For much of our twenty-eight years of sharing our lives as a couple, we have searched for ways to commonly articulate our spiritual beliefs, given that we come from different religious traditions. We share many of the same beliefs, but finding a place to express them had eluded us until Steve received a call from Jeannette Hanlon, the founder of Partakers.

It was mid-December 1999 and Jeannette was looking for someone to tutor and support an inmate at the Bay State Correctional Institute. We both saw this as the opportunity we had been searching for: Steve has been a teacher for 28 years and Pat has been a social worker for over two decades. It felt like a perfect match for Steve, given his love of teaching. For Pat, it felt clearly like a message from the Holy Spirit. However, as Steve aptly put it, both of us acknowledged that this would be a challenge way outside of our comfort zones.

Pat, as a woman, felt challenged by issues of personal safety. But the more significant hurdle was around her willingness to accept and love someone who had erred in ways that are unfathomable to most of us. The culture of violence and prisons was one with which she was totally unacquainted. As a social worker, Pat has supported people in their darkest moments as well as in their final moments, and yet nothing had felt as challenging as the first visit with Simon.

For Steve, the challenges were more those of balance. How much academic help and how much emotional help would Simon need in order to get through his courses at Bunker Hill Community College? How does one go about tutoring when no pencils or paper are allowed in the visiting area? What could we possibly talk about other than the course material since we essentially come from different worlds?

Learning the rituals of a visit was and continues to be interesting and at times intimidating. Jeannette helped us out by accompanying us on our first visit to Bay State. She also gave us a short biographical sketch of Simon. He is a young man of Puerto Rican descent, 31 years old and the father of three children. She did not include (and did not know) why he was incarcerated. Simon had applied and was accepted to Partakers, which sponsors inmates in its College Beyond Bars program. Our first visit was aborted as we arrived at the time of the "changing of the guards" when no visitors are allowed in or out of the visiting room. We wrote a note to Simon, apologized, and rescheduled for the following Sunday.

The rules of the visiting room are many. You are not allowed to wear any jewelry besides a wedding band. You must pass through a very sensitive metal detector, which Steve always sets off because of his metal hips!

Simon greeted us with poise and grace. He is an articulate young man and, although English is not his first language, he communicates very well. He began by telling us his life story, including the history of "his case" which is prison talk for the reason for one's incarceration. We quickly learned that Simon had sold drugs for most of his adolescence and in July of 1990, he shot and killed another drug dealer. When he was finally arrested two years later, he acknowledged his guilt and was sentenced to 15 years to life, and is eligible for parole in 2007.

During subsequent visits we have talked extensively about that first meeting. Simon told us he made a conscious decision to tell us immediately why he was in prison so that we could decide if he was someone with whom we could continue to meet. Driving away from the prison that day, it was clear to both of us that we would either commit to this man and this process now, or not. We were presented with a human being who had made a huge mistake in his life but also one who had been repeatedly disappointed by people in his life. Simon realizes he can't give back the life he took. He must move forward, having taken full responsibility for the grievous harm he has done. We knew, in relationship with us, Simon would be help accountable for the murder and for his future actions. It was not difficult to make the decision; Simon had already begun to find his way into our hearts.

We began to visit twice a month; after several months we felt comfortable giving Simon our telephone number. He now calls us about once a week. He has to call collect and we can't call him. The calls are limited to 20 minutes and are monitored by prison staff.

The meaning of this experience continues to shape our lives. In many ways it is one of the most intimate relationships either of us has experienced. All three of us work to be completely open and honest. Our visits are mixed with sadness, contemplation and oftentimes laughter and humor. We continue to learn so much from Simon, who has grown in amazing ways since his incarceration. We have been very touched by the many ways and frequency with which he tells us how much he appreciates our visits. On the other hand, it is not clear that he truly understands how much we enjoy being with him and look forward to each visit. There is no denying that our support of Simon has become a huge time commitment. But each Sunday, as the service is ending and Rev. Judy says, "go out and do the work God has given you to do," Pat thinks of Simon and knows that this is the work God has given us to do.

The Quaker Meeting where I am a member, had already been sponsoring one prisoner through Partakers' "COLLEGE BEYOND BARS" program before I became involved. When the Meeting decided to sponsor a second prisoner, an appeal came out for more prison visitors. I decided to find out more, so I accepted the invitation to attend a Partakers potluck.

Jeannette Hanlon showed me the handwritten request from a woman prisoner who badly wanted to attend college. This prisoner, I'll call her Joan, was sentenced to three decades, but she clearly was motivated, having already completed her GED. She also seemed to be a leader in prison, helping other prisoners in many ways. I was deeply touched by the letter and decided to visit Joan.

I went with another sponsor from my Meeting to visit MCI Framingham shortly thereafter. I have been visiting Joan in prison one to two times a month since 2001. Visiting prison has radicalized and outraged me. I have come to care very deeply for Joan. Neither she nor I are allowed to bring so much as pencil and paper into the room where we meet or even to have access to them, so it is difficult to actually help her with schoolwork. She did well with all her community college courses and was accepted into a special Boston University program. She is extremely grateful for the opportunity to go to college and for the support we give her.

Joan is a troublemaker of the best kind: she mentors other inmates and encourages them to apply to Partakers for the opportunity to go to college. On our visits we talk not just about school, but also, about our lives. Joan tells me about life in prison. I have also learned from the families of other prisoners as we suffer the long wait together to get inside.

I hear about children being put up for adoption, simply because their mothers are in jail. I heard about a prisoner being put in solitary confinement for weeks just for keeping silent about which other prisoner may have caused an infraction of the rules. I learned that the women have to stand in a line outside, regardless of the weather, to get their medications, and if they have a conflict in their schedule (such as court-ordered group meetings) they may not get their prescriptions.

I was outraged by the many abuses in the prisons that I heard about. I was appalled to see how changed Joan was after being thrown into the "Hole" (isolation) for two weeks. I was not allowed to visit Joan and give her support during this time. When she was released and we did visit, the light and the animation were gone from her eyes. I almost didn't recognize this zombie-like woman. Joan recovered, but what of the others? I understand that some prisoners are in solitary confinement for years. What happens to prisoners and to our society when they are released after their minds and spirits are broken from the abuse they suffer in prison? .

I was angry and frustrated and motivated to work for change in the prison system. I became a member of the Criminal Justice Policy Coalition in Boston. I started reading about the issue. As a long-time member of the League of Women Voters, I helped reactive the Massachusetts LWV Administration of Justice Committee. For a long time there were only two of us working on it, but not we have eight active members, including a former state legislator, and we are cooking! When I learned of alleged beatings at MCI Cedar Junction, within 24 hours I had written a press release approved by the League president. I represented the LWV-MA at a press conference held to demand an investigation.

As a result of my Partaker involvement visiting Joan, I am now a prison activist with the Criminal Justice Policy Coalition, the League, and in coalition with the campaign to eradicate isolation units in prisons.

My one-on-one visits with Joan turned me to political activism because I made a personal connection to a prisoner. I care about her, and because of her, I will work for the other prisoners.

When I first heard Jeannette Hanlon speak about Partakers prisoner college sponsorship program, College Beyond Bars, I found her talk interesting and inspiring. However, I quickly dismissed the idea of participating. The thought of visiting someone in prison seemed terrifying to me. It was hard to imagine what I might have to offer a person who had possibly committed an unspeakable crime. By the time I heard Jeannette speak a second time later the same year, two of my friends had become involved with the College Beyond Bars Program and they were visiting an inmate at a prison just outside of Boston. When I heard my friends talk about the relationship they were forming with the man they visited, I was inspired to become involved with the program. Although I still could not imagine what I would discuss with an inmate, I had been thinking about volunteering for years but had always come up with excuses: I work fulltime; I have three kids; I am just too busy. After my youngest son had gone off to college, I knew in my heart that I could find the time and that it was time to stop making excuses. More importantly, I had become increasingly aware that I needed to give back in some way. I have been blessed with a wonderful life, and I felt that I needed to step out of myself and try to become involved in something that forced me to give of myself in a way that I never had before. I am not a teacher and am reserved by nature, but I felt compelled to push myself to offer what little I have.

Sally and Steve Turk and I formed a team and received several letters from men hoping to participate in the BU Program. After reading each of them, we all agreed that Jose sounded like someone we wanted to try to support. In his letter he described himself as a "confident and positive person" and described his reason for wanting to go to college. He said, "I want to go to college to educate myself, to become a better person for myself and my family." From reading his letter we learned that the earliest he could be paroled is September 2013. He did not share the reason for being in prison.

In May 2001, I began to visit Jose. The first time I went to see him, I was petrified. I had never been inside a prison, and the idea of sitting down with a total stranger-let alone an inmate-and talking for an hour felt daunting. I remember sitting in the holding area waiting to be admitted to the visiting room thinking, "What on earth am I doing here?" I couldn't imagine what Jose and I would find to talk about. I couldn't imagine we had anything in common.

And I know why he is in prison. Very early in our friendship Jose shared the story of his arrests for possession and intent to distribute and about fleeing Massachusetts to his home in Puerto Rico to avoid trial. He is honest and clear about what he did and knows that he made a terrible mistake. He makes no excuses.

I know that I have given of myself to Jose. He is always so happy to see me and thanks me over and over again for taking the time to visit him. What I have given to him is so small compared to what he has given me. He remembers my birthday and wishes me Happy Mothers' Day. He sends me lists of the books he is reading, copies of his son's report card and letters telling me about his classes, and his job in the prison library. He always asks about my kids and how they are doing in school. He remembers that I have a dog and that I just got a new roof on my house. He asks about my son's knee surgery and how things are going at work for me. We talk about how hard it is to be a parent and how much our kids mean to us. We have so much in common despite the very different circumstances in which we live. He is my friend. He has enriched my life and taught me that everyone has gifts to give and that everyone shares common ground. I am so grateful that he is a part of my life, and I count on knowing him for a long time.

I have been visiting two prisoners for the past year through the Partakers prisoner college sponsorship program, College Beyond Bars. Before my first visits to Norfolk and Framingham prisons, I had been exposed briefly to the inside of prison through another program, and was therefore aware of some of the general issues and deficiencies of the prison system. The logic and purpose of prison outreach programs seemed pretty clear after my first prison encounter; witnessing the immense gap between prison life and life "outside," it only seemed necessary that prisoners be afforded opportunities to prepare themselves for reintegration into society. As a college student at the time, I felt particularly drawn by the sponsorship model. After all, if I - who counted on the support of family, friends and occasionally advisors - at times struggled with the college experience, so much more difficult one would expect the process to be for those within prison walls. I knew that because of the restrictions on visitors and prisoners from bringing any material to a visit, the sponsorship was mostly to consist of providing psychological and emotional support, along with some general academic guidance. This was also pretty much all I expected of the sponsorship experience, in which I could almost describe myself as playing the part of a college proctor. Over the course of the visits however, I feel that I have grown in my appreciation of the sponsorship program, both for its intended societal results, and the ways in which leads one to wrestle with core of life issues. Much more than a series of disconnected pep talks (as my experience with college proctors turned out to be) I have discovered the program to be deeply meaningful in different ways. This started to come about as I began to realize that the essence of the sponsorship experience lies in the meaningful relationships you can form with those you visit. When you begin to develop a trusting relationship with a prisoner, everything the partaker's brochure advertises about, all the language of "breaking down barriers," "reconciliation between prisoners and society," and of being a "partaker" become to come alive for you. You really test your definition and scope of love when you try to form meaningful relationships with people you have never known and who are at least by label regarded as society's worst kind of people. Coming face to face with someone who has committed a serious crime and seeing him and her as a person worthy of dignity makes one grapple with the meaning of forgiveness, love, and justice in an incredibly tangible way.

It is also through relationship building and appreciating the human worthiness of those you visit that you begin to get a better understanding of the injustices of the prison system. To cite one example, my friend at Framingham recently spent eight days in isolation after being accused (and later acquitted) of something she did not commit. Guilty until proven innocent could not have been more blatant. Among the results of her isolation were stolen property, the loss of her job, the confiscation of her reading material (mostly educational), and a reassignment to a new dorm. As I listened to her recount the all the details that made this such an unjust and unnecessary ordeal I could only sit stupefied. Although there was not much I could say to help her situation, I felt that my incredulous reaction at least reassured her that she had not lost her senses, and that in fact what she had gone through was almost surreal. As a visitor and a friend sometimes that's the best you can do to help out, by listening and trying to understand you at least provide a small dose of sanity.

One of the feelings I can't shake off each time I visit or think about my two friends in prison is how, in an odd way, I really shouldn't be there. I really shouldn't have to hear stories about cruel and unusual punishments for wrongs uncommitted (like my friend's eight days of isolation, during which she was provided only trashy romance novels for reading - was this the idea of the "committee on prisoner moral edification"?). I really shouldn't have to be smuggling academic guidance to someone desperate to learn. I really shouldn't have to smuggle in hope, encouragement, and sanity. The question of how our justice system, in all its intricate design, is preparing prisoners to lead productive lives once they step out of the prison gates blares at me loudly each time I visit. I only hope that the very system that puts so much engineering thought into the thickness of the walls and the sharpness of the wires, would some day provide equal consideration to the just treatment of prisoners as well as to their preparation for reintegration into society.

In the long run, as with other reversals of injustice in our past, I don't believe these changes will begin simply within our current legislative process or structures of justice. These changes I think begin with the small efforts of individual people, who one by one create ripples in society's thinking about justice. Somehow, Partakers, in its slightly underground functioning, would in the bigger picture be only the beginning, just a placeholder for a truer justice. It is with that understanding of Partaker's greater vision that I would hope and encourage others to be a part of the movement.

Forgiveness As Holy Risk

Our God is typically a God of eloquent silence. At least those of us who find our path in faith to be drawn through a place like Harvard are not generally the sort of people who are easily given to the idea of God speaking directly to us; we think of it with no thin suspicion. But once in a great while, God can hit you over the head with a brick, almost as if to say, "for pity's sake, you lunkhead, do I have to spell it out for you?"

I had such a day yesterday, and it pretty much upended the sermon I had in mind to preach this morning. Just after prayers yesterday, I found myself enjoying a languid breakfast over at Au Bon Pain with a friend with whom I fell into a conversation about the coming season of Lent. We spoke of the penitential tone of that season, which is very nearly upon us. But of course the whole practice of penitence is not a self-contained idea; we are not meant to be penitent for the enjoyable sake of excoriating ourselves all the time. The point of penitence is to prepare genuinely for the gift of forgiveness that we confess is given to us by the love of God in Jesus Christ.

I know all that, and so do you. So when my friend asked me the plain question, I felt on pretty solid ground. The plain question is, what is forgiveness? Is it something we are called to without limit? What does it mean to take seriously, as Bishop Charleston challenged us so forcefully last Sunday, to take seriously the simple, straightforward, and completely nonsensical idea of forgiving those who hurt us, even who violate us, again and again and again?

Now, I am a member of the clergy of Harvard's church, and so when speaking of the doctrines of the faith I quite automatically affect this very knowing, wise countenance. I even practice it in the mirror. But it seemed to work, in that my friend went away apparently convinced of what I said: that penitence was only one of three pieces of the whole drama of forgiveness that is meant to characterize both our relationship to God, and our relationships to each other. The whole picture looks more like this: genuine acknowledgement to ourselves that we have sinned; penitence, or taking the step of reaching across the divide we have caused by asking for forgiveness; and amendment of life, the real commitment to intentionally set about changing those habits or practices we have, those vices that can arise most fruitfully right from our virtues, in order to become more fully the people God intends us to be.

Quite a good theological answer, if I say so myself. At least that's what he thought. And it's what I thought, too, until the end of the day. In my usual way I had managed to have three different overlapping commitments on my calendar, the last of which was downtown on Federal Street. It was my first meeting as a member of the board of a non-profit called Partakers. I stepped out of the elevator, walked into the room, and was introduced around to my new colleagues and a few guests.

And there, for the first time in my life, I shook the hand of a murderer.

This was no ordinary murderer, if indeed there is such a thing as an ordinary murderer. For one thing, she was rather short and slight. I would guess that she was about my age. She wore fairly thick glasses, and a nametag that said, "Julia Goldberg."

But just two weeks ago she had been released from the women's prison at Framingham on parole. Because at one time in her life, unhappy with a professional career, dissatisfied in her marriage, she had begun taking solace in alcohol. And one night, after too much self-medication, she got into her car. And someone died.

Somewhere in Massachusetts is a family whose lives Julia Goldberg utterly shattered by a terrible lack responsibility. It was more than that; it was third-degree murder,

It turned out that during her time in prison Julia came into contact with some volunteers working with Partakers. It's an organization trying to live out in real terms the Christian vision of restorative justice. My new colleagues are a group of people passionate to achieve a kind of spiritual healing of those who have committed crimes, as well as of those who have been deeply and desperately affected by those crimes.

Of course, much of what they are doing you can justify on bottom-line, economic calculations. Chiefly what they try to do is provide college-behind-bars programs in the prisons of Massachusetts. And there's a simple reason for that. Ninety-seven percent of all incarcerated felons will return to society. But between half and two-thirds of all offenders sentenced to prison will wind up there again, but only one in ten will if they have a four-year degree. And, of course, even if you were to cost it out at the exorbitant fees those long-suffering Harvard parents pay, that would be a lot more cost-effective than so many more additional years of incarceration.

Those are convenient and convincing arguments, and my colleagues are not ashamed to appeal to them when the audience will hear it. But their motivation is something beyond, and more important, than that. They are inspired by the idea that no one passes beyond the line of salvation. No one is out of the reach of the power of forgiveness. Those are the claims of our faith, and they stand in direct conflict with a culture of criminal justice that has become more interested in retribution than reconciliation, where what we once called "penitentiaries" are now simply warehouses for the two million people behind bars in this country that it is simply more convenient to forget than to restore.

I ended up on Partakers' board because both its executive director and her husband are friends of mine. They introduced me to another guest, a very distinguished and well-tailored African-American man of perhaps fifty-five, who told me that he was working as a paralegal. It turned out he had only had the job for the past six months; before that he had been the librarian of the prison library in the Walpole prison. He spoke of how his life had utterly changed for the simple reason that someone had believed in him, invested in him, and given him a sense of obligation to someone other than himself.

"And tomorrow, I'm moving into a new place," he told me, with a mixture of anxiety and pride on his face. After the usual queries about where his new apartment would be, I asked him where he had been living since his release.

And with a look of the most profound love he turned back toward my friends. "Harold has been living with us," Steve told me. "When he was released he had nowhere to go, so . . ."

Now, that is no theological answer, like mine of that very morning. No, that is an answer of Christian love in action. So now I have a simpler answer. Forgiveness is a holy risk. Being forgiven is an even bigger, and even more holy risk. Maybe our culture is so unwilling and unable to do anything but regard criminals as beyond redemption because more and more we no longer really believe that we, ourselves, have been forgiven. Well, then, we must take all the more seriously to heart the radical claim that we have been, that we are, a forgiven people. Because only then will we bring about that amendment of life in ourselves by which the love of Christ will be known through us-and the justice of God be our rule of life.

Let us pray:
O Lord, remember not only thy children of good will, but also those of ill will. But do not remember all the suffering they have inflicted on us; remember instead the fruits we have brought, thanks to this suffering-our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, our courage, our generosity, the greatness of heart which has grown out of all this. And when they come to judgment let all the fruits which we have borne be their forgiveness. Amen.

Reflection on a Visit with a Prisoner by a Seminarian

"Stop Dwelling On Past Events And Brooding Over Days Gone By"

There is only one real guideline when visiting with a prisoner: don't ask them why they are incarcerated. There are a number of reasons for this rule, which I explain over and over again to the congregation members who I walk through the process of visiting, writing and mentoring prisoners in the College Beyond Bars program sponsored by the non-profit I work for. I tell the volunteers that I am very open to the prisoners, and to stick with what my gut says might be appropriate, but if the prisoner wants to tell you what they did, they will in their own time. They don't pry into your life, so you have to respect their privacy (of which they have VERY little), and hold back all curiosity.

I met with an older man at Baystate Prison in Walpole a month or so ago. I had been 'assigned' to him by my supervisor, to visit and write him until a church decided to sponsor him. I received a very nice letter from him before we met, written on pink legal stationary. His writing was slightly confusing and filled with tiny grammar and spelling errors, but the message was simple and straightforward, and we agreed to meet soon. He included in the letter that he had been 'saved' on October 27th, 2001, and signed his name, Charles, 2 Timothy 2:3-5.

I subsequently went down to see him, and enjoyed an hour and a half meeting. Being a religious man, he was very interested in my connection with the church and my studies, and we spoke for longer than I have in a while on biblical scriptures. He is a huge fan of the prophets and Paul, while I staggered around trying to remember any of the Mark that I had read the few nights before. We spoke of Jesus and God and grace and salvation, and then we talked about medical terminology and family. It was a lovely conversation, and I came out of the meeting feeling not only comfortable with him, but quite spiritually enthused from what was, at least in my life, a rare instance of serious Bible study, albeit without Bibles.

I met with my supervisor two days after, and she was happy that I had hit it off with Charles. From the background she had given me, it seemed to have been an uphill battle to get a church involved. I didn't pay any heed to this, because there are always picky churches that want a poster child, not a real human, to put up on their outreach wall. What came as a shock was that Charles had served thirty years of a life sentence, which, in all likelihood, was not going to be commuted. Jeannette told me this off hand, in response to something that I said about his connections with people outside the jail (i.e. family). I asked what the crime would have been for a lifetime sentence, and she replied that most likely it had been murder in the first degree. I kind of looked at her blankly. Yeah, she said, something pretty bad.

I have met murderers in many of the classes that I have worked at and attended through the past few months, and I have met people whose crimes I don't even want to surmise about. I just never imagined that this man I was sitting across the table having a friendly conversation about the prodigal son with had taken someone's life in a brutal manner and intentional manner. I would love to hang on to the idea that he was wrongly accused, or it wasn't his fault, but scenarios such as those belong on primetime drama, and not in the reality of emotional balance and stability within the Massachusetts State Prison system.

After I had gone through all of those feelings though, I began to think of what he actually had been saying to me. He didn't have a lot of friends; he didn't really have anyone to talk about religion with; he spent a lot of his time in the chapel, and wanted to switch prisons because he "didn't really like the feeling at Baystate". I began to understand this when I remembered that one of the guys I had worked with before had referred to Baystate as 'the morgue', since so many people were in there for life sentences. What kind of existence must it be to know that you will never see the bottom of a tree again (as a prisoner once put it to me), and constantly thinking that your loneliness might overcome you? I started thinking about Charles' faith and his sense of God. I began to think about it more yesterday when I received another letter from him. He included this passage from Isaiah (43:2): "When you pass through the water I shall be with you;/ when you pass through rivers they will not overwhelm you;/ walk through fire, and you will not be scorched,/ through flames, and they will not burn you." I have read this letter over and over again, and have cried with it, and about it. After this passage he writes that God doesn't say 'if' you pass through waters, but 'when' you do- that you will always have trials and tribulations, but that God will be there throughout, and will hold you up through the worst storm; that your faith is the strongest power and the contains the deepest knowledge.

I still get uncomfortable when I think of what might have happened thirty years ago that this man is paying for with his life and happiness. I still think about and dwell on what could have been "pretty bad". But then I think about his steadfast faith and love of God, and compare it to my own. Perhaps spiritual enlightenment comes with facing the darkest part of yourself (as well as your past), and being able to forgive yourself, yet not forget. When we spoke of grace during our visit, I had no idea that he had witnessed it on a first hand basis- that he himself embodied it. I read on through the Isaiah passage, and came upon these lines:

Charles is making a way for himself in the wilderness now, and beginning a new moment. My perception is sometimes cloudy, but I see a man who is starting all over again, even in the full knowledge that he will never be this new person outside of the walls that confine him. He has found the strength to take those first frightening steps into the wilderness and desert, and it is the moment of God's power and love that will accompany him the entire way. I can but sit and watch and admire his courage, not dwell on his days gone by.

Fixing prisons

Two residents who are experts in criminal justice led a discussion titled "What's Going On in Our Prisons?" on Sunday, Oct. 26. The panel discussion was organized by the Belmont United Methodist Church and the First Church in Belmont Unitarian Universalist. Both churches are currently sponsoring prisoners [see related story] through the College Beyond Bars program run by Partakers Inc., a faith-based, not-for-profit organization. Partakers pairs prisoners with church groups to provide financial, educational and emotional support to the prisoners.

The experts who addressed an audience of about 25 were state Rep. Anne Paulsen, a 10-year member of the House Criminal Justice Committee, and Leslie Walker, executive director of Massachusetts Correctional Legal Services, a nonprofit law office that provides civil legal assistance to poor people incarcerated in Massachusetts prisons and jails. Paulsen serves on the Human Services Committee as well as Criminal Justice, and she said, "In some ways the issues are the same."

Human services cutbacks, including the 1996 federal Welfare Reform Act, have taken place at the same time as increased prison spending. It actually costs taxpayers less money to fund preventative social services than to fund prisons, but society has become short-sighted, Paulsen said. "We'll send them to prison after we haven't helped them in other ways," she said.

Once people get into the prison system, their access to opportunities for improvement dry up, said Paulsen. "Education and rehabilitation programs [in prison] are all but non-existent today," she said. Without opportunities for rehabilitation, prisoners get caught in a "revolving door" of crime, she said. The recidivism rate for prisoners has grown steadily, except for those with a college education.

Walker, whose organization represents prisoners, agreed. "We have people tell us that they are terrified to be released," she said. "They've been in such isolation so long, they don't know how they're going to react to normal occurrences, like jostling on the train." But the needs of prisoners are not often taken into account, both panelists said.

Paulsen said there is a "real tension" between prisoners' rights and victims' rights advocates. Offering opportunities to prisoners is seen by some as disrespectful to victims. But Paulsen said rehabilitation is a way to prevent future victims. Walker said many legislators have been elected on a "tough on crime platform" over the past 10 years. "It's been a sound bite that has really caught on like wildfire," she said.

Paulsen encouraged the audience to "continually remind the legislators that these people are coming back out on the streets." They need to be prepared to return to society through substance abuse programs, adult basic literacy, job training and mental health counseling, she said. While in prison they should be "kept busy" with productive activities that instill a work ethic, while also encouraging them to "think about what they did [to get into prison]" and how they can reform themselves, she said.

Paulsen also cited a lack of oversight of the prison system. "Our prisons do not have any transparency," she said. "They are secret institutions." She is supporting legislation to create an independent citizens advisory board and said she is "hopeful that we will see some movement [to create a board] this year."

Walker said citizen review boards in other states have lead to cost savings, because they lead to a decrease in prison violence, "which is expensive." Walker cited the death of Father John Geoghan as a catalyst for change. Geoghan was killed by a fellow prisoner at Souza-Baranowski Correction Center in August and attracted much media coverage.

"We've been saying the same things [about prison reform] for years," she said. "Now people are paying attention."

For more information about Partakers Inc. call 781-329-4332 or visit www.partakersinc.org

Modeling justice, compassion

Nancy Holland, a School Street resident and assistant choir director at the First Church in Belmont Unitarian Universalist, says her time spent in prison has made her a better person.

Along with five other members of her church, she has been visiting and sponsoring a prisoner at Bay State Correctional Center in Norfolk. "I discovered that through visiting Jeff and corresponding with him, I am the one who has benefited," Holland said in an interview this week. She has learned about "patience, courage, perseverance and the real possibility of changing one's life," she explained. "I feel grateful for the privilege of getting to know him. He's enriched my life, and inspired me to become a better person."

Members of three Belmont churches are currently part of the College Beyond Bars program run by Partakers Inc., a nonprofit, faith-based group that finds sponsor-mentors for Massachusetts prisoners who want to take college courses. The Unitarian Church got involved when Belmont resident Leslie Walker, executive director of Massachusetts Correctional Legal Services, led a service at the church about a year ago. She brought two former inmates to speak about their experiences. "These prisoners were just so eloquent," said Holland. "I was an English teacher for many years, and I really believe in the power of education," she said. "The idea that the government had abandoned its education programs in prison, I just found appalling."

Jeanne Mooney, another member of the congregation, said she found their presentation "appealing" as well as "challenging." "I do things on the PTO, and do things for foundations, and do other things [for the community]," said Mooney, "but they don't challenge me the same way, or raise as many harder, grayer questions." Her involvement with Partakers has caused her to "explore issues of revenge versus reconciliation," she said. "Our first response about things is to seek revenge in society," but offering forgiveness and reconciliation is "a faith issue," she added.

Six members of the Unitarian church are currently visiting their inmate, a 40-year-old prisoner serving a seven-year sentence for narcotics. "He freely admits he screwed up in life, that he was involved in drugs and alcohol since he was 12 years old," said Mooney, but he is working hard to turn his life around. Holland said her group receives frequent letters from their prisoner. "He talks about how supportive we've been, and how it makes a difference in his life," she said.

The Partakers are not tutors, and their ability to help with schoolwork is limited. "It's very hard, because we're not allowed to bring in any papers or books to the visiting room," said Liz LaRocque, assistant to pastor at United Methodist Belmont, who sponsors a woman prisoner at MCI Framingham. "The main thing we can offer is emotional and moral support."

Mooney said the Partakers program is a way to stop the cycle of crime. "People are going to get out of jail, and they're either going to re-offend and create more victims, or you're going to be restorative and corrective, and make a change," Mooney said. But if someone says, "I screwed up, and I'm accountable for my actions, and now I want to be a better person," Mooney said, there are not a lot of opportunities for such prisoners to improve themselves. College programs have become scarce, and even high school equivalency programs are difficult to get into, she said.

Helping prisoners reform themselves is "basically helping the broader community," said Mooney. But the volunteers involved in Partakers say the program is also helping themselves. Mooney said her work with Partakers is "modeling forgiveness and the ability to change" for her three children. She said her 8-year-old daughter has learned "that people can make mistakes, and people can also change. I think that's very valuable."

Getting a perspective from "the other side of the wall," said Mooney, "I've learned things about the correction system that are not appealing, and that there's certainly room for change."

LaRocque said, "This has been a startling thing. In many ways, there have been a lot of similarities on the surface between her life and my life." She said she is "very, very lucky" to have support systems so that "my life and my family have turned out incredibly well." But she said the difference in outcomes "is basically due to a fundamental difference of resources, which is just plain unfair."

BEYOND BARS: Churches assist inmates with education through fund-raising, ‘personal connections'

By BARBARA FISH
The Patriot Ledger

A colorful painting depicting the biblical story of Noah's Ark hangs in the sanctuary of St. Stephen's Episcopal Church in Cohasset. The artwork is not only decorative, it serves to remind church members of the artist, a special friend of the congregation. His name is David Ortiz, and he has never stepped foot inside the church because he is a prisoner at MCI Norfolk.

Parishioners at St. Stephen's and First Parish Unitarian Church in Norwell have met inmates such as Ortiz through a program called ‘‘College Beyond Bars,'' run by Partakers, Inc., a non-profit, faith-based organization that aims to give prisoners the ability to change their lives while involving the local community. Churches pay $3,000 for an inmate to work toward a college degree from Boston University. Professors visit the prison and conduct classes there. Beyond that, though, volunteers say the friendships formed between parishioners and inmates are a pivotal piece of the program. ‘‘We are not simply writing a check, but giving that personal connection,'' said the Rev. Beth Wheatley-Dyson, the assistant rector at St. Stephen's, who has been visiting and writing to Ortiz since the spring. Chuck Kropp, chairman of the outreach committee at St. Stephen's, was the first in the congregation to visit Ortiz a year ago. Now, 10 to 12 parishioners visit several times a month. He would not say what Ortiz's crime was. Kropp said the 31-year-old, who has 3˝ years of a 13-year sentence remaining, is easy to talk to and is interested in a variety of things. ‘‘He basically likes to get to know all different types of people,'' Kropp said.

First Parish Unitarian sponsors four prisoners, three females and one male, that about a dozen parishioners visit every month. Former ministerial intern Rachel Tedesco helped start Partakers at the church about four years ago. One parishioner, Beverly Gardner of Pembroke, has been visiting a 37-year-old Jamaican woman in MCI Framingham for two years. The woman, who is serving time for drug-related charges, is in her third semester of courses through the program. Gardner said she has watched her friend experience positive changes throughout their time together.

‘‘She is so much more her own person ... and knows that she is so much stronger,'' Gardner said. ‘‘It's been fantastic to watch her grow.'' Jeannette Hanlon of Westwood, executive director and founder of Partakers, Inc., was hoping for such growth when she started the program seven years ago. As a social worker within the prison system, she was frustrated by the lack of opportunity for inmate rehabilitation. Hanlon said she saw ‘‘how hungry the vast majority of (inmates) are to change their lives,'' and she wanted to help them do that. Partakers is active in eight to 10 facilities in the state, with 54 sponsoring groups, according to Hanlon. About 70 prisoners are now working toward a degree, in the hopes that 16 more sponsors will step forward. More than 100 inmates remain on a waiting list. To get into the program, inmates must have nine course credits, which they obtain through correspondence courses.

‘‘It was a little bit nerve wracking, and people didn't know what to expect,'' Kropp said of some of the volunteers' first visits to the prison. Visitors have to leave off all jewelry except wedding bands. Denim is not allowed, and almost anything, including underwire in some bras, will set off metal detectors. Security is everywhere, and privacy is scarce. Privileges are few for the prisoners, of course. Art materials are now prohibited, making it impossible for Ortiz to do any more painting. When the female inmate in Framingham needed to do Internet research for a class, Gardner offered to do it for her. Hanlon said the bare bones visits provide a meaningful experience.

‘‘There are no distractions, there's nothing but your person ... just you, stripped of roles and social expectations of you ... you're just a human being interacting with another human being,'' she said. Such interaction feeds a strong friendship, one that withstands the bars of the prison, according to volunteers.

The inmate Gardner visits, who has five years left of a 12-year sentence, gave Gardner a big hug when she arrived for the second visit. Gardner said they talk about everything, including their families. ‘‘She is such a warm, loving person, you can't help but really love her. I feel like I have a friend,'' Gardner said.

The Rev. Wheatley-Dyson said she sometimes prays with Ortiz, but mostly they talk about everyday life such as movies and the stock market. In gratitude for what the church has done for him, Ortiz painted the Noah's Ark piece after Kropp mentioned the church was raising money for Heifer International. And he sent a Christmas letter to parishioners, which reads in part: ‘‘Although I am in prison I still feel the Christmas spirit. Yes, it comes over this wall and touches me too! ‘‘I won't be doing anything out of the ordinary this year. Like every year I'll watch ‘‘It's a Wonderful Life,'' say a prayer for my mom and thank God that this year I have a gift greater than all the money in the world. This year I have the gift of you.''

Get in touch

To contact Partakers, Inc, call 781-329-4332 or see www.partakersinc.org.

Barbara Fish may be reached at bfish@ledger.com.

Copyright 2003 The Patriot Ledger Transmitted Saturday, December 20, 2003

Every other month or so, as often as she is able, Liz Thompson, a medical technologist, wife and mother of two grown children, puts everything aside and sets out for the day. Her destination is MCI Norfolk, the medium security prison more than an hour's drive from her home in Hull.

She goes there to visit David Ortiz, 32, who has been in prison for 13 1/2 years, since his late teens, when he was convicted of a violent crime.

Once Liz gets to the prison, she has to navigate a course of paperwork, security searches, long waits and unexpected delays that can cut deep into visiting hours. "There are very strict rules as far as what you can be wearing or carrying," she explained recently. When she finally gets in to see Mr. Ortiz, she is empty handed-no pens, no paper, not even a prayer book or Bible is allowed-but undaunted.

Why is she willing to go through all of this? "I have a son who is the same age as David," she said simply.

Chuck Kropp, her fellow parishioner at St. Stephen's Church in Cohasset, visits Mr. Ortiz, too. As chairperson of the parish's outreach committee, he was the first from St. Stephen's Church to make the trip, just over a year ago, blazing a trail for others to follow. They now number about a dozen.

St. Stephen's Church and David Ortiz came together through College Beyond Bars, a program through which congregations and organizations can sponsor incarcerated men and women who have qualified to study for a four-year liberal arts degree through Boston University.

The sponsor is matched with a prisoner and pays a one-time program fee of $3,000. Sponsors commit to regular contact with the prisoner, through mail and visits, providing encouragement and emotional support for the duration of his or her study program.

"David is very committed to his studies, getting the best grades possible and taking full advantage of the opportunity," Mr. Kropp said.

College Beyond Bars was created by the prison ministry Partakers, Inc., a faith-based non-profit whose mission and programs are devoted to restorative justice. It's an approach that tries to recognize the needs of all parties to conflict and strives for systems where accountability and restitution are balanced by forgiveness and mercy-and opportunities for rehabilitation and restored relationships.

For those who find that idealistic, Partakers points to the numbers.

According to the ministry's Web site, 97 percent of people incarcerated in U.S. prisons will eventually return to society. Only 10 percent receive rehabilitative programming while in prison. In Massachusetts, 44 percent of prisoners who leave prison return within three years; the average recidivism rate is 60 percent. According to national studies cited by Partakers, for those with a college degree, it drops to 11 percent or less. Of all crime prevention methods, Partakers believes, higher education is the most effective.

Yet because of federal funding cuts-specifically the elimination in 1995 of Pell grants for prisoners-prison college programs in the U.S. have dwindled from 350 in 1990 to just a handful today. Partakers' College Beyond Bars is among them.

Through the program, initiated in 2000, 70 Massachusetts prisoners are studying under the sponsorship of 55 groups. (St. Stephen's Church in Cohasset is one of nine Episcopal Church groups and congregations sponsoring 14 prisoners.) Another 100 prisoners are on a waiting list.

"My great sadness is that it's just a drop in the bucket," Partakers' executive director and founder Jeannette Hanlon said.

Partly hers is a practical sadness that comes from experiences with a penal system that does not support rehabilitation. "A vast majority [of prisoners] come to realize the harm they've done and want to make amends and move on. No one will let them. There is no means to give back in any way," Ms. Hanlon said.

She and other prison volunteers have seen stereotypes and skepticism held by visitors and prisoners alike get broken down through their relationships with one another. They've seen lives transformed.

"To a person that's what happens," Ms. Hanlon said. "Often people enter the process with a lot of questions and concerns and judgments. Both the prisoner and the visitor come to a deeper understanding of forgiveness, grace and mercy."

Why spend money for prisoners to go to college-especially those convicted of murder, rape and drug-related crimes for which restitution can never be made? This is one version of a question Ms. Hanlon hears a lot. "Really, who we are as individuals determines how we answer that question. As Christians we believe that no one is beyond redemption and God loves each of us equally," she said.

"There is a way in which we who are just beginning to be involved with these prisoners don't want to claim the radical nature of God's love for us all. Our sin is our disbelief that God could love a prisoner as much as God loves me, and, then, that God could actually have me be an instrument of this awesome, all-powerful love. I as a visitor find just how mind-boggling that is, to be a conduit of that love and to discover just how much you get back."

Members of St. Stephen's Church, as they support David Ortiz in his studies, say they are learning, too, lessons about stewardship-giving and receiving out of gratitude alone-and Lenten lessons about seeking right relationships with God, self and community.

"The interconnections are deep and profound," said the Rev. Beth Wheatley-Dyson, Assistant Rector at St. Stephen's Church.

It all began where so many outreach projects do: surveys, meetings, budget discussions, sign-up sheets. When Mr. Kropp, as outreach chair, surveyed the congregation, prison ministry emerged as a priority. So did Heifer International, an organization that works against worldwide poverty and hunger by providing livestock and training to small-scale farmers. The vestry took up a challenge to increase the outreach budget from 5 to 10 percent.

"This was a leap, financially. It was stretching beyond our normal reach, but once we did it, it allowed us to open up to two new ministries that have proved to be significant," Mr. Kropp said.

"We are a fairly gifted parish," he added. "It's important how we use our gifts. Member care and upkeep of the building are important. But when we reach out beyond to others, it sets the tone for who we are and what we're about. It's about taking the message of our spiritual journeys to transform others' lives. In the process our own lives are transformed as well."

Prison ministry was new to his congregation. "I went first to feel out the path and figure out how to go through the process," Mr. Kropp said. He then shared what he had learned with his volunteers, sending them out two by two for their first visits. Liz Thompson soon felt comfortable enough to go on her own. She's made three more visits since her first one last June, and she writes to Mr. Ortiz once a week. "The more I get to know David the more I feel I'm making a difference in his day-to-day life, helping him to feel like a person. The prison system is very dehumanizing," she said.

Mr. Ortiz's visitors describe him as personable, smart, thoughtful and easy to talk to.

"I go as a priest, because that's who I am, but when I get there, we don't necessarily talk about religious things. We talk about regular things: books, movies, the stock market," the Rev. Beth Wheatley-Dyson said.

As she and other visitors came to know Mr. Ortiz better, they learned of his artistic abilities. As he got to know more about their church, he learned the parish's Sunday school children were saving coins toward the purchase of an "ark" through Heifer International. Wanting to contribute to the project's success, Ortiz made a painting for display in the church. It depicts a multi-tiered ark filled to bursting with all manner of birds and beasts, two-by-two, journeying forward through the flood. Dolphins dance in the sea spray below and a rainbow promise arches overhead.

"It's an unbelievable painting of Noah's ark, and he's had no formal training," marveled the Rev. Ms. Wheatley-Dyson, adding with dismay that recent changes in prison policy prohibit him from having art supplies.

Mr. Ortiz writes an occasional column for the parish newsletter. When his visitors share news of family members who are ill, he remembers them with cards and prayers. "David has also sent money for church offerings even though he has very little to survive on," Mr. Kropp said.

"He makes efforts to be connected to the community in whatever ways he can," the Rev. Ms. Wheatley-Dyson added, saying she and others find his generosity both inspiring and humbling.

Last spring, a Bible group at St. Stephen's Church decided to undertake a study program on forgiveness, one used in prisons. "What's come out of it is a realization that we are all imprisoned in some way," the Rev. Ms. Wheatley-Dyson said. "We just don't understand the depth of God's forgiveness. We want to put up barriers for who can be forgiven and who can't. Our experiences have really brought us to a new level of compassion and understanding to seek to see Christ in another person. I know personally it makes me more aware of how I interact with other people."

Liz Thompson says that her involvement hasn't brought her any sudden epiphanies. "I feel we need to learn to forgive ourselves, too. I try to tell David that it is O.K. to pray for himself. When he is lonely or frustrated or sad, I say, try to turn toward God. God is always there for you. These are not actually new things for me, but it is reaffirming, to share those beliefs with someone else and have them respond."

Gradually, though, she's come to a new belief. "I never used to believe in the rehabilitation process because there is so much repetitive crime. I've seen in David that there is hope. I feel he works on himself every day. I believe in him."

As Mr. Ortiz's parole eligibility inches closer, members at St. Stephen's voice their concern about how difficult it is for prisoners to reintegrate themselves successfully into society upon their release, especially when their entire adult formation has taken place behind bars. There is little support in place, plenty of risks and no guarantees. And yet, Mr. Ortiz's friends at St. Stephen's say they believe a successful future is possible for him. They are Easter people, and they live in hope.

Tracy J. Sukraw is the editor of Episcopal Times.

To learn more about College Beyond Bars and Partakers, Inc., go to: www.partakersinc.org.
Reprinted with the permission from the Episcopal Times, 4/5/04.

BRAD JOHNSON'S INVOLVEMENT IN PARTAKERS begins with a personal connection. His cousin, Jeannette Hanlon, started this faith-based organization, which seeks to serve those in prison who want an education to better prepare them for life outside. It also started with a personal commitment to service: Brad had been volunteering with hospice clients before that, but was ready for a change.

Now he is a member of a team that offers time and attention to an inmate named Jemal at the Bay State Correctional Facility in Norfolk. But how Partakers serves Jemal is only one part of this story; the other part is about the group of primarily Trinity parishioners that was formed, and the impact Partakers has had on its members.

Jemal (pronounced jah-MEEL) is a man in his mid-20s, serving almost five years-a mandatory minimum-for a drug conviction. Brad describes him as "well educated, very sharp, with excellent social skills." But a prison is a daunting, dehumanizing place and the first task for Partakers is to get past the anxious expectation of what- and who-they will find when they make that first trip. "I went in cold," says Brad. "This was the first prison I was ever in."

First, he wrote a letter to introduce himself. "Jemal is a huge letter writer," he says. "But it's like a blind date for both people. His letter really helped. And he's very proper and he takes a host role. He didn't want me to feel awkward."

Brad's other source of support was the Trinity Partakers group he had organized with Melanie MacFarlane, which began to meet monthly for a shared dinner. There members pray together. And they talk through their experiences and the questions that arise as they get to know this one prisoner.

Conversation at one recent meeting ranged from the philosophical to the very practical, as Jim Duffy, a member of the group, walked everyone through a strategy piece designed to give Jemal structure, focus and clear goals when he gets out and needs to find a job, a place to live and to begin to build a human network.

It is a clear and elegant roadmap to independence. Any jobseeker would be grateful for such a gift. But equally compelling is the rest of the evening's conversation, which makes it evident to a visitor that this is an intentional "small-group" community, connected by faith. That quality is rooted in the original idea behind Partakers.

According to Laura Tuach, Partakers was founded in August of 1997. The College Beyond Bars program, which supports prisoners like Jemal as they study toward their college degrees began in January of 2000 with three sponsoring groups. As of November 2003, 55 sponsors have stepped forward. The reason for growth at Trinity is clearly connected to the connection that has grown among the members of the group.

"Melanie and I have talked specifically about creating a small community of people that is focused," he says. That takes its own spiritual exploration every bit as seriously as it takes the help offered to the prisoner.

In essence, this group offers Jemal a bridge to a better life by creating a community and inviting him into it. That means being clear and intentional about how that relationship progresses. Although faith is the core of the group's experience, for example, the members are careful not to assume or project the nature of their faith onto Jemal. Instead, they talk about their lives and encourage real relationships to grow naturally.

"Prison is such an isolating experience," says Brad. "The fact that he has five people who think about him and are concerned about him has a real impact."

But, as Laura Tuach describes the experience, "[Partakers] challenges those who think it is all about getting something done. I may go in thinking that way, but when I come out, I find I was the one who was helped."

"The real job is community," says Brad. "It's never what you bring. It's what you take away."

For more information about Partakers: Please contact the organization at www.partakersinc.org.
Laura Tuach can be reached at ltuach@partakersinc.org .

Copy write Trinity Church in the City of Boston, used by permission