I knew I had to go.
I was in prison and you came to visit me. (Matthew 25:36)
I stood on the sidewalk, trying to catch my breath.
When did we see you… in prison and come to You?… Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me. (Matthew 25: 39-40)
A little over a year ago, my brother went to jail. It was the one and only time I’d been to one, and after I stepped out of it, I had no intentions of going back.
And then we got to Peru.
One of our ministries for the month was going to visit the women’s prison in Huánuco.
The morning we were leaving, I stood outside on the sidewalk, tapping my hands together, grasping at straws as I tried to calm myself down, as last October came rushing back.
My brother’s voice. My father’s face. The investigator’s number on the caller ID. My brother’s broken nose. The long night at the hospital. The lawyers. The handcuffs. The jumpsuit.
Tears welled in my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall. I could do this.
That all changed when I actually got to the prison. I stood and watched five or so of my teammates go through security. The metal detector. The pat down.
Tears were streaming down my face by the time I mustered the voice to call my team leader.
“Toby, I can’t do this.”
It was barely audible, but she heard me. Unfortunately for me, I was in an awkward place in the prison where I couldn’t really go back, even though I didn’t have the strength to move forward.
And then God spoke to me through the prison guard.
“Your brother?” She asked me. I nodded, trying to decide how she could’ve possibly know that. Then, she asked me if I understood Spanish, and I said yes. So she told me that prisons are ugly things that are hard to deal with, but that God brought me they’re for a reason, and that even though I felt like I couldn’t do it, He would help me.
We went in and stood in the recreation area with the women. We told them where we were from, with the help of our adoptive Peruvian parents, Zara and Marquez. At some point, I found a bench and sat, Toby beside me, as our teammates, Zara and Marquez talked to the women.
And then we sang “Amazing Grace.”
Talk about waterworks. The prisoners were crying. We were crying. Zara was crying.
I remember being particularly drawn to a woman sitting in the front row who had tears streaming down her face. I felt this overwhelming urge to go to her, so I asked Zara if I could sit with them. She said yes, so I did.
We listened to Marquez tell the parable of The Adulterous Woman, and in that moment, it all came together for me.
He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone at her. (John 8:7)
The following Sunday, I stood in front of the congregation at Huánuco Centro and told them this whole story. And I’m going to tell you what I told them three weeks ago.
We are all human. We all make mistakes. Some mistakes are worse than others. And sometimes we make the really bad mistakes and don’t get caught. It’s not that I couldn’t have landed myself in jail a time or two. I just didn’t end up there by God’s grace.
Those of us who haven’t been to prison are no better than the women I met. We’re no better than my brother. We’ve all made crummy decisions. We’ve all screwed up. The sins that are caught by our fellow man are no worse than the ones that aren’t. God sees them all.
Our job is not to be the judge and jury. I don’t know why or how people end up in the situations they do. It’s not my business. But I do know that God loves us all, and no matter what we’ve done, He’ll forgive us.
