About three years ago, over four days in June 2017, while still living in Florida, I went to prison. The story is a fun one to tell church folk because, if you phrase it right, and add a bit of inflection just so, it can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

Yes folks, this pastor went to prison.

Thought you should know ?

My prison-going happened to coincide with early conversations with Bethesda’s call committee. Which provided an opportunity to leave committee co-chair Cameron Aisenbrey a rather unfortunate voicemail. “I’d love to hear more about this opportunity,” I said, “but I’ll be unavailable, at least for a few days, and behind bars.” Cameron, thank you again for putting up with that possibly misplaced humor, and continuing the conversation about what could be.

Prison
Admittedly this time behind bars was part of a prison ministry gathering; nothing overly controversial.

Each day our group of a few dozen left behind phones, wallets, belts. We entered the maximum-security prison with only our clothes, photo id, nametag.

The compound was bordered by high, razor wire topped fences, creating very real separation for those within from the world around.

Once inside we joined another few dozen men, each who call this compound home. We then got to the task at hand: to learn more about each other; more about the Christian faith.

While there we heard conversations of what had been lost. Tales of the wives, girlfriends, children the men had been separated from. The jobs, the cars, the homes no longer theirs. The friends and relatives, once close, close no more.

We heard talk of recent news, and rumors too. Hopes of transfers soon, lawyers with ideas, early releases planned. Hope of getting back to the way things were, away from the current state of things. Hopes to reengage, with the outside world, once again.

It was tough to tell which hopes were real, which merely wishful thinking. Looking back, perhaps that distinction, between the two, didn’t really matter. There was hope still, for people with seemingly so little.

Perhaps, for now, that was enough.

We heard talk of acceptance of the way things were. With parole possibilities for some diminished, hope was replaced with peace, even joy. Joy from little things; joking with friends, reading a good book, discovering a new hobby.

Peace and joy? Those were fruits of the spirit I hadn’t expected to see growing in an environment so harsh.

While there together we ate. Oh we ate. The tables we broke bread at were filled with BBQ, chips, deserts, and soda; treats not normally available in the prison mess halls.

When basic needs are met, with care, and with love, we can be open to so very much more.

We journeyed together, these four days, learning the basics of Christianity via scripture, sermon, creed. Via testimony, prayer, song.

Trust was built. Relationships warmed. Faith, in this dark place, flourished.

The final Sunday morning we gathered alongside 100 other men in a jam-packed prison chapel for their regular weekly service. Together we fellow children of God belted out sacred words from a well-worn hymn.

Amazing Grace, how sweet, the sound, that saved a wretch, like me,
I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.

A hymn that, in this context, took on new meaning.

In that moment I realized something. Christ hadn’t magically appeared through talk and meal and song. Christ had been present with us, in and through all of it. And had been, the entire time.

Road
Two thousand years ago there was another gathering of note. This gathering was smaller; only two men at first. And freer; out on the open road, going from one town to the next. And shorter; a one-day trek of seven miles. Yet similar to the backdrop of incarceration, these were also dark times. For Jesus had been killed but a few days before.

Which left much to speak of, much to ponder, much to question.

Early in their journey a stranger joined, walking alongside the two.

We know who this stranger is.
The two men, at the time, did not.
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The two told the one of their loss. They were now separated from someone they loved deeply. They recounted sermons, parables, miracles gone by. They recalled words and actions filled with peace, hope, brighter tomorrows.

Brighter tomorrows that, as far as they could tell, were no more.

The two told the one of recent news, and rumors too. With the loss still fresh, people were starting to talk about some crazy stuff. Things like empty tombs, visions of angels, rumors of resurrection. Women were talking, disciples too, of what it all could possibly mean.

The two told the one it was tough to know what to make of any of this. They wondered what, if any of it, could be true. The rumors at least provided some hope. A chance of faint light, at the end of the tunnel, to see them through.

And, for now at least, that was enough.

The one then spoke to the two, sharing so much the men desperately needed to hear. He spoke of what prophets declared, and how difficult it is, at times, to believe. He interpreted, piece by piece, scripture of what it is a Messiah must be.

As they neared their destination, the stranger walked ahead, as if he were continuing on. The two must have been drawn to the words of the one, because they asked him to stay with them for a while more.

For it was evening, and the day was almost done.

The one took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to the two. The three then shared a meal, together at the table.

In that moment the eyes of the two were opened. Jesus hadn’t been lost. He wasn’t merely rumored to be alive. Christ was present on their journey through talk, teaching, a shared meal among friends. Christ had been present with them, in and through all of it. And had been, the entire time.

Home
Our days of late have been defined more by what isn’t than what is. Yet we’re still talking, still in relationship. Still sharing, albeit from afar. Still trying to figure out what to make of it all.

We share conversations of loss. Jobs lost, diminished, or redefined; each creating burdens of their own. Freedoms to move and gather, together, drastically cut back. Physical health declining for some. Friends and family at risk more so than before. Mental health, for each of us, at times, hanging precipitously by a thread.

We talk of recent news, and rumors too. Hopes of curves flattened, supplies restocked, health restored. Hopes of restaurants, salons and bars reopened. Hopes of worship, together, and hugs, and handshakes and high-fives, God-knows-when.

Hopes of getting back to how things were, away from the current state of things.
Hopes to reengage, with the outside world, once again.

It can be tough, at times, for us to tell which hopes are real, which merely wishful thinking.

Perhaps that distinction, between the two, matters less than we estimate. Perhaps the hopes we cling to, for now, are enough.

We talk of acceptance of the way things are. Of books read, puzzles assembled, television binged, worship livestreamed, hobbies rediscovered, flowers planted, families reconnecting from afar. Peace and joy, during our time of confinement, it seems, is possible still.

We talk of meals enjoyed, cooking more, baking too, even as fewer gather at our tables. We still take the bread, bless it, break it, and share with those we can. In the disruption of so many traditions upended, we return to the communal meal to find our strength. Strength to carry on for the upcoming, unknown journey ahead.

And somewhere, between the books and puzzles, work and school, livestreams, shows, hobbies and meals prepared – we pray God opens our eyes too.

We pray God reveal a Christ present during our journey, walking alongside us wherever we go. Wherever we stay.

And he walks with me, and he talks with me,
And he tells me I am his own,
And the joy we share,
As we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

For Christ has been present with us, in and through all of it.

Yesterday, today, and forever.  Amen.