Trading Knives for a Double-Edged Sword

Trading Knives for a Double-Edged Sword Inmates at Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola train to be prison missionaries B y M ae E lise C annon

“For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.”

Hebrews 4:12

has decreased dramatically over the past 20 years. In 1990, 455 inmate-on-inmate armed assaults were reported.That number dropped to only nine in 2007. The radical transformation of the prison is due in large part to the leadership and direction of Burl Cain, who became warden of Louisiana State Penitentiary in February of 1995.

Profoundly influenced by his mother and her Christian faith, Cain recalls her words to him: “When you become a warden, there are a lot of things you can do for a lot of people… Don’t miss your chance.” Cain got his chance at Angola, where the average sentence is 90 years and where truth-in-sentencing laws mean that “life means life.” Like many other states, Louisiana offers no hope of parole to those serving life sentences (97 percent of Angola’s inmates will die in captivity, of natural causes), so hope had to be introduced in other forms. (See the “Death and Dignity” sidebar on page 16.)

Cain felt that bringing respect and dignity to the inmates by providing meaningful programs was a good place to start.

Within six months of his arrival, the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (NOBTS) of the Angola Extension started its first classes, designed to instill hope and peace in the prison population. This is brought about by preparing inmate leaders to evangelize their peers within all areas of the prison, as well as other institutions of the Louisiana Department of Corrections.Throughout the program, inmates are equipped to plant churches in prisons and to minister through discipleship training, one-on-one ministry, and counseling, all within the prison environment.

In December 1997, the first class of 15 students graduated from the NOBTS Extension. Speaking to the inaugural gradu-

“Inmates used to carry knives, but now they carry Bibles. Death has been replaced with love.”

Dwayne Hill, inmate serving a life sentence, graduate of the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary extension at Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola The Louisiana State Penitentiary, known by locals as the “Farm,” is the largest maximum security prison in the United States. Located an hour’s drive outside of Baton Rouge on 18,000 acres and surrounded on three sides by the Mississippi River, Angola received its name from the African country from which captives were imported for a 19th-century slavebreeding plantation. After the Civil War, the plantation was turned into a private prison and subsequently purchased by the state in the early 1900s. During the 1970s, Angola was kept under federal court supervision due to a history of attempted escapes, suicides, attempted suicides, acts of violence between inmates, and assaults on prison employees. Angola was then known as the “bloodiest prison in America.”

Today, the prison is no longer known for its violence, but rather for the gospel that is preached within its walls. Although 86 percent of its current population of more than 5,100 inmates are violent offenders convicted of murder, aggravated rape, or armed robbery, close to half of the inmates are professing Christians, and the rate of inmate-on-inmate violence

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by the grace of God, according to Jackson, he shortly thereafter became a student at the school. Towards the end of his studies, Jackson served as the pastor of an inmate-established church as well as the chaplain’s camp coordinator.

“I led Bible studies, preached, made rounds to the cell blocks, and hosted all of the volunteer ministries that came to the camp for worship services,” explains Jackson. One of his favorite ministry opportunities was leading a beginners’ Bible study where he used the motto “I am in the car with God” because, as he explains, “I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew that God would take me where I needed to go!” Jackson served in that role for 18 months before being invited to transfer, as a missionary, to Avoyelles Correctional Center in Cottonport, La., a move that would add four hours’ travel time to his family’s visits. Knowing it would be hard on his wife if he were transferred, he prayed about the decision and talked to her about it; she responded by saying that wherever God sent him, she would go.

In April 2005, Jackson left for Avoyelles, a facility much smaller than Angola and with fewer programs and activities offered to inmates. Jackson worked with the chaplain of the facility, the unit warden, and other staff members, wrestling with the many difficulties that came with working alongside staff clergy. One of the biggest challenges he experienced was the sheer variety and number of church groups that came into the prison to speak to the inmates. “Different

ates,Warden Cain said,“God meant for you to be here today…

Set the right standard. Be God’s torchbearers. Keep the faith and set an example for the other incarcerated men.” In a post-commencement interview, Dr. John Robson, director of the Angola Extension, said of the program, “Even within the community there was skepticism, but God has called them as he has called us… We want our guys to be first-rate taught, and we want our graduates to teach others. We want to ship them all over the state, throughout the prison system.”

By 2007, close to 200 inmates had graduated from the program, and Robson’s dream had become a reality. Due to the success of the seminary program in Angola, numerous other facilities around the state of Louisiana have submitted requests to receive missionaries trained there. The prison administration never forces an inmate to transfer, but they do field requests and then provide the opportunity for inmates who have completed the necessary requirements to be considered for transfer.

In order to become an inmate missionary, an inmate must be a four-year graduate of NOBTS, having received both an associate’s and a bachelor’s degree in Christian ministry; an inmate cannot have been convicted of a sex crime; individuals must express the conviction that they are “called by God” to serve in the field; the Angola administrators and chaplains must affirm the inmate’s qualifications; and candidates must submit to an interview/selection process administered by the prison chaplains and authorities at the receiving facility.

Once accepted, inmates must sign a contract stating that after graduation they will serve for two years in another prison as a missionary. The monthly missionary salary of approximately $50 is raised by inmate clubs at the Farm.

“In the car with God”

Walter Jackson began his spiritual journey in 1994 in a county jail in Louisiana. Overwhelmed by the charge of firstdegree murder and the possibility of receiving the death penalty, Jackson was at his wits’ end. One night, he felt God saying to him, “I’m waiting on you.” Jackson responded by falling to his knees, asking God to forgive him, and inviting Jesus into his heart. “A great peace came upon me,” says Jackson, “and my life has never been the same.” Three years later, Jackson was sent to the Farm with a life sentence.

Once in Angola, Jackson started attending a church led by an inmate pastor, who encouraged him to apply to the seminary at NOBTS. Submitting his application, Jackson was disheartened to discover a waiting list of 138 inmates. But Graduates of the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, Angola Extension, pray during the commencement service.

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“Fertile grounds for the gospel”

churches came six nights out of the week,” says Jackson.

“Each one taught a different doctrine.” He found that the largest part of his ministry to the men, who were being led in various directions, was trying to sort denominational preferences from scriptural essentials.

One of Jackson’s successes was starting a leadership group that eventually birthed the Grace Chapel Fellowship, which over 100 men joined. Many became Christians and began to use their spiritual gifts. When Jackson learned that his mother had become ill, he put in a request to be transferred back to a facility closer to home, and in October 2006 he began another missionary stint at Rayburn Correctional Center in Angie, La., where, along with five other missionaries, he now leads Bible studies, serves as a mentor, and assists the chaplain.

Inmate Gary Jamerson’s desire to be a missionary has been tested by many trials along the way. Arriving at Angola in 2002, Jamerson applied to the seminary but was denied. He completed his certificate in the faith-based program because he was told it would help his chances. A year later he again applied, and again he was not accepted. For four consecutive years he applied and was subsequently denied. Finally, through persistence and an appeal to the prison’s administration, he was accepted into the program in 2006. When he graduates, he hopes to follow in the footsteps of the missionary pioneers who have gone before him, ministering to others in the system.

“I want to be a missionary, because I know the jails and

Two-Way Ministry What prison inmates taught me

parity of our worlds was made clear. Our guide quickly halted him and informed our group that this was “a good way to get shot at.”

Once we had set up our equipment and done a sound check, we waited while the prison chapel filled up with men in orange jumpsuits. Soon an entire auditorium of convicts sat waiting to hear us play songs about Jesus. I picked up my guitar, swallowed hard, nodded to my band, and we began.

Staring out into the crowd of grizzly faces and tattoos, I was more than intimidated. And yet, among them were men who resembled my high school principal, spectacled and cleancut. After the service, men came up to shake our hands, thank us for blessing them; then they helped us carry our equipment back out to the van. Before we left, a group of inmates circled around us and prayed for us.

I was already learning that this wasn’t a place only to “do ministry” but also to receive it. My friend Jimmy, our drummer, put it this way: I’d never been in a prison before that day, never seen the inside, never thought about what an inmate might be like.

The only preconception I had in my brain was that of a Hollywood image of mean killers in orange jumpsuits.

My misconceptions were blown out of the water. I was so completely humbled by their genuine attitudes as we led the inmates in an awesome evening of worship. They responded enthusiastically, and encouragingly. The surprising fact is, some of the people in that prison have a better faith life than most of the Christians I know.

about missions B y J eff G oins

My first time behind bars was less than a year after graduating from college. I had joined an affiliate music ministry of Youth for Christ (see CTIMusic.org), and our band had just left on a winter tour of the Southwest and West Coast of the States. One stop I’ll never forget was the Englewood Federal Correctional Institution in Littleton, Colo., a medium security facility for men and the first of many prisons we visited that year.

Driving our Ford E-350 conversion van up to the security gate, with trailer behind, I discovered that my heart was racing.

A dozen questions assailed me, but I choked back the anxiety and passed through three distinct security checkpoints, after which we carried our equipment by hand across the courtyard with the help of a few inmates.

My expectations of cold-blooded killers and low-lit passages (á la The Shawshank Redemption) were quickly replaced by the reality of jovial guards, accommodating inmates, and clean corridors. It wasn’t until our drummer realized he had dropped something and ran back to pick it up that the dis-

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prisons are fertile grounds for the seeds of the gospel to be planted,” says Jamerson.“I want to be there for those men who are broken and who have come to the end of themselves and now realize their need for a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Many inmates make significant personal sacrifices by leaving Angola for the mission field, giving up hard-won privileges and adjusting to the curtailed freedom and limited ministry responsibilities at other facilities. Of his first few weeks of service at a new prison, one missionary says, “The living conditions at my new prison are tough, and a lot of little rules here are aggravating, but it is all for a good cause.”

Kyle Hebert receives his seminary diploma from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary President Dr. Chuck Kelley, while Warden Burl Cain looks on.

At another venue near Denver, we were given a glimpse of reconciliation as we had never seen it before. Halfway through the set, we put our instruments down and allowed our bassist, Lauren, to give her testimony about growing up without a father. She shared this story fairly regularly; however, this time, she added a call to action to any of the fathers in the room to intentionally be a part of their children’s lives, in spite of any shame they felt.

I didn’t think much about it again until I saw a man with an enormous, ZZ Top-esque beard approach the stage. He called Lauren over to him and told her how he had a daughter around her age and that she had inspired him to contact her.

It was soon after that encounter that Lauren was able to take her own advice and get back in touch with her father.

In Seattle, we prepared to meet a group of inmates who called themselves the “God Pod.” After putting our ministry “game faces” on, we were ready to blow these guys away with our music. As far as we understood, they were a Christian group of men recovering from sinful lives. Even though we had played these kinds of gigs for months, we still believed we had something significant to offer these men.

In walked a group of about 30 men singing “Amazing Grace” at the top of their lungs. Their voices filled the room in a beautiful symphony of God’s love and forgiveness, and we hadn’t yet touched our instruments. Every time we played a song, they overpowered our sound system, microphones, and amplifiers with passionate, vibrant voices that sang of a grace beyond what we knew.

Years later, I became a missionary, and those experiences in prison lent more to my understanding of what it meant to be missional than any book or seminar on cultural relevance.

I learned that when we go “on mission” with a hyper selfawareness instead of a healthy God-awareness, we seriously err and fail the Great Commission. Only when we go as learners and observers, expecting Christ to manifest himself—not just in us, but also in the people to whom we’re being sent — will we have the privilege of making disciples.

A friend of mine who spent over four years in prison describes it best: The most important thing is to be real. Keep in mind that most of these people grew up on the streets and can smell a phony in an instant. If the gospel is really true, you are just one broken individual coming to meet another.

Let that be the core of whatever you do in prison. Many of these men or women haven’t seen their family in years, don’t receive any money or letters, and may not be free for many more years, if ever. They are often treated with contempt by guards and given poor food.When we meet someone from the “free world,” we don’t want to hear that there are a lot of people on the outside who are “in prison,” too. We just want you to love God, be real, and share our trials as we praise Jesus together.

Jeff Goins is editor-in-chief of the online magazine Wrecked for the Ordinary (WreckedForTheOrdinary.com) and director of marketing for Adventures in Missions (adventures.org).

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D e a t h

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D i g n i t y

One of the first improvements Warden Burl Cain made when he came to Angola was insisting that the inmates receive a proper burial. He tells the story of one of the first burials he witnessed at the prison, when the body of an inmate fell through the bottom of a wooden box as it was being lowered into the ground.Today, inmates at Angola are buried with dignity. A glass-enclosed hearse, made by prisoners and drawn by two Percheron horses with braided manes, now carries bodies to the prison cemetery in meticulous crafted coffins, also made by inmates. Inmate attendees sing “Amazing Grace” as they go.

As the state’s only maximum security prison, Angola gets society’s most serious offenders. Since 2003, only prisoners sentenced to 50 years or more have been accepted into Angola, which means that the majority of its

a t

A n g o l a

current inmates will die behind its high fences. In 2005, Angola’s oldest prisoner, a 95-year-old who had been in and out of prison since Harry Truman’s presidency, passed away.

Cain is ambivalent about the no-parole policy that keeps men imprisoned long after their propensity or even ability to commit crimes has waned. “Prison shouldn’t be a place for dying old men,” he told the Wall Street Journal.1 “It should be a place for predators.”

But as an opportunity to provide meaningful work for his men, Cain has created a reputable funeral industry that includes building coffins and sewing shrouds, as well as planning services. The craftsmanship of the coffins is so renowned that Ruth Bell Graham was buried in a casket made at Angola.

“As inmates age, a prison carpenter builds more coffins” by Gary Fields, The Wall Street Journal, May 18, 2005.

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interview inmates, chaplains, guards, and others. The first Bible school graduate ever to enjoy a staff position at the magazine, Hebert has the opportunity to share his testimony wherever he goes. “I have been blessed with true transformation, and my heart’s desire is to reach the lost wherever I am. It’s about Jesus—his blood, his life, his love.”

While some hold that convicted criminals are a lost cause without any meaningful way to contribute back to society, the testimonies of these missionaries from Angola tell a different story. These men have accepted the consequences of their crimes and are determined to live out their faith as best as they are able, even if imprisoned for the remainder of their natural lives. Having been introduced to the freeing power of Christ, they are determined to leave behind the sins of their past and move into the future, using the Word of God to serve others. As Warden Burl Cain asks, “What better place than in prison to see lives changed?” n

It can also be challenging for Angola inmates to convince the men at other facilities that their faith is genuine. Staff chaplains are sometimes hesitant to work with inmate ministers and have expressed skepticism about the program; some have even suggested that it was doomed to fail. But while the road was particularly rough for the first round of missionaries, the pioneers paved the way for those who followed, and now many of the local prison chaplains are requesting missionaries, open to receiving as many as six men at a time.

For inmate Kyle Hebert, mission work takes a different form. Hebert is on the staff of the Angolite, an awardwinning magazine published at Angola, a job that offers him the chance to travel both within Angola and out to other facilities to This 2005 book recounts Warden Cain’s Spirit-fueled efforts to transform life at Angola.

Mae Elise Cannon is executive pastor of Hillside Covenant Church in Walnut Creek, Calif. She formerly led the social justice ministry at Willow Creek Community Church in Barrington, Ill. She is the author of the forthcoming Social Justice Handbook: Small Steps to a Better World, to be released in the fall by InterVarsity Press.

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