“Dance me to the children who are asking to be born.”   -Leonard Cohen

Recently, I visited a low security prison on a Saturday afternoon. In the waiting room were many women. Some brought food…some brought children…some were dressed sensually…all seemed materially poor but rich in love. One by one we were called to the registration desk, scanned, inspected and escorted to the cafeteria waiting until the inmates were called on the public address system. As the men streamed in, each intensely searched the room until a familiar face was spotted and a light flickered in their eyes.

Familiar foods were shared and the room filled with positive noise. At one table a black Muslim and his white wife stared at a small video. At another table a mother fed her crippled son. Nearby a young inmate rested his head on the breast of an older women and seemed to sleep like a contented baby. I wondered what the future held for all of them. Why did these women surrender a Saturday and make long journeys to visit them? What did these children think about this world when they returned to school on Monday and joined other kids? Where were inmates and families of the rich? Since so many inmates were addicted to drugs that was the reason most were here. Were these men criminals who were addicted or did their addiction cause them to become criminals? I wondered do we punish the sick for being sick? Would we imprison a person who stole drugs to relieve their cancer? Are these people in an endless descent into a final defeat?

When we love someone who is terminally sick we often are just reduced to being witnesses of their suffering, and in that sense we become the martyr. The word martyr means “to witness”. It is associated with suffering, and indeed, we do suffer when we helplessly watch the journey of the terminally ill. For these men I wondered if their drug addictions were terminal, and if their visitors, adult and child, were called to be their witnesses..their martyrs. Such was the world of drugs in America that Saturday at the prison.

-George Munyan

Overview
The Spiritual Health Center sponsors the Adeodatus Spiritual Support Group for ex inmates. This is a spiritual program helping those recently released from prison adjust to and remain in society through prayer, support and understanding of Christ. Meeting once a week in communal fellowship, it is the belief of Adeodatus that every person is good and worthy of another chance in life, and that in helping them we help their families and ourselves.

Please join us weekly on Wednesday evenings from 7:30-9 P.M. at St. Thomas Aquinas Parish at 17th and Morris Streets in South Philadelphia. (3 blocks west of Broad St. at Tasker-Morris stop). In school yard, go thru grey doors of shool building and turn left. First room on the left is where we meet. Welome! (Call ahead 215-331-3640 to check for cancellation due to weather, etc.)

“I was in prison and you visited me.”
-Matthew 25:36

Voices From prison
Father Paul Morrissey O.S.A. and George Munyan, co-editors
A newsletter from adeodatus prison ministry

Autumn 2008, Vol. 1, No. 2
In the past two years I have had the privilege of baptizing three young men in prison. What is astounding to me–a prison chaplain–is that each of these men brought another one to me for this sacrament. God is using prison inmates to spread his word; that’s how desperate he is. After his baptism, the first inmate, “Dominic” (21 years old), brought his cellmate “Billy” (28) to receive instructions and be baptized. A few months later, Billy brought “Sebastian” (25) whom I baptized this past September. In preparation for his baptism, I asked Sebastian to write down in his own words its meaning for him. His story below touched me deeply and is a sure sign that God is alive and active in prison.

-Fr. Paul Morrissey, O.S.A.

Amazing Grace: What Baptism Means To Me
When I was young, my parents spoke to me about Jesus Christ often…but never to help me build a relationship with him. These “talks” were usually brief and relayed to me as if Christianity was important…but I had no real help in understanding Christianity, building a relationship with Christ, or even the importance of what he has done for us. We never read the Bible as a family. Church only occurred once in awhile and I did not have the patience for it. Basically, the seed was planted but I never had help growing it into a tree.

By the age of 13, I gave up on any sound understanding of Christ and decided to go my own way. I began abusing drugs and alcohol, committing crimes, and severely disrespecting my mother. I was thrown out of every school they put me in and became so unruly that my own mother feared me. Due to this behavior, I found myself in juvenile group homes and residential facilities. I would behave perfectly until a place would ask my mother if she wanted me back. She would say “no,” and I would act out so severely the place would throw me out and send me somewhere worse. I caught criminal charges in some places. I remained incarcerated until I was 18.

It never helped me and I continued with the drugs, fights, and from time to time…suicidal tendencies. I was released to the streets on a path of destruction…always feeling as if something was missing and not knowing what. Feeling empty and alone. By this point, my father was saved and spoke to me about how he renewed his relationship with Christ, how to gain a relationship for myself, and the importance of having one. I wasn’t trying to hear any of it. I wish I had. Within a matter of months, I was back in jail. I began to pray to be saved and began reading the Bible. I didn’t necessarily embrace things as I should have though. When things got hard, I blamed it on God and Christianity.

Christ of Maryknoll icon by Robert Lentz who states, “This icon of Christ does not make clear which side of the fence Christ is on. Is He imprisoned or are we?”

My father bluntly told me that he feared for my soul. I also began reading things that “discredited” and rejected Christianity. I even went so far as to become a minister of an anti-Christian, White Supremacist, Church. (I have been a skinhead since the age of 13.) I got into a lot of fights with gangs and was in and out of jail. It was a dangerous time period, since we were outnumbered and made the gangs angry with our tendencies toward violence.

In December of 2007, my life began to change. I started to realize I was out of control and began to doubt that my life style or peers were beneficial. I began speaking to my parents about coming home to Pennsylvania. At this point I had progressed from alcohol to IV drugs. Needless to say, I soon found myself back in jail. Also, something new happened. I realized that being saved does not make everything miraculously perfect. I began praying constantly…at times with so much emotion that I cried.

On May 13th, I was lying in my bed and the song “Amazing Grace” came to me. My mother used to sing this song to me as a small child…and as I sang it to myself, meditating on the words, I began to cry. I poured my heart out to Jesus…my struggles, my sins, my guilt, my feelings…everything. Then, I begged to be saved. It hasn’t been long since I’ve been saved, but I know in my heart that I want to commit myself to Christ for life. I’ve truly been blessed to make it this far in life. To have a mother and father who love me and are there to support me. To be in jail, yet remain safe, fed, clothed…and even free in Christ our Savior. In him I have truly filled the void.

A brief reflection

Have you ever been saved like this? Do we have to go to prison to know our need for God and each other? Some of these men pray the rosary together in their cells. Others read the Bible together. It is not too late to start doing so with someone you love. It could be one of your young adult children or your spouse. It could be a boyfriend or girlfriend. It could be someone in your religious community or a friend. Sebastian had a father who told him, “I fear for your soul.” It is striking that this relationship with his father seemed to draw his son back to a real relationship with Jesus that filled his emptiness. We need people like this in our lives. Let us hear from you how your restlessness is opening you up for a real relationship—with God and others.How to get Involved

ADEODATUS PRISON MINISTRY
Spiritual Support Group
P.O. Box 40815, Phila., Pa 19107
St. Thomas Aquinas Parish School
1719 Morris St., Phila., Pa.   19145
Wednesday evenings, 7:30- 9 P.M.
www.spirhealth.com

by Fr. Paul Morrissey

Appeared in the Commentary section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, February 21, 2007

I began my first day as a chaplain in the Philadelphia Prison System on Ash Wednesday, 2006. My destination, the Detention Center, is one of six large prisons located on State Road near the Cottman Avenue Exit of Interstate 95.

An inmate led me into a cellblock where the protective custody inmates are held. They were dressed in bright orange jumpsuit-type outfits. Two inmates lived in each of these cells, with bunk beds on one side, the room hardly bigger than a walk-in closet. No privacy here, I thought. Constant noise too.

Some of the men glanced out of their cells, while others stood by the little barred openings. I imagined they might reach out and grab me by the neck as I walked by with my airport traveling bag, filled with materials with which to say Mass: missal, chalice, altar cloths, music, hosts, wine, alb and stole, and portable CD player.

I had been told by Laura Ford, my ministry director for the Archdiocese, and Phyllis Taylor, the lay chaplain for the facility, that the Mass is usually celebrated on the floor. “Yes, on the floor,” they repeated, “the inmates sit in a circle.” I tried to picture this arrangement as we drew up to a little open space between two sets of cells that faced each other.

The inmate who led me there placed a small bench near one side of the space, and drew up what looked like a trash can in the center. “Do you want to say the Mass on the floor or on this?” he asked as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

The trash barrel with its cover looked like an attractive alternative. “This’ll do,” I said, trying to fake casualness. I set up for the Mass with a tightness in my stomach, wondering what I had gotten myself into and if I would get out.

It turned out to be a profound experience.

Tough guys in their twenties and thirties with tattoos on their arms, whom I’d be afraid to pass on the street, squatted cross-legged on the floor around the trash can altar singing “Amazing Grace.” Even a man who had to watch from his locked cell joined in the singing.

All of them listened attentively as I tried to offer some words exploring the meaning of the ashes on our foreheads. “It is for solidarity with each other in our humility before God as we enter into the Lenten period,” I said. I didn’t know what they were thinking. What do you say to people in a prison to give them hope?

Each of them came forward then and devoutly received the ashes on their foreheads from Laura and me. During the kiss of peace which is offered as a symbol to reconcile before the Eucharist, I noticed that the inmates made sure to shake one another’s others hand as well as mine, including the two transsexuals (no one, even the toughest guys, seemed to disdain them). This ceremony was especially poignant when the guy who was only able to peek out of his cell reached through the bars to return a handshake of peace.

As I packed up to leave a short time later, I noticed one grizzled looking white guy leaning down to kiss the crucifix I had laid on the trash-can altar. (I mention his race because many of the inmates are Black and Hispanic, and also because some people think all of them are) He came up and asked me if I had a rosary. A rosary! His prayer was perhaps more fervent than many in our churches and synagogues because he knew he had sinned and needed mercy.

I felt sad for these men and women, these sons and daughters of God, even if they have done some bad things. Many of the 8,900 inmates in the Philadelphia Prison on State Road are awaiting trial. Some are serving out short sentences of two years or less, others waiting to be sent upstate. Worst of all, some are back for a second or third time. The hopelessness of their lives gets to my heart, like it gets to God’s suppose, as thousands of people roar by on Interstate 95 unaware.

The Gospel of Matthew (Ch. 25) tells us that we will be rewarded on Judgment Day for “visiting Christ in prison.” I think I know why I was called to this ministry now. To open my eyes to what God is doing in the world. To recognize him in his orange jumpsuit.