Because I am here, Jesus will be worshipped in a dark place today.
I have scanned my fingerprints, removed and refastened my shoes, been patted down, and passed through seven locked gates. Another signature and three more remotely controlled doors let me arrive at this little room with my Bible and my Korg.
No one has joined me today.
I click on the lights of the group room and enjoy the coolness. When the ladies arrive, they will ask for the heater. Then I will sweat while they grow warm and sleepy.
I waved to the inmates in the yard on my way in. They know I am here. Perhaps the officers will bring them in soon. But I didn’t recognize any familiar faces among this rotation of staff. Maybe they don’t know I’m on the schedule. Maybe security is temporarily restricting movement. Maybe the inmates need fresh air and sunshine more critically than Bible study today. Maybe God has an unspecified agenda.
I’m ok with that.
This room with its glass wall and stainless-steel picnic tables has been my weekly gig for a couple years now. The faces vary and so do the moods. No two weeks are the same. No two people are the same—even the ones who come back. Each one is a unique treasure, on a journey, loved by the Most High, and often remaining a locked mystery to me.
Some days they are irritated with each other. Some days the “voices” tell them not to stay in here with me. Some days they listen to me read the book of John with the same thirst as the woman at the well. Some days they ask to sing “Good, Good Father” or “He Knows My Name.” Or “Amazing Grace.” Most of the time they just stare at the song sheets and ask me to pray for them.
But I am alone today.
It feels odd to be alone even temporarily in an empty prison quad, rows of bars and open cell doors overlooking my space on the end. I don’t feel unsafe. I’m supposed to be here. An officer with counting duties passes my glass wall. Seeing no blue shirts, he ignores me and keeps walking. The inmates and rest of the staff could return any minute. Or not.
But for now, I am alone.
I plug in my keyboard and wonder. Maybe, instead of counting today a wasted trip, God has carved out an hour for me to worship Him by myself here. Like I used to do in empty Sunday school rooms and college practice rooms. Like in my living room at home. On this day He has given freedom to stand in a spot that sometimes feels like the gates of hell, and sing as loud as I want. I don’t have to manage all the variables of an unpredictable group dynamic, the clock, the decisions about what to say next, the constant and desperate tuning to the Holy Spirit lest I miss His nudges. Just free to worship. Here. In prison, of all things.
If He has fashioned this setting for me, might I be able to fashion something for Him in it?
The living creatures in Ezekiel sanctified the atmosphere of Babylon and set up a crystal platform for a sapphire throne. How awesome and beautiful. I’m not that accomplished.
But could my worship build a candlestick, where something of His light would shine here after I’m gone? Could I carve a channel where peace flows like a river for those who step in this room? Could I cut a skylight where the layers that obscure heaven are taken away, so they see Jesus as clearly as they have seen evil?
I don’t know. But free to close my eyes (something you don’t do much in prison), I worship in intimate awe the God who is big enough to save here, to heal these women, to deliver and restore.