Last Night I Went To Prison

Last night I went to prison.

Please, allow me to explain.

Last night I attended a Prison Fellowship service at a local penitentiary. To celebrate the holidays, I gathered with some inmates, a few volunteers, and the chaplain.

I must confess. I was not eager to be at the service. I went mostly out of a spirit of obligation and duty and would rather have been watching Sunday Night Football. I had no idea what to expect, but how good could it really be? Certainly, it would not compare to a normal church service, would it?

I sat down in a flimsy plastic chair, glancing around the room at the few dozen gathered in the “chapel.” More of a meeting hall than a church, the chapel served as a multi-faith, multi-purpose room. Government restrictions demand that no particular religion or group receive preference over another, and that rule was clearly enforced. Miniature Buddhas sat on a shelf in the far corner. A Chinese calendar had been tacked on the wall opposite me. Muslim paraphernalia was scattered throughout. At the back, there was a small kitchenette with a coffee maker brewing a fresh batch. Towards the front, there was an old nativity scene displayed in front of a make shift pulpit, the lone indicator of a Christian meeting place. It was a far cry from the local church I had attended earlier in the day.

The service began in typical fashion, with the chaplain leading the congregation in song. But the similarities with normal church services ended there. Without a piano, guitar, or even talent, they sang with what they had. There was no band, the sound system was non-existent, and a multi-media presentation was not being projected on a big screen.

The first verse started slowly. As they lifted their voices in strained unison, it became apparent that this was not an award-winning choir. I half expected the chaplain to throw his hands up in surrender, not worship. Gaining momentum with the chorus, the second verse started strongly, almost powerfully. I listened more carefully, looking for them to falter. By the second time they sang the chorus, it was unmistakable. The group sang passionately, making their missing talent insignificant. More significantly absent from this group was the pride that I normally associated with many worship services. Unaware of their own inaptitude, they cared not for the quality of their sound. I sat in the back for the remainder of the songs, apparently the only one in the room that noticed how awful we sounded. 

It became even more obvious when the chaplain called an inmate to the front for a special performance. The song choice was difficult for the most accomplished of soloists. He chose to sing ‘Ave Marie,’ unaccompanied by music and in front of a crowd that had probably never before heard anything in Latin. In any other setting, it would have been comical. I can easily picture this performance being met with laughter and jeering in my local church. Spoiled by theatre quality performances and concert-like atmospheres, we demand the best. He was not.

His talent was meagre and modest. As he started the first line with a deep breath and an off-key note, I feared the worst. I expected the backlash to start any moment. These were hardened criminals. If there was ever a tough crowd, surely this was it. But the jeers did not come. Instead of smiles of mocking, I saw nods of respect. Where eyelids normally would drop off in boredom, here there were eyes closed in thoughtful reflection and prayer. Here it was met with genuine appreciation.

It was in that moment that my attitude changed. I did not pity them for what they lacked. I ceased to compare them in a negative light to the other churches I had attended in my life. Instead, I found myself envying them for their genuine passion and desire to worship God.

I often find myself sitting in my local pew, commenting on the poor song selection. Or criticizing the sound quality, lack of percussion, or inaptitude of the choir. My hypocrisy was revealed in that moment. I often complain about the lack of passion in my local church. However, here I was confronted with the truth. Better musicians, more popular songs, and nicer buildings do not change the heart. My attitude was revealed for what it was: foolish and vain.

I wonder if God attends our services with the same attitude. Would he leave and complain about the volume of the worship service. Or the lack of good songs? Would He be disappointed with the choice of sermon, since He had undoubtedly heard it before? Would he be frustrated by the outdated cultural references and humourless jokes coming from the pulpit? Would He leave the service and vow never to return unless there was a drastic change? Sadly, I worry that He might. 

I worry God is disappointed. I fear that He is upset. But He is not upset with the quality of the service but with the insincerity in my heart.

Last night in prison I was reminded of 1 Kings 19.

God tells Elijah to wait in anticipation of His presence. So Elijah goes up a mountain, waiting for a message from God. He is anxiously expecting God to reveal Himself. A strong wind, an earthquake, and fire all pass before him, but God does not speak through any of these. Instead God speaks to Elijah in a whisper.

Elijah anticipated God’s message to arrive in a certain form but it did not. Instead, Elijah’s expectations were shattered by the arrival of God’s presence in an unexpected way. While it was unexpected, it was no less genuine.

I wonder what expectations we bring with us. I compare my expectations to those of my brothers behind bars. And I wonder how God views our different expectations.

Last night I went to prison. I am thinking of becoming a repeat offender.