by Bill Dietrich

"Remember those who are in prison as though you were in prison with them."  -Paul's Letter to the Hebrews 13:3

One morning last July, I was walking toward the entrance to the "Camp," the minimum security facility for men at Lewisburg Federal Prison. Beds of carefully tended daylilies lined the walkway. At the side of the one-story cinderblock building, I saw what I took to be families with children, gathered around picnic tables on a patio enjoying the warm summer morning. There were no fences around the building, and it seemed anyone could just come and go. Beyond the Camp were mowed fields bordered by trees and in the distance beautiful Pennsylvania farmland. It might have been a church, school, or community center in any American suburb.

But when I glanced behind me it was clear I was at a prison. Looming over the Camp a hundred yards away stands Lewisburg's maximum security facility. It is classic prison architecture-a fortress with high walls atop which are glassed-in observation turrets. In the nearest turret I could make out silhouettes and wondered if someone was looking down at me. The scene conjured up images from prison movies and television shows, and the sheer massiveness of the structure seemed to almost push me towards the Camp building.

Along with another member of the interfaith Zen Community of Baltimore, I had come to Lewisburg that day to teach meditation to the inmates. We signed in at the guard desk and made our way down the long corridor to the chapel while the guard announced the meditation time over the loudspeaker. The five inmates who came were dressed unremarkably: no uniforms, no stripes, no numbers across their chest. They greeted us politely, almost meekly, and they listened quietly as we offered instructions on meditation practice to guide them through the 90 minutes we had together.

After we settled into the silence of our first meditation time, I soon became aware of several apprehensions I'd brought with me into that room. Some were familiar, the ones I often get when teaching a new group: concern over whether my instructions were clear, whether the inmates understood what to do, whether they would have many questions, whether I could let go of these pre-occupations and settle into the meditation myself.

But I was aware of another level of apprehension that I could trace to the prison volunteer training I received the month before. Our trainer had issued several stern warnings about interacting with the inmates: Don't trust what they tell you since inmates are habitual liars and con artists. Don't divulge personal details or even tell where you're from. Don't give them anything or take anything from them. Don't contact them outside the visits. Don't become involved with them in any way.

The trainer also interviewed each of us individually. He took fingerprints and photos and asked questions about my family and employment. Then he asked why I wanted to be a prison volunteer. I said something about wanting to help the inmates learn meditation as a way towards seeing what was real about themselves and their situation, to help them improve themselves in some way. It seemed to come out rather clumsily, but from his smile and nod I took it to be an acceptable answer. I was also aware of a certain amount of unknowing about why I was doing this. For some time I've sensed a call to a broader social service. When the opportunity to participate in the Lewisburg ministry was offered it stirred something in me, though what exactly I wasn't sure. I figured, though, that the trainer wanted something more concrete than this just seeming like a good idea to me.

Later in the training he produced several examples of crude but rather formidable daggers inmates had fashioned from miscellaneous objects. He described how they'd been used, giving just enough detail to get his point across: prison is a nasty place. He assured us that the violent stuff typically happens in the maximum security area and that he recalled only one inmate murder in his time there. Seeing our growing state of alarm, he assured us we were as safe inside the prison as at our local Wal-Mart!

I didn't doubt the need for all the warnings and restrictions. There can be real dangers involved in prison work. Volunteers can and have been used by inmates to get around prison restrictions and even aid in escape attempts. Yet I wondered how these preparations would color my time with the inmates. It certainly isn't typical for me to be so guarded and distant with people attending a Shalem prayer group! I remembered a line from the Buddhist mealtime gatha (prayer): "May we exist in muddy waters with purity like a lotus."  I wanted to rise above the mud of these apprehensions and respond to the inmates with compassion, or at least with my self-image of compassionate "me."

I got an opportunity to respond at the end of our meditation time that day in July. One inmate asked if I knew how to contact Bo Lozoff, the longtime prison activist and founder of the Prison Ashram Project. My internal alarm bells went off immediately. Why was he asking? What was he trying to get me to do? I was surprised and disappointed at how quickly my defenses were triggered. I hesitated a moment and said I didn't know. He looked down and in a low voice said he'd just ask one of the chaplains. I figured he'd realized that I wouldn't or couldn't connect with or help him as he'd hoped.

My heart broke. I began to feel, as in Paul's words to the Hebrews, that I too was in prison, that this was joyless service. This wasn't what I'd hoped for. What I wanted was what Lozoff writes about Mother Theresa of Calcutta in his 1985 classic, We're All Doing Time: "She feels no sense of sacrifice; she's doing what gets her stoned! What is she sacrificing-Star Wars and Sugar Frosted Flakes, to look into the eyes of Christ...to be bathed in joy?" Was I asking too much?

Since that July visit I've prayed much on the "why's" of my going to Lewisburg and whether I'm called to continue. As the time for my next visit approaches, it seems right to continue with this service and see what is there for me. Is God calling me to joyless service to deepen my understanding of compassion and of myself? I realize that the realities of prison make it difficult to know if what we are offering is of any benefit to the inmates. But I've already begun to see more clearly the self-created prisons that capture me and undermine my motivations. In time whatever joy I'm meant to realize may show itself, though not because I seek it and, I suspect, not in ways I've experienced before. And like the lotus, I pray I may rise above my muddy motivations and touch the pure flowering of service.