Tonight my small house church did not meet at one of our member's houses. We did not dine on yummy lasagna or tacos or share a dessert and coffee like we normally do. We did not spend an hour or so talking about how we think we might be able to "serve" in the community. We did not take turns telling each other about our week- carefully shielding the things that happened to us so that we are not too vulnerable in that limited time period. We did not sit on the well-cleaned carpet of an upper middle class white family.
We had church in a prison.
There were nine of us- roughly half of our normal attendance-- all white and privileged and a little nervous. Julie and I were the only ones who had never been to a prison church service before and the inmates let us know that they knew. Our eyes were probably really wide.
As we made our way past the metal detector and the first series of locked gates and barbed wire fences, the thought crossed my mind: why am I here? I don't have to be. Nobody else here wants to be here. What do you hope to prove to these people? What do you hope to gain from this? Who do you think you are??
We were guided out into the Courtyard where the roughly 1,700 inmates were casually milling about- talking, laughing, watching, and waiting. They eyed us up quick as we shuffled towards the designated "church" room. There we were greeted by a couple friendly inmates-clad in tan jackets or sweatshirts. They didn't seem real chatty- just pleasant and helpful. I was shocked to find expensive instruments (drums, guitars, keyboards- a full band's worth) high tech sound equipment and visual aids. The ushers began to set up around 200 chairs and as we helped them I had this thought: "there's no way that 200 people from this medium/high security facility are going to want to come to a silly church service."
Boy was I wrong.
By 6:35 that place was PACKED. Men were greeting one another with smiles and hugs, friendly banter and some tears. Tattoo-ridden convicts with names stitched into their clothing were "giving peace" to one another without a second thought. We engaged them as best we could with conversation about where we were from, what church looked like for us, and if they had kids and how old... I was overjoyed at how easy it was to just strike up a conversation with anybody- and how open and honest they were about themselves and their situation.
The Chaplain, Luke, called the service to order and played a few songs on his guitar while these men sang their fricken hearts out. Some of them were even in the right key.
Next, our pastor, Megan, introduced herself and began to preach on how to respond to Jesus' call to "get up." I gazed around the room at the predominantly black crowd of men in their mid-30s giving rapt attention to our mascara-clad white female pastor- who is still in her 20's. I watched them nod their heads and mumble, "Amen!" and "Preach it" and "come on!" in the typical southern Pentecostal style. Megan finished and a huge round of applause burst forth. Some men stood.
And then, as soon as it had begun, the service was over and we put away the chairs and were escorted out.
As we walked away from that prison I realize that although I was technically inside a correctional facility, I didn't walk through their cells. I didn't have to experience being locked up and held against my will. I didn't stand in that "church" room with my sins laid bare before me like everyone else. I could hold my struggles and my sins tight to my chest- with the calm assurance that my secrets are safe. I realize now that I was the coward in the room.
Before this I felt brave. I felt that I was being so bold because I was volunteering to walk into a prison to share God's love with these poor incarcerated folk. What was soon very apparent was that all my bravery meant shit. These men were the ones who were brave. These men were the ones who accepted their position and sentence and instead of being bitter at God and men and the world- they were rejoicing and celebrating together that God loved them and that although they were not perfect, they were still going to try their hardest to make him proud. I should have known that God's love was already there. I should have known that God's Spirit was already moving amongst the believers. I should have known that my tiny little world of who I think God is and who is great in His Kingdom would be shattered... but I didn't. Instead I was pleasantly humiliated and made some great friends.
God will love me when I am cowardly enough to think that I am being extra holy by visiting men in prison- and he will love me when I am brave enough to one day shake hands with a total stranger and tell them my sins even when they do not ask. God cannot be any more perfect than He is. This was a good reminder to me of that.
I hope we are allowed to come back soon. I hope that I can hear more about my new friends Mike, Saunders, Armstrong, and Roger- how they came to know God and how they can have hope in a place like prison. I hope to learn more about humility and miracles and punishment- the twisted world of a cold and sterile environment that houses a subculture of brave, broken men seeking after Christ's heart.
