Holiness in Unholy Places

I received word that a member of the church was being held at the maximum security federal penitentiary in Philadelphia. This brother had received special permission from Salt Lake City to receive the sacrament, an ordinance not normally administered to people while imprisoned. This facility was within my congregation’s boundaries so the regional authorities asked me to make arrangements to minister to him. I submitted my ecclesiastical credentials to the prison, underwent a federal background check, and had my name submitted by the prisoner as a formal request for me to be listed as his minister of record. This process took more than a month.

When arriving at the facility for the first time, stopping by on a Sunday after church, I was asked to fill out additional paperwork. I turned over all my personal belongings, only being allowed to retain scriptures and any money on my person. I had none. My hand was stamped, my photo was taken, and a warden escorted me first to a waiting lobby, then into a large visiting room. I was there on the assigned women’s visiting day so all the inmates in the room were female, sitting in rows of plastic chairs on one side, with families in matching chairs facing them, and a series of low plastic end tables in between. I waited off to one side till another warden led in a smallish white man with glasses and graying hair. We shook hands, hugged, then were shown to a side room with two chairs and a desk, usually reserved for visits with lawyers. The chaplain, who had previously told us he would provide communion wafer and cup for the ordinance, was unreachable being engaged in worship services of his own, so we were denied the proper equipment to have the sacrament. We talked instead.

He explained to me the details of his white collar crime. He told me he had struck a deal that he did not know was illegal. Once he did know he backed out and returned all the funds previously exchanged.This didn’t stop the indictment. He was convicted by a judge this brother described as antagonistic, and has been locked away for a year. His case was pending appeal. We talked for quite a while and parted ways, intending to attempt the sacrament again the next week.

That next week I was denied access to the prison. I was told by the guards that I was only listed as a social visitor and could only visit on one pre-scheduled day per week, and this was not the day. Being rebuffed I again contacted the chaplain who apologized and said there was a misunderstanding and to try again. I tried again and was this time rebuffed saying I could only visit before 1:30 on any given day. Our church services ended at noon so I could not get to the prison before the prescribed time. It was 12:45. I haunted the waiting room till the chaplain was summoned. He informed me there was another misunderstanding and that I could in fact visit any day, but that it did need to be before 1:30. He reiterated that if contacted in advance he would provide supplies to be able to administer the sacrament. I thanked him and we parted ways.

The next day, Monday, I received an email from the imprisoned brother that his mother had passed away that morning and he was not in good spirits. He repeated his request to receive the sacrament. I emailed the chaplain that I would be at the prison by 9am the next morning and rearranged my schedule to be there.

Upon my arrival the next morning I was denied access. I argued with the warden who after several phone calls began the process to allow me access. I was brought back into the large waiting room with all the chairs while they processed the brother for visitation.

Every time an inmate receives a visitor they are strip searched both before and after the visit. On his arrival we found ourselves alone together in the large visitation room, being denied the private side rooms this time, and again were denied by the authorities any access to supplies to be able to administer the sacrament. By now it has been many months since this process had been initiated and this brother had yet to receive the bread and water.

We went to a far corner, I invited him to sit, then I went over to the vending machines and purchased a bottle of water and a “lunchable” package of crackers, cheese, and cold cuts. I also collected two white napkins and a white paper plate. We sat facing each other, me in my white shirt and tie, him in his prison jump suit, and I prepared this sad meal to be the sacrament.

He sat and watched as I filled the bottle’s cap with water, set it on one plate and covered it with a napkin. I then placed one cracker on the other plate and also covered it with a napkin. I invited him to say an opening prayer, which he did.

Afterwards I uncovered the cracker, broke it, knelt down and with a military issue of the Gospel Principals book I recited the blessing on the bread. I handed him the plate and as he took and ate the cracker he began to cry. No sobbing and sniffling, just a straight, sad, silent face. His tears continued on through the water and the conclusion of our small and humble service.

I cleaned away our setting and sat down. He could not speak at first. Here in this place filled with those who society has deemed dangerous and punishable, I felt the spirit.

As we parted this brother thanked me again and again. I accepted his thanks filled with the warmth that comes with service and a holy ordinance.

 

Remembering How Easily We Forget.

 

I rode a bike every day for two years. I did it in the miserable Georgia heat. I did it while gallons upon gallons of water poured out of the sky and onto my head. I did it wearing a suit and tie. It was the sort of physical and practical challenge that seeps into every bit of your daily life no matter how menial. Like getting groceries; how do you plan to get them home? The Laundromat? How about an important presentation five miles away and dark storm clouds are gathering overhead? What about the winter when it gets dark at 5 o’clock? I lived with those questions, and the challenge of answering them, every day for two whole years. That was nearly twenty years ago. I will never forget it.

With all that in mind I recently started riding a bike every morning. I teach a class of high schoolers early in the morning and the idea of saving some gas money and spending some calories made sense. I didn’t make this decision flippantly; I put some real thought into it. I remembered what it was like to ride a bike to get somewhere, as opposed to riding for pure recreation. I knew what I was getting into.

But not really.

I remembered all sorts of little details, I could recount stories, I knew stuff. But it wasn’t till I began pedaling a fixed gear tank with all 250 lbs of me on top, up a giant hill, into a headwind, did I really remember riding a bike.

As my thighs swelled and tightened, and blood rushed to my face, true memory flooded my mind and soul. I remembered riding a bike. It hurt. A lot. Stashing my bike in the closet of the classroom with a sweaty shirt sticking to my arms, worrying that I was such a disgusting display of humanity that no one would ever listen to a thing I had to teach; I remembered riding a bike.

It gave me something to think about as I pedaled back home. How easily we forget.

I haven’t seen a homeless person in months.

Back where I used to live, there was this guy in a wheelchair that used to wheel down the middle of our small street collecting discarded scraps of metal. He was dirty. The kind of dirty you can’t fake with a one day roll in the dust, you have to compile this kind of dirt the hard way. It was a regular part of my day to sit in the car waiting for him to wheel his way across the street, or to the end of the block, so I could get my car to where I needed to go.

I used to spend hours on the phone with the local electric company, while a little old lady would sit on the couch next to me sobbing, a past due notice in her shaky hands. I do not have enough fingers to count the number of people I visited regularly that heated their homes by turning the oven on high and leaving the oven door open. It is the poor person’s version of a fireplace. Every day, at least for a moment, I would have to not only see poverty, but interact with it just a little. Sometimes a lot. It was as much a part of my life as that bike used to be.

Pedaling past palm trees on my way to the swimming pool, I wonder how much I have already forgotten.

I read a scripture today in which the resurrected Jesus took bread and wine, passed it to those who were with him, and instructed them to eat it in order to remember him. Remember him? Not only was he right there with them, but these people had just watched this resurrected man descend from the sky in a cloud of light. They had just gone up and touched the holes in his hands, feet, and side. This was God’s son in all his glory. How could they ever forget?

But he knew they would. We can’t help it. Even when we can recall what happened, feelings fade. There is something in the remembering that fades. Jesus, on the first day of this remarkable visit, told them he would be back tomorrow, then, before saying goodnight, set up the taking of bread and wine as a process by which we should remember him. He told them to repeat this ceremony often.

Because we forget.

How can I expect myself or anyone to remember what true poverty is like if we aren’t in it? How can anyone who hasn’t been in it ever really comprehend how hard it is? It is like riding that bike up the hill, remembering how hard it is, is nothing compared to feeling the tight burning in my legs. Many who have lived in it before, been raised in it, struggled to escape it, are going to at some level forget it. The memory will fade into stories, events, recollections, but not the same feelings.

Unless we do something. Not just remember, but do.

Unless we somehow eat the bread and drink the wine. Unless we sit on the couch and call the electric company. Unless we help wheelchair man pick up the pile of tin cans he just spilled all over the street. Not only will we forget, but the poor will be completely forgotten.

And no one really escapes poverty on their own.