When I Go Back To Jail

I go back to jail when an offender breaks their parole.

Lately, I've gone back to jail quite a few times.

Buzzed through a few large steel doors, locked in a small room, waiting for a friend to visit with me. It doesn't sound like the ideal pastoral environment, and trust me, its not.

Life becomes very simple, very quickly.

I'm not allowed to bring my cell phone while I'm inside, so passing the time by frolicking through blackberry applications was not an option. A lot of waiting happens when you are in prison. My mind wanders as I look at the puke coloured walls, and oddly enough there is a picture of the Queen practically embedded into the wall above the door I entered through. I wonder what effect seeing the Queen of England would have upon a prison inmate? Look out Mr. Inmate, the Queen is watching you! This is the closest thing to art I could find. Being in the bucket (as they call it) allows for virtually zero stimulus, even for visitors like myself. I'm sure the simplicity and minimalist approach must be excruciating.

Strangely, this minimalist environment reminded me of something I can never get enough of: Prayer.

Praying in an environment like prison focuses you like few places can. Prayer takes on a different meaning than a typical 'wish list' offered to God, prayer seems to become a sort of lifeline. It has been said that prayer is not about changing God, it is about changing us. As one interacts relationally with God through open dialogue in a hole so devoid of relational purpose, prayer becomes much more about internal change than getting what you want.

I sat and waited. I sat and prayed. Because there was so little distraction, my mind had to think creatively and my prayers became much more of a conversation then a shallow 'devo-time'. I sensed the presence of God in a fresh way, in a place very unexpected. No excuses, no distractions, no control, just me and Jesus. In a strange way, I suddenly envied the men I was visiting.

Maybe sometimes we complicate our prayer life unnecessarily. I needed to be changed, and the clutter of life needed to be swept away. Ironically, prison was freeing. I was only there for one hour, so I cannot speak to a long stay in our society's dungeons. Of course prison is not a nice place, and its not meant to be that way; however, it taught me a lesson about prayer, about relating to the Lord. Sometimes less is more.