The very first sermon I ever preached in my life was back in 1998. I was locked up in jail at the time, surrounded by thieves, drug dealers and murderers. It was a very good day.
I was ministering at one of California’s many jail facilities and it was my first time ever serving in jail ministry. I have never been more nervous in my life. Yet I’ve also rarely experienced more joy doing ministry than when I have been locked behind barred doors preaching the gospel to captured citizens awaiting their final verdict.
It was during that very first year in a county jail that I met an inmate named Michael.
Michael was an energetic young black kid who had lived a thoroughly wretched lifestyle of rampant crime and drug abuse. He was born and raised in a culture not unlike most living inside the slammer: rough neighborhood, crime, prostitution, unbridled pressures from neighborhood gangs, etc. Just another nameless face in a long laundry list of criminal statistics. What set Michael apart from the other inmates, however, was that he had attempted to murder his own father while under the influence of drugs. During his first few days in jail, sobriety settled in and Michael was forced to deal with the permanent, life-altering consequences of his sin.
It was not a good week for him.
Sometime later, Michael began attending my chapel services which, at that time, were held a few days every week. Of the hundred or so inmates that would attend each service, Michael was one of the few souls who lingered afterward to talk, asking important questions like, “What happens after you die?” and “Can God ever forgive me?”
The Holy Spirit convicted Michael’s heart over those weeks and, since I was available at that time, the Lord chose to use me as His instrument for discipleship. A short while later Michael placed his trust in Christ, making an open profession of faith in Jesus as his Lord and Savior.
One of the incredible features of our penal system is that all manner of religious literature (the good, the bad, and the utterly blasphemous) is readily available to the inmates. And usually upon demand. An inmate can even get their hands on a satanic bible if they but request one. I would often find myself preaching to men who had attended—just an hour or two before—a Jehovah’s Witness, Mormon, New Age, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, or some other “religious” worship service. It seemed as though the enemy had no shortage of laborers for its cause.
Jail can easily become a tangled smorgasbord of religion for an undiscerning soul searching for answers to the meaning of life. Or maybe just a friend.
As the weeks went by I learned that Michael had been reading some Christian literature that, frankly, peddled some rather poor theology. After a particular chapel service one afternoon, I told Michael I would buy him a quality study-Bible and to throw away everything else he was filtering into his mind. He agreed. Within a week I was able to personally hand that study-Bible to him. Michael began feasting on the Word regularly, for hours at a time and throughout his day. (Inmates have a lot of spare time on their hands, you see.)
I remember having many blessed conversations with him and was thankful to the Lord for the work being done in Michael’s heart.
A few months later, Michael mustered up some courage and asked me to help him repair the broken relationship he had with his father. I was skeptical at first and unsure how I could possibly help. Yet I agreed, nevertheless. It turned out that my role would be little more than helping facilitate telephone conversations between a father and his son.
From the noisy confines of his cellblock, Michael called me collect on the telephone and I then dialed his father for a three-way conversation. From the first moment I spoke to Michael’s father, it was apparent that he wanted nothing more in this world than to restore the severed relationship with his son. His dad kept calling me “Sir” (I was in my early twenties at the time) and after saying a few things to open the conversation, my role was to sit back and do nothing more than listen.
It seemed odd—eavesdropping in on those heartwarming and personal conversations—but I could hear the pleasure in Michael’s father’s voice whenever his son confessed his sins and begged for forgiveness. I remember sitting on my couch, feeling rather uncomfortable yet listening intently to that father and son ask each other for a second chance. It was so very precious.
A number of weeks passed by—along with another telephone call or two—and Michael often wrote me letters, thanking me for everything I was doing in his life. I must confess that I didn’t think I was really going out of my way to do much for him. Yet whatever God was doing through me was precisely what Michael needed at the time. And he was so grateful for it.
The final verdict was eventually rendered in Michael’s court case. He was subsequently sentenced to a number of more years behind bars. This time in a penitentiary. When he no longer showed up for my chapel services, I knew he had been transferred to the state penitentiary. That transfer meant the end of our relationship.
At least in this life.
The discipleship ministry I had with Michael was not unlike other relationships two people might have with one another. With Michael, I would usually do the teaching and he would be the one listening to God’s Word, trying to obey it. On more than a few occasions, however, I probably learned a lot more from Michael than he ever gleaned from me.