In celebration of Prison Fellowship’s 40 years of ministering to prisoners and their families, we will taking a look back at the early days of the ministry and remembering the people and the stories that have helped to make Prison Fellowship the nation’s largest prison outreach. The following story of Prison Fellowship founder Chuck Colson’s 1978 visit to Attica Prison in New York is excerpted from his memoir, Life Sentence.
“Attica, that’s it.” Bill Showalter, pastor of a Presbyterian church in Rochester, New York, pointed through the car’s front windshield. Each time the fast swinging wipers pushed the late winter snow aside, I could catch a glimpse of distant gray turrets atop massive concrete walls. I glanced at Paul Kramer, once my fellow prisoner, now released and working with me in our prison ministry. His face was somber. To us, all penitentiaries brought back painful memories. …
We parked in a large, ice-packed driveway and announced ourselves to a remote-controlled speaker box. From walkways atop the walls, blue uniformed guards peered down; the towers looked like angry porcupines, bristling with glistening steel gun barrels. Attica is a maximum security prison. It took us a half-hour to clear the front gate. …
The chaplain reported that prison officials were uneasy about having the men assemble together for our appearance but had agreed to allow all inmates who signed up 24 hours in advance to attend my talk. Eight hundred did so. Two hours were set aside for the meeting in a cavernous auditorium.
Bill Showalter had rounded up 20 Christians from community churches to join us. Our group was ushered into the auditorium through the backstage area, while the inmates were being marched through the front entrances.
“No contact is allowed between inmates and visitors,” the lieutenant escorting us ordered. “You sit here.” He pointed at a row of chairs behind the speaker’s podium. I tried to protest. In other prisons local people have been allowed to mix with the inmates; it eliminates the “we” versus “them” tension and builds relationships which can help their future ministry. But the lieutenant was adamant.
“Can’t I at least walk down and talk to the men?” I asked.
“No, you can’t. We are responsible for your safety in here, Mr. Colson.”
“These men are going to have the wrong feeling,” I insisted, “with me up here and them down there.”
“No,” he said again. “Maybe after you finish speaking. We’ll see.”
The concern for security was not unreasonable, I realized, but as the prisoners began to file in, the situation could not have been worse. One group at a time was marched in, the chairs down front assigned first. The inmates were beneath us—bad symbolism. They quickly became restless with nothing to do but stare at the nicely dressed people up on the platform. …
The tramping of feet on metal grates every few minutes announced the arrival of each new group. By 10:45, only 400 restless inmates were in the hall. Shouted obscenities shattered the quiet as the guards prowled the aisles trying to appear casual. But I sensed their tension. It wouldn’t take much for this to explode, I thought.
By 11:00 A.M., 500 to 600 inmates were in their seats, something had to give. “Let’s start this thing,” I suggested.
Nodding, the chaplain bolted from his chair, grabbed the mike, welcomed everyone, and turned the program over to Bill Showalter.
Bill is intelligent and articulate, and all went well until his closing line, “And so I present to you a man who spent seven months in prison and therefore knows how you men feel.”
Bill’s last words were drowned out by howling laughter and catcalls. Seven months seemed like a slap on the wrist to these men, many of them lifers, all doing long sentences. Guards moved quickly toward two inmates in the back who stood up shaking angry fists in the air. I jumped up and took the mike from Bill; the noise was deafening.
I tried speaking but the words could not penetrate the wall of sound. I tried again. No use. “Lord help us,” I prayed silently.
Suddenly, a huge black man in the front row—he looked seven feet tall—bounded to his feet and turned to face the crowd. All I could see was the to and back of his clean-shaven head, … His voice reverberated through the auditorium. “Let him speak, you monkeys,” he roared. Then he turned and nodded as the din slowly began to subside. Still, I had to shout to be heard.
“That’s right, you guys, I spent only seven months inside. That’s nothing.” There was a roar of agreement. “But,” I continued, “I have come back … and I’ll keep coming back as long as God gives me strength.”
There were a few jibes and jeers as I continued, but slowly the mood was changing. They listened, even remaining quiet as i explained certain Gospel passages. …
Our time was nearly over and I wanted to go down among the inmates and shake hands with them. But the lieutenant was standing at the head of the small flight of steps, blocking the way down to the floor.
On an impulse, I moved suddenly. “Okay, lieutenant, the speech is over,” I shouted and then, not waiting for him to answer, jumped down from the platform and headed down the center aisle. Quickly, I was surrounded by inmates, six and seven deep. The guards, startled at first, left us alone. Rich dialogue followed with a variety of men—some Christians, others earnestly seeking, many simply in need of a word of encouragement. Perhaps a few inmates this day saw a small flicker of light in a canyon of darkness.”
