I spent a few minutes today writing Christmas notes to fellow humans in prisons around the country. Not a fancy card like the ones I'll send to a few friends. A simple little greeting in a humble little card supplied by a Catholic charity. A hundred down, another hundred or so to go.
I have a list of names. Sometimes the name looks odd, like it was mispelled. I Google the name and the prison and make sure I've got it right. This doesn't happen often, maybe once every 30 or so.
It's a nice greeting with what I hope are welcome messages. Happy Christmas to you. I'm praying for you. Our Lord loves you. I pray for peace and mercy upon them, as we all need. When I look up the odd name it often happens that I stumble on a news article. The faceless name on the list before me is a child molester, a serial rapist, a murderer. My heart turns cold as I digest information I wish I did not have. Not my kind of guy. Not in my tribe. I turn away, finish the card and move on to the next one.
Later, I am drawn back to the image in the article. Dozens of thoughts swirl around. The face looks almost familiar, like a distant cousin, or that usher in Church whose name I always forget, the guy at the C-store, that friend of a friend I run into once a year. Created by God in his image. One you died for Lord. In your week of passion you traded places with a prisoner. You welcomed another into paradise on the cross.
If you met us on the street would you ask for supper at his house or mine? The one from a prison of iron bars and stone, or the one from a prison of his own making. The hungry one or the one obviously well fed. I suspect I know the answer.