I didn't want to be in prison that day, even if I was only a visitor. Angry scowls or dull eyes followed my march down the hollow corridors and, at the end of each hall, I silently counted the number of locked doors behind me to the sunlight. Still, the phone call had said a friend of a friend was here and wanted to talk to a minister. And after all, visiting the prisoners was one of the commands St. Paul had given us. So, armed with caution, I had come.

The prisoner and I were left alone in a small room. After a few awkward moments of silence and some polite probing from each of us, his barrage of words began. Seated on cracked plastic chairs without even a table to separate us, he unloaded his thoughts - sorrow for his crime and for the embarrassment to his family, anger at the years ta…