The Kingdom of Heaven Is Like Unto

Correctional work is not for those with fearful hearts, fragile minds, weak bodies, or short patience. Any person who has worked a week with any part of the criminal justice system in these United States will testify to the grueling nature of the task. In correctional facilities, be they group homes, county jails, juvenile detention centers, juvenile development campuses or state prisons, you will find the loudest, rudest, most demanding, most entitled, least responsible, least competent and least appreciative citizens of this country.
They are never happy; they are perennially distraught, they are constantly seeking someone to blame for their distress.
And yet, they are still God’s children, created in His image. His word exhorts us not only to pray for them but also to visit and comfort them.
I worked 25 years in the Georgia Department of Corrections at Georgia State Prison and the Georgia Department of Juvenile Justice at Wrightsville Youth Development Campus and Eastman Regional Youth Detention Center. I’ve consulted with prisons in many other states.
In those years, I have had horrendous days. This is hard work. I have also had holy days in which I was blessed to see murderers, rapists, and armed robbers behave in ways that put my Christian witness to shame. Correctional facilities are without pretense; there is no social veneer to obscure either motive or behavior. What you see is what there is. Despite all odds, you frequently see saintly behavior. You have to want to look. . Or in the words of Jesus, “ have ears to hear.”
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Luke 6:27-31
The segregation inmates, those placed in total lock-down for disciplinary infractions, were on the exercise yard in pens. As I walked down the sidewalk from the school to the main prison building, they screamed and hollered at me.
It’s something I ought to be used to by now – I’ve been hearing it for nearly 13 years. Some days it bothers me less than others. My thoughts raced as I moved to get out of their field of view:
“I haven’t done anything to them!”
“Why can’t they show some respect?”
“What is their problem?”
“What should I do?”
“Pray for them? Come on!”
“Love them? I bet their own mothers don’t!”
“Bless them? But, God, they’re cursing me!”

II John; Acts 1:8
I was completing paperwork when Thom walked into my office. An “old-time” inmate, he was covered with tattoos. A Confederate bandana was tied into a cap on his head.
“You need something?” I inquired with skepticism.
“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Jane Hall. I’d like to ask you something if I can. Who do you think Jesus Christ was?”
With astonishment, I replied, “He was the son of God.”
“You really think so?”
“I do. Who do you think he was?”
“Well, that’s what I am trying to figure out. I gotta go. Can I come back and talk to you again?”
I answered affirmatively and he was gone. I sat at my desk in amazed contemplation. I had never imagined such a question from Thom. I had judged him on the basis of appearance.
The Son of God warned about that, didn’t He?