Ministers Behind Bars

The prison chaplain, says Lutheran Minister William Currens, was until recently a man of no particular qualifications -- "retired or having difficulty try ing to find a place where he wouldn't be noticed." Today, the men who minister behind bars constitute a highly trained, psychologically astute elite of the clergy.

In part, higher standards for prison chaplains have been inspired by growing secular awareness that prisons are primarily intended to rehabilitate rather than merely punish; more than half of the states now require that chaplains undergo from six to 18 months of specialized pastoral training. For example, the Rev. Henry Taxis, chaplain to the Hennepin County Home for Boys in Minnesota, studied for nine months at a state hospital in Iowa, three months at Federal Detention Headquarters in New York, and six months at the Illinois State Training School for Boys. The chaplains learn fast that the techniques suitable for the suburban parish are out of place in the convict world.

"We Don't Use Gospels." "We work closely with psychiatrists and psychologists and use many of their techniques in our approach," says the Rev. W. Ralph Graham, chaplain at the Federal Correctional Institute in Englewood, Colo. "We don't use the Gospels or the Ten Commandments or the Beatitudes any more. Instead we talk about God in terms of the prisoners' experience. God has to be something they understand, not just an authoritarian father image." Says Lutheran Pastor Harold Lindberg, chaplain at Ohio Penitentiary: "I stress things like Paul's calling men to victorious living. Without using those exact words, I try to make these men agree that they are children of God."

Prison chaplains agree that helping restore in prisoners their sense of humanity is a primary task. Most first offenders are crushed by their loss of freedom and self-respect and are bitter about the inequities of the law. "We are dealing with people who feel that there is no justice at all in meting out punishment," says Pastor Currens, chaplain at the Minnesota Women's Reformatory, and he tends to share the feeling. "If you steal an $18 dress, you can get 18 months in jail; but if you cheat for $100,000 on your income tax, you can get a suspended sentence and fine." Another constant concern is the prisoners' intense and persistent fear of dying in prison--"to them the height of degradation," says Lindberg.

The Man Behind the Tables. In the hope of reaching out to their alienated charges, prison chaplains are tolerant of being used by cynics--convicts who show up for services to improve their chances for parole. The ministers try to avoid any sign of moral judgment. The Rev. George Tolson of San Quentin wears an old green eyeshade when he interviews inmates ("It reminds them of the man behind the tables at Reno") and tells them: "I'm not here with answers. I'm just here to share with you what you've been going through." Colorado's Graham, like other chaplains, is aware that prisoners actively dislike people "messing around with their minds," and that sometimes a jolt of realism does as much good as a soft word. Lutheran Lindberg bluntly tells down-in-the-mouth prisoners that "if they think they are bastards they're going to act like bastards."

Many chaplains have been introduced to the challenges of prison life by serving pastoral internships under the auspices of such organizations as the nondenominational Council for Clinical Training Inc. The personal rewards, when they come, are satisfying. Tolson recalls befriending one juvenile delinquent at the Illinois State Training School, who later came to him for help when he was ministering to a Congregational Church in California. Undiscouraged when his youthful charge was rearrested for stealing cars, Tolson persuaded six lay friends to help the boy when his second term was up. Now the ex-convict has a wife, three children, and a steady job. "I lent him $1,000 to help buy a home," Tolson says proudly, "and he paid me back within a year."

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