A guard unlocked the outer door and let us into an inner vestibule. Once we were all inside, he locked the door behind us. Another prison official began to unlock the next door. As I stood waiting in this small anteroom, I was choked by the putrid smell of filth and stale urine. I felt like I would be sick until at last the door was opened and we were ushered into the main room of the prison.
This new room was roughly 50 x 30 feet. It held 92 men who were serving sentences for crimes ranging from theft to murder. It had a few small windows high on the walls that let in the only bit of light there. There was a sour smell of sweat and dirt and human living. The men sat in a long line along the walls and in rows in the center of the room. The heat and the heavy, immobile air was made just bearable by the few light breezes that by some miracle found their way through the windows.
I learned this place is the only thing the prisoners ever see during their stay at the prison; they are never allowed outdoors, whether they are there for 10 days or 10 years. They had one bathroom with one toilet. They lived every moment together in this one room, sleeping on thin mats that were pushed to the side during the day.There were men there in their 60’s, and boys as young as 13, and every age in between. They were polite and listened to us each as we spoke. They sang two songs for us; it was a beautiful acappella performance typical of Africa. I made sure to look into the eyes of every man I could. I wanted them to know they were seen and that when I looked at them I saw a human being.
After we’d introduced ourselves, we held a Bible verse memorization competition that garnered a cash prize. Before we left, the two men of our group were given an opportunity to say something to the men. I spoke second.
My heart raced but the Lord filled me with boldness as I spoke my brief message. “We did not come here today as people who think we are better than you,” I said. “Whatever you have done to bring you here are not things we are incapable of doing, if we had made different choices in our lives. We come as people who have accepted the forgiveness God offers us in Jesus, in the hope that you would do the same.”
I could not believe I had said it once I was finished. I am not a public speaker or a preacher. I had never, nor did I believe I could ever, do something like this back in America. How could I address a room full of mostly grown men, foreigners, strangers, prisoners; men I could hardly begin to relate to? But how could I not, when presented the chance? I realized what I said is my heart’s message to all people we will meet in Africa, and in all the countries we will travel to this year: I’m not coming as the fortunate, white American to the poor people of the world to lord over them in an attitude that I am in some way superior. I’ve come to love them, to know them; to show them that not even being housed, well-fed, economically stable, and educated is enough. We need more. We need Jesus.
The Lord spoke through me that day and I hope my words touched their hearts. I was asked to close in prayer, and my prayer was simply that the men would know Jesus and accept his forgiveness as their own, and that they would allow God to do wonderful things with their lives.
That’s my prayer for each person.
