Why I go to jail

It was one of those moments when the veil of heaven seems to lift. I was sitting in the “congregation,” immersed in a cacophony of vigorous male voices singing Christmas carols. Sitting in the congregation is a rare thing for a pastor and even rarer for a pastor in a prison service, but this time I came with a team and had nothing to do but sit in the congregation.

It was a familiar prison service. I had been in this chapel scores of times. The congregation here is transient (two years less a day) but familiar, not only because of the dirty orange dress code and standard prison machismo but because, after 15 years of visits, there is always an old “friend” or two to exchange pleasantries with.

It was the last Sunday before Christmas and the chaplain spoke about the self-loathing that Christmas invariably brings to the population. Since it was Christmas, the audience was in a reflective mood – not so taken by it that a dozen smoke and bathroom breaks didn’t interrupt the 30-minute service, mind you, but sombre nonetheless. Lighting the Advent candles was a hit as four eager volunteers produced lighters and hope, peace, joy and love flickered to life. It was a good service.

And then it happened. In the darkened hall, lit only by the Advent candles and a glowing vending machine there was a presentation to honour “Mary,” an elderly, regular volunteer. She was directed to a lone chair as ten inmates assembled in a horseshoe around her. A cake with a large lit candle was placed in her lap. A signal was sent to the pianist and Mary was serenaded with ragtag renditions of two carols.

Several took this exercise extremely seriously but there was also a disdainful comic and a couple of obviously reluctant recruits. But if the choir was uneven in its public attitude, the congregation was not and burst into heartfelt applause as the presentation ended.

In that moment it all came together. “Mary” had become the universal grandmother who distributes the cookies, hugs and small gifts, and makes sure everyone has good manners. She became the final piece in a real Christmas celebration. This was a family Christmas, a holy night. That night I felt the presence of the Saviour.

For those who have been at it a long time, prison ministries have a certain ambivalence. We usually begin expecting to make a difference, to extend the hand of grace, hoping that at least one person will take hold and be drawn out of the cycle of crime and self-destruction.

Over time, however, the reality is too grim for most volunteers. For too many inmates this prison really is the best home they will ever have. Their stories break your heart. They speak of drunken, abusive mothers, of angry, violent fathers, of crying themselves to sleep in foster home after foster home. They hate the life they have been given and you want to find some way to wipe it all away and give them at least a tiny fraction of the chances you and your children have been overwhelmed with. But you can’t.

Those volunteers who come back, however, soon realize the obvious. These are not just wounded souls, they are also drug dealers, chronic thieves and child abusers. They are clones of the parents they hate. And the real test of your magnanimity is revealed when, in the depths of your own soul, you discover you don’t want them dating your daughter or hanging out with your church youth group.

But that night, as heaven came down, I suddenly knew why I was there. It was simply because Jesus said, “I was in prison and you came to visit me.” And He added, “I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:36,40).

It feels good to do something that appears to make the world a better place but the real foundation for Christian service has deeper roots – simple obedience. That obedience has its own rewards. That night at jail, I got mine.

James Toews is pastor of Neighbourhood Church, Nanaimo, B.C.