“The True Story of Andersonville Prison” by James Madison Page

Andersonville is a name that conjures up a dark history. It was a prison camp for Union soldiers, placed in the Georgia countryside about 100 miles south of Atlanta. It was operated for slightly more than a ear, from 1864 to 1865. Some 45,000 Union soldiers were imprisoned there; 13,000 of them died. It’s now operated as a historical site by the U.S. National Park Service.  

For comparison, the prison at Elmira, New York operated by the Union at roughly the same time, housed 12,000 Confederate prisoners, of which almost 3,000 died. The Union prison at Alton, Illinois housed Confederate soldiers, Union soldiers, and civilians; of the 11,000 prisoners, some 1,534 are known to have died. (Alton was noted for outbreaks of smallpox and measles.)

 

Andersonville remains the Civil War prison with the worst, and largely well-deserved reputation. It’s also known for one other event – its commandant, the Swiss born Major Henry Wirz, was executed after the war for the crimes he allegedly committed at the prison. The immediate post-war period was a time of outrage and demands for retribution, and what had happened at Andersonville was exhibit No. 1.

To continue reading, please see my post today at Dancing Priest.

Some Wednesday Readings

 

Les Miserables, the American Civil War, and Women “When It All Went Wrong”  and Les Miserables, the American Civil War, and the Plight of Orphans – Sarah Kay Bierle at Emerging Civil War.

 

At Highgate Cemetery – Spitalfields Life. 

 

It’s harder than ever to rise above the noise. It’s also a golden age for writers – Nathan Bransford.

 

The prisoner

After Ephesians 3:1-13

In chains behind bars,

clarity can grow

from a  small pinpoint

of light in the darkness

to a blinding sun.

So, too, can love, oddly

enough, love given

as a gift to share

to those considered

beyond the pale,

untouchable, tolerated

only because of numbers

but previously despised,

nonetheless. The gift was

revelation into a mystery,

that all are now equal,

favoritism leveled,

distinctions destroyed.

All are now chosen,

all are now heirs,

all are now people

of the promise.

Photograph by Schesco Nyarwaya via Unsplash. Used with permission.

In a cell, daily

After Ephesians 1:15-23

What is it to sit in a cell,

day after day, waiting

for some movement,

some progress, some

anything on your case,

but hearing only 

the silence of the night,

the scurrying of the rats,

the groaning and nearby

whimpering, punctuated

only by occasional 

shouts of guards and

slamming of doors?

It is endless waiting,

an existence of gray, 

until news is heard,

news from a thousand

miles away, news that

serves to remind that

a work once done

bears fruit and returns

as many more works

still being done, that

a visit years ago has

left growth and

flourishing behind it,

tangible expressions

of faith and love,

and you’re sitting

in that cell, desolation

crowding your soul,

and you hear of that

good thing, that life,

and you know that

your life is not in vain,

that this waiting, too, 

has its purpose and is

itself another good work.

Photograph by Michael Jasmund via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Logical progression

After Ephesians 1:15-22

He was nothing if not

logical, speaking and

arguing with that razor

sharp mind of his, and

the logic continues,

even though it’s not

an argument or

discussion, but a report,

some welcome news,

so he gives thanks,

he prays for them,

he prays very generally

and very specifically,

for them to receive

a spirit of wisdom 

and revelation, so that

hearts are enlightened,

hearts know the hope,

the hope that is calling,

the riches of inheritance,

the power extended,

the power of a death and

resurrection extending

above all other power

and authority for all time,

and all that in one breathless

this-follows-that sentence.

Photograph by Jeff Frenette via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Manacles, chafed

After Galatians 4:4-7

The manacles, chafed

and chafing, dirtied and

stained his wrists, flakes

of metal coloring his skin

like rings, tightening. 

The manacles, reminding

him of his status, his bounds,

his binding, his place

without future. The manacles,

too, bind his ankles, the metal

tattooing its presence,

a sign that he was a prisoner,

a slave, born without prospect

of redemption.

Someone, a voice, called him

a son, the voice heard first

in his ears before his heart;

he was called son. Manacles

snapped open, the stains

washed off. And then he heard,

first in his ears before his heart,

the voice calling him

with a new name:

heir.

Photograph by Stephen Hickman via Unsplash. Used with permission.

It seems ridiculous

After Philippians 1:18-26

It seems ridiculous

to sit here, chains

adorning my wrists

and ankles, and speak

of choosing a path.

Choices become few

and narrowed in a cell.

I wait for resolution,

which might or might not

come. But as I wait,

I know that if I do

nothing more than sit

and write letters, then

the work continues,

in spheres above and

spheres below. It does

seem ridiculous and 

foolish to a man, but

eternal things usually

do. 

Photograph by Ye Jinghan via Unsplash. Used with permission.

The guard speaks

After Philippians 1:12-18

You call this a gospel,

good news, do you?

You say you find peace

even here, do you?

I’m not the one 

In the cell and even

I find this place a pit,

a dread, I would rather

be anywhere but here,

even fighting barbarians

in those forests forsaken

by the gods. And yet

you say you find

contentment here, that

your soul, your spirit,

your mind is at peace.

So, tell me more, prisoner,

tell me how you find

contentment in this place,

how you find peace

in this earthly hell. 

Photograph by Carlos Rabada via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Even the bad stuff

After Philippians 1:12-18

I didn’t expect to end up

like this, chains on my arms

and legs, and a dank, dark cell;

it’s not exactly what we’d call

entering the city in triumph. 

I must have missed 

the commemorative arch. And

the waiting – a prison cell

of its own, day by day,

waiting to be called and

heard. There is no king

but Caesar; indeed? 

Suffering becomes self-pity

becomes anger, until the day

the guard asks me to explain,

and I do. Then another guard

asks, and the prisoner 

in the next cell as well, 

silencing his own chains

to listen. Then I understand,

only then, that I am here

in this place, even this forgotten,

condemned place, to serve

a purpose, the help fulfill

a plan, and I am struck with

wonder that even the bad stuff

is the good stuff. 

Photograph by R. Martinez via Unsplash. Used with permission.

“Power in the Blood” by Michael Lister

John Jordan is 27, working as a chaplain at a prison in Florida. He’s also recently divorced, a recovering alcoholic (the divorce is a result of his enabling wife not wanting him to go sober), and a former police officer in Atlanta who cracked a child murder case. 

He’s arriving at work when he sees a typical morning scene. A prison guard is routinely stabbing at backs of trash, making sure no prisoner is using the daily trash pickup to attempt an escape. The routine is meant to be a deterrent to prisoners. This morning, however, as the guard stabs a trash bag, he hits something other than trash. As Jordan runs to assist, he’s hit by an eruption of blood from the trash bag. Inside the bag is an now-dead inmate, one who was HIV positive. 

Michael Lister

An official investigator is appointed – Jordan’s former father-in-law, who despises Jordan with a passion, not so much for the divorce from his daughter as professional jealousy and an inability to deal with his own alcoholism. The warden also asks Jordan to informally investigate, working with his former father-in-law.  And what they begin to uncover is a sordid sex trafficking operation, run out of the prison and involving prisoners, correction officers, and outsiders.

Power in the Blood is the first of some 20 John Jordan mysteries by Michael Lister. Lister knows the ins and outs of prison ministry – he was a prison chaplain himself for almost a decade with the Florida Department of Corrections. In addition to the John Jordan series, Lister has published three novels in the Remington James series, five in the Merrick McKnight series, five in the Reggie Summers series, three in the Cataclysmos series, six in the Sam Michaels series, and three in the Daniel Davis series.

Power in the Blood, originally published in 1997, has been republished in a new edition. It’s fast-paced, full of twists and turns, and ringing with the authenticity of prison life. 

Prison

After Psalm 107:10-14

The prison is cold, and damp,

a generator of a chill that

freezes and dries the soul,

the scurrying sounds 

in dark corners reminding me

of my cellmates, sharpening

the knowledge of my offense

that has led to affliction and

irons, irons I joyfully clamped

on my own legs, afflictions

I welcomed in ignorance and 

stupidity, believing them 

to be freedom. spurning

the good and embracing slavery,

not seeing as the cage 

with no door, no key, until

I cried out and the light

flooded my cell.

Photograph by Denny Muller via Unsplash. Used with permission.

The Hiding Place: The Unexpected Kindness of the Gospel

You’re imprisoned for months. You know your elderly father has died, only 10 days after the family was arrested. Your sister is somewhere in the same prison. A few relatives have been released. Your crime: hiding Jews from the Nazi occupation forces in Holland, and helping them escape.

The time arrives, months after your arrest, for your interrogation.

In The Hiding Place, Corrie ten Boom describes the walk to the Lieutenant’s office. She’s fearful – who wouldn’t be? – and she rehearses various possibilities in her mind. When she arrives, she’s greeted with polite kindness. The lieutenant who is to interrogate her builds a fire and offers tea. She is wary; she knows his kindness may be a strategy to get her to divulge information that would endanger others and seal her own fate.

Unexpectedly, she finds herself sharing the gospel with him. He sends her back to her cell. She’s afraid she had only created more trouble for herself.

When he calls her back, they talk. The Nazi lieutenant says he feels he’s in a prison himself. His family in Germany lives in a  town that has just been bombed, and he doesn’t know if they’re unharmed or not. He is weighed down by the things he has done, the acts he has committed on behalf of the occupation forces.

Corrie tells him that God’s light can shine into the darkest of places. He listens. When he sends her back to her cell, he tells her to walk slowly down one corridor.

She does exactly that. She sees a door has been left open. She knows in her heart what she will see as she passes by – her beloved sister Betsie. Betsie doesn’t see her; she has her back to the cell door. But others in the cell see Corrie. And Corrie can see just enough to see that the cell looks like a home.

For the first time in months, her spirits soar.

Later, when it’s time for the reading of her father’s will, the lieutenant decides to follow Dutch law, and assemble all the family members. Corrie not only gets to see and touch Betsie, but her brother Willem and his wife Nollie as well. She and Betsie are not released, but they do have this precious moment as a family.

This is a blessing, coming from the hands of a Nazi lieutenant who has done evil things for his country and government. Kindness and blessings can sometimes come from the most unexpected of places.

Who would think to share the gospel with an official who is not only going to interrogate you, but holds life and death authority over you? As Corrie describes it, she didn’t plan to do this; it simply happened. And the sharing of the gospel resulted in a small miracle.

All of us have faced times and situations where the sharing of the gospel would make us look foolish at best and potentially cause serious problems at worst. Perhaps we should remember the example of Corrie ten Boom, who blurted out the gospel unexpectedly, and received an unexpected blessing in return.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’ve been reading The Hiding Place. To see more posts on this chapter, “The Lieutenant,” please visit Jason at Connecting to Impact.

Photograph by Anny Cecilia Walter via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The Mind of John the Baptist

In The Fire of Delayed Answers, Bob Sorge pints our how often the theme of prison recurs in the Bible, in both the Old and New Testaments. Two oft-cited examples are Joseph and Paul. But we tend to overlook Samson and Jeremiah, and Peter and John (exile to Patmos being a form of prison). Others had experiences akin to prison, like David when he was being hunted by Saul. Jesus was imprisoned for a short time.

And then we have John the Baptist.

Set apart from before his birth, John became known for letting his hair grow, wearing wild animal skins and eating locusts and honey. He had a message that attracted people, lots of people. He was clearly a holy man, called by God to bring a very specific message.

Make way.

Make way for the Lord.

He baptized Jesus in the Jordan River. And then his ministry began to wane, heading for a close. He was imprisoned for speaking the truth about Herod and his wife. Imprisoned, and left to languish. Herod didn’t seem to care; his wife did, however.

We don’t know how long John was imprisoned. But we do know he was feeling alone, and likely anguished. He had done all that the Lord had asked of him, and how he was left alone in Herod’s prison.

Alone, but not forgotten. Salome danced, a dance of lust that became John’s warrant for execution.

What did he think in those final hours, before the dance? Was in prayer, or despair? Or both, perhaps?

What did he think as the heard the soldiers coming, handling him roughly, and dragging him out to be executed (unless they beheaded him right there in his cell)? The soldiers were likely the only witnesses to the sword falling on his exposed neck. What ran through his mind in those final moments as the executioner began to swing the sword?

We don’t know. We can only imagine. We can try to put ourselves in his place, but the fact is we don’t know.

Could God have saved him? Yes.

But He didn’t. For whatever reason and purpose, He didn’t save John.

When Jesus was told, we read he went away by himself. He mourned his cousin, and he caught a glimpse of his own future.

The execution of John the Baptist seems unfair, and wrong. And it is, because of the injustice inflicted on John by Herod and his family.

But whatever else we might think, we know John the Baptist prepared the way for the Lord, even in his death.

Led by Jason Stasyszen and Sarah Salter, we’re discussing The Fire of Delayed Answers. To see more posts on this chapter, “Prison Theology,” please visit Sarah at Living Between the Lines.

Photography by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.