standards.”
“True enough. What’s the solution?” he asked.
“Don’t know. That’s why I’m not very critical. It’s a complex problem that requires a complex solution that’s beyond me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s not? What is it?”
“A complex solution that
“Be nice to think so, wouldn’t it,” I said.
Shortly after Merrill left, Mr. Smith brought inmate Jesus Garcia in to see me.
“Chaplain,” he began, “I been serving the Lord now for about six months. I don’t miss church. I really been gettin’ in the Word, you know. Jesus has changed my life. I’m a new creature in Christ. Since I been serving the Lord, I have been so blessed. I stopped having nightmares, and I been treating my wife a lot better. When we talk or write each other, we really get along. We stopped fighting and everything. I will never hit her again.”
“That’s really great,” I said encouragingly.
“Yeah, but, she ain’t saved. I told her that she had to get saved or I could not be with her when I get out.”
I knew where this was going. “How old are you, Garcia?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Is this your first spiritual experience?”
“Yes. I played some religious games before, but I’ve never been, you know, saved before.”
“I see. So, it took twenty-seven years for you to begin your spiritual journey?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“And, who made you begin it?”
“Nobody. I mean, I guess God did.”
“That’s right. Nobody and God. And that’s who has to do it for your wife.”
“But, Chaplain, she’s Catholic.”
He whispered the word “Catholic” the way people do “cancer” or “death.”
It never ceases to amaze me how many inmates get a good dose of jailhouse religion and expect their families to get it just like they do. They become obsessive over the minutest details of their chosen faith, and they engage in endless debates and exclude other inmates from their circles if they disagree. It’s probably because they have so much time on their hands, and many of them have severe mental and emotional problems to begin with, but in the words of Jesus, “They strain out a gnat and swallow a camel.”
“There is nothing wrong with being Catholic,” I said. “It is the oldest Christian church on the planet.”
“They’re not Christian. I told you they’re Catholic.”
“Catholicism is one branch of the Christian tree-still the largest, in fact.”
“It’s the harlot spoken of in the Revelation,” he said with a straight face-something I could not return.
“Let me give you a little advice,” I said. “Don’t expect everyone to have the same spiritual experiences that you do or to experience spiritual things in the same way that you have. They will not. God is vast and limitless. There is room in God for all of us, and with our different cultures, backgrounds, families, and individuality, we will all experience God differently. So allow God to move in your wife’s life, and don’t try to force her to experience God in the exact same way you have.”
“There’s only one way,” he said, rising to leave. “You’re not even saved, are you? You need to repent. You are worldly. ‘Come out from among them and be ye separate, saith the Lord,’” he said, and then he slammed my door.
Religion has numerous dark sides, many of which rear their ugly heads in prison. Not all inmates have shallow, self-righteous jailhouse religion. Some of them are truly becoming men of God. However, the majority of them have a mean-spirited, separatist, militant religion based on hate and prejudice. This was true for all the religions on the compound and not limited to Christianity. I was confronted with this dark face of faith nearly every day.
In another few minutes, Mr. Smith brought in Sandra Strickland to see me. I was pleasantly surprised.
“How are you?” she said. Her voice was full of concern.
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Pretty good. I just wanted to stop by and check on you. You seemed very upset yesterday. I was worried about you. Are you really okay?”
“Well, I am anxious to know the results of the test,” I said, and because she was so warm and compassionate I added, “I found a cut on my leg last night. It shook me up pretty badly. I just don’t know when I got it. It may have happened after the incident Tuesday morning. I just don’t know.”
“You poor man. I know the waiting’s the worst part, but I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. Even if you did have a cut on your leg, his blood would have had to seep all the way through your pants.”
“I know, but it’s just so scary.”
“We are at such high risk here. It’s not fair. Some of these inmates are the sorriest excuses for human beings I’ve ever seen. They’re breaking our state, our nation, and they’re not just killing each other, they’re killing us, too. They are leeches.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Anyway,” she said as she stood up and walked over to join me behind my desk, “I just wanted to let you know that if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.” She then patted my arm with one hand and rubbed my back with the other-merely friendly expressions of concern as best I could tell. Until she kissed me.
The kiss started out friendly enough, but then she lingered. I became uncomfortable and pulled away.
“Thank you, so much,” I said. “I really appreciate it. You are an exceptional nurse.”
“That’s not all I’m good at,” she said. She was silent a moment, then added, “How about dinner, tonight? My meals will make you want to kiss the cook.”
“I can’t tonight,” I said.
“Perhaps later in the week?”
“Perhaps.”
“And, you really are going to be all right,” she said moving toward the door. When she had opened it and stepped through it, she said, “Anything at all, now, just call.”
“Okay,” I said. And, as she shut the door and walked away, I mused at all the female attention I was receiving lately-Anna, Bambi, Sandy. They were all like streams in the desert.
Chapter 20
My head was swimming. Swirls of consciousness created a whirlpool of thoughts that included Anthony and Molly Thomas, Bambi, Sandy, AIDS, blood, murder, and Anna. There was a powerful undertow in the center of this mental whirlpool, and I was being pulled toward it. In fact, what was happening inside my head was preventing me from hearing what was happening outside.
“Chaplain. Chaplain,” Stone said. Tom Daniels and I were seated in his office for another round of who- knows-what and what’sgoing-on-around-here, but I didn’t feel like playing.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what the inspector said?” Stone tilted his head toward Tom Daniels.
“What did he say?” I asked.
Stone frowned deeply.
“I said,” Daniels said, “I found out that our very own Officer Shutt has been written up several times on accusations of brutality towards inmates-every one of them black.”
