Prison Ministry

This is a picture of the Devon Pen church I work out of. It is one of the four mission churches of Immaculate Conception Church and has become a symbol of simple beauty and a source of peace for me. Before mass, I'll play catch with the children using an unripe tangerine plucked from the tree or we will play football (American Soccer) with an empty plastic bottle filled with dirt...and I have never had more fun...Boy is this country weaseling its way into my heart...


I have never been to an American prison, so my first time in a Jamaican prison was a little intimidating, and very thought-provoking. My second time in a Jamaican prison scared the crap out of me, but then helped me clean the mess I made in my pants (not literally guys….geez) Let me explain…

On Friday’s I have been doing Prison Ministry with a local Roman Catholic Church not far from my house. The first week Betsy and I went with the group of about four to Tambourine Farms, a mens medium security prison, to bring encouragement, hope, and faith to those in need of rehabilitation. We go with a group of people who have been ministering to prisoners for about a decade: mothers of inmates who have been wrongfully imprisoned, a priest, and a former prisoner who has since been rehabilitated and is a positive presence in the community.

The second Friday I went, Betsy and I were given the opportunity to go to St. Catherine’s, a mens maximum security prison instead. On the way there, we were told that this prison would be a bit more intimidating than what we had experienced the week before. No problem, I was sure it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.

I can honestly say I wasn’t too concerned until the wardens let us into this dimly lit bypass to search our things before letting us on the actual grounds. The guards were intimidating. The damp, musty air felt heavy. They looked through our bibles and held guns the length of their arms at their sides. Their uniforms looked stiff and their faces, serious. There was an energy in the air that made me feel as though time stopped and happiness was foreign and rare. (For you Harry Potter fans…think Azkaban with the dementors…I really pictured it!) As I stood there with Betsy, three other women and a priest, surrounded by prison wardens, I felt like that moment of my life was taken from a clip straight out of a movie like Con Air (or Harry Potter haha).

I volunteered to come to this place, with guards holding God knows what kinds of guns that are longer than their arms, to talk with prisoners…some there for life for armed robbery, for murder, for rape, and God knows what else. This is what kept running through my mind…I volunteer for this…oh my…

We stood in this dark bypass room, inside the prison walls but not yet in the prison, in front of this huge gate with thick scary bars and men looking in at us with faces of hopelessness and imprisonment, like caged animals. The warden told us to form two lines, stick close, the gates were unlocked and we walked in. Time seemed to stop and I kept imagining these men not as men, but as bad people because that is the energy the place was sending into the world. How can someone rehabilitate in a place like this?

I felt like a prisoner myself. Betsy was to my right and my first instinct was to grab her hand because the fright and intimidation was taking over my body. We walked amidst hundreds of prisoners, some calling out to us just to say hello, some blurting profanity, and some paying no mind, occupied with their football games, conversation or time to themselves.

I was afraid to look any in the eye at first. Like they could harm me if we made eye contact. I looked only straight ahead, apparently uncomfortable. Its strange how looking someone in the eye can make you feel vulnerable.

I saw them immediately as prisoners. I blocked them together as scary, intimidating, and sinful. There were hundreds of them and maybe eight of us with a warden marching in two lines to the chapel.

We sat close, and I took a second to look around me. I saw the other women we came with waving, smiling, acknowledging the prisoners as people, or even as friends. Today, the prisoners were putting on their annual crusade and we were part of the audience.

The crusade was beautiful. The prisoners sang to music performed by other prisoners. Some gave testimonies of God in their life and their newfound faith of life and hope. A woman who had previously been imprisoned preached about purpose. A prisoner brought us all flowers he had picked from a nearby garden and wished us a pleasant day. It was a moving performance.

Watching and witnessing men who have been accused and are serving time for serious crimes come together and sway in chorus about their love for Jesus and their new found life is beautiful.

Rehabilitation.

I realized as we were leaving, my intimidation had somehow disappeared. It was then that I saw these men not as prisoners, but as fathers, brothers, sons and friends that made serious mistakes and are lacking love, support, and acceptance. Perhaps even victims to their society.

I cannot help to think that they were once children. They were once innocent children like the children I teach every day in the missions that I try to love and hug and care for any chance I get. Because somewhere in their development, something went wrong. The prisoners very well may be a product of a society that has lost its way and needs to be coached back.

As we left, they approached us to shake our hands, and thank us for showing our support. I no longer felt scared, though. They had been humanized in my mind and were no longer “prisoners”. I believe in rehabilitation because I witnessed a small sliver of it in a place I never thought I would. And I believe spiritual nourishment is an essential part of this rehabilitation. Because we are all human, and we all need each other. These men, some who are even wrongfully imprisoned, need to know that someone is looking at them as the person they are, with dignity, instead of the person they seem to be, the prisoner, which is a label so easily placed and not easily forgotten.

It made me reflect on how often people are labeled as one thing or another and what this essentially does to the self esteem or dignity of the person.

These men ultimately are fathers, sons, brothers and friends and they have sinned. We are taught to forgive. We need to forgive.