Last Saturday, my wife and I were sitting together talking. “I was thinking about my grandmother today. Do you remember how she used to laugh? Earlier today, I found myself recalling how she used to laugh. I loved hearing her laugh.” They seemed like innocent comments, the logical response to a moment of recollection that had unexpectedly invaded her consciousness. We shared a brief moment of recollection together, remembering the joyful spirit of her grandmother. Later that afternoon, she happened to share the same comments with her mother, and was met with silence. After a few moments, her mother replied, “You know that your grandmother died eight years ago today…” In the busyness of life, neither of us had remembered the significance of that day. But in that moment, both the day and the moment took on deeper significance. The Celtic tradition teaches that there are two dimensions of reality, the visible dimension of our ordinary experience and existence, and the spiritual dimension of the divine presence that is always present in and beyond our ordinary experience and existence. There are moments when those two dimensions of reality intersect and as Marcus Borg writes, “the boundary between the two levels becomes very soft, porous, permeable. Thin places are the places where the veil momentarily lifts, and we behold God, experience the one in whom we live, all around us and within us.”1 That day, that moment became a thin place where a grandmother’s laugh broke through and became a not so subtle reminder of the real divine presence. It made an ordinary moment in an ordinary day truly extraordinary. And, for the rest of the afternoon and evening, I found myself singing, with apologies to Neil Diamond, “Well she heard her laugh, now I’m a believer.”

For eight years now I have been struggling with going to prison. While on the staff at First United Methodist Church in Baton Rouge, I was asked many times to join the men at Angola for a Kairos weekend. I always had a scheduling conflict, or some other valid reason for not committing. Truth is that I was afraid. After all, who really wants to go to prison?

When I was reappointed to First United Methodist Church in Covington, once again I was confronted with men who were asking me to consider participating in this ministry. And again, I resisted. I resisted until Ronnie Berg agreed to serve on Karios # 4 and came back from Kairos a changed man. And when Jules McCrory asked me to serve on Kairos # 5, I said I would, without really thinking about it. Sometimes leaders need to be led. And I am thankful for Jules and Ronnie leading me and our congregation to become more involved in this ministry. Jules, Ronnie, Nolan and Carol Barrios and I just returned from an exhausting, exillirating and enilghtening weekend that was both spirit led and spirit filled. I wanted to give you a brief report on what took place and share a story with you that touched me in a powerful way.

We entered the Rayburn Correctional Facility on Thursday afternoon, some of us not knowing what to expect. The inmate participants entered shortly after, also nervous and even more unsure about what Kairos was all about. Each of us sponsored two inmates and did our best to make them feel comfortable and ease their minds about what was going to happen. We shared a wonderful meal, the first “real” meal that most of them had eaten in a long time. We were divided into table families and spent the whole weekend relating to one another as a table family. We met our “brothers” and began getting to know one another. Eric, Corey, Barry, Rob and Jason joined Ronnie, Allen and me to make up the family of St. James. And for the rest of the weekend, we ate together, prayed together, got to know one another and learned together what it means to be a Chrisitan, both inside and outside of the gates. After just a few short days together, I witnessed the formation of new friendships, the healing of old hurts, forgiveness received and forgiveness given, and most importantly, I saw men overwhelmed by an experience of love and acceptance without expectation of anything in return. And for some of these men, I witnessed Christ coming into their lives for the first time as they made commitments to walk a different walk, even while still doing time. And I was reminded that people can change, but never by themselves. They need a community of support and accountability, just as we do, to remain faithful in their walk with Christ.

But most importantly, I needed to hear the story that Corey had to tell.

On Saturday afternoon, each of the inmate participants received an AGAPE bag. AGAPE is one of the Greek words for LOVE. It means LOVE GIVEN WITH NO EXPECTATION OF ANYTHING IN RETURN. In each AGAPE bag are letters personally addressed to the men, naming them by name (they are only known by their number in prison). Also included are pieces of children’s AGAPE, notes of encouragement and well wishes from children (some of the most powerful tools Kairos uses to reach these men). Corey shared with us that the first piece of paper he removed from his AGAPE bag was a note from a 3 year old girl. On this piece of paper she had drawn a picture of the earth and had written, “He’s got you and me in his hands, He’s got the whole world in his hands.” That piece of paper immediately brought tears to Corey’s eyes. It took him back six years to 2001. In 2001, Corey Alexander was pronounced dead. He had overdosed and was taken to Charity Hospital in New Orleans. He had been placed on life suppport with little chance of survival. Days passed and they began discussions about taking Corey off of life support. The decision was made to pull the plug. His mother was left in the room to say her “goodbyes.” Corey remembered hearing a voice, faint at first and seeing a bright light. The light kept getting brighter and the voice louder. Finally, he was able to make out the voice. It was his mother’s voice. She was singing to him. He opened his eyes and looked into his mother’s face. Her eyes were closed, tears were running down here cheeks, and as she gentlly wiped his forehead, she was singing these words to him, “He’s got you and me, Corey, in his hands, he’s got you and me, Corey, in his hands; he’s got you and me, Corey, in his hands; he’s got the whole world in his hands. ”

KAIROS means God’s special time. It refers to those moments when chronological time is interrupted, or set aside, and a special moment in time occurs where the power and presence of God is tangible and real. When Corey shared that story with us, I had a KAIROS moment. I was reminded that God is still at work in the world. And God is definitely at work in prison.

You see, hundreds of pieces of paper were randomly placed in AGAPE bags on Friday night. No two pieces of paper were alike. And for that piece of paper with those words to end up in that bag defies logic. But it did. Coincidence, you might say. Luck of the draw, some might think. KAIROS moment is what I believe.

I know now why I went to prison. I went there to catch a glimpse of the kingdom of heaven. In Matthew 25 we are told that to inherit the kingdom we must be willing to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, welcome the stranger, care for the sick AND visit those in prison. I went to prison to witness the power and presence of God. And in some ways, it feels strange to be back on the outside where God’s power and presence are much harder to see. Maybe the lesson for me is that I must do my part out here to make that same power and presence as readily visible as it was in there. And maybe there is a lesson in that for us all.