It’s been 15 years since I went to prison. I went as a visitor, a member of a Kairos prison ministry team, to host a retreat for a small group of inmates.
I was intimidated the first time I drove up to the Augusta State Medical Prison (ASMP), with its 20-foot chain-link fences topped with razor wire. The entrance is like an airlock, a small room with tiny windows and a thick metal door that locks behind you before the interior door can open. ASMP is a high-security prison that provides acute medical care for the Georgia Department of Corrections. It’s both a prison and a hospital.
I joined about 20 other men who trained every weekend for months to put on a 3-day retreat for men serving time. Part of the training was security protocols for our safety. The rest of our time was spiritual preparation for what we were about to do.
We met the retreatants in the chow hall, a cinderblock room without windows decorated by steel tables bolted to the ground. 42 men in prison uniforms filed in. I was more than nervous. I was frightened. Then, in the quiet of my heart, I heard the Lord whisper, “These are my sons, I want you to love them.” Peace washed over me. For the next three days, that was exactly what I was going to do.
During the retreat, the retreatants are divided into “families” of six retreatants who share a table with a pair of retreat hosts like myself. The retreat is modeled after a Cursillo or Walk to Emmaus retreat. A series of talks share the Gospel with time in between for “family” conversations and quiet prayer. Each talk started with some awful but enthusiastic praise and worship music.
One of the mantras repeated during training is, “Listen, listen, love, love.” The men on the retreat are not there to be judged. They’ve already been judged, found guilty, and sentenced to prison. The retreat tries to create a space where they feel heard and loved.
I saw the impact of this love when I was sitting with my table family. I vividly remember talking to one of the retreatants about the love God the Father has for each one of us. When I asked him about the love he’d received from his earthly father, I could see in his eyes that he had no idea what I was talking about. He’d never known a father’s love. It broke my heart. I suddenly understood why I was there: to show him an unconditional love that he had never experienced.
Love opens hearts. A beautiful moment in the retreat is the distribution of “Agape Letters.” In Cursillo, these would be letters written by friends and families of the retreatants. For a Kairos, they are written by the men serving on the team and other supporters from the outside. Each retreatant gets a stack of letters filled with words of hope, encouragement, prayer, and affirmation.
One retreatant was profoundly moved by reading his letters. After his tears dried up, he explained to his table host that he hadn’t gotten a letter or a visit from anyone in twenty years. The idea that anyone, even a stranger, would care enough to sit down and write him a letter blew him away.
The final talks share that the retreat is a “mountain top” experience, but the real goal of Kairos is to give the retreatants something they can carry back into the valley: a community of Christians. Prison life is hard, but the retreatants no longer have to go it alone. Kairos continues after the retreat through “Kairos Inside,” which builds a supportive faith community within the prison itself. Retreatants can continue to participate in and even lead small groups that meet in the prison every week for prayer and sharing. The family tables planted the seeds of trust and vulnerability that would flourish into genuine relationships of care and accountability.
“These are my sons.” Those words opened my heart at the beginning of the retreat. Fifteen years later, I hear it differently. “These are my Son’s.” Their sins, the many different reasons that they found themselves in prison, are not what define them. What Jesus Christ did on His cross defines them. He died for them. He claimed them as His own. They belong to Him, paid for by the blood of His crucifixion.
But most of them had no idea. They still saw themselves through the lens of their crimes and their punishment. I’m ashamed to admit that, when I entered the prison, I did to. That’s why I was afraid. That’s why God’s word to me brought me peace. I suddenly understood my mission.
My mission was to bring them the Good News that God loves them so much that He was willing to die for them. I showed them it was true by loving them, just where they were. By listening to them. By bringing tons of delicious snacks that they can’t normally get on the inside. By giving them words of encouragement and a hope that their life isn’t over. In Christ, their life is only just beginning.
God’s love is bigger than human sin. I believe that. Those retreatants needed to hear that they were not who they thought they were. Jesus opened a door for them, not to the world outside, but to a heavenly kingdom, where they are sons in the Son. Brothers of the King and co-heirs with Him. Jesus came to set them free.
Where the Spirit of the Lord is there is freedom. Even in prison.
