‘I have given you as a covenant to the people,
a light to the nations,
to open the eyes that are blind,
to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon,
from the prison those who sit in darkness.’ (Isaiah 42:6b-7)
One day, I got a call from Mark, the volunteer coordinator for the jail at 201 Poplar. He asked me to come by to offer communion to an elderly Episcopalian prisoner. It was my first time going inside the jail, and it was one of the darkest and dreariest places I have ever been.
I learned that the prisoner I was there to see had been unexpectedly transported to a medical appointment that morning. But Mark said there may be some others who would like to meet me and receive communion. A few moments later, he brought out 15 men, most of them African-American and most of them young. Fortunately, I had put some extra wafers in the communion kit.
The young men sat down in a semi-circle around me, and I could tell they expected and longed for an entire worship service. I added a sermon and prayers to what I usually do for a communion visit. The men joined reverently in offering the Lord’s Prayer.
At the end of the service, Mark told me that some of the men wondered if they could say private confessions with me. We set up a makeshift confession space in a dark corner on the side of the room. Nearly all the men came by to pour out their hearts in one of the most profound times of ministry I have ever experienced. Afterward, I spoke to one of the men who felt a deep sense of call to ordained ministry and mission work.
What I felt these men were seeking more than anything that day was the dignity of being free to worship and to be accepted as beloved children of God. They were looking to grasp a glimmer of light within the dark dungeon in which they live. They gave me the gift of light and hope along the way.
Today, February 13, is the Feast of Absalom Jones, the first African-American priest ordained in the Episcopal Church. He was a member of St. George’s, Philadelphia, a church that included African-Americans and whites. The white members met in secret to plan to add a balcony designed to house the Blacks. But they told the African-Americans to raise funds in their community to support the balcony that would ‘expand the worship space for all.’
When the balcony was completed, Absalom Jones and a fellow Black parishioner were on their knees in prayer downstairs at the beginning of the Sunday service. A white usher came by, tapped them on their shoulders, and told them they would have to go upstairs to the balcony with all the other African-American congregants. Jones asked if it would be alright if he finished the prayer. The usher said no and accosted him to move upstairs. Instead, Jones and the other Blacks walked out. They formed another Episcopal church, St. Thomas, in Philadelphia. We at Calvary were honored to host and meet the amazing folks from St. Thomas when their choir came to sing here a few years ago.
Absalom Jones and his companions were seeking the same thing the prisoners at 201 Poplar were hoping to find – a little taste of freedom and dignity from the physical, spiritual, and emotional dungeon they were placed in. Instead, for Jones, they were tricked into helping build an upstairs dungeon, another dreary place designed to keep them down.
The life and ministry of Absalom Jones summon us to the courage to lift the downtrodden out of darkness, offer light, and embrace them as beloved children of God, the God who wants all of us to be able to finish our prayers.
That was very interesting, your visit to 201. I worked there for 11years in the clinic. For 2 years I did group therapy on a mental health pod. It is an experience for which I am thankful. But is was very hard.
Susan,
Thanks for your long-term ministry at 201 Poplar. I know it made a difference in the mental health and well-being of the inmates there. No doubt, it’s hard but very meaningful work.
Love,
Paul
Thank you for sharing this, Paul. I have been inside 201 to support court-ordered counseling clients when I worked in the community. It is a unique and challenging experience. Thank you for being a source of light to these men and recognizing the light that they provided to you.
Clay,
You’re welcome. Thanks for your ministry to the inmates at 201 Poplar over the years. Yes, these men did provide a source of light to me for which I am grateful.
Love,
Paul
Paul, I find it so astounding the way you share a past experience that foreshadows a relevant feast. Doing so you bring substance and meaning to both. This was a very touching story that moved me to tears, realizing there are people in prison who are seeking redemption and forgiveness.
You gave them a wonderful gift.
Kate,
Thanks for sharing that you found this story moving. Actually, the men gave me wonderful gifts – instantly giving me their trust, sharing their most intimate stories and hopes, and making me feel a useful part of their journey. Hopefully, in the spirit of Absalom Jones, we can all find ways to bring a little more light and dignity into the forgotten corners of our city and world.
Love,
Paul
Thank you!
Christina,
You’re welcome .Glad this reflection was meaningful to you.
Love,
Paul
Paul, like you, I learned a lot from prisoners at 201 Poplar. For 10 years, I worked as a parole officer. My job was to visit those who had been returned to custody after breaking their parole contracts. During my visits, it was always evident to me that these clients wanted more than anything for someone to sit still and listen to their stories. I learned to let go of some of my rigidity, to allow my heart to hear the man and not to focus on his mistakes. The sum of those experiences made be a better person, a more understanding and less judgmental one. Thank you for sharing your wonderful and meaningful day with men who really needed you.
Elizabeth,
You’re welcome. Thanks for sharing your story of being a parole officer and how your experiences at 201 Poplar were transformative for you.
Love,
Paul
Paul I love your sermons as I do all of the priest at Calvary. Years ago ( I think) you spoke of someone in your congregation that wanted the job no one else wanted. It was to light the furnace on those cold mornings at the church. You spoke of how important that was to him and how he did it with such promise or purpose. I heard the same attitude or reflection in this story from you. Thankful to those that commented and told their experience.Thank you so much for this story too.
Greta,
You’re welcome. Thanks for remembering that sermon from years ago! It’s wonderful to hear different ways people are “lighting the furnace” to bring some hope to our neighbors in dark corners as you & Nina do at Basement Church on Sunday mornings.
Love,
Paul
Made me cry, Paul. As we know, on any given day 25% of the occupants of 201 are truly mentally ill folks. We just have no place else to house them these days. Your story just underscores that one of the basic human needs is to be seen and heard – acknowledged, if you will. You are so good at that. Thank you
Nancy,
You’re welcome. Glad you found this reflection moving. Thanks for reminding us that so many of the occupants of 201 Poplar are experiencing mental illness. Hope and pray we can find ways to give a little more attention and dignity to our neighbors there.
Love,
Paul
You are a source of light wherever you go, Paul McLain!!!!
Mary,
Thank you! Right back atcha!
Love,
Paul
I have been to 201 Poplar many times.
I was called to collect evidence from people that were suspected of committing a crime. When I would arrive, I would talk to the law enforcement officer and he/she would take me to the “holding area”. The three of us would be in that small room for a while. I would explain the reason I was there and ask the suspect’s permission to collect the evidence requested. They were handcuffed- but I would ask that their hands be released to sign documents or remove clothing so I could collect the evidence I needed. I remember never being afraid. They would often tell me that they were innocent and I would tell them that I understood. Thank you so much Paul, this was a good memory for me. Thank you for reminding all of us through your story.