Mohammed’s Radio
May. 13th, 2011 02:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947 Everybody’s restless
And they got no place to go.
Someone’s always trying to tell them
Something they already know.
So their anger and resentment flow.
Don’t it make you want to rock and roll
All night long -
Mohammed’s Radio.
I heard somebody singing sweet and soulful,
On the radio -
Mohammed’s Radio
You know the sheriff’s got his problems too,
And he will surely take them out on me and you.
In walked the village idiot and his face was all a glow
He’s been up all night listening to Mohammed’s Radio.
(Mohammed’s Radio – written by Warren Zevon, and sung by Linda Ronstadt: 1976)
“Hi Gavin, this is Tony,” I began, talking loudly into the Bluetooth device on the overhead visor. Struggling to ignore the eruptions of frustration over the stop-and-go traffic that was making me late, I tried sounding calm and in control.
“Hola, Tony,” he replied, in his soft Peruvian accent. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Gavin,” I lied, jarred by the tranquility of his voice. “I’m calling to let you know that I’m running late. Traffic was really backed up along Balboa Boulevard today, and I haven’t even gotten to the freeway yet.”
“How much longer do you think it will take you?” he asked soothingly.
“God, I don’t know,” I replied, staring at the winding stream of cars in front of me, inching along San Fernando Road as slow as thick, delta mud along the Mississippi. “I might get there in 40 or 50 minutes, I guess, but I’m not sure.”
“That’s fine Tony,” he said reassuringly, “don’t worry about it. You will arrive when you are meant to arrive. I’ll tell Rick to wait for you here in the office. Oh, by the way,” he added in the tone of a passing thought, “one more thing. I’d like you to be on the look out for people who might be interested in joining our ministry. Our human resources are being stretched, and we could use more volunteers and more help.”
“Uh, okay,” I stammered, shocked at the request. “So you want me to recruit other people?” I responded, restating his gentle statement into a harsher question.
“No,” he replied, thoughtfully. “Recruiting sounds like we’re trying to raise an army or start a crusade, or something. Just mention what we do, to people who might be interested. Just think of men and women you know who might like to help by visiting inmates in jail.”
“Fine,” I said, hoping I sounded positive about his request, without committing myself to the task he was asking of me. “I’ll see you when I get there.”
For the first time in my hour-long odyssey through sluggish traffic, I was finally able to unknot my stomach and take a long, deep, relaxing breath. The phone call had dispelled the crazy, stressful notion that had only grown with the accumulating minutes – the belief that I was letting the inmates down by not coming or being late. I’d get to the jail when I got there, and no amount of worrying was going to get me there any sooner. Instead all vestiges of guilt and worry were driven off by Gavin’s appeal for my help. How does one recruit people to join the prison ministry, when my own reasons for joining weren’t clear to me? I had been traveling to this jail and visiting inmates for about six months now, but paradoxically, my decision to join the prison chaplains as a volunteer had been a mindless act, without any analysis or investigation. In an earlier blog (see Building a Channel) I tried explaining how I’d merely said, “yes,” when Rick, one of the assistant chaplains, called me one night to ask if I was interested in accompanying him to the jail to observe and visit the men. I never felt I was “recruited” into a ministry – Rick called and I came. I had been coming ever since, but I didn’t consider the weekly act a religious duty or a moral obligation – I just showed up. In fact I didn’t do a lot of planning or evaluating on the days I visited the jail: I’d leave my house at 4:30 p.m., listen to music on the 32 miles drive, and participate in the 90 minute session I was assigned to accompany. How did that translate into a ministry I could explain to possible volunteers? Thankfully, in that miraculous way that clinging, early morning mists dissolve at the first whisper of dawn, so too did the stop-and-go traffic congestion suddenly disappear the moment I turned onto the freeway. I parked Gavin’s request in the back of my mind for future consideration, and sped along the freeway in the vacant fast lane and arrived at the jail in 15 short minutes.
Walking into the Chaplain’s Office, Rick greeted me enthusiastically and said I’d again be accompanying Thomas to the 800’s cellblock, the maximum-security dorms, that evening.
“Listen, Tony,” he continued, “last week you, Justin, and Thomas only met with 3 inmates. That means three chaplains were tied up with only three inmates. That’s not a good use of our limited personnel. We could have used your help in other places. Did Thomas announce the services to the men? Was there a problem with the deputy? You know”, he added with a frown, “we’ve been having trouble with some of the guards over access to the men in the 800’s. Did that happen last week?”
“No,” I said, surprised by the barrage of questions and concerns about the guards. “There wasn’t a problem with the senior deputy when we asked permission to conduct services, but the dorm guard did seem a little gruff when we asked him to release the men. Thomas made the announcement at each of the three dorms in that cellblock. By the way”, I added as an aside, “why do the inmates yell out radio call before Thomas speaks?”
“Oh that,” Rick said with a chuckle. “That’s prison slang when someone wants to make a general announcement. It’s a command to lower the volume on the television or radio so all the men can hear what’s being said. You don’t hear many radios in jail nowadays, but the TV’s are on all the time.” At that moment Thomas walked over and Rick turned to him.
“You know last week, when you met with the three men in 800, did all the men who wanted to come out line up at the bars to be released or did the deputy choose them himself?”
“Hmm, let me see,” Thomas considered, thoughtfully. “I think the guard picked them out of the line himself. He mentioned that he was having trouble with some of them, and he didn’t want more than three men coming out from each one dorm. Actually, he only let one group of men out from one dorm.”
“Well see what you can do to get more men out tonight, okay?” Rick stressed. “I’d like to give more men a chance to escape their cells so they can talk and pray together for a while.”
“Okay, we’ll try” Thomas said.
When we reached the 800’s cellblock with its three barred dorms arrayed behind the guard desk, I noticed that there was a different deputy on duty from last week.
“They don’t station the same deputies in the same cellblocks for very long, do they?” I asked Thomas. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the same person more than twice.”
“Yeah,” Thomas replied. “They rotate the guards all the time. I understand the rationale for avoiding long-term relations with inmates, but it makes it hard for us to get to know the deputies, and build some trust and confidence with them. They’re almost strangers to us and the men they guard.”
We introduced ourselves to the young guard with the trimmed haircut and asked his permission to release men for a chaplain service in the outdoor dayroom. We reassured him that we’d gotten the okay from the Watch Sergeant, but he still gave us a pained, skeptical look.
“Alright,” he sighed. “You can take 3 men from each dorm, but not from that one,” he said, pointing to the cell on his left. “They’re on disciplinary restriction”.
“Well, six is better than the three we had last week,” Thomas said cheerily. “Can we make a radio call at the bars to announce the services?”
“Go ahead,” replied the guard. “I’ll have a trustee set up some chairs for you.”
I walked with Thomas as he approached the bars of one cell dorm, and then the other to make his announcement. As we walked past the restricted dorm, I was struck by the tense passivity of the men. They lounged on bunks or sat at the bolted-down tables in a morose, bored manner, exhibiting no energy or interest in anything inside or outside the cell.
“What do you think happened?” I whispered, turning away from the dispirited men.
“It’s hard to tell,” Thomas replied quietly. “Restriction is the automatic consequence for any rule violation. Probably a fight between inmates, that happens a lot in the 800 dorms.”
We helped a chatty trustee set up 11 chairs in a circle. When no inmates appeared at the entrance to the open-air dayroom, Thomas went to investigate.
“He’s sending them now,” Thomas announced a few minutes later, returning to the dayroom. “He was delayed by some interruption, but he’s allowing 4 men from one dorm because only one inmate asked to come out from the other. We’ll have 5 men tonight.”
“That’s better than 3,” I replied, hopefully.
We greeted the men as they arrived and shook their hands. There were 3 Hispanics inmates, and 2 African-Americans. One was named James, a short, muscular man, with a uniquely form-fitting tunic that accentuated his trim build. The other was Julius, a tall, lanky fellow, with tight curly hair and a scraggy, grey beard. Thomas led the small group session, employing his usual format. He began by going around the circle for brief introductions, followed by a prayer with invitations for personal intentions or petitions. As we bowed our heads to pray, James extended his hands to the Hispanic inmates at his sides, and the rest of us followed along to form a ring of clasped hands. After the prayer, Thomas explained that we would be using the Chaplain’s program called Finding the Way in Jail, which allowed for introspection and reflection on spiritual topics and rehabilitation. Everything was moving along so smoothly and quickly, that I actually thought Thomas would, for the first time I’d been working with him, actually begin reading the pamphlet we used for the program. But suddenly, he put the folded paper down and began sharing his personal story as a recovering alcoholic. This is a topic that Thomas had mentioned on other occasions, about his brokenness as an alcoholic and his struggles to maintain sobriety, but never like this. This time he spoke of blacking out from alcohol and waking up the next morning to look in the mirror. There he saw what he was, a helpless drunk who would lie, cheat, and steal to maintain his addiction. These opening remarks about addiction, and feeling utterly powerless to change, set off a series of personal stories and testimonies from each man. The most striking comments came from the two African-American inmates, whose stories I will attempt to paraphrase as best I can.
Julius was the first to raise his arm for recognition, while holding a Protestant Bible in the other hand. He spoke with an evangelical passion, punctuating his rhythmic cadence with bible citations and quotes. His main point was that God was relentlessly pursuing us, his flawed and sinful children.
“Even before our births,” I remember him saying, “God has marked us as his own. He is the Hound of Heaven, hunting us down throughout our lives. We are not so much the seekers of God, as we are His prey.”
I was a little shocked by his intensity, and his calling us “God’s prey”, and saying that some people were “already saved” or “already damned”, as though God had pre-ordained our status at birth. But he softened this Calvinistic tone when he described how God sought unity with us, and the only thing separating us were the choices we made and the actions that we took in life. He also stressed that God was essential in making the important changes in our lives.
“I was an alcoholic too,” he said, looking at Thomas. “Only I was what we called in the hood, a ‘luxury alcoholic’. I only drank in bars. So instead of paying $5.50 for a six-pack to drink at home, I paid three dollars for a glass in a bar. I also smoked, so I’d take my drink into the alley outside and sip away. Well, as God visited misery on Job, so he destroyed my world too. I was dealing drugs and doing fine, at that time, but God allowed me to be arrested again and sentenced. Jail separated me from my sinful ways and all my addictions. God gave me another chance to study his word and change my life. You see there is a purpose to prison, if we can detect God’s hand in it. But you have to work at this new sight. We may be separated from our addictions here, but the devil still tempts you in prison. He puts evil thoughts, like revenge and despair, into your head. Just as he tempted Jesus in the desert, after he fasted 40 days and 40 nights, the devil tempts you here. He tempts you in jail, and when you get out. Only God gives us the strength and ability to resist.”
“Amen, Deacon Julius,” announced James, the other African-American from across the circle. “Surely prison is our proving ground,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, with elbows resting on his knees. “It is a place of training where we can perfect ourselves for God. Prison gives us the opportunity to make changes in our lives by separating us from the temptations and distractions of society. God helps us to change our character here, so we won’t return to our old habits when we’re released.”
He spoke in a shockingly eloquent and scholarly fashion, sounding more like a lecturing professor, than a prisoner. His measured words were so confident and precise that no one dared interrupt while he spoke.
“I come from a family of preachers,” he intoned, “but that never kept me out of trouble. There finally came a day when I was confronted by my mother, a Baptist minister, and my uncle, a Black Muslim minister, who was just released from prison. Those two strong-willed preachers brought the full force of the gospel and the Koran to bear on me. They tried to show me that I was a sinful man and needed changing. I pretended to listen, but I didn’t change. I lied to them and to myself. I’ve been in churches all my life. I can quote scripture perfectly, but that never stopped me from relishing and enjoying all the luxuries of life, and paying for them by criminal actions. Man, I had it all: drugs, alcohol, women, clubs, cars, and clothes. Even getting arrested and sentenced didn’t stop me. Sure, it took away the drugs and separated me from women and luxuries, but it didn’t change me. I’ve been in and out of prisons all my life. Prison doesn’t change you, it only gives you a place where change can occur, but first you have to admit that there is a problem. What’s the problem, drugs or you? You’re the problem, man, and until you realize that and let God into your life and actions, your character will never change! I would always return to God when I was in prison, but then I’d always relapse when I got out. The temptations of the world were too strong, and too many, and I was too weak. Then just as Paul was struck down from his high horse and made blind on the road to Damascus, so God sent me a mighty calling. His power consumed me and he knocked me down by sending me back to prison so I could finally see the light. I won’t bore you with the details of my case, but this is one time that I didn’t do the crime. I’ve committed many sins in my life, and gotten away with many crimes, but this time I didn’t do anything. I’m serving 6 to 8 years for felony assault. The charge was for threatening someone with a knife. I walked past some woman to continue arguing with a man in a club, and she called the police. She claimed I’d threatened her with a knife. Where would I have gotten a knife, and why would I threaten her with it? I never met the woman before, but I couldn’t prove that she was lying. The whole thing was preposterous, but I already had 3 arrests on my record, so there was nothing I could do. This twisted judicial system of ours isn’t about truth or justice, it is about your past. Your record determines your guilt and the length of your sentence. So here I am. I had to go to jail as an innocent man before I realized that I was the problem all along. The choices I’d made, the people I associated with, and the habits I maintained kept me enslaved in my own prison. So I stopped fighting, put my trust in God, and let him consume me. At first the D.A. offered me a deal of 9 to 12 years, but I said no and put my faith in God. I just prayed and prayed, and wouldn’t have anything more to do with her. She finally came back with a sentence of 6 to 8 years.”
“Amen to that, brother,” Julius interjected; breaking the mesmerizing spell James had cast with his testimony. “Only God will set you free. Do not put your trust in princes, or in mortal men, who cannot save you,” he quoted from Psalms, holding up his bible. “When they depart, they return to the ground, and their plans come to nothing. Blessed is he whose help is the God of Abraham and Jacob. Just remember what Paul says in Philippians 4,” he added. “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving in your heart, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your heart and mind in Christ Jesus. Yes, even in jail there are temptations,” he said, picking up the thread of his last speech. “Our thoughts are crazy things, and if we dwell on them too long they become real. The devil is everywhere, especially in prison. That’s why I fill my time with the Book”, he said lifting his bible into the air. “I read the MacArthur Study Bible every day, but it’s still hard to make good choices. Even without the distractions and addictions of the outside world, it’s hard to live one day at a time in Christ. It’s hard just getting up in the morning when you’re in prison. Every day is a trial. There is so much fear and craziness in the dorms, it’s a struggle just finding a place to sit, think, or read in peace.”
“But you’re all in the same boat, aren’t you?” I interrupted naively; surprised at the despairing picture he was suddenly painting of life in the dorm. “I mean, you’re all serving time right, so why don’t you learn to get along with each other?”
“Well,” Julius said, pausing his testimony to think. “ Most men in prison stick to their own kind, and they see things from their own point of view. We are all so different, you know. It’s hard to accept other people who look and act different, especially when emotions get involved. Someone can be having a bad day because he’s gotten some bad news from his wife and kids, and he snaps.”
“There were problems like that in the other dorm, weren’t there?” I asked, daring to mention the cell that was on restriction.
“Yeah,” Thomas said, clearing his throat and joining the conversation for the first time. “We heard that the other dorm was being punished. What happened?”
“There was a fight,” James said, bitterly, from across the room, “and of course the guards responded out of fear and retaliation. Instead of addressing the problems of racial conflict that caused the fight, the guards punished everyone by keeping them locked together and under restriction. Those men could actually benefit from a session like this one. It would give them a chance to get out and talk. Maybe that way they could vent their feelings, and understand one another. Our dorm is lucky. We work at keeping things integrated, like in Prayer Call. That’s where I met Rocky and Juan,” he said indicating the two Hispanics seated at his side.
“I noticed that you guys held hands during prayer,” I said, looking at the two men. “That gave us the idea to do the same and we all joined you.”
“Yeah,” said Juan, speaking for the first time. “James is like our preacher, you know? He makes sure we have regular Prayer Calls in the dorm, and he leads us in prayer.”
“I’ve heard that term used before,” I said, looking at James. “What’s Prayer Call and how does it work?”
“Prayer Call is a chance to come together in a group to pray or read the Bible,” James explained. “You only have to ask the guards for permission to have one, and they’ll usually say yes, unless they suspect that there’s some trouble brewing. In our dorm, we pray after every chow. Any dorm can ask, and you can have them at regular times during the day. But you have to avoid keeping them segregated by color or ethnic groups. A Prayer Call should be open to all religions and all inmates, no matter their race or ethnicity. It should include Christians, Jews, and Muslims of all colors and beliefs. That’s the first thing I look for. If only one type of group is meeting for prayer, I’ll go over and integrate it, just to make sure it doesn’t get stopped. Sometimes the guards will cancel them, if racial tensions are high or they think inmates are using them to plan riots or fights. When dorms are restricted, men aren’t allowed to gather together or meet for any reason. Stupid, isn’t it? The guards won’t let you pray together to relieve racial tension and conflict.” He wearily shook his head. “It’s sad, you know? Seeing how badly guards and inmates treat themselves and each other. Depending on where you stand in a jail, we are all behind those same bars, and each in our own prison.”
I was haunted all evening by the testimonies of James and Julius, and their stark descriptions of jail and the justice system. I was especially curious about what they said about Prayer Call, and I mentioned it at our debriefing meeting. Gavin, the Head Chaplain, confirmed James’ description of the practice, recognizing it as a powerful instrument for peace and transformation that was sometimes misused by inmates and feared by the guards.
“Our sessions with the men are also a sort of Prayer Call,” he concluded. “We are not priests or preachers who come to convert or proselytize, we are just men and women who show up to visit them without judgment or criticism. All we do is give them the chance to come out of their cells to sit in a circle to pray, reflect, and help each other change, so they can make better choices in the future. That’s all the rehabilitating we can do, the rest is up to God and them. Now let’s bow our heads and pray for God’s blessing.”
