“I was in prison and you visited me” (Matthew 25: 36).
This command of Jesus is carried out by dedicated volunteers from many parishes in the diocese. These committed volunteers, numbering now one hundred ten, go into the Santa Clara county correctional facilities for adults and youth, bringing the Gospel to our incarcerated brothers and sisters.
Among these volunteers are five master catechists who meet as needed with an inmate when he/she makes a request for sacramental preparation. At present we have ten inmates in various stages of the RCIA journey.
If you are a master catechist and would like to help in the preparation of an inmate for the sacraments, please contact Sister Maryann Cantlon at firstname.lastname@example.org or at (408) 983-0131 for further information.
Saint Quentin, by Jacopo Pontormo, 16th c., public domain
As I write this, Ferguson, Missouri, and Oakland, California, are burning. Whatever your thoughts are regarding the shooting of Michael Brown and the decision by the grand jury, it seems clear in our human history that we often equate justice with retribution—punishment for a crime inflicted as vengeance. Yet God’s justice is about restoration—bringing the world and all our relationships back to the way God intended them to be, that is, right relationship with one another, with the world, and with God. Restoration doesn’t let someone “off the hook” for a wrong done. It calls for reparation or a repairing, as much as possible, of the hurt we have caused another. However, restoration goes one step further. It invites everyone involved—victim, offender, and the community—to participate in that long, hard struggle toward healing and reconciliation so that there can be new life for both the one wronged and the one who inflicted the wrongdoing. In turn, that restored relationship brings new life to the community. Healing, restoration, justice, one relationship at a time.
November each year is recognized as International Restorative Justice Month. The California Catholic Conference of Bishops has a good webpage describing the Catholic approach to restorative justice.
Although November is almost over, last Sunday’s Gospel and the recent events in our national news call us to even deeper prayer and reflection on how we can participate in healing the broken relationships in our world, especially those caused by criminal acts. Below are two simple ways you can pray and reflect on restorative justice. First are suggested intercessions for use in your Sunday and daily prayers. Second is a reflection I wrote that originally appeared on a friend’s blog.
I hope you’ll take some time over the weeks ahead to pray, reflect, and act as our cities and nation struggle to find true justice for all.
Suggested Prayers of the Faithful for Restorative Justice
For those in prisons and jails throughout our nation:
May God shed his abundant mercy on all offenders
as well as on ex-offenders who have been released. We pray to the Lord.
For all prisoners suffering with a sense of hopelessness, despair, and guilt:
May the Lord shine his face upon them and bring them out of darkness
so that they may come to a sincere heartfelt repentance. We pray to the Lord.
For family members of those in prison:
May they receive consolation and courage to carry on
and stay in communication with family members who are incarcerated. We pray to the Lord.
Blest Are They: Grace Behind Bars
by Diana Macalintal
Drive north across the Golden Gate Bridge and you pass through what many call God’s country: the San Francisco Bay, Marin and Sausalito, Mt. Tamalpais to the left, Tiburon to the right. Just before you reach San Rafael, take a right turn and go down the hill to a gate. An armed guard checks for your name on that day’s list. If it’s there, he’ll buzz you in. To your left, sail boats speed along waves on the Pacific Ocean.
Walk down the road to a building where your name and ID are verified. Then proceed to the security scanner. Here you remove everything from your pockets and bags and hand them over to a guard at a metal table. What you can’t take in is placed in a bin and locked away; everything else is handed back to you, usually just your ID and car keys. Today, they allowed my sheet music.
After one last check through a metal detector, you enter a narrow hallway that ends with a gate of metal bars. The red light above flashes and an alarm sounds as the bars slide open. You step into a space big enough for two people and face another set of bars. The gate behind you slams shut sounding just like in those prison movies. The alarm stops, and all is silent for a moment, except for the pounding of your heart. You begin to wonder if you’ll be stuck in this cell when the alarm sounds again and the gate before you opens.
Welcome to San Quentin, the oldest prison in California and the largest death row in the United States.
For several months, my host, Br. Rufino Zaragoza, OFM, had been coordinating a music ministry among some of the inmates. The men he worked with had a bit more freedom to participate in group activities because of the nature of their crimes and their good behavior.
Br. Rufino had invited me to sing with the inmate choir for Mass. It was All Saints Day. As the chapel slowly filled with inmates, most of them sat in the back. A group of 20 or so men came to the front, and Br. Rufino introduced each of them to me. This was the choir.
We stood around the upright piano, and Br. Rufino invited some of the guys to share their stories. They were all a bit nervous. One guy broke the ice by saying how much he loved being part of the choir. Then others talked about what they wanted to do once they got out—the jobs they dreamed of, the kids they longed to see again. One man I guessed to be about my age, 30 or so, said he had been in prison since he was 18. San Quentin was all he knew of his adult life.
Mass began, and, like some of our churches, much of the assembly didn’t sing. But the choir sang their hearts out, not always in tune but always as if they believed what they sang.
I remember nothing of the Mass except for this one moment. At Communion, we began singing David Haas’ “Blest Are They.” The choir led the first verse, and I just listened: “Blest are they, the poor in spirit. Theirs is the kingdom of God….” When we got to the refrain, I tried to join in, but I couldn’t. The truth of those Beatitudes hit me against the paradox of who was singing those words: “Rejoice, and be glad! Blessed are you! Holy are you!” These men who had nothing, lifers forgotten by society, prisoners confined to a concrete box with a million-dollar view visible only through a two-inch slit of a window—they were singing of how blest they were. They were singing to me of how blest I was. They were reminding all of us about true freedom, true joy, true hope that comes not from what you have or where you are, but from who you believe in. They believed in the goodness of those waiting for them. They believed in the hope of a second chance. Seen through the eyes of God, there in God’s country, all of us in that moment were part of the communion of saints. In that song, I saw who these men truly were—each beloved of God.
Saint Quentin, an early Christian saint, was persistent in his preaching, which led to his imprisonment, torture, and beheading. Roman soldiers threw his body into the marshes to be forgotten forever. His preaching, however, would not end with his death, for his body would be discovered over and over again down through the centuries by those with eyes to see, as a testimony to the perseverance of the Good News.
Saint Quentin’s feast day is October 31, the eve of All Saints. There among those inmates, singing and rejoicing, we discovered his body once again.
Copyright © 2014, Diana Macalintal