Pastoral care in prisons is a difficult ministry. My initial response to the invitation to work with prisoners was negative. A year ago, I reluctantly started to celebrate Mass for prisoners in four prisons in Beeville. I thought it would be temporary. These maximum-security state prisons hold more than 7,000 inmates. When I started to interact with them, I realized the importance of this ministry.
Working with prisoners gave me a rare insight. I have heard horror stories that are difficult to imagine. Listening to some of these stories, which almost sound like fiction, made me realize that human beings are capable of descending into situations that are so evil and morally abhorrent. But, it also convinced me that hope springs even when there is no reason to hope.
Contact with these prisoners made me realize that prison ministry is not just offering Mass, and providing opportunity for the sacrament of reconciliation. It has other dimensions.
During my conversation with some of the inmates, I asked what they most missed in prison. Not surprisingly, one told me that he missed women the most. Another one answered, “What I miss most is my family.” Closely related was the unexpected response given by another inmate: “What I miss most in this place is the presence of children. When I left home 15 years ago I had three kids. They were everything for me. I have not seen them since, not only them, any child.” That comment made me aware of the importance of children in society.
Yet another one said, “I don’t have any hope in my life. I am convicted for 30-years, and I am 50-years old now, and in order to be eligible for parole I have to go 20-years more. But it is not certain that I will be released after 20-years. My health is deteriorating badly. What is there for me to hope for?” Yes, in this situation he has nothing to hope for.
After hearing these responses I was wondering what the prison ministry could do to satisfy some of these needs. I realized that pastoral care in the prisons would not be able to provide any of the things that these prisoners were missing. Perhaps what it can give them is hope in the Biblical sense: that is a “confident expectation,” “a firm assurance regarding things that are unclear and unknown” (Romans 8:24-25; Hebrews 11:1,7).
This Easter, I met John—which is not his real name—in one of the prisons. He looked very cheerful. He told me that he would be released the day after Easter, after “16 long years of imprisonment!” I could understand the magnitude of his joy. His family was excitedly waiting to welcome him back.
He expressed his appreciation for the weekly service we were doing in the prison, and especially for the homilies that helped him a lot. He told me he was carrying with him for the rest of his life many valuable lessons that he learned in the prison. He admitted that he learned them the hard way. He requested my prayers for his family and for himself. He said goodbye to me in case we did not have a chance to meet afterwards. We hugged and bid farewell. I thanked God for his freedom, which would reunite him with his family.
I was really surprised to see him in prison the week after Easter. I asked what had happened and why he was not home. He said that he was ready and so excited to be going home, but the parole review board decided to extend his stay for five more years without giving him any reasons.
“As soon as I heard it I thought of killing all the members of the board,” the inmate said in anger. “I could not control my feelings. I yelled at my companions in the cell. I hated everybody. I was afraid that I would end up doing something terrible. I was constantly thinking about taking revenge on these people. Then I remembered the homily that you gave on Easter Sunday. You said the message of Easter is that of hope.The apparent defeat of Jesus, and his death remained only for three days. Afterwards he emerged victorious.”
He said he had committed to be a follower of Jesus after the RCIA classes he received in prison and had to place his hope in the Lord. He began to calm down. His anger and disappointment slowly melted.
“It came to my mind that everything happens for a purpose,” he said. “The extension of my stay in the prison, though painful, may be for good. I am not unhappy now. I called my family and consoled them.”
What a faith!
When I heard this story I felt challenged. How would I respond to situations like this? I prayed. Oh God please give me the grace to say always, “Thy will be done,” as this prisoner did.
There is a group of men who do voluntary service in the prison. Most of them are retired. Two of them have amputated legs. They go to these prisons every week and prepare the inmates for baptism, confirmation, confession, Communion, Liturgy, etc. They also give retreats for the inmates. They invite priests to come hear confessions and provide counseling. They helped them form a beautiful choir, which makes the Liturgy very attractive.
In the beginning I used to wonder what was so attractive for these lay ministers to commit themselves to this ministry. After listening to the above story and similar ones it became clear to me the importance of the ministry these volunteers provide. It is their selfless service that helped John accept the unexpected and not to do anything terrible when his dreams were shattered. He is not without hope now. He could have been a desperate man for the rest of his life without the service of these volunteers.