A reflection on my year in prison ministry

Source: Larry Farr/Unsplash

I carried only a clear, transparent tote containing bibles and my reading glasses. Everything had to be seen. Everything went through the metal detector. No phones, no money, no keys. No contraband of any kind. Our walk through the prison was nothing but a series of long, snaking hallways. When you arrived at the end of one hallway, you were greeted by a metal, industrial door. At each of these checkpoints was an armed guard secured behind a protective window. We would flash our I.D. badges at the guard and then we would wait. And sometimes, wait and wait. Often one could peek through the screen in the door and see a line of prisoners in stark, tan uniforms shuffling by. That hallway had to be completely cleared out before we would be allowed through.

Sometimes, if there was a security incident, we didn’t even make it through the first checkpoint.

Suddenly, a loud, buzzing noise would sound and the metal door would open. The guard was operating the door from behind the window. Upon approval, my fellow intern and I would pass through to the other side. A loud slam! and the metal door sealed shut behind us. We would continue into the next hallway and do it all over again. Walk, wait, repeat. Walk, wait, repeat. Depending on the day, it could take us as long as thirty minutes to make it all the way to our destination.

There was one particular hallway in the prison that stands out most in my memory because the high walls consisted of large, blackened stones. I was told that the ancient-looking wall actually used to be the outside of the prison. That wall was a grim reminder of how much smaller this facility once was, of how this building had grown and been repurposed to house the increasing population. Today, older parts of the facility have been cobbled together with newer parts to make a hideously mismatched and misshapen structure that is equally imposing both outside and in.

This was a maximum-security prison, one of the oldest in the country. My colleague and I were both seminary students, interning as prison chaplains for the year as part of our field education requirement. We had both chosen this assignment, but I was the first female intern to work in the program for a while. (This came with challenges of its own.) Together, my male colleague and I worked with the chaplaincy program in the prison, primarily with the cohort of male Protestant chaplains. Once my colleague and I memorized the long, circuitous route of hallways and doors, we were allowed to navigate through to the chapel unsupervised. We helped lead Bible studies and Sunday worship. We assisted in group prayer and counseling sessions.

On Sunday mornings, our church was a large, austere room devoid of furnishings. There was one window in the center of the room that overlooked a bare, cement courtyard. We chaplains were the first in the room, along with a handful of inmate worship leaders—all cleared to join us. We set up rows and rows of chipped plastic chairs. At the designated hour, the buzzer would sound and hundreds of men in tan prison uniforms would flood into the space and take their seats, facing a small podium. At the front of the chapel, there was a locked plexiglass booth that oversaw everything and everyone. The booth was elevated above us and inside were several armed guards seated behind a large desk. The guards were a generally silent yet omniscient presence.

These walls had eyes.

I’ve often wondered what comfort an inmate receives in the notion that God is watching? Inside those stone prison walls, someone is always watching. God is merely another name on a very long list. I witnessed an entire culture of surveillance in the prison: from the guards to the gangs. Inmates would discuss how sometimes, they actually requested to go into solitary, for just a modicum of privacy. Though even in the hole, the guards are never far. Prison bars and chains, plexiglass and security cameras… all mark a world of relentless, unyielding supervision. Every aspect of one’s being is critically scrutinized. There is nowhere to hide from watching eyes.

Within the context of prison life, the tone of Psalm 139 feels grave. The psalmist implores to a watchful God: “Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?” Here, the divine eye of an omnipotent deity seems less reassuring and potentially more sinister. The psalmist continues: “If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.” There is nowhere to hide. God’s providence is inescapable. So the mechanisms of the correctional system could be interpreted as the very arms of divine judgment. Immutable, unbending, fixed. Viewed as an extension of God’s unimpeachable justice, these omniscient, penal forces show no mercy—and there is no escape.

As chaplains, we automatically stood out. Amidst a sea of tan prison uniforms and white-washed walls, we couldn’t help but be seen. We were very visible reminders of God’s presence—and to my great surprise, we were warmly welcomed by all. In any one place in my life, I have never been told “thank you for being here” so many times. Throughout my time there, several of the men openly wept whenever we arrived. For most of the inmates under our care, God wasn’t feared at all. God’s presence was highly sought. The men were overwhelmed with gratitude to have friends from the outside world step into theirs, to help convey this message that God was always with them.

You see, the Psalmist exhorts that God is present with us, even in the dark places. And this is ultimately a message of hope: “Even the darkness is not dark to you,” the Psalmist extols, “the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you!” Even in the darkness, God’s light shines. The inmates would share how, from the confines of their prison cells, they would wake up in the wee hours of the morning and stay up long into the night, poring over their bibles to learn more and more about God’s presence in their lives. The evidence of their tireless study was plain, as many of their bibles were tattered, with page after page of scribbled notes and underlined passages. It was a sign of pride in the community to have a bible so well-worn, but even more so, to be able to quote lengthy scripture passages in full. The devoted members of this community knew their scripture, backwards and forwards—and sometimes would even correct the chaplains if we misquoted a verse!

Make no mistake, the inmates still clung to a robust view of divine judgment. If they saw the penal system as an extension of God’s justice, they believed it was justified.

I heard this mantra voiced by the inmates over and over: I deserve to be here… I deserve to be here…

In a maximum-security facility, many of the men were serving life sentences. Many would never walk out free. The ones who did, would probably be of old age. Many of the men had committed serious offenses: murder, rape, assault. Many were tied up with drug charges and connections to gang organizations. Some had committed one too many misdemeanor offenses, were inundated with fines and fees, and were now in insurmountable debt they could never hope to repay.

I strongly question that every one of those men “deserved” to be in prison. Nor do I believe that a very human penal system is somehow a mere extension of God’s judgment upon our sins. However, many of the inmates viewed their faith as the key to a second chance at life. Reading and memorizing scripture provided tools to help others, to be a spiritual leader in the community, and to be a witness to the gospel, even within the walls of the prison itself. The inmates were so grateful for the chaplains, but the chaplains couldn’t always be there. It was faith in God’s presence—and faith that God had given their lives a new purpose—that carried many of them through, even in the darkest of places.

Behind prison walls, God’s presence offers life-giving meaning, purpose, and hope. For even when a person has committed the gravest of sins, God does not abandon her. Later in Psalm 139, the psalmist cries, “We are fearfully and wonderfully made!” At once, our creation evokes both fright and wonder. The very existence of humans on this planet constitutes the potential for great good and great evil. Rising high over the heart of our cities, the formidable structures of prisons serve to remind us of the complicated paradox of the human condition. Though all sin and all fall short, human goodness can still triumph. Despite the often cruel and unforgiving nature of our penal system, the human spirit can still flourish. And even within prison walls, hope and grace abound. Light shines in the darkness. Redemption is possible.

Why? Because God is never absent. God is always watching. God is always near. Even in a maximum-security prison.