Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and hey shall name him Emmanuel, which means “God is with us.” Matthew 1
Finally, after more than six months, I was able to go to church. We walked in the warm rain of the second day of winter across the facility to the chapel. I asked three friends to come with me – two did. None of us knew what to expect. We were greeted at the door with an inmates saying, “Welcome, brother.” and another handing us a bulletin. Yep – that felt like church. I’m old enough to be one of those people that can’t worship without a piece of paper in my hand letting me know what’s on the agenda.
The chapel was beautiful. Wooden pews, nice woodwork on the walls and ceiling, the first woodwork I’ve seen in over six months, except for the courtroom on sentencing day. Candles burned at the front behind a praise team that was singing praise choruses. Banners proclaimed the meaning of the four Sundays of Advent – hope, peace, joy, love. Since we are still in transition, this was also our Christmas service, even though it was the fourth Sunday of Advent.
The hymnals were red with a cross and flame on the front, and I recognized them as the United Methodist hymnals of my youth. Now I know where old hymnals go when they near he end of their lives. But was still a hymnal, filled with the sacred songs I knew – “O come, All Ye Faithful,” “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem, ” “Silent Night.” All were sung up tempo with the praise band. S-, who I had asked to come along, did not feel comfortable singing. The guy on my right was singing out, so I joined my voice with his.
They lit the candles of an advent wreath, and I cherished the candle light, knowing that I would have no candle in my hand on Christmas Eve. I stared at the flames, and pictured the light shining in the darkness of the this dreary, rainy day – shining in the darkness of our imprisonment.
The chaplain was a Lutheran woman, older and undergoing chemotherapy that made her eyes water constantly. She said it may look like she was constantly crying, and I thought of my wife, whose watery eyes have really been tears for too long. The chaplain preached on Matthew 1:18-25, and asked “Where is the hope?” She spoke of the chapel being sacred, like the real meaning of Christmas – set apart to remember God’s action in the world and in our lives. She said there are no bars, no cells, no lock-downs in the chapel. It is our sacred, set apart space, where we encounter Jesus, the hope of the world. And we take him with us to our cells, taking his presence, his hope with us, for the meaning of Christmas is exactly that – God is with us.
The highlight for me was communion. The liturgy. Walking to the front with my hands empty and open. Receiving the body and blood of Christ. Knowing that we believe in the communion of saints, and in the this action I am united with all who are in Christ, regardless of distance, regardless of time.
As we went forward to receive communion, it got louder. Apparently for many this is just a social time off the block. I heard one man saying he needed some more of the wafers to use as crackers for his summer sausage. But during that time an inmate up front was singing “O Holy Night,” a song I knew well, having sung it with many choirs. And I focused on the words, as I bowed my head. “He knows our needs, to weaknesses no stranger.” It was like Christ was speaking directly to me.
We ended with “Joy to the World,” and we really sang out. It was then that I noticed the nativity set at the front corner. The angel in the sky was the same angel that had been in my family’s nativity set when I was young – same shape, same wings, same color blue. God is with us.
We left with lighter hearts. The two guys I had asked to come said the enjoyed it and would come back. It was church. Really church. And I’ve been thankful for it since. It’s my connection to the sacred. It’s your connection, too, and you experience God as emerge from the church knowing that God is with you in everything you do, no matter where you are, no matter how dark your days!