Day 43: When Jumpsuits Become Wings

The Spirit of the Lord God is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and freedom to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, and the day of our God’s vengeance; to comfort all who mourn, to provide for those who mourn in Zion; to give them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, festive oil instead of mourning, and splendid clothes instead of despair. And they will be called righteous trees, planted by the Lord to glorify him. Isaiah 61:1–3

One of the biggest honors and greatest encouragements I’ve experienced over the past few years has been getting to spend time with an incredible group of men who are seminary students at Angola, one of the largest maximum-security prisons in America. Angola, also known as “The Louisiana State Penitentiary for Men,” or “The Farm,” or “Alcatraz of the South,” used to have the well-deserved reputation as being the bloodiest prison in America—there’s several documentaries about it on Netflix.

But not so much anymore. Not in my experience, anyway.

Hope has been palpable to me as I’ve walked down their prison hallways, or visited the on-property auto shop where inmates restore old cars, or watched inmates-turned-cowboys ride high and proud in their saddles while rounding up the cattle from which come the meat they eat, or tasted fresh vegetables that’ve just been harvested from their plentiful gardens that same day. That’s right, Angola is now reputed to be one of the most self-sustaining prisons in America, requiring significantly less federal funds than others based on comparable numbers of regular population and death row inmates.

The only reason I’ve had the privilege of spending time with these dear men at Angola is a beautiful, big-hearted, bad-driving, blonde chick named Natalie LaBorde—someone who’s become like a baby sister to me and just so happens to be a gifted lawyer and one of the gubernatorial liaisons with the penal system in Louisiana! She’d raved so much about the redemption she was witnessing behind those miles and miles of electrified fence near Cajun country that I asked her if I could tag along with her on a trip. The fact that she wrangled an invitation for me to speak at their seminary—you heard me right—the prison’s seminary (which is an official extension of New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary and the first of its kind according to the Department of Corrections) is Nat’s typical kind of generous. During later visits, I’ve had the joy of listening to some of their personal stories (over meals that included beef raised right there in prison pastures) and worshiping with Jesus-loving captives in the campus chapel that was entirely, lovingly, and willingly built by the inmates themselves. All in all, my experiences at Angola have been nothing short of amazing. What I formerly understood about God’s mercy has been multiplied there.

During my first visit, I was surprised to find out that many of the students in their seminary are “lifers.” That is, they won’t ever set foot on ground outside of the Angola compound and therefore won’t be eligible for a ministerial job outside of prison. Yet when I asked them why they were working so diligently to complete their coursework, they explained sincerely that they just want to know Jesus at a deeper level and be more effective ambassadors for Him inside prison walls. They believe the fruit of spiritual maturity and Gospel effectiveness that comes from studying the Bible will be way more than worth their mental sweat equity. Simply put, they want to know God more and be fruitful right where they are.

I’m grateful to now call two gentlemen, in particular, my friends. Between them, they’ve served almost sixty years in prison. They’re both straightforward about their guilt, believe the consequences they’re paying for their crimes was deserved based on the very bad and violent choices they made as drug-addicted young men, and both passionately advocate for victim’s rights. They’ve also graduated from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, mentor other inmates—especially those who initially trudged through Angola’s gates devoid of hope—and can often be found astride one of Angola’s horses, herding cattle and singing a hymn.

They’re proof positive that no sin is powerful enough to catapult us beyond the reach of God’s grace. Or as my good friend Chris Caine often proclaims passionately in her thick Aussie accent, “Because of JESUS, you can start bad and finish good!”

• What circumstances or relationships that you initially complained to God were too confining, have served to bring about more hope and freedom in your life?
• How do you resonate with Christine’s proclamation about starting bad and finishing good?
• Where has God been prompting you to dig in and become more invested for His kingdom’s sake?