Behind Bars
A few years ago I was sent to
work as a chaplain intern at a women’s prison in New England. It was
with nerves on edge and jugular vein jumping in my throat that I arrived
at the prison gates. It was right there that I met Sister Maureen, a
short nun, full of fire and spirit who also happened to be the full time
Catholic Chaplain at the prison. She had been involved in the criminal
justice system for years, and was used to nervous young Jesuits
floating in and out of the prison for brief stints.
From week to week my ministry
there ranged from the special (like giving an afternoon retreat for some
women about to be released from prison) to the humdrum (like handing
out songbooks before the weekly Sunday Mass). As is its tendency, time
lessened my nerves. But before that happened, early in my time there,
Maureen said something to me that I have yet to forget.
***
It was a Sunday, and the priest
who was to say mass didn’t show. Sister Maureen, who had left me in
her office as she went to the security cage to check him in, suddenly
reappeared, a religious woman on a mission.
“Preside or preach?” she asked quickly.
“What?” I stammered, as I
watched her rifle through her desk and pull out a small silver container
filled with the Blessed Sacrament.
“No priest. Communion
service,” she muttered. At this point it seemed she was speaking only in
monosyllabic grunts. “Preside or preach?” she asked again. And stared
at me.
“I don’t even know what the readings for Mass are,” I answered
sheepishly. In response she thrust a box of supplies into my arms and
took off down the corridor.
I watched her for a moment as she thumped down the hall, Holy
Communion in hand, and then she looked back over her shoulder and said
again: “Preside or preach? We’re starting in five minutes.”
Given that my old friend time had not yet worked his magic on my
nerves, my thought process was simple: be in front of the women for as
little time as possible. “Preach!” I yelled after her.
Stopping short, Maureen walked back to me and pointed a tiny finger
up towards my frozen face. “O.K.” she said, “just invite them to God’s
love.”
She said the words quietly, leaning in, and her short frame seemed
suddenly taller. And with that she turned on her heels and started
again down the hallway for the prison chapel, leaving me with my box of
mass supplies and a spinning head.
***
I don’t remember what I preached about that Sunday, but I remember what Sister Maureen said to me: invite them to God’s love.
In the last few years I’ve come to see this as perhaps the single most
important thing I can share with others. The invitation to the love of
God is a foreign experience to so many people, people who – almost daily
– seem to ask, “How could God love me for me?”
Today marks my first post as a blogger for The Jesuit Post. I’m
happy to join the ranks. My goal? A continuation of Sister Maureen’s
plea and directive: invite people to God’s love.
***
Postscript: Just a few ago I
was back in New England, and so I wrote to Sister Maureen, hoping to
visit the prison again. It had been four years since I’d last been
behind bars, but I recognized several faces almost immediately. After
mass, and without any real warning (some things never change), Maureen
asked me to say a few words about what I had been up to. So I told them
the story I just told you, I told them the lesson their Catholic
chaplain had taught me years before.
“I’ve been trying to invite
people to God’s love ever since I left you,” I told them. The women
cheered loudly, warmly welcoming their old friend – one bearing their
chaplain’s message – back into their midst.
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