dedalus_1947 | Philosopher’s Stone

It’s a hard road; it’s a hard road, Daddy-o.
Up in the morning, up in the morning,
Out on the job.
Well, you’ve got me searching for,
Searching for the Philosopher’s Stone.

Even my best friends,
Even my best friends, they don’t know,
That my job is turning lead into gold.
(Philosopher’s Stone – Van Morrison, 1998)

Stepping through the sliding metal door into the security checkpoint of the jail, my intended salutation died on my lips as I saw my volunteer friends. Jaime and Diane were standing rigidly silent by the sally entrance to the jail. Their hard faces and stiff poses told me something was wrong.
“Hi Diane, hi Jaime,” I finally said, turning to drop my driver’s license into the sliding teller tray under the observation glass of the security booth. Diane came over to greet me as I signed-in on the volunteer clipboard and waited for the deputy to pass me my red “Escorted” visitors badge.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, guardedly, clipping the badge onto my shirt.
“I’ll tell you when we’re inside,” she whispered, looking past me at the deputies behind the armored glass partition. Just then I saw Esperanza’s head appear through the window of the jail entrance. The assistant chaplain greeted us enthusiastically, and then escorted us into the jail hallway. Walking a little behind Jaime and Esperanza, I turned to Diane.
“So what happened back there?” I asked under my breath.
“I think the deputy accidently gave Jaime the wrong badge,” she said softly, so no one else could hear. “He was standing by the entrance door waiting for an escort when I arrived to request my red “Escorted” badge. I saw he was wearing a green “Unescorted” one, so I told him he could go in without waiting. That’s when the deputy dropped the hammer on us. She rushed out of the observation booth and tore into Jaime. She accused him of violating jail procedure by accepting a badge he wasn’t authorized to have. She said she could have him removed from the premises.”
“Was it a mistake, or was she testing Jaime?” I asked, confused by the deputy’s vehement threat to eject Jaime.
“I’m not sure,” Diane replied, shaking her head. “But she was mad! She finally calmed down and gave him the correct badge, but warned him that if he ever did that again she’d report him and have his name pulled off of the Volunteer Access List”.
“Wow,” I said. “How did Jaime take it?”
“By the look on his face, I think he was really humiliated,” she said, uncertainly. “I couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed. You arrived just then, so I didn’t have a chance to ask him how he was.”
We turned the corner into the hallway of the auxiliary services rooms, and saw Rick, the Lead Assistant Chaplain, awaiting us at the doorway of the office.

Over the months, I’ve noticed the existence of an uneasy and hard-to-explain relationship between deputies and the chaplains who visit the inmates. Prison chaplains, both Catholic and Protestant, are volunteers who serve the spiritual needs of the inmates, under the suffrage of the correctional officers and deputies who guard them and structure their lives in prison. We are supposed to be on the same side, but that assumption is not supported by the attitude, speech, and actions of deputies and volunteers. We may be on the same side of the bars, but we differ in our view and treatment of the men inside the cells. I believe chaplains see inmates as men who have made poor choices and bad decisions, and now, with the help of God, have been sentenced to review their lives and actions, and choose a better path. Our view of these men is prayerful and hopeful, while still trying to be realistic. Guards, I believe, see them as convicted felons, criminals, and violent prisoners who are looking to exploit every institutional advantage and weakness. Even though chaplains are county-trained volunteers, with clearances that are checked monthly, they are allowed only limited access to prison inmates, and are constantly scrutinized. Anyone having a criminal record or police citations are immediately revoked, and anyone violating jail procedures are ejected out of hand. While there are rigid rules that define the type of programs we can provide, they can only be implemented at the discretion of the cellblock watch sergeant or dorm guard. Chaplains may lead group sessions, or hold individual conferences with inmates, but they must first ask permission of deputies to approach the bars, speak with an inmate, or use the dayroom to hold a service. From the grimaces on the faces of some deputies when we approach them to ask permission to interact with prisoners, it is clear that we are seen as naive annoyances – misguided and unwanted interruptions in the highly structured and predictable, but boring, routine of a jail. Any guard can say no to our request for access, or cut short an in-progress service, without bothering to give a reason. This drastic action rarely happens, but the possibility of its execution hangs heavily in the air, like layered, bands of smoke rising from a smoldering fire.

Thomas and Justin, two more assistant chaplains, arrived soon after, and Rick called us all to attention.
“Okay,” he began. “Gavin will be arriving later tonight, and he asked me to make assignments. Thomas and Tony, you conduct a program in the 800’s, and Justin, Jaime, and I will take the 500’s. Diane why don’t you wait for Abby and do the 600’s, and Esperanza can escort Father Charles for confessions. How does that sound?”
“Great!” I said.
“Sounds good!” Justin added.
As Thomas was folding the pamphlets we would be using for the evening’s reflections he turned to me.
“Tony,” he asked with a smile, “How would you like to lead the session, tonight?”
“Fine,” I coughed, surprised by the invitation and the calmness of my reply. Actually, I’d been anticipating this request for some time. For the last seven months, I’d accompanied and watched Justin, Thomas, and Esperanza leading groups in different cellblocks. Although no two of them were alike in their style and delivery, I’d gotten a good idea as to the format they all followed in facilitating the 22-unit program called Finding the WAY in Jail. First, there were self-introductions by the men, with their requests for prayer intentions or petitions. An opening prayer followed, and then we read and reflected on sections of the evening’s pamphlet. The personal stories, concerns, and advice from the men usually guided the flow and tempo of the service. On some nights we never read a word of the pamphlet and spent the evening talking.

Leaving the Chaplain’s Office, Thomas and I quickly received permission from the Watch Sergeant and the dorm cell guards to solicit inmates from the dorm cells and conduct the service in the 2^nd floor, outdoor dayroom. We set up 12 chairs in a circle, but only four prisoners came out of their cells to join us. I was disappointed at first, unsure if the deputy had restricted more participation, or if the inmates were just indifferent to our program. However the disappointment quickly disappeared when I recognized the men who joined us. There was Juan, the hip-hop song writer (see Can You See My Eyes), Miguel, a big, affable inmate, who was serving multiple, life sentences, and young Edgar, a prisoner we had met on two occasions, and had shared his conversion experience (see Just Like Paul and Silas). The only new person was Jose. They were all from the same dorm and appeared to have bonded into a helping and prayerful support group, centered on Juan, the oldest of the bunch. When I asked him why so few men were released, he said the deputy had placed the other two dorms under restriction for fighting, and wasn’t letting anyone out for church. As we were getting ready to begin, Rick and Justin walked into the barred patio.
“Hola, Justin!” Juan exclaimed, rising from his chair to give the volunteer chaplain a big hug. “So, you decided to join us? Good, we’ve missed you, my friend”.
“Hola, Juan,” Justin replied, clapping him on the back. “It’s good to see you too.” He turned to me and explained, “We weren’t able to hold services in the 500’s so we decided to come here. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay while Rick returns to the office to brief Gavin.”
“Was there a problem in the 500 dorms?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Rick replied. “The deputy mentioned a training of some kind, so we simply readjusted and adapted to the situation.”
“Well, we’re happy to have Justin with us,” I said, resuming my seat, and beginning the session.

I’m always surprised by what ignites the interest of inmates, and fuels their need to share stories. This evening it was the admissions by Thomas and Justin that they were both recovering alcoholics, and participating in the same AA meeting. Thomas mentioned that despite being sober for 5 years, he was recently tempted to have a drink, and almost gave in. Juan quickly picked up on that topic.
“You know, that’s why I look forward to seeing you two,” Juan said, nodding at the two chaplains. “Thomas is my teacher and Justin is my mentor. I see myself when you describe your struggles with alcohol. You help me get through my day. I’ve been sober one week less than Justin, and I hope to stay sober as long as Thomas. It was my addiction to alcohol that put me in this place. I would start drinking and I wouldn’t stop. Sure, I called it ‘social drinking’, but I couldn’t stop until I passed out or fell asleep. I’d talk, argue, and philosophize when I was drunk, but I never got anything done. I’m 42 years old and I don’t have a wife, children, or a home. I have nothing because I made my addictions more important than those other things. I’m not going to bore you with my case or what I’m accused of doing. I didn’t do what they say, but I just can’t prove it. That is so frustrating! But instead of feeling sorry for myself and falling back on my addictions, I have faith that God has a plan for me. Jail is his way of getting my attention. I’m clean here. This is an opportunity to change. This is a chance to find my talents - the abilities that God gave me, but that I’ve let sit and waste away. My drawings, my songs, and my writing; these are things that steer me away from my addictions and thoughts about alcohol, women, lying, cheating, and stealing. We all have talents! It’s not enough to just say that I won’t drink anymore. We need to replace the addictions with something else. Joining AA, like Thomas and Justin, volunteering to come to prisons, these are actions that uncover your talents and get you doing things that are good for you.”

“You know,” interjected Edgar, who had been raising his hand for attention during Juan’s soliloquy. “I don’t have an addiction like that. I mean, I drink, you know, but I don’t need to keep drinking. I didn’t use alcohol or drugs to make me feel good. What was important to me was being mean. I wanted to be bad, hard, and tough, so people would be afraid of me and respect me. I was the craziest member of the gang. I mean I would talk to myself, you know? I’d see some big, tall dude in the barrio and my first thought was just to walk away from him, you know? But then I’d stop myself, and challenge myself. ‘Look what you’re doing, man!’ I’d say to myself. ‘You’re punking out! Go back there and show that dude who’s tougher!’ So I’d walk back to this guy and look him straight in the eyes. I’d give him a wild, crazy look, man, until he looked down or away from me. Then I’d say, ‘that’s right, man. Don’t you be looking at me!’ My mom and dad tried telling me to stop doing this, but I couldn’t. My dad said that someday some guy was finally going to kick the shit out or me, but no one ever did. You see, my dad was a boxer, and he taught me how to fight. So I always had an advantage over other guys, even if they were bigger than me. I could dodge, jab, and punch. I never lost a fight. But my mom said I was changing into some kind of monster. She said she believed I had a good heart, but that I was killing it with my meanness.”
“So that was your addiction,” interrupted Juan. “Instead of alcohol or drugs making you feel good about yourself, you had to feel that you were the meanest and toughest vato around.”
“Yeah,” Edgar said, nodding. “I think your right. I thought people respected me that way”.
“Dude,” interjected burly Miguel. “You need to channel those energies somewhere else. You should become a boxer, not a gangster.”
“Yeah,” Edgar said, “I’ve thought of that.”
At that moment I finally saw an opportunity to introduce the pamphlets that everyone was holding.
“So, I’m hearing us talk about changing, and being free of addictions,” I interjected, smoothly. “We’ve also mentioned developing new skills and talents, and taking new actions. So let’s talk about how that can happen”.
“With God’s help,” Jose called out.
“That’s right,” I said. “So let’s start reading this pamphlet titled, GOD Let’s Talk About Him.”

The readings dovetailed nicely with what the men had started discussing: acknowledging that we are helpless and in trouble with our addictions; wanting to change our lives, but needing help; and praying for God’s assistance. I only had to ask one question to provoke more sharing.
“What do we ask of God when we pray?” I said, laying the pamphlet aside for a moment.
Juan responded right away with two points. He said that he asked God’s forgiveness of past and present sins and mistakes, so he could move forward. He also recognized the need to forgive oneself and others.
“We won’t ever get rid our old baggage, if we can’t forgive our mistakes and try to do better,” he said. “You can’t perform your talents and skills if you’re feeling sorry for yourself, depressed, or angry at other people. Regrets and resentments only weigh you down and tempt you back into old addictions.”
“You know,” Edgar added, “I’ve changed the way I pray, too! I used to ask for things, you know? Like, I would pray that my girl friend would come and visit me. I’d get really excited about seeing her and then I’d be disappointed and angry when she didn’t come. I don’t pray that way anymore. I don’t think God’s a wishing well. When I pray now, I ask for God’s peace and forgiveness, and then I say ‘let your will be done, Father. I leave it in your hands.’ I just let it go. And you know what? My heart feels better and lighter that way. Can a read, next?” he asked suddenly. “I want to find out how this pamphlet ends.”
We continued reading and reflecting in this fashion, until Jose volunteered to read the last page.
“One thing is certain,” Jose read aloud. “God is always on our side. God is always ready to help us, to guide us, to forgive us, to save us from ourselves, and to unite us in love with others.”

With those last three lines the session ended, and I called our small group together for a closing prayer. As we were forming into a small, tight, prayer circle, I paused to catch Edgar’s attention.
“You’re not going to get into trouble for that, are you?” I asked, nodding at two rolled up bundles of bed linen and underwear he had stuffed under his tunic.
“This?” he asked, patting his padded shirt. “Nah,” he replied. “This isn’t bad.”
At one point during the reading of a passage, I’d noticed Edgar making eye contact with a trustee walking by the window delivering clean linens and underwear to the dorm cells. He left his chair to intercept the trustee at the door of the dayroom and returned with seven rolls of linen. He quietly passed them on to Juan, Miguel, and Jose. Pretending to ignore what they were doing, I’d grown steadily more worried and apprehensive watching the young men hiding these bundles under their shirts and in their pants. I thought they were begging for trouble, trying to sneak these articles past the guards. I was sure it would result in their punishment.
“Having fresh linens isn’t a violation,” Juan explained to me, sensing my discomfort. “I’m going to hold mine out in my hand so the guards can see what I’ve got. If I have to, I’ll just leave it outside the bars. I don’t want the guards thinking I’m hiding something. We have a tough enough time with the guards now, and I don’t want to make them more suspicious.”
The other men listened quietly to this exchange, and began looking guiltily at each other. One by one they uncovered their hidden bundles, unfolded them, and held them in their hands. We reformed the circle when Edgar volunteered to pray.
“You know, Father-God,” he began, “I wish the guards were easier on us, and fair, but I’m not praying for that. I can’t control what the guards think or do; I can only control my actions. So help us, Lord, to be patient, respectful, and more considerate of others. Help us to treat the guards the way we would like them to treat us. Bring peace to this jail tonight, and give us hope in the morning. I believe in you, Lord, and have faith in your love. So, let your will be done”.
After a litany of additional petitions for family, children, wives, and girlfriends, we ended the prayer with a strong Amen.

“What happened to Jaime?” I asked Justin as the three of us walked down the long jail corridor, back to the office. “He wasn’t with you and Rick when you joined us.”
“You know,” Justin began, “it was really strange today. I don’t know if they had a new Watch Sergeant in the 500’s, or what? When we walked into his office to ask permission to hold services in the day room, he completely ignored us. We stood in front of his desk for a long, long time. He just kept working and wouldn’t look up, as if we were invisible. I was starting to get mad at the way he was treating us, but Rick stayed calm and patient. When the deputy finally looked up and let us speak, he got really bothered. First he said services were impossible because the guards were having a training drill and the inmates would be in a mild lockdown.”
“A MILD lockdown!” I exclaimed. “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” Justin continued with a laugh. “I never heard of it either. Then that deputy called another deputy and asked him about the training. They finally told us that services would not be possible tonight.”
“What happened to Jaime, though?” I repeated.
“I think the guard’s attitude and his refusal to allow services was the last straw for him,” Justin continued. “He was still upset over what happened at the sally entry. He felt that the security guard had purposely set him up with the wrong badge and then humiliated him with the threat of ejection. I think the refusal of services was the final insult for him today. He was angry and decided to go home instead of joining another group.”
“Boy,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s okay.”
“You know, Justin,” I said. “When you first started your story, I thought you were over-reacting. You had been too quiet and polite in waiting, and just hadn’t gotten the Watch Sergeant’s attention. I felt that you were misinterpreting his work intensity as rudeness. But on second thought, it sounds like that deputy was pretty determined in ignoring you and not allowing services in that dorm.”
As we turned the corner of the hallway, I saw Rick and Gavin through the office window huddled in conversation. I assumed he was telling him of the evening’s events, and the actions of the guards with Jaime and the other chaplains. My suspicion was confirmed when Gavin sadly mentioned it during his prayer at the end of our debriefing.

“Lord,” he began, closing his eyes in concentrated effort, as we all stood in a circle. “We come to this place of tension and sorrow to do your service out of love, and sometimes find ourselves in stressful situations with the guards. Tonight one of our members felt it necessary to leave. We ask you to give Jaime peace and tranquility tonight and bring him back to us soon. Help us not to judge the guards and deputies who work here, or to feel anger and resentment at the way we are sometimes addressed or treated. We come to work with, and help, both the prisoners and the guards, but sometimes I feel the task is harder than turning lead into gold. Maybe Saint Francis best expresses my thoughts this evening in his wonderful prayer. Make us a channel of your peace, Lord, when we come to this place. Where there is hatred, let us bring your love; where there is injury, your pardon, too; and where there is sadness let us bring your joy. Help us to remember Lord that it is in giving that we receive. Oh God, grant that we may not seek so much to be consoled as to console; to be understood, as to understand; or to be loved, as to love with all our souls.”
“Amen,” we said firmly in unison, when he stopped speaking and we realized that he was finished.