(The following is a sermon given by Louise to Michael Servetus Unitarian Society on Feb. 15, 2009)
Thankfulness is the beginning of gratitude. Gratitude is the completion of thankfulness. Thankfulness may consist merely of words. Gratitude is shown in acts. - Henri Frederic Amiel
The middle-aged woman, her feet heavy in the melting, grey snow walked slowly toward the entrance to the prison. She talked herself into each step forward, up the steps, into the waiting area, where she would put her purse and coat in a locker, sign in with the officer and wait for her husband’s name to be called over the sound system. She knew the wait would bring her spirits further down. She had made this trip every week for more years than she wanted to remember; she was tired: tired of the sight of small children with their mothers waiting for their turn to go through the metal detector and then through the gates to see their dads for a little while, and later, leaving, confused and teary-eyed, without him. She was tired of trying to keep the conversation with her husband light when she wanted to cry about how hard it is to raise children alone, to be there for him when he called to tell her about the tedium of prison life, she wanted to cry about how hard it is to keep up with the bills on her wages, how hard it is to make this trip every week. Her kids didn’t want to come with her any more. She looked around at the other families in the waiting area and wondered if it was any different for them? Did they feel as isolated? Did they feel like they were in prison too? She was weary of this life but unable to make a change.
He waited in his cell for the call that he had a visit. He had pressed his clothes, shaved carefully, combed his hair and waited patiently. He lived for this day each week when he could, for an hour or two, leave prison behind as he entered the visiting room. He was one of the lucky ones. Most other inmates rarely if ever received a visit. Their families had given up on making time for the drive, didn’t have the money for gas, had to get on with their lives. After awhile they stopped writing too. These guys had nothing to look forward to except their out date. He was thankful for her loyalty. He knew it wasn’t easy for her. He knew she didn’t tell him half of what burdened her. Sometimes when she did, he couldn’t lift his eyes to look at her. He knew that she was in prison too. But god, he was glad she hadn’t left him. She was all he had that tied him to life outside.
The young girl stayed close to her father when they visited prisons in their travels together. She wasn’t so young any more: really a young woman. But when she saw the faces of the kids her age in the reformatories or the women locked away from their families in prison, she would draw close to her dad to remind herself of her own reality. She was loved. She was cared for. She had a life full of adventure, friendship, learning and fun. She was cared for. She was loved. She could leave these places behind and put the faces out of her mind. Her dad thought she could do anything and by god she would do anything but what he did. She would stay away from these depressing places that even her dad couldn’t make better. She was thankful for her life and realized that she had done nothing in particular to deserve it. God she was lucky to have been born into her family. She could do anything.
Standing next to my father in those prisons, returning the stares of the inmates, I counted my blessings. I learned to do that at an early age. When I was six years old my mother gave me a simple lesson in Universalist theology. You are loved she told me, by the universe, by your family, by god or Jesus or by whoever or whatever is in charge. I had come home in tears that day. My friends had asked me why I didn’t go to church. Didn’t I know that I would burn in hell for eternity if I didn’t love Jesus? My mother had comforted me; she told me ‘don’t worry, if there is a god or a Jesus, he loves you as much as I do and would never hurt you any more than I would ever hurt you; he would just want you be your best self and do what you can to make the world a better place for people who aren’t as lucky as you’.
That is all that my mother needed to tell me. I am not sure I have learned much more of significance about religion. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I learned all I needed to know about how make the world a better place from those prison visits I made with my father. It took a few years for my call to come, but I am glad that I was listening when it came to me.
That was back in 1971 when I contacted Amicus to see if I could volunteer; a few months later I had a staff job and before too long, I became the director. Over the last 38 years I have learned that gratitude is the fuel that gives me energy for my work and work brings joy to my life and makes me grateful all over again.
Yesterday at a pancake breakfast hosted by a group of ex-offenders, I was struck by the incongruity between the facts and reality. If a smart person looked at the demographic profile of the men from North Minneapolis in that church basement, a smart person would have turned around and walked in the opposite direction as fast as they possibly could. But facts don’t capture the whole story. The facts don’t capture the power of hope, human connection and gratitude. A man met me at the door and wished me a happy Valentine’s day. Two men greeted me at the entrance to the cafeteria, received my contribution and welcomed me to the breakfast; another man escorted me to a seat at a cafeteria table, pulled out the chair for me and offered to take my coat. Several men in the kitchen were making pancakes, eggs, sausages and toast. The men I talked to told me that returning to prison is not an option for them: they have made a commitment to themselves and each other that they will support each other in staying positive, doing the right things, and giving back to the community. These men call themselves Men of Rafiki. Rafiki is the Swahili word for ‘friend’ just as Amicus is the Latin word for ‘friend’. Amicus staff coordinate this program that nurtures the connections within, among and beyond these men who call themselves Rafiki. They organized the breakfast to show that they could do something for the community, do something together and raise a little money so that they could give something back to Amicus. They are grateful men.
My friend and colleague Reggie told me that there are three kinds of men in prison: thugs, thieves and thankful men. The thugs, he said, are people who do whatever they have to do to meet their own needs and wants. They don’t care about anyone else. The thieves, he said, pretend that they are not thugs: they tell their families that they have changed and they only need a little help/money from their families to start over. Meanwhile the thieves lay back, take it easy, and connive to get other people to do their work for them and do as little as possible for themselves or anyone else. And then, Reggie explained, there are the thankful men. They are grateful that they survived long enough to take responsibility for themselves and their families. Thankful men are grateful for another chance at life. Reggie told me that he had been a thug and a thief over the course of a long criminal career. But gratitude, trust and hope filled his life for as long as I knew him. Reggie died of Leukemia about a year ago. For the last ten years of his life, Reggie was a thankful man. The sources of his thankfulness were human and divine. Family members and mentors that he trusted, listened to him, gave him honest feedback and encouraged him to stop assigning responsibility for his predicament to people other than himself, to make better use of his time in prison and to prepare himself for the future. One person told him that if he studied the Bible and got to know god, he would be set free. Reggie said he took this advice literally believing that he would earn his way out of prison early. Instead, he grew to know a loving god who offered him the opportunity to reassess his past, consider needs beyond his own in the present, and start preparing himself for a better future. His god didn’t arrange for him to get out early; instead, Reggie found spiritual freedom in prison, energy for working three jobs, time for studying a variety of religions and discipline to exercise, save money and avoid the temptations of substituting junk food from the canteen for the less comforting prison fare. These habits served him well when he transitioned back to the community in good physical health, with $5,000 in his savings account and the habit of getting up early and going to work, no matter how menial. His daughters, his minister and a few good friends marveled at the change that took hold of him. Gratitude for the gift of his awakening fueled every day of the rest of Reggie’s life. He never stopped reaching out to others who weren’t as lucky as him and he was an inspiration to them. One man stopped me in the reception area at Amicus. He asked me if I knew how important Reggie was to Amicus and to the many people we might not even know. He told me that men in transition all over Minnesota knew Reggie’s story and were inspired to keep trying, when giving up and going back to prison would be more typical of their behavior.
In recent months I have had the honor of working as a consultant with the Board of Directors of the UUA, helping them to move into a new governance model. In an exercise designed to articulate what brings us together in UU communities, the Board identified three core values: Connection, Wonder and Transformation. As I apply these values to my own life experience and to the lives of gratitude that I see around me at Amicus I find them to be central. I need to push myself to be authentic, honest and open to intimacy in my human connections; I need to be embrace the ambiguity and mystery that surrounds me that blesses my life and that I cannot control, and I need to be open to renewal and new beginnings in my life. I would add gratitude to this list of core values. Gratitude keeps me humble and honest and gives me courage to do the right thing. When I forget to count my blessings and act accordingly, I lose my way and I become weary, cynical and judging of others.
Keeping perspective on your own life is easy when you work at Amicus. Everyday we are witness to men and women in prison struggling with the darkness in their souls and with the numbing predictability of their daily lives. And yet many people in prison find a way to make their lives meaningful through art, self-instruction through reading and writing, and through service to others. I know of a young man who serves others less fortunate as a tutor. I know of a woman who shared the gift of her beautiful voice to sing to others. I know of men and women who risk their personal safety to confront those who are making their surroundings unsafe for others. I know of men and women who gather regularly in groups to support each other. I know of a group of men that takes turns teaching another man to read. These inmates reach out in gratitude for the blessings in their lives. In return they receive the joy of giving back.
Equally powerful and humbling are the examples of courage and persistence that we see every day in the men and women who visit our office during their transition from prison. Some arrive in their prison clothes, with no hats or gloves or money for transportation. Most are expected to find work and housing in 30 days or face a technical violation of their parole and a return to prison. Yet 99% are patient when they have wait, are polite and respectful, and willing to help each other by sharing leads that they have found. Almost all of them would like the opportunity to give back in some way and respond enthusiastically when we ask them to help in some way. We see nearly 6,000 men and women in our office each year. Why is this picture so different from the perception that most of us have about ex-offenders? I believe it is because most ex-offenders truly want to make a go of it in the community. They know that they have to change their behavior and their associates. They know that Amicus is a voluntary agency staffed by community members; we don’t have to be there for them and we won’t be if the community doesn’t support us. They are thankful that we are there to help them, that we are not judgmental and that we will tell them the truth about what they need to do to be successful. They are thankful that our staff is respectful and kind to them. The luckiest ones are those that have Amicus volunteers to mentor and befriend them. It always helps to know that there is someone in your life who cares and will listen to you and encourage you, and again to tell you the truth.
Every member of our staff tells me how lucky they feel to work in an environment which gives them the experience of so much diversity and so much challenge. They are not only working side by side with people who are working twice as hard to help themselves as they are asking us to help them. Our staff also has the opportunity to work side by side with volunteers who share our agencies values of caring, respect, community, responsibility and transformation. Our volunteers are mentors, members of circles of support and accountability for sex offenders, interns, Americorps VISTAs, receptionists, resource developers and one to one friends to incarcerated people. Our volunteers tell us that they give their time and energy because they have been fortunate and want to give back or because someone reached out to them (or someone they love) and helped them get back on track. They often say ‘there but for the grace of god go I.’ They are grateful.
The news of the day may be alarming and discouraging. But as long as we can keep our circumstances in perspective, we have much to be thankful for, much to celebrate and many possible ways to transform the world, one life at a time, starting with our own.
May it be so!
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