Prison, by Choice

We were enjoying a neighborhood get-together at Brian and Christina Aulick’s home. Fairly new to the neighborhood and realizing how many neighbors went to their church, the Aulicks (pastors at our church) decided to throw a party to meet each of us. I was standing in the corner of their kitchen grazing on appetizers when Jeff introduced himself. It didn’t take long for us to go down the usual conversational lanes of family, career, and friends. Then he began to share a personal tragedy that had shocked and shaped his world. Both of his parents were tragically killed in a car accident a few years prior to this and a big part of his grieving and healing process was to forgive the woman who, while high on marijuana, turned in front of them and took their lives. After numerous months of prayer God softened his heart and prompted him to write her in prison where she was serving time and offered his forgiveness. Later Jeff was asked to share his forgiveness story in a men’s prison and while he was there, he discovered the Prison Fellowship Ministry. Intrigued by what he learned, over time he became a volunteer, teaching in the prison each week. “This ministry has changed my life,” he stated with conviction.

I had visited a prisoner a number of years ago. That encounter was still fresh in my mind. I had experienced uneasy feelings, even fear, and afterwards an overwhelming sadness for the plight of the young man we visited. I hadn’t even entered the prison yard or the cell areas, only the outer visitor section. That was about to change.

Jeff casually invited me to come along with him to check it out. After allowing the request to simmer for a number of weeks, I felt an internal pull to go with him despite the myriad of excuses not to. Honestly, I surprised myself when I texted Jeff to let him know I was interested in tagging along for his next class. I was locked into the commitment, and, as nervous as I was about going, I was even more nervous about where it might lead in my future. Was I going to be committing to a ministry as unconventional and unnerving as a prison ministry? Wouldn’t a youth program at church be a better choice? A safer choice? I recalled all the times I had heard the expression, “The safest place to be is in the center of God’s will.” The problem with that statement is there is nothing even remotely close to that teaching in the New Testament. Rather, true Christ followers lived in the most physically dangerous situations of all. Jesus made it pretty clear that in the world we will have many troubles. He shared that with his disciples who all faced distressing circumstances, and most of them suffered horrific deaths. Many of the chapters in the New Testament were written from a prison cell where the author had been imprisoned for being in the center of God’s will. Imprisonment was the center of God’s will. “The safest place to be is in the center of God’s will.” The problem with that statement is there is nothing even remotely close to that teaching in the New Testament.

The dark brown prison structures were surrounded by high walls and fences covered in coils of barbed wire. As Jeff and I walked up to the main entry doors, I couldn’t help but see the image of Jesus’s crown of thorns repeated again and again draped above the tall chain-link fencing. Jeff made sure I only had my driver’s license on my person and even that was taken away from me in exchange for a piece of paper with my visitor ID on it. We passed through four steel sliding doors, each one locking behind us before the next would open. Additionally, we were escorted through a metal detector, endured a pat down, removed our shoes and socks so they could be inspected, tolerated a look under our tongues, and were tagged with a fluorescent mark on the back of our hands, visible only when held under a special light so the guard behind bulletproof glass could see it and approve us to proceed. Lastly, we received a buzzer we connected to our belt. “Press this button if you are in trouble, and guards will come to your rescue,” Jeff informed me. Trouble? What kind of trouble?

As we walked escorted by a prison guard across the yard to unit six, we met up with Chip, the Academy Program Manager of Prison Fellowship. Near the entry door of the unit was what looked like a makeshift sign resembling a tombstone: Faith Dorm. Chip escorted me, along with another visitor, into the library. We sat on cold, plastic chairs in the somewhat dingy library that felt more like a large closet. Chip invited some prisoners to come in and introduce themselves. Four different individuals dropped in over a forty-five-minute time span. I was taken aback by their cheerful demeanor, articulate speech, and peaceful countenance. Ashamed of my preconceived prejudices, I allowed them to be dismantled one by one.

While I can’t recall all that was said in those moments, a few statements stuck with me:

We know we are on the bottom rung of the social ladder. We see you as laying down your life for us and humanizing us through your visit. In this place we are serious about how we live for Christ and how we serve each other. We are serious doers of the word.

They shared with us their stories, rich with redemption and praise for Christ who had made the difference—all the difference—for them. I felt a deep connection to these men, men I had just met, whom I had so little in common with. But I felt the presence of God’s spirit in that space, in their eyes, in their voices. How could men such as these, with hearts transformed by Christ, with such deep maturity, be in this place? In prison, society had put them out of sight and for the most part out of mind. I felt a deep burden for them as I walked out of there that day. I knew this was not the last time I would see them or be in this not God-forsaken place. I asked myself if I could ever recall being with a group of men who had such depth of devotion these men seemed to have? I came up empty.

I wondered why I felt such a profound connection to this place. A feeling came over me, a feeling I belonged here. A feeling these were my brothers. In time, I became a registered Prison Fellowship volunteer and began teaching my own class each week.

As I consider my life, my mistakes, my losses, my choice of ending a life—I belong in this place, yet I am free. I carry, however, the burden of their imprisonment in my heart. They are imprisoned yet have a newfound freedom in Christ. It is a privilege to be with them each week in this season of my life. What they do for me trumps what I do for them. Each man is unique, each with their own story, each at different levels of recovery and discovery. Each one is special.

I had a new class just this week and told the men I was there because I didn’t want to waste my life. I hadn’t planned to say that, it just came out. It was sincerely how I felt. Whenever we invest in the “least of these,” we discover they are anything but. I have found spiritual giants within those walls, men that put my walk to shame, and men I am proud to call my brothers. Many have overcome incredibly difficult life circumstances on their way to their eternal redemption.

“Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown.” (Luke 7:47)