Advice from Prison

At first, this may seem strange. What do three convicted felons have to do with a young nun who lived and died in the late 1800s? Why would I, with access to many pastors in professional ministry and professors at the doctoral level, seek the advice of two people convicted some pretty serious crimes?

These are valid questions, and criticisms of my choices are understandable. Every time I include my friends in a project, seek their advice, or sing their praises, I feel compelled to issue a disclaimer. While I celebrate and write about criminals who have displayed significant life change, I must also remember that there are victims still healing. Although the criminals’ character and lives may have greatly improved, the victims may still be crushed. They might still be grappling with the travesties inflicted upon them—or they may no longer be with us to deal with anything at all. I understand this. I understand the rawness that exists. I understood the pain of the gentleman who shoved our table away, spilling coffee as he stormed off, angry that I was giving a voice to those who had hurt him so deeply. I understand that we are all at different places with God and that He longs to comfort us wherever we are.

But I have also seen firsthand the impact these people have made in the lives of both prisoners and those outside prison. God has a documented history of using prostitutes, cheats, and criminals to change lives. A quick scroll through the Scriptures might leave you thinking God prefers to use people like this. In his final interview before his death, C.S. Lewis said, “Balaam’s ass, you remember, preached a very effective sermon in the midst of his ‘hee-haws.’”[1] While pain and hurtful experiences may still be raw, for reasons beyond our understanding, God chooses to use criminals—and He chooses to use victims. He chooses to work through the marginalized and the broken, and He longs to heal them all.

Christ Himself, though He committed no crime, died the death of a criminal. He was hated and jeered at while doing so. He implored us to love others and seek reconciliation with those we consider our enemies. Christ knew what it was like to be celebrated and worshiped—and what it was like to be spat upon and cast to the margins. He used all kinds of people for His purposes, not just the prostitute, the criminal, and the despised, but also the victims, the respected, and the well-to-do. Both extremes have something to teach us.

Father Gregory Boyle wrote:

Jesus says if you love those who love you, big wow (which I believe is the original Greek). He doesn’t suggest that we cease to love those who love us when He nudges us to love our enemies. Nor does Jesus think the harder thing is the better thing. He knows it’s just the harder thing. But to love the enemy and to find some spaciousness for the victimizer as well as the victim resembles more the expansive compassion of God. That’s why you do it.[2]

As difficult as it may be to accept, Christ chooses to use both the victimizer and the victim. This doesn’t necessarily mean we all need to seek advice or friendship from inmates, but it does challenge us to reconsider our relationship with societal enemies, personal adversaries, or those we struggle to get along with. Reaching this point is evidence of profound transformation in our hearts. When we actively allow the most broken members of society to enter our lives, contribute to our stories, and better our souls, we know God is flipping our worldly values upside down. When the enemy becomes a friend, we carry a sign on our hearts that reads, “Under Construction.” This is a positive marker in our spiritual journey.

Saint Thérèse offers a perspective on this transformation:

If a piece of canvas painted on by an artist could think and speak, it certainly would not complain about being constantly touched and re-touched by the brush and would not envy the lot of that instrument, for it would realize it owed its beauty not to the brush but to the artist using it. The brush, too, would not be able to boast of the masterpiece produced with it, as it knows that artists are not at a loss; they play with difficulties and are pleased to choose, at times, weak and defective instruments.[3]

Saint Thérèse suggests that we are all God’s masterpieces, and He will spend the rest of our lives touching us up. We will never be finished products as long as we are sinful people, surrounded by other sinful people. We won’t be complete works, encased behind glass, until God calls us home to His great museum. Until then, we all require continual restoration. The painting should never concern itself with the kind of brush the artist used to create it. Whether God uses a close friend, a trusted pastor, or a group of inmates, His methods are not ours to question.

For me, God has chosen to use a group of men in prison as His paintbrush. This future masterpiece has no grounds to complain about the tools the Artist uses to shape it.

Pastor Darrin Elliot is one such brush. He has been a close friend for many years. I call him “pastor” because he currently serves as the senior pastor of their inmate-led church. Darrin is serving a life sentence without parole. Since committing his life to Christ in 2000, he has been one of the most knowledgeable spiritual leaders I’ve had the privilege of knowing. I knew he would offer profound insights, both from a pastoral perspective and as an inmate. Similarly, Fredrick Watson is a man of great wisdom and an incredible personality. His meek and quiet heart is matched by deep, profound thought. Fredrick is also serving a life sentence and exemplifies servant leadership in their church. David Young, serving a 63-year sentence, is one of my best friends and a great leader within the correctional center. Hundreds of inmates look up to him, seeking his advice and friendship. David has a magnetic spirit and cares for others more than anyone I’ve ever met. These three men are spiritual giants in my eyes and will be celebrated in the life to come. I will simply be honored to stand among those celebrating them.

Christine Pohl writes in her book Making Room that it is often the smaller, marginalized groups and churches that excel in welcoming the broken and undesirable. She notes:

The periods in church history when hospitality has been most vibrantly practiced have been times when the hosts were themselves marginal to the society at large.[4]

She continues:

Poor people provide hospitality more readily than those with more resources… Poor people often know what it is like to need food, shelter, and help from someone else… Many have a lighter hold on property and possessions. Some of their lives are less dominated by an unyielding routine and so they are able and willing to accommodate more interruptions.

These three gentlemen, along with the other leaders in their church, exemplify Pohl’s observations. I can think of no group more marginalized in our society than prisoners. We literally push them to the margins and keep them locked away—justly so, in many cases. Yet, within this marginalized group, these men have found the ideal environment to embody and carry out The Little Way.

I dropped off the materials and had a series of four meetings approved to discuss The Little Way. The participants were eager to read the books and share their feedback. I was also approved to bring in four lunches from outside, which they were equally excited about—perhaps even more so than the books.

Over those four weeks—laughing, reading aloud, taking notes, and eating Buffalo Wild Wings and Jimmy John’s in a cramped, unventilated upstairs room with a low ceiling—we broke The Little Way into three parts, which we’ll discuss now…

[1] Wirt, ‘I Was Decided On,’ 1.

[2] Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart, 67.

[3] 235

[4] Pohl, Making Room, 106.