Tour of Duty

My first assignment as a chaplain intern at Stateville Maximum Security Men’s Prison was in the receiving and classification unit.  I was wearing my newly bought fresh out of the package clerical collar and shirt. There was often no electricity or running water.  It was January in Illinois, and it was drafty and cold. In many of the cells I could feel the breeze pass into the hallway from the window slits in the cells that were stuck open.  Instead of the traditional bars found on the regular units, there were steel doors with a 2 foot wide rectangular pass through for food plates at knee level …and a wire mesh covered square opening at eye level.  

If the lights were on in the cell, I would talk through the eye-level wire mesh that was oddly reminiscent of a confessional.  I could just make out the inmate’s shadowy faces.  Most of the time, however, I would kneel down on the floor in front of the chuckhole.  The inmates would do the same on their side and we would talk face to face with nothing between us, through a hole in a steel wall.  I was terrified until I began to hear their stories, moving from cell to cell, and meeting them eye-to-eye.

I spent a lot of time the first few weeks explaining my faith tradition in sentence or two.  I spent more of my time convincing them that I was not there to convert them.  Unfortunately the role of chaplain is often considerably warped behind the prison wall.  There is a monopoly of fundamentalist Christian volunteers. The inmates’ default perception of a religious person outside their door, is someone whose modus operandi is to convert them. 

There were actually many converted fundamentalists at Stateville.  They built their walls with Bible verses.  For those men, walled in by literalism, if I couldn’t site a particular verse, I immediately lost credibility.  (I must admit, I lost a lot of credibility with those men.)  The majority of the inmates, however, were intrigued by the fact that I would carry a Bible, a Koran, the Kabbalah, and the Tao te Ching together in my clear plastic backpack.  The Muslims were confused when I greeted them with As sala'amu alaikum.

Religion not only comforted the afflicted, it was used as a tool to separate.  The inmates intentionally separate themselves into religious communities and were segregated by the institution.  Inmates must identify their religion upon entering the institution.  If they do not choose an approved religion on arrival, NONE is inscribed on the back of their ID, denying them all religious privileges.  Religious services are provided based on what they have indicated on the back of their card. Changing religious preference often requires an interview with an outside representative from that religion, which is not easy to do.  The inmates learned to use the system.    Catholic Mass often turned into a gang meeting.  And if you are a vegetarian, the only way to receive a vegetarian meal was to become a Hebrew Israelite.  My tradition was not an option if you wanted any services at all.

The men who coped best with the religion issue were those who had negotiated a rough theological compromise that all religions might have some threads in common.  They often identified with a major religion in order to attend a service.  Initially this compromise was often forged of two men of different religious traditions placed in the same cell.   In this 6 by 13 foot space, they were forced to work out their differences in order to live together.  They questioned the wall between them and put down a few of their stones.

That first day as a chaplain, I have a picture that could have been on the cover of LIFE magazine emblazoned upon my memory.  I had just made my way down the corridor, talking with the 30 or so new inmates.  They were scared.  They wanted into general population where there were blankets and heat, and the routine was more familiar.   You see with the rate of recidivism in the United States, the majority of the men I met in the classification had been to prison before. 

After talking with nearly thirty of these men, I realized that they were desperate for reading material and especially calendars. One way to cope with detention is to live in the past prior to incarceration or to live in the future focusing on an out date.  A sense of time offered a sense of place that nothing else did.  There is a reason it is called doing time. That day, I remembered that there were plastic wallet sized calendar cards in the chaplain office provided by the Salvation Army. 

I told the men on this unit that I would be back.  When I returned, I announced “chaplain on the wing” as I was instructed to do and the cover of Life magazine unfolded before me.  I looked down this corridor of 13 steel gray doors on each side. A narrow window lit up the hallway in a hazy glow.  Then, I saw, hands and arms: grasping, stretching for the calendars that I was offering them.  They were mainly brown hands and brown arms… extending all along the length of the corridor from the chuck holes on both sides.

We are part of a society who primarily incarcerates minorities.  We are part of a society who mainly incarcerates the poor, the addicted and the mentally ill. I am part of a state who incarcerates more women than any other state in the United States.   We cannot let the society that we live in, a society that we are a part of, wall off suffering.  I wish every religious conflict could be worked out... maybe by finding some greater common cause like cohabitating in confined space.   I wish that every voter, every elected official, every lawmaker, lawyer, prosecutor and judge would take a tour of duty behind the wall and experience life and the people there. 

Pumpkin Eater

I cheated in school only once and I was caught. 

I had this marvelous teacher named Mrs. Gouldy who was my English and French teacher my Freshman year of high school.  I had both classes on the same day and on this particular day, I had an exam on Golding’s Lord of the Flies in her English Class and a vocabulary quiz in her French class.  I stayed up most of the night before reading all about human kind’s base status of savagery and evil, how the innocence of children was a mere myth, and how in the end individualism would replace comradeship and lead to our complete destruction.  Human kind may have been deemed a complete wash, but I was ready for that exam.  I was also prepared to argue with Golding, because I believed then as I do now that humanity is inherently good.  Rampant individualism might indeed lead to humanity’s destruction in the text and in real life, but I was (and am) optimistic that in community our goodness will prevail.

That morning, French class was first and to my horror I had forgotten about the vocabulary quiz!  So, I begin frantically writing out the words to help me remember them.  Before the quiz began I hurriedly stashed the pile of papers I was using on the floor.  As I shifted in my extremely uncomfortable seat, not knowing the answers to the first 3 questions, I realized that my study sheet had slipped ahead of the others and was visible to me from the floor just in front of my desk.

I was usually such a good student, normally such a well-prepared student, even an overly conscientious student and yet, how could I not look? Likely, No one would believe my good intentions at this point anyway, not even me.  The paper was way too conveniently placed. I knew even then, that the right thing to do would have been to move it out of view.  I didn’t. Three or four questions of taking advantage of the opportunity and I was busted.  I was left to writhe in my own discomfort, devastated and embarrassed as I awaited the Scarlet C for cheater to be emblazoned upon my breast.

She was my favorite English teacher, ever, and the only French teacher at my high school. 

I would be forced to not only face her regularly, but she would also accompany me through the pages of Hawthorne, Camus, and Sartre.  Her curriculum and the way I saw her seeing me would shape my behavior for years to come: from my own exploration of atheism and the influence of existentialism to my desire to be an exchange student and a French and Philosophy teacher.  But at that time in my 14-year-old mind, one mistake and now I was a cheater.

“Label[ing] individuals [is] shorthand [when] trying to deal with people who are always complex, and [People] always pop out of the boxes we put them into”   Sister Helen Prejean, writes.  “Like [the way we view] Mother Teresa, we will attribute nothing bad to her. Then, when somebody (else) has done a terrible thing, we say that's all there is to them…Suppose there was a way that the worst thing you had ever done could be projected on a screen for everybody to see. Then suppose you were told, "That is all you are." You'd say, "But…I've been kind to my grandmother. I was honest most of the time.” 

My value as I understood it then, was entirely dependent on my mistake. How on earth would I be able to argue just two class periods later for the inherent goodness of humanity, with the same teacher? Maybe, Golding was right. Maybe even in Paradise, even in idyllic circumstances…when there is plenty of food and water for everyone, and no real threats, humanity will inevitably find a way to war against itself: project our fears onto the world, fail to live up to even our own moral standards.

Since that young age of 14, I have not just cheated. I have stolen, lied, gossiped, misconstrued, omitted, been unfaithful, been greedy, boastful, envious, gluttonous, angry, lusty, and lazy…  And I still believe people are inherently good.   In our nature we are good.  We are also inherently fallible, because we are not God. 

I believe in redemption.   Our value does not rest on a single event, nor does it merely rest on the sum of our actions.  When we have a desire to be held accountable and a diverse community who will do so, healing of all kinds is possible. It is in community we glean what is right and wrong and so it is in community our redemption and mercy are found.  

Tis the season to be redeemed.

All in?

I learned how to play poker in seminary.  We played at least once a month, using all the loose change we had lying around the house.  I knew how to play, in theory, before then, but regular play taught me a lot about the different ways people play the game.  I was more interested in the friendship and the food, so the education was a bonus.

The way a minister approaches poker is not necessarily consistent with the way they approach religion, but it might say something about how they approach life.   There are those who only play when they feel they are guaranteed to win and so they fold nearly every hand. There are others who can't help but stay in the game even when the odds are not in their favor and so they call at every turn.  There are better and worse bluffers, and there are those who seem to always raise the stakes just to keep it interesting.  There are the rule enforcers, the boisterous winners, and the sore losers, even among the clergy.

For the past five years, some of my non-clergy friends and I have gathered at one another's homes every other month to play Texas Hold'em. It costs $20 to play, and the top three place. Since our daughter was born, I haven't played as often.  Friday was the first time I had been since January when I began the collar experiment.  I honestly hadn't thought about the impact of the collar on this informal poker scene until I showed up and the jokes began."So does the collar mean you will always call?"  "I guess you won't be bluffing tonight?" Some of the usual faces were there, and I was introduced to four new people.  I am sure that meeting me for the first time in a collar at a poker game made for interesting follow-up fodder.

I was one of two women.  And even though she knew the game way better than I do, she caught a bad beat and was the first one out.  I was a bit rusty, so I started off pretty terrible. As the evening went on, I caught some good cards in good positions and won a few decent pots.

By the time we consolidated tables, I was in fourth place out of five.  Then I hit several really great hands in a row and played them pretty aggressively, knocking out one player and taking a pretty significant chunk from the chip leader.

As the night wore on, my usual 8:30 bedtime long passed, I was getting tired and the hip folks had other places to be.  I asked if we could just count the chips and call it. After the chip leader took a look at his stack, clearly thinking he had won, he agreed. After the count, I had won by a fairly minimal amount, much to the dismay of the most-of-the-night chip leader. The other two winners who placed 2nd and 3rd were Tom and Harry, which left me with an unfortunate new poker name.

I must admit,  I was surprised I had won... but the chips don't lie.  I do not believe wearing my collar had anything to do with my win.  I do not believe that God was on my side or that my collar necessarily threw anyone off their game. As in life, on any given day, sometimes we are dealt a strong hand and sometimes we're not. On some days, it may appear our win is inevitable and then a single card can take it away. Poker is a harsh mistress and a good teacher. The more we learn to work with what we have, enjoy the people we are with, and keep showing up -- as long as we're all in --the better the game will be.

Revved Rev

I have a confession to make, I bought a red convertible. I feel like I am supposed to be apologetic and explain myself.

It's a 2006 Toyota Solara with 40,000 miles.  I found a great enough deal that I do not have a car payment. It's a Toyota for God's sake!  I will drive it until it falls apart ... or I do ... whichever comes first.  It's practical. My guilt, likely, has something to do with a categorical image of what a minister is supposed to be.

The fact is that I have been making very practical choices my entire life.  But, what I have come to realize is that there is no time when our lives become fixed.  There are seasons, but the seasons are not identical, they are only familiar.

My discernment over the past 6 months has created some changes in my role at the church, my relationship with my spouse and our child, and now with my ride. I have officially stepped into what most Americans would stereotype as a mid-life crisis. I would prefer to call it developmentally appropriate behavior. To everything there is a season. There is a time for planning and a time for spontaneity.  A time for security and a time for risk. A time to plant and a time to reap.

There are myriads of ways for a life to unfold. Sometimes we are stuck in the place where we believe our past is the only predictor of our future. The fact is that we are able to invent and reinvent ourselves at any point in our lives. Often it takes being faced with our mortality to remember that we don't have to keep doing what we have always done.  

So now I realize why people in mid-life buy red convertibles. It doesn't have to be because we are trying to relive our childhood. It could be because we realize the finite period we have left  to experience joy, unbridled joy, like the wind in our hair on a warm spring day. And so now I will be the minister in a collar with the top down.

Judge that. :)

Myopia

I have been farsighted most of my life, living in the future and not the present. My trip to the optometrist today reminded me of the power of living in present. We shift our baseline in difficult circumstances and adapt so easily sometimes, we may not even know what we are missing.   I went to the optometrist today.   I had never seen this doctor before.  It was one of those optometrists next to the eyeglasses-in-an-hour stores.  The staff in the doctor's office was not pleasant but not outwardly rude.  It was clear they did not particularly like their jobs or the patients served there.  I made an appointment when I realized I had to move things at an arms length to be able to read them.  Turns out, I have graduated from only wearing glasses when I read or have eyestrain to all the time even driving.  And yes.. they are bifocals. Damn it.  Welcome to this new stage of life.

When the doctor came into the examination room, the first thing I noticed about him was the lingering odor of cigarette smoke that came in the door with him.  It surprised me a bit.  I am rarely around smokers anymore. He said some pleasantries and I watched him as he noticed my collar. He said, "I am impressed by your collar."  I said smiling,  "There is no need to be impressed."  We chit chatted about what denomination and what church.  He told me a pretty terrible St. Peter letting people into heaven joke and all about his wife who has macular degeneration and was going blind.   After he finished the eye exam and showed me pictures of the inside of my eyeball (trippy), he announced that my far away vision had actually gotten better.  Excellent!! I thought.  He was in his 70's and gruff.  It was obvious who set the cultural tone in the office.  But he was also thoughtful. After he shifted the conversation to an A&E special he had been watching on Judas, he announced with a bit of trepidation, "You know, I don't think the Bible includes all the important stuff about Jesus.  They didn't let everything into the Bible."   

I said and much to his surprise, "No I don't think so either.  The people who made that decision were considering the impact on governing a society, too."  

We talked for awhile of  the relationship between religion and war as he made me read tiny letters and follow a light on the tip of a pen. For a moment he sat contemplating.  We said nothing looking at each other for an almost awkwardly long period of time.  This gave me an opportunity to broach something else I'd noticed since he first sat in front of me.  I had debated whether to say anything from the moment I noticed.  I was cognizant that my words had more weight about personal issues in a collar.  I took the risk.

"I'm concerned about your breathing,' I said.  

He had an abnormal breathing problem that when I closed my eyes sounded like so many other oxygen tank pumps I had heard... but there was no pump... just sharp inhalations lips pursed at the beginning of his breathing pattern as he spoke.  He looked at me quizzically.  I had chosen my words carefully.. I didn't say "You shouldn't smoke"  Nor was I even thinking it.  I was just feeling empathy for his struggle.

He told me that he "sounded pretty good for a 2 pack a day smoker." He also said he was 70 years old and had lived a good life. He said his biggest problem was just how deep he would dig in his heels when someone told him not to do something, which people had been telling him his whole life.   

I have tried to tell people I love not to do things that harm them.  I do not think it ever worked,  Not once.  Telling a stranger wouldn't have a different outcome. Telling him I was concerned about his breathing was honest, vulnerable, risky.  He told me he had wanted to try to quit by changing first to e-cigarettes and was looking for another reason to try to do so.  I believe today I was his reason, not because I showed up as clergy rather because I showed up as myself, in a collar.

A Little Callus

Two men came to know one another on a spiritual level. Not in the space of a beautifully lit sanctuary, but in the damp basement of a community center. These men were drawn together in the sacred space of Alcoholics Anonymous. It was in those meetings that they shared their stories of their struggles with addiction, that great and unfortunate normalizer. They were from two completely different backgrounds with two very different experiences of the world.

Over several years, these men shared stories about their lowest moments, their incredible successes, and their growing appreciation for the reoccurring miracle of a single day. It came to pass that one of these men, a Philosophy Professor, was offered a job in another city.  The other man was a local rancher. At the Professor’s last meeting, he grew more and more aware of just how much he had learned from the Rancher and just how much he would miss him: his stories, his vulnerability, his resilience.

At the conclusion of the meeting, the Professor was surprised when the Rancher immediately got up and came toward him. The Rancher said, “Sir, I just wanted to wish you well and let you know that I am pulling for you.  I’ll miss having you here. I have learned a lot from you.”

The Professor was genuinely touched. This Rancher had much more sobriety.   Within the walls of AA, the Professor was keenly aware that he was the student and not the teacher.

In that moment the Rancher stuck out his hand and said, “I apologize that I haven’t offered to shake your hand before today.” The Rancher looked down at the floor, then at his hands, and then back to the Professor. “I’ve just got so many calluses on these old hands,” he said, ashamed to shake hands with the Professor because he had labored hands, callused and worn.

The Professor, took in a long deep breath, smiled and said, “And all this time, I have been too embarrassed to shake your hand because I don’t have any calluses on mine.”

It was their willingness to be vulnerable, to flip the social expectation on its head about who was teaching whom. That was the greatest teacher and their strength. I have told this story in chapel and in a sermon and today it means something quite different to me. Our work, our life shows up on us differently.  For some it may be calloused hands, a few creases around the eyes, or a little less hair on the crown. We all have something to teach one another.

I have known many strong and wonderful men with laborer’s hands. And I have known many strong leaders with not a callus to show. This story reminds me to pay attention to the difference between tough and strong, for we are easily fooled.

Our skin responds to repetitive pain, pressure, and irritation by forming an additional protective layer on top of the affected area … a callus.  This callus serves as protection for future contact. It is as though our body is assuming that the future contact will be painful.  Calluses help some to continue to do the things they love.  Calluses can help you build the necessary resistance to be able to create music on a stringed instrument, or to learn to rock climb, to run, even to walk even in certain shoes.

When we practice something over and over we don’t have to feel our way through anymore … it becomes a pattern … a habit and sometimes even a callus. Too much friction occurring too fast will cause a blister or an abrasion instead.

We are taught that wounds show weakness and vulnerability … but calluses mean we are tough. We also use the word callous to describe someone who is unfeeling, insensitive, or heartless, someone who has packed on layer after layer between themselves and the world. The world is full of plenty of opportunities to build calluses. Sometimes, it is necessary to add another layer between you and the world in order to keep moving forward.

It took a lot of faith and heartbreak for me to learn that there is a difference between tough and strong. Both of those men in my story did the hard work to show up, be vulnerable, recognize the value in difference … and they took a good look at their own hands…that is what it means to be strong.

Being strong means your repetitive contact is not just on the surface of the skin,  it’s on the inside: in the muscle, in the heart,  and muscles grow strong from being torn apart and rebuilt.

Being strong is not about insensitivity. It’s not about being tough.  It’s about vulnerability. And we are called in the church to show up for each other over and over again to the degree that we feel we can, as vulnerable as we can muster, so that we can become stronger out there in the world…

Because there are a lot of times out there in the world…When all you can do is buckle up and bare down.

Dust to Dust

In church there is a constant tension of preparing for the inevitable in life and a weekly rehearsal of creating a world as we hope it will one day become. Wednesday  night I administered ashes in chapel.  It is one of my favorite services.  We offer a mix of ash and olive oil in the shape of a cross on the hand near the wrist or on the forehead.  The people are instructed to look the ministers administering the ashes in the eye and to remain silent. We speak the words "From dust you have come, to dust you shall return." This fact of our mortality does not require a thank you. The ritual is not about the personal relationship between the congregant and the minister.  It is about our relationship to our own death.  The minister merely reminds us in ritual to take stock. There are so many times in our lives that force us to take stock of why we are here and how we are spending our time. These moments are often out of our control: a diagnosis, a death, the loss of a job, being the victim of a crime.  The world feels as though it is divided into two: before and after.  There are moments where we have chosen a path that takes us in a new direction that are marked similarly.  There was the way my life was before this choice and the way it is now.  Rituals help us mark these times with significance.  Ash Wednesday helps us prepare for these times with intention.  

The view on Ash Wednesday from the chancel offers a different marker that is more personal.  I gaze into the eyes of the living not knowing which or if any of those to whom I am offering ashes, I will bury this year.  I am also reminded of those who I marked last year who are no longer on this earth.  Wearing the collar, much like wearing the robe reminds me of this cycle of life and death.  It reminds me of those to whom I have ministered, of those whom I have memorialized and whose stories I carry with me.