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. In the following excerpt from founder Chuck Colson’s book, Loving God, Chuck talks about the impact of one Easter Sunday visit to the Delaware State Prison in 1980.
It was a glorious Easter Sunday, the spring sun sparkling and warm, the air fresh and sweet. Too nice a day to spend in prison, but that was where I was bound.
… [A]s I arrived at the front gate … I was met by the corrections commissioner, more than 75 Prison Fellowship volunteers, several judges (including a justice of the state supreme court), and a bevy of other state officials. We were quickly escorted around the metal detectors and processing rooms—none of the usual search routines this morning.
The Christian inmates, more than 100 in number at this point, had gotten permission to host a breakfast for us. As we were served in the mess hall, I took a perverse pleasure in watching the justice turn away from the dried-out porridge and sausages of dubious origin.
One of our enthusiastic hosts rapped his spoon against a cup, and when the group quieted announced that an inmate, Sam Casalvera, would read a poem composed for the occasion—and dedicated to Chuck Colson.
Sam rose, wearing the broadest grin I’d ever seen. It was obvious he was not the same rebellious convict I’d met in solitary nine months earlier. I didn’t need to ask what had happened.
Sam cleared his throat and began reading:
I heard you were coming to worship once more
With souls who were floundering when you came before
He hesitated, took a deep breath, and continued:
We had direction but needed a push.
You made us a promise and also a wish
Sam paused to take a wrinkled cloth from his pocket to dab his eyes:
Your promise was kept—Prison Fellowship you sent.
Whatever I write can’t tell you what it meant.
Some who attended made your wish come true.
They gave their life to Jesus, as you did too
Men and women in prison don’t cry. It’s a sign of weakness, and weakness can be dangerous in prison. But Sam could not control his emotions. Tears flowed down his cheeks and his broad shoulders heaved.
I rose and walked to the front of the hall, put my around his shoulders, and took the paper from him. For a moment I thought I would dissolve along with Sam, but somehow I was able to read the remaining lines of his poem. I’ve loved poetry all my life and treasure many classics, but none have affected me as deeply as Sam Casalvera’s earnest stanzas.
After breakfast our inmate hosts escorted us out of the mess hall and on a long procession to the chapel on the other side of the prison. As we began to cross the compound, I squinted through the bright sunlight and stopped short at the scene ahead. A crowd of prisoners surrounded the chapel, some carrying placards. In 200 prison visits, I”d never seen anything like it. Instinctively I reviewed the possibilities. A riot brewing? A demonstration against prison conditions? Muslim inmates protesting our presence?
A few steps further and I could make out, to my amazement and relief, the crude lettering on the signs: “COME TO THE CHAPEL,” read one. “JESUS SETS THE PRISONERS FREE!” was another.
Just as people in prison don’t cry, neither do they call attention to their faith. To do so invites scorn, ridicule, or worse. But this group of Christians was parading the compound, advertising chapel!
Their daring had broken barriers. Men were gathering from all over the prison. The chapel was packed. And because 300 prisoners were in solitary lockup, the Christian brothers had mounted four speakers on the chapel roof so the service could be heard throughout the prison. (Judging by the size of the amplifiers, it could also be heard by neighbors for miles around.)
The prison choir began the service. Their task was to warm up the crowd and they were a roaring success. Even the supreme court justice, sandwiched between two muscular convicts in the front row, loosened up. Struggling at first to maintain his dignity, he gradually began tapping his foot and soon was grinning and clapping with the rest.
As I sat on the platform, waiting my turn at the pulpit, my mind began to drift back in time … to scholarships and honors earned, cases argued and won, great decisions made from lofty government offices. My life had been the great American dream fulfilled.
But all at once I realized that it was not my success God had used to enable me to help those in this prison, or in hundreds of others just like it. My life of success was not what made this morning so glorious—all my achievements meant nothing in God’s economy.
No, the real legacy of my life was my biggest failure—that I was an ex-convict. My greatest humiliation—being sent to prison—was the beginning of God’s greatest use of my life; He chose the one thing in which I could not glory for His glory.
Confronted with this staggering truth, I discovered in those few moments in the prison chapel that my world was turned upside down. I understood with a jolt that I had been looking at life backward. But now I could see: Only when I lost everything I thought made Chuck Colson a great guy had I found the true self God intended me to be and the true purpose of my life.
It is not what we do that matters, but what a sovereign God chooses to do through us. God doesn’t want our success; He wants us. He doesn’t demand our achievements; He demands our obedience. The Kingdom of God is a kingdom of paradox, where through the ugly defeat of a cross, a holy God is utterly glorified. Victory comes through defeat; healing through brokenness; finding self through losing self.