"This is the time for us to metastasize and impact society." the gravelly-voiced former Nixon aide tells his rapt audience. "And this is a really, really urgent hour."

For decades after emerging from a federal penitentiary, Colson focused on building what has become the world's biggest prison ministry. Now, at 79, he has shifted his attention to the final mission of his remarkable life: saving what he regards as true Christianity from American extinction.

Time is running out

There are no clear heirs to lead the movement that made conservative evangelicals a political force in the United States. No new Jerry Falwells, Pat Robertsons, James Dobsons or Charles Colsons. Even Franklin Graham, the son of legendary evangelist Billy Graham, is 58.

Like many other religious conservatives, Colson believes that his views about the inerrancy of the Bible and Jesus's role as the only path to salvation aren't being taught - not in schools and not in churches. Instead, he laments, those essential, unchanging tenets are being replaced by a seeker-driven Christianity-lite, something not far from secularism and relativism.

Which is why he is working furiously, long after many men his age have hit the golf course.

Walking to lunch between weekend sessions in Virginia, Colson admits he is tired. He's sick of meetings. He calls himself an introvert who forces himself to globe-trot to spread his message.

He lectures, blogs and broadcasts a daily radio commentary that is also sent out via e-mail; the commentary reaches about 2 million followers each weekday. (He also serves as a panelist for On Faith, The Post's online forum about religion and politics.) And he is molding hundreds of men and women eager to be his spiritual progeny.

'If Jesus Christ can pick some believers, zealots and prostitutes, and these people can change the world, then we can do the same. We don't need anything more," says one of Colson's followers, Steve King, a 57-year-old paddle-sports equipment salesman and former Olympic kayaker from Quebec.

They are called Centurions, a name that conjures battle-hardened Roman soldiers. They number 640, and their marching orders from their commander are clear to expand Christ's kingdom.

"What this country needs," Colson declares, "is a movement."

"Christ rejects Colson"

Chuck Colson's biography defies a single tag: Nixon's dark side. Watergate scoundrel. Republican strategist. Adulterer. Drunk. Best-selling author. Prisoner advocate. Towering evangelist.

Long before he became a regular on top-10 lists of U.S. evangelical leaders, Colson was famous for being Richard Nixon's "hatchet man," the aide who created the president's infamous enemies' list. He was Nixon's lawyer by the time he was 38.

In 1974, he was indicted for conspiring to cover up the Watergate burglary that brought down the Nixon presidency. But he pleaded guilty to a separate charge of obstruction of justice for his role in trying discredit Daniel Ellsberg, the military analyst who leaked the Pentagon Papers. He served seven months at a federal prison in Alabama.

So dark was Colson's reputation that much of Washington laughed skeptically when he announced that he had embraced Christianity.

"Someone in the newsroom wrote a fake headline saying ˜Christ Rejects Colson." Here was the toughest of the tough," said Bob Woodward, an assistant managing editor for The Post who won a Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on the Watergate scandal with partner Carl Bernstein.

But the drama of Colson's plunge was key to his rise as a Christian leader.

After his incarceration, Colson could have easily made millions in business or as a celebrity evangelist. Instead he founded Prison Fellowship, a multi-­million-dollar ministry that advocates for prisoners and preaches behind bars in 1,400 U.S. jails and in 110 other countries. His prison work was his redemption, transforming him into one of the country's most admired evangelical leaders.

Colson, who lives in Florida full time after years of dividing his time between the Sunshine State and Northern Virginia, hasn't lost his taste for politics. He works against measures to legalize gay marriage and served as an informal adviser to former George W. Bush aide Karl Rove. But he doesn't usually sound strident when he talks about hot-button social issues and is viewed more as the wise grandfather of the religious right. He is funny before a crowd, quick to hug fans (especially prisoners) and is treated like a rock star at Christian events. People constantly approach him to talk about their ministry projects, push their books or ask for an autograph.

It was his stature that led to the suggestion that Colson find a way to multiply himself -passing on his orthodox Christian beliefs as well as his talent for communicating them.

'The point was to get more people to be like Chuck," says Chip Mahon, a retired financial services executive who sits on the board of BreakPoint, the umbrella group for Colson's various ministries, including the Centurions, which began in 2004.

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