For years I’ve visited men in prison seeking to bring Christ’s light, love, and forgiveness to them, and in the midst of this discipleship I have heard some hard things. One conversation haunts me.
Allan was, and remains, the “least” and most “lost” person I’ve met. Pale, unkempt, 115 pounds, obvious learning disability, no social skills, pronounced attention deficit disorder, loathed, oppressed, mocked, reduced, shamed, and forced to shave his legs to better suit the inmate who claimed him as ‘bitch.’ God chose him for me to share an Incarnational moment with.
During a weekend at the prison God moves in big ways. For me, there are times when he fixes my attention to one or two men that I know He is calling me to reach out to. Often they are not the men that I would choose myself because I believe I know where my gifts reside, but I have found that God isn’t always interested in using my gifts, and I am working to get used to that.
There are power dynamics in prison so clearly defined that they leave little question as to who are predators and who are prey. Men who draw power from demonstrating their fury or power through heinous acts, men who draw power from physicality and raw strength, and men who draw power from true yet sinister leadership qualities. Then there are the weak. The mentally ill, the intellectually limited, the socially inept, those so wracked by fear that they develop tics at their eyelids, and finally, the men who are so physically frail and helpless that they truly have no realistic hope of ever defending themselves.
During a break after talking in a delusional way about the illustrious baking career he had on the outside before catching a ‘bullshit’ sex offense case, all with his eyes to the floor, Allan slid his broken glasses back up the bridge of his nose, where they sat only for a second before slipping back down, looked at me, and asked, “So where is your Jesus when I’m getting raped?”
The Holy Spirit can be described in many ways—sometimes He comes to me in waves that roll through my chest and leave me at peace. Pick me up in fear and set me down in peace. All I could say was, “I don’t know how to answer that, but I have to believe that even then, there, He was with you.” They weren’t my words. I don’t even know if they helped, but looking back, I know they are the truth. I stood there with Allan, right next to him, agonizing over what more to say, what scripture I could pop off, whether or not to hug him, and did nothing more. I just stood there, and he stood next to me. In front of us, behind us, below us, Jesus stood there too. The swell in my throat was unbearable and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more desperately sad than at that moment, for that brother, but the truth is it was one of my closest moments to Christ as well. A few seconds passed, Allan’s A.D.D. kicked back in and he sparked off out into the hallway. I went to the staff bathroom and wept for a few minutes before heading back into the fray.
What strikes me about this interaction, truly, is that when I said those words to Allan, I didn’t believe it. I just hoped in some magical way it would make him feel better about what was happening to him. There is horror in this world, there are unspeakable acts carried out every single day. How can Jesus be in that cell, while this pale, broken child is violated in such a way? This is powerlessness in such certain terms that one can come away feeling physically sick at the injustice and hopelessness. One act in a tragic play lasting 2,000 years, a play where our hero is invisible and moves with guile and grace.
I recently participated in a course called “Born from Below,” a CTM intensive about ministry among the most vulnerable members of society. Admittedly it’s a stretch, but in applying the Incarnation to my work, my context, I can begin to see Jesus in that prison cell. I can see Jesus’ suffering, His compassion, His tears, His anger, His truth, His promise for redemption, all for Allan. In that moment, again, “I am with you.” In these unbearable minutes, “I am with you.” To that end, I was with Allan, hopefully giving a gospel that helps him to move through with some dignity. I’ll never know if that’s what he received or not, but I continue to pray for him every day.
Edward Sumner
Believes that light in darkness is an act of defiance
Loves his family and girlfriend
Wants to sail across the ocean one day
Thanks Jesus for raising him up to serve the least and the lost
