Boxers or Briefs?

God: Jeremiah, you need some new underwear.

Jerry: Really? Boxers or briefs?

God: Check out the local Nordstrom's for the latest in loincloths. Get a nice set.

Jerry: You got it!

God: And Jeremiah?

Jerry: Yes, God?

God: When you get that new underwear, put it on.

Jerry:  Of course! (Like what else would I do with it? Use it as a slingshot?)

God:  I heard that. 

Jerry takes himself downtown Jerusalem to the local Nordstrom's and finds himself some fine underwear. He thinks God will like it.

Jerry: So what do you think, God? Found some that were just my color.

God: I see that. Put on that underwear.

Jerry does and then models for God.

God: Looking good! One more thing, Jerry.

Jerry: Yes, God?

God: You can wear it, but you can't wash it.

Jerry: What? For how long?

God: I'll let you know.

Jerry: But I got enough for a week's supply!

God: Did you hear me?

Jerry: (Big sigh) Yes, God.

Time goes by. Jeremiah did not record just how much time, but it was clearly a l-o-n-g time. Finally, God comes by again.

God: Jerry! I see you're wearing that new underwear.

Jerry: (twists awkwardly, straightens out the wedgie) Yep. Doesn't feel so new right now.

God: I want you to take that underwear and go bury it down by the river.

Jerry: Are you nuts? By the river? Don't you mean IN the river? As in WASH it?

God: You heard me. Go bury it by the river.

Jerry stomps off to the Jordan where he digs a hole, strips off the loincloth, and throws it in.

God: Cover it up, Jerry.

Jerry does what he's told.

Jerry: There. Satisfied?

God doesn't answer. Jerry goes back to Jerusalem.

More time goes by, even more time than before. Finally, God comes around again.

God: Jerry! Remember that underwear I told you to buy?

Jerry: As if I could forget.

God: Remember I told you not to wash it?

Jerry: I remember.

God: Where is it now?

Jerry: Buried down by the river, just like you told me.

God: Well, I want you to go down to the river and dig up that underwear.

Jerry:  Of course you do.

Jerry leaves Jerusalem, goes down to the river, digs a few holes looking for the underwear he buried there. Finally, he locates it and pulls it out of the hole.

Jerry: Ewwww! Yuck! Gross! Look at this! Holes, sand flies, creepy bugs! This underwear is rotten!

God: I know that.

Jerry: I suppose you want me to put it on now.

God: No. I just want you to look at it. It is a rotten mess, isn't it?

Jerry: Am I supposed to learn something here?

God: Take a good look, Jerry. Israel and Judah were created to be as close to me as a man's underwear is to his body, but they've gone corrupt. Who'd want this stinking rotten mess next to his private parts, I ask you?

Jerry: Wait a minute. Are you saying...

God: I am indeed! If you haven't learned anything by now, you should know, YOU are my underwear!

Jerry: But I thought I was supposed to be your sheep, your beloved, your shining star!

God: I tried all that. You seem to forget so quickly. Maybe this will be easier to remember. Here's what I want you to tell the people in Jerusalem: You are God's underwear!

Jerry: (mumbles)   You are God's underwear.

God: You're mumbling. I can't hear you. Louder please.

Jerry: (louder) You are God's underwear.

God: Not very convincing. MUCH louder please.

Jerry: (over-exaggerating and enunciating) YOU ARE GOD'S UNDERWEAR!

God: That's good, Jerry. I think you've got my point. You are my underwear!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When people first get to jail or prison, they are issued a basic set of clothing: jumpsuit, t-shirts, socks, and underwear. None of it is new. It's well-washed, but it isn't new. Ever had to wear someone else's underwear? Not the first choice for most of us.

(with thanks to Bill Cosby for his rendition of a conversation between God and Noah)

Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

About a mile north of the jail, on 4th/5th and Pine Streets, there are signs everywhere. Occupy Seattle has been busy. There are all sorts of negotiations going on (the Mayor is accused of trivializing the basic outrage and turning it into "camping violations") but the mood continues to be fairly upbeat.

Across the street from the jail is the County Administration Building. It is often the backdrop for one of the TV news reporters covering a court case. (City Hall's spot is the next block.) I'm used to seeing those TV folks making their stand in the late afternoon, preparing for the evening news.

Yesterday, though, there was a young woman standing out on that sidewalk with a big bright green sheet of poster board. She tilted it up so it could be read by someone on the upper floors of the jail. On the poster board: CALL ME. When she flipped it over, it read: 

I'M SORRY. -----  I CAN SEE YOU. She stayed for a long time, holding up first one side, then the other. 

I wondered how many people in the jail saw her message, maybe thought it was meant for them, maybe took heart that someone was willing to re-establish contact.

We're looking for signs all the time. I'm still waiting for that billboard that says, "Dear Shannon, do ________________________. Love, God." Wouldn't that just be so much easier? 

Every now and then, I get reminded that I'm looking for outward signs and they just aren't all that visible. I get to hear stories and discover what God is writing in hearts every day. That's sign enough. For today.

Seen on 4 North

NO WHINING ZONE.

GO CRY

SOMEWHERE ELSE.

I'm reminded of the time a new bishop came to the diocese. Before too many people had had a chance to meet him, the word was already out. "No whining." No matter who he met with, that was his theme.

When he came to our parish, I had a chance to greet him privately. I gave him this button. That he didn't laugh spoke volumes.

 

In Honor of the Feast Day

It's the feast of St. Francis of Assisi. This painting is thought to be very close to what he actually looked like. It is at eye level in the Lower Basilica of St. Francis in his home town. In the midst of angels and heavenly thrones, you could almost mistake him for another tourist.  Once I thought I caught him rolling his eyes as if to say, "Can you believe all this stuff??"

Francis went off to war a couple of times in his young life, once against a neighboring city, Perugia. He was captured and spent time in prison. It wasn't an easy time.

I think of Francis often at the jail. I meet so many people who were pretty set in their lives: having a good time, certain they were doing the right thing, spoiled, the life of the party. And now they're in jail. The story of "Frenchie from Assisi" comes in handy.

And who knows what saints are being made within these walls today? I know I've met some.

A note: I went to Google thinking to look for a picture of the prison Francis was in. Into the search engine I put "St. Francis AND prison." Here's what came up as the first hit: when St. Francis went to prison

I understand Frank was a wonderful tease... 

"You Look Familiar"

The woman was a little older than I. My brain went into its Search and Remember Mode. We were standing at the entry way to a church north of Seattle. I was there because Uncle Frank had died. I was looking for his sons before things got started. I was also looking for Betsy. Betsy used to be a juvenile detention minister and a volunteer at the adult prison in Monroe. Now she works at this parish and we were going to spend a few minutes catching up.

"You look familiar," the woman said again. I looked at her face. I'd worked only with men at the prison for eleven years, no matter how often people thought I worked at the women's prison. It's only in the last fifteen months that I've worked with women on a regular basis, and this woman did not look like anyone I knew from the county jail.

Another woman came up to us just before I started to say something. The two of them together made the connections in my brain work faster. There it was: we are cousins. We haven't seen each other in a few years. We remade the connections and talked.

I came away shaking my head. These days, when someone says, "You look familiar," I immediately think of the jail/prison context. Forget family. Forget other places I've worked. 

I need to get out more often, I told a friend. "Or go to Vegas and cut loose," she suggested. Ummmm. No. I have a feeling that even in Vegas someone will find me and say, "You look familiar." So much for my fantasy of going somewhere, acting outrageous, and still being anonymous. Should have done all my acting out years ago. Who knew?

Considering the Gifts of the Spirit

He told us a story about being in the park, seeing a trio getting out of their car, putting purses in the trunk, then going for a walk. One was a grandmother, one was about three, and the other, he guessed, was probably The Mom. In the few minutes he saw them, they walked into his heart, even though he didn't know it yet.

Months later, on a sunny August day, he is in jail, sitting in a church service on 2 West. He's sober now, all the drugs finally out of his system. And he's crying. Not sobbing, but the tears just keep coming.

He's remembering that trio in the park. "For the first time," he says, "I don't just see them. I see my mother, my grandmother, my daughter. For the first time, I know that I would never inflict on my family what I did to those people in the park." He'd broken into the car, he confessed, had stolen their money and credit cards. Used it all to feed his drug habit.

"I have a gift for crime," he says. "Anything you want, I can walk down the street and get it. Half an hour, I'd be back, giving you an iPod, laptop, shoes, you name it. I can get anything. It's a gift." He twists the songbook in his hands and swipes at the tears on his face.

"I don't understand why I'm crying all the time. Day or night. I've never cried like this in my life. I feel bad about what I did to those people in the park, and all the other people I've stolen from and hurt." His voice breaks as he struggles for words. "Why does it hurt so much?"

Someone offers, "Maybe you're feeling your conscience again." We all consider that truth.

"I think maybe your heart got really hard, like a rock, over time. Your tears are softening your heart, breaking it open again. Your heart is healing. You are healing."

He only nods and cries more. Around the small circle, we consider this gift of tears and pray that God will be as merciful to the rest of us.

Truth in the Margins (or the back cover)

Do you write in your bible? I don't. I don't highlight verses in different colored inks. I don't put exclamation marks in the margins or pencil in comments. Lots of other people do, but I never have. My hesitation comes from knowing that what is so real and pertinent today will be incomprehensible in two years or ten. I don't want to lock in one meaning and not have the opportunity to see differently the next time I encounter the text.

I want to lay myself open to the new possibilities.

Having said that, I'm always curious to go through the bibles that have gotten recycled back to my office. Some come back in pristine condition. Probably the requestor left the jail before the bible made it to him. Or maybe she had good intentions, but that fifth grade reading level wasn't enough to make the Book speak.

Some bibles come back with careful notations. Inside this one is a list of important passages: "Do not be afraid." "Love one another." "Of course I want to heal you."

Inside another is a list of memorable characters: Jacob the trickster, Rachel and Leah, Naomi and Ruth, Paul and Silas.

There are dates when the back-sliders slid back into the arms of the Prodigal God. On the title page of one, "With much love, from the Author of Life."

I opened a Good News Translation of the bible last week. This is version seen rarely, but every now and then it comes through. Do you remember its old title? Good News for Modern Man and do you remember the line drawings? You can see them here. Good News images

I got a note from an offender a month ago asking for this specific translation and I'd sent a response explaining the scarcity of copies. Now, here was that Good News Bible. The original requestor was gone, but there was a another request in the stack on my desk. I slipped that note inside the bible and then set about checking the book itself. Sometimes people leave important numbers in their bible: phone numbers, booking numbers, Social Security numbers. Sometimes it's a name or a birthdate. I take out all the identifying information and clean it up before I send it upstairs.

This Good News Bible is clean, just a little banged up. No markings on the pages, only one corner and about twenty pages curled. I check the inside of the front cover. Nothing. I look at the inside of the back cover.

"I am homicidal," the note says. A full name and a birthdate follow. There are dates of admission to Western State Hospital "for being homicidal." A court date, a day in April.


It's all in pencil and as I carefully erase the name, the dates, the notes, I think about the man who had this bible last spring. I wonder what has happened to him in the last three months. Is he still in jail? Did he get sent to prison? Has he gone to the mental hospital for the help he needs?

I write a note to the man who will receive this bible. "Your request and this bible arrived on my desk together today. You can see it has been used by at least one person before you. When you read God's Word, pray for the person who read this bible before you and for the one who will read it after you. May you find strength and hope here."


I went on to the other requests.

Several hours later, on the bus headed home, I realized that the note-maker had said, "I am homicidal." Homicidal. Not suicidal. Wanting to harm others, not himself. I prayed for the intended victims and for the man who had written the words.