lazarus, and he lives.