God with us inside the barbed wire fence

Celebrating Christmas in the prisons

The auditorium/chapel inside the NE State Penitentiary in Lincoln. This is not my photo, as phones are not allowed inside. Courtesy of NDCS, 2019.

I began to prepare for Christmas worship in two of the Nebraska prisons in early November.

I had to make an account with the Nebraska Department of Correctional Services, fill out a background check, scan a copy of my drivers license, and let them know which dates I was planning on visiting. When I returned to Nebraska, I attended a two hour volunteer orientation and hastily got a “Letter of Good Standing” from my pastor so I could volunteer as clergy in two prisons, not just one that all other volunteers are allowed.

This process was not new to me. I knew it well after worshipping in the prisons regularly throughout college. However, it still came as a culture shock after three months of attending street ministries which have the lowest barrier to entry of any worship ever.

As I emailed back and forth with the prison volunteer administrator too many times and was confounded by certain requests being asked of me, I became enraged. My righteous anger blood began to boil. Why is it so difficult to worship with the Body who lives behind the barbed wire? I honestly didn’t know if I would get everything done in time to celebrate Christmas with the men on December 17th and with the women on Christmas Eve.

When I would take a deep breath and come back to the reason why I wanted to go worship with these siblings in the first place, I remembered that all of this institutional nonsense was on behalf of them. This annoying process that I didn’t have time or energy to deal with and this paperwork that proved I was “good enough” to enter was all so that I could wish these beloved siblings a Merry Christmas.

And it was a very Merry Christmas.

We imperfectly sang all the Christmas hymns that a voice could muster in a cappella, with me covering the higher octaves at the men-filled auditorium at the State Penn.

We read John 1 and pondered what this Light was about in our weary world.

We prayed for families with whom the inmates couldn’t celebrate Christmas.

We gathered around the table and shared in the Meal of grocery store pita bread and an unopened bottle of grape juice, all of which thankfully made its way through the security checkpoint.

We crammed all of the Christmas spirit we could possibly put into 60 minutes.

We celebrated this little baby in a manger, coming to us in unexpected places to free God’s people from oppression and captivity.

As I sat surrounded by God’s beloved on those Christmas Sundays, these were the ponderings of my heart:

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Some people sang O Come, O Come Emmanuel last year and it rightfully stirred their hearts to the war happening in the Middle East. But when I sang “and ransom captive Israel” alongside my siblings on the other side of security, I imagined God breaking open the fence, melting the sharp points of the barbed wire, and releasing these captive children who have been bound by racism and trauma and broken families and their sins for far too long.

Sometimes the captivity is closer than we think.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel, and ransom all held captive by mass incarceration.

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I worshipped at the State Penn the morning after a local church choir offered a Christmas concert for the inmates. The men raved about it the entire morning, and it got me wondering: Why don’t more churches plan visits during this season? Why was I the only person there to celebrate Christmas with them? Why are they so easily forgotten and ignored?

A couple men who welcomed me on that Sunday morning specifically thanked me for joining them as part of the Body of Christ. They take this responsibility as a member of the Body very seriously. I was convicted by that, because they knew that we are not whole until all are gathered around the table, until the entire Body is present. If they can’t leave the prisons and come to our table, then we should be going to theirs.

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I was reminded that the shepherds didn’t find Jesus surrounded by a harmonizing choir with perfect candlelight in a low-lit cathedral. They found him in a humble, homeless place where nothing went right and it was messy and smelled bad and all the shepherds were wearing the same khaki robe.

Kind of sounds like Christmas in a prison.

Even though the shepherds didn’t need to fill out annoying paperwork to visit Jesus, I knew that it was all worth it to witness God coming down to us in the flesh, being born among us inside of the prisons.

It’s the only place that made sense to celebrate this Light, a Light that can not and will not be kept out by a barbed wire fence.

The Christmas bulletin with the State Penn’s auditorium in the background.

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These reflections, experiences, and dedicated time for writing is thanks to the generosity of The Reverend Janet Karvonen-Montgomery Preaching Fellowship from Luther Seminary. You can learn more about Rev Janet and the Fellowship here.

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