A Work (Release) in Progress

By chance, the other night I caught the last minutes of one of the 24-hour news channels’ documentary about the Kentucky State Penitentiary. The end of the program’s focus on a particular inmate’s release from prison included his hopes for a new life “on the outside,” his uncertainty about what awaited him once beyond the high, thick stone walls surrounding his many-years home away from home, and his belief that whatever was out there would be an improvement over life in the slammer.

I stayed with the final stages of the documentary in part because of a soft spot in my heart for the Bluegrass State, having served a church there for three years while in seminary. But more, I stayed because of this inmate on his way to becoming an ex-con. One scene showed him taking his final walk along the pathway of his cellblock, exchanging brief palm slaps with men whom bad choices had made familiar company. Next for him was a stop in the paperwork office, still in handcuffs and leg irons, then finally down a long staircase to freedom.

It was that farewell cellblock walk that got me. The inmate’s imprisonment nearly over, his personal journey about to take a dramatic turn, I experienced spiritual hope and longing as I watched his processional. But the prison from which I saw myself exiting was not formed of rock and barbed wire; it was made of selfishness, pride, anger, failure, isolation, and fear, to name a few. Inspired by this reinvented Kentuckian, I felt myself making a sojourn toward the exit of my personal prison.

Or, at least I wanted to make that sojourn.

There was a complication. See, the governor had issued my pardon. Upon my acceptance of the release, I would be free. As I walked the cellblock of my prison, I looked into the dank, cluttered, worthless cubicles occupied by my “criminal” elements – the selfishness, the pride, etc. I knew them well. I had made frequent company with them...in my previous stays in the prison.

It was a good thing that the governor had served for a long time, had become quite familiar with my case, and had developed an as-yet inexplicable affection for me – a good thing, because I needed the assist. Without the governor’s altruistic bias, I would be a lifer, for sure. So many times I had been pardoned. So many times I locked myself up again.

The complication was that as I walked the cellblock, sensing freedom within my spirit’s reach, I wondered whether this release would be the one that lasted, whether I would finally take advantage of the cleansing of my personal file. Or, would I yet again waste the offer and return to those cold, lonely cells.


These weeks before Jesus makes his walk to the cross are a good time for us to survey our spiritual surroundings. What kind of prison are you living in? Who are your cellmates? Where do you spend most of your broken life? (If your life isn’t broken anywhere, excuse this post’s interruption.)

The one who walks to the cross is the one who delivers word of your and my pardon. He’s the one who invites us out of our cells into the light of a new day, a new life. And best of all, he’s confident that those who follow him out of prison can make it on the outside.

As I watched that Kentucky inmate walk to his freedom, something stirred in me. It was as if I was lifted above the complications and the failures of my past. It was as if this time I could successfully accept the warden’s kind offer. Call that overoptimism, if you want; I call it hope, a hope that filled my heart, quickened my step, and prompted me to want to catch up to Jesus.

Your cell door’s open, too.


Pray with me:
God, Jesus came to announce my pardon. I have heard that line before...as have you. May this time be different. Not because you’re different – grace doesn’t need to change – but because I’m different. May my walk to the cross sign, seal, and deliver me into a new life. In the name of Jesus, Amen.