By Pauline Hovey
Special to the Herald
(From the issue of 11/4/04)
From teenagers offering hope and prayers through letters to incarcerated
teens, to teams of adult men bringing Cursillo-type weekends to convicts,
dozens of Catholics in the southwestern section of the Arlington Diocese are
following Jesus’ call to minister to the imprisoned.
Some, like Jim Byrne, a member of Precious Blood Parish in Culpeper,
began their involvement inadvertently. During a Cursillo group reunion,
Byrne, Russ Myers and Tim Walker discussed the need for youths preparing for
confirmation to have a better understanding of the basics of the Catholic
Mass. As a result, the three men developed a "lesson plan" on the Mass
designed for youths.
Walker, who works at Coffeewood Correctional Center, a level-two security
prison in Culpeper County, suggested that Catholic prisoners would also
benefit from such a lesson plan. He convinced Byrne and Myers to bring this
instruction booklet to the inmates.
"When we delivered it," Byrne recalled, "the guys said to us, ‘So, you’re
coming back, aren’t you?’" Byrne couldn’t refuse their invitation. He
enlisted friends and fellow parishioners Bill O’Neill, Bill Hinkes, Bob
Beattie and Gerald "Mac" McPhillips to join him, and now the men’s group
visits the correctional center every other week, teaching catechism and
sharing their faith with Christian inmates.
"We start with prayer; sometimes we explain the rosary, the passion of
the Christ, the Stations of the Cross. We talk about the sacraments, the
divinity of Christ. We also talk about situations related to the men," Byrne
said. "These classes are up close and personal."
As attendance has grown, Byrne has discovered that many inmates coming to
class have a strong and sincere interest in their faith.
"Some are deep into the Scriptures," he said. These experiences have led
Byrne and his friends to other opportunities for prison ministry. The men
have since become part of a team of 25 to 40 people that organizes Kairos
retreats at two level-three maximum security prisons — in Augusta County and
in Hagerstown, Md. — and organizes "Epiphany" weekends at the Culpeper
Juvenile Correction Center.
Kairos is similar to a Cursillo weekend, except it’s held in prison and
is open to Christians of different faiths. An Epiphany weekend is a similar
retreat for youths.
Because priests have generally not been available for these retreats,
laymen like Byrne have stepped up to the task. Usually the retreats are held
twice a year at both prisons and at the correctional center. They are
followed by commitments from the retreat leaders to return once a month to
meet with the retreatants. As a result, some Saturdays Byrne finds himself
in Hagerstown in the morning and in Augusta County that evening.
Understandably, Byrne found the process of entering a level-three
security prison a bit disconcerting at first. He had to endure being
fingerprinted and searched before walking through four sets of heavy metal
doors, all of which close and lock behind him.
"It can be a little intimidating to go through the fingerprinting and the
metal detectors," he said, "but [the men] are so happy to have somebody to
talk to. We’re sharing Christ, and that really turns them on."
Whether it’s a maximum or minimum security facility, walking into any
prison for the first time can be intimidating.
Susan Torborg, a member of Our Lady of the Blue Ridge Parish in Madison,
recalled what it felt like the first time she entered the juvenile
correctional center for girls in Culpeper County to offer a fitness class
combined with prayer. Like Byrne, she was frisked and fingerprinted before
being escorted through sets of locked doors into a gym secured with video
cameras and guards. "I remember walking into the gym all alone," she said.
"The guards were standing there, they gave me a boom box, and then about
30-something kids came in, all loud. I felt a little nervous, but I kept
praying to the Lord."
Prayer must have allayed her fears because 18 months later, Torborg
continues to visit the juvenile center every month. Whereas she used to
incorporate about 15 minutes of prayer time into her fitness routine, it has
since evolved into mostly prayer and Bible study with a bit of stretching
exercises. "I could see that [the girls] liked the prayer time," Torborg
explained. "You might think that they wouldn’t be open to prayer, but they
have a hunger for it, so I kept adding a little more."
About 10 to 20 girls come to pray and share a bit of themselves with
Torborg. She admits she has a special affiliation with teens. "I feel like I
know what they’re going through," she said. It shows. As the organizer of
the Teen Mercy program in her area, she meets with local teens at least
weekly to help them learn about themselves, about God and about serving
others. Her program has experienced such success that she wanted to bring
some of these teens with her to the correctional center to share their
stories. But because of confidentiality issues, only adults are allowed into
the center.
That didn’t stop Torborg. If her Teen Mercy kids couldn’t offer
encouragement in person, then why not through a pen pal ministry?
"I thought, so what’s the next best thing?" Torborg recalled. "They could
write letters to each other. It would not be considered a breach of
confidentiality, but it would still inspire them."
When Torborg explained her idea to her Teen Mercy kids, twin sisters
Jaytia and Jaleesa jumped on the idea. After being involved with Teen Mercy
for two years, the sisters had some ideas about better alternatives to
getting into trouble. "I used to be bad. I hardly went to church," explained
Jaleesa. "I’ve changed a whole lot since coming to Teen Mercy."
So she and her sister wrote about what they have experienced and learned
through Teen Mercy. They encouraged their new pen pals to "pray every day."
The girls were excited when they received responses. Surprisingly, the
incarcerated teens opened up about themselves and the behavior that got them
into prison.
"I like it when the girls in [the correctional center] share what they
did to get there," said Torborg, "because it says to my teens, ‘look what
she did and look where she ended up.’ And it gives the girls in there hope
when they hear about these kids out here. Sometimes they’re amazed that
these kids aren’t getting into trouble."
As Jaleesa explained, "I can tell them things that changed me in the last
two years and maybe that will change them. Maybe they won’t do the things
they did over again and end up where they are now."
Both Byrne and Torborg have witnessed firsthand the kind of impact
sharing their faith can have on people who have lost hope in themselves and
in their future. For Byrne, this ministry has given him an opportunity to
witness "life-changing experiences," especially on a Kairos retreat. "A
Cursillo weekend is a small picnic compared to this banquet," Byrne said.
"These guys are in a hopeless situation and all of a sudden you’ve giving
them a syringe full of hope. They beam. When you talk to them at the first
reunion, they will tell you about how their faces hurt from smiling."
Byrne related the story of one man who had been framed for a crime he
didn’t commit. DNA tests could now prove his innocence, but the paperwork
and attorney necessary to do so required money — something the man did not
have. As a result, he had become embittered and miserable. "This guy was
full of tattoos, as hard as nails, the toughest guy around," Byrne recalled.
"Well, he went on a Kairos weekend, and by the time I saw him at the first
reunion, he had a smile that just glowed. Something had happened to him.
He’s got Christ in his heart now. It’s such a thrill to see that kind of
response."
He also remembers a tough gang leader who was signed up to take a Kairos
retreat without his consent. "He was not happy about being there," Byrne
said, "but he was free to walk out at any time." The man chose to stay, but
flaunted a rebellious attitude until the final day of the retreat. On Sunday
afternoon, when the man received his cross at the end of the retreat, he
actually knelt down to receive it. "He’s the only one that I ever remember
doing that," Byrne said.
Torborg has seen changes in the teenaged girls at the correctional center
as well. "As weeks go on they share more and are open and honest," she said.
"I can see that they like the prayer time. They know the rosary now; they
follow along better and seem to be doing it on their own. They have less of
a front up; there’s less hardness to them; and they’re more affectionate."
She hopes the pen pal ministry will have that kind of impact as well.
It’s only been a couple of months since the letter writing began, and more
kids from Teen Mercy are asking to participate.
Torborg plans to expand this ministry in a way that will benefit both
parties.
"I hope that this [pen pal ministry] will encourage and inspire the kids
with Teen Mercy to see what happens when you go down the wrong path and
inspire them not to go down or continue on that path," she said. "I also
hope it encourages them to talk about God and share their stories about
their answers to prayer. I hope it helps the kids in prison to see that
there are kids out there struggling with the same things that they are, with
similar family situations, but that there are good groups to get involved
with, and maybe it will inspire them so that when they get out, they will
find friends like these, make better choices, and be closer to God."
As Byrne explained, that relationship with God is important when they
leave prison and face a world that has changed significantly since before
they were incarcerated. Sometimes the men contact him afterwards, looking
for encouragement. He offers what he can. "I look at it as trying to just
focus on sharing Jesus Christ, and the rest of it is trust in the Lord. I
can’t shepherd that many," he said, but he is committed to being involved
where he can. "They’re our brothers," he said. "We tend to put that out of
sight."
Jaytia offers a simpler explanation as to why she is in this ministry.
"It makes me feel good to think I may be making a difference."
Hovey is a freelance writer from Madison County.