I prefer the word “prisoner” to “inmate.” “Inmate” denotes a sort of complacency about one’s loss of freedom – a sort of neutral personal choice like “roommate” or “classmate.” Being a prisoner is not always a result of one’s choices.
Prison is often both physically and emotionally uncomfortable. People who know me have pointed out that I seldom complain about the indignities visited upon all prisoners. I tend not to see things in terms of myself, and I don’t like complaining. I never really understood what purpose it serves.
It’s axiomatic in prison that “inmates” expend vast amounts of energy complaining about the food, the attitudes of guards – or “corrections officers” as they prefer to be called – and the constant rumors of draconian steps by prison officials to take away what little we have. All prisoners have a sort of hierarchy of the personal indignities they most disdain.
I think my hierarchy is organized a bit differently than most. I can cope with almost any humiliation or living condition. At the end of the day, I offer up whatever I have faced that day. Some things are more painful to me, but that is largely because I continue to hold onto some dignity, or pride – or both. I think dignity is a good thing, but pride, its moodier cousin, is self-defeating.
Two months ago I was awakened by a guard at 5:30 AM and told to dress quickly and report to the prison’s transportation office. The guard would take no questions. There was a cloud of doom and gloom over as I walked the short distance. Being sent to transportation can mean anything from a medical consult to transfer to another prison. The latter is every prisoner’s nightmare.
By 6 AM, I was locked into another cell with four other men, none of whom had any idea where they were going. There was no place to sit so I stood at the cell bars in the tiny, crowded room. After an hour, I heard a guard in the distance say, “MacRae’s going on a med run.” I relaxed a bit. A “med run” is a medical consult or procedure arranged by the prison doctor with an outside medical facility. It was only the second time in fifteen years I was taken out of the prison for a med run.
After an hour standing at the cell bars, two guards appeared carrying all the adornments a prisoner must wear on a field trip. A thick leather restraint was placed tightly around my waist, and my wrists were locked into fixed shackles on the restraint so my hands were immobilized at my waist. As is inevitable whenever that happens, my nose immediately began to itch. I found it difficult to breath in the tight, heavy restrains. I hoped we were not going very far.
Led to the back of a prison van into what seemed like a cage built inside, my handlers spoke not a single word to me. I could see very little out the grill work of the cage, but after about 20 minutes, I spotted a sign for Catholic Medical Center in Manchester, one of two Catholic hospitals in New Hampshire.
As I was led into the lobby with all my prison hardware clinking and the two armed guards at my sides, I felt the cold stares of dozens of wary eyes upon me. There had been a lot of idle chatter in the bustling hospital lobby, but everyone suddenly fell silent as I was led through their midst feeling…well…like a prisoner. I tried to stare straight ahead, a tactic that was not as easy as the silence quickly evolved into a torrent of whispers. I thought I even heard a gasp or two. As we proceeded across the lobby toward the bank of elevators, we paused while a guard went to retrieve some paperwork.
At the elevators, the remaining guard turned me around 180 degrees to face the wall instead of the field of eyes. I felt grateful for this, but then I heard another gasp. The guard quickly looked at me, and I realized the gasp was my own. As I stood facing the wall in my prison garb and chains and shackles and leather restraints, I found myself face to face with a smiling portrait of my bishop.
It was a short visit. I was whisked around again by the guards as two elevators opened simultaneously, and they steered me into the less crowded one. I could feel the discomfort of the few people in the elevator. Everyone but the guards and me got off on the next floor. I wondered if that was really where they were going. Despite all the hardware, I felt naked.
In the patient waiting area, an elderly woman smiled at me from across the room. I tried to smile back. I was trying hard not to look like Hannibal Lecter.
All the restraints were removed for the medical procedure which took only minutes. Putting them all back on again took longer than the procedure. The journey out of the hospital seemed much shorter than the route in. With my hands immobilized in front of me, I spoke a brief prayer for my bishop as we passed his portrait, my chains clinking in rhythm with our steps.
I was back in my cell having instant coffee by 9:30. It was nice to have all that hardware off. I sat and stared out my cell window for awhile. I felt profoundly, inexplicably sad. It did not last long – just long enough for me to assess the difference between dignity and pride.
(With apologies to my friend, Fr. Richard John Neuhaus whose seminal work The Naked Public Square identified him as America’s brightest and clearest theological thinker. May he rest in peace. Amen.)
Editor’s Note: Several of you have expressed a desire to join Fr. MacRae in a Spiritual Communion. He celebrates a private Mass in his prison cell on Sunday evenings between 11 pm and midnight. You’re invited to join in a Holy Hour during that time if you’re able.
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{ 12 comments… read them below or add one }
Hi Father Gordon,
This is the first time I’ve seen your website. I’m very sorry that you are going through this terrible trial. I will pray for you. May Our Lady watch over you with her tender love.
This post reminds me of an incident I witnessed many years ago when I was assigned to Dar es Salaam. I had gone to Nairobi, Kenya for a conference.
Because the borders were closed between Kenya and Tanzania, I had flown to Kenya via Zambia, and was returning via Ethiopia on Air Ethiopia. After all the passengers were seated on the plane, we suddenly heard a ruckus. I glanced out the window and saw several policemen dragging a man toward the plane.
He was resisting with all that he had and shouting that he would be killed if he were returned to Ethiopia. He was wrestled up the steps, into the plane, and strapped into a seat between two guards. He was sobbing and yelling that he was going to his death. His cries were pitiful. I felt terrible for the man because I knew he was in for a lot of torture before finally being killed, before welcoming death.
Ethiopia was in the midst of a civil war and apparently this man was sought by the then-ruling authorities in Ethiopia. Some Ethiopians were fighting to become a separate country, now Eritrea, and this man was wanted in Ethiopia. The stewardesses were visibly upset. One raced to get a glass of water for the man and I heard her demand of the guards, “Can’t you at least take off his handcuffs so he can have some water?!”
For just an instant I wondered if one of the sympathizing stewardesses would try to help the prisoner before we landed in Ethiopia. Once the plane was in the air the prisoner quieted. He realized all hope was gone. When we arrived in Addis the prisoner was quiet and resigned. He walked off the plane with dignity, knowing that he was going to his death. I felt that I had just witnessed an execution. I bowed my head and prayed for him.
Hi Fr. MacRae,
Peace be with you. It would seem that God had something in mind when he arranged a medical consult for you – other than getting medical care. Meeting your bishop in the elevator was no chance encounter. Perhaps it was the cock crowing three times.
You are continually in our prayers.
In Christ,
Jim
Father,
Your story reveals the vulnerability and helplessness you experience as one who is innocent, yet treated as a criminal. Our system is so unjust in many cases.
I have just remembered how my mind was changed about the death penalty a while back when I saw the movie “The Green Mile”. I knew upon seeing this movie that I would never be able to recommend the death penalty for anyone. I could never be sure that anyone was deserving of such a fate.
You are serving out a sentence you don’t deserve. One can’t help but feel the helplessness of it all. And to read your feelings about this public display of your unjust imprisonment, just hits hard at my heart. I try to put myself in your place. My heart would be so broken. I would be so hurt.
St. Paul’s words about our weakness becoming Christ’s strength spring forward in my mind. He was chosen by Christ to undergo a conversion and to carry His message of hope to all the world. How I wish the Angels would come to you and cut those chains away and release you only to baffle those who watch to make sure you can’t get away. But your voice is not silenced altogether, is it Father?
Perhaps the Angels have already come and have released you so that you can write and tell the world your story and let us hear your voice of strength and hope. We need to hear your voice in prison, Father. You are still a priest and there is much for you to do. And maybe the lady who smiled at you was chosen by God to remind you that He loves you.
I remember you in prayer daily. Don’t ever lose hope.
God bless you Fr. MacRae.
I remember seeing a man in shackles and with an armed guard going through the airport one day when I was waiting for a plane. I think this caught the attention of everyone – but my impression was that most people, certainly I, were feeling how embarassing this was for the man being treated this way, and this was no way to treat a person.
Hi Father,
Stay strong- Say a quick prayer for me, I am having a major surgery tomorrow cancer has eaten my bone away in my arm.
Thank you
I prayed for you in church tonite, 5 pm mass at St Catherine of Sienna in NYC
Dear Father,
This post had me nearly in tears this morning, so struck by the fact that had my life gone a little differently, I could have been one of the “handlers” you describe. I have written my own post pointing people here, and asking them to pray for you, and for all priests unjustly imprisoned.
God bless you.
Hang in there Father. I’ve been where you are at and understand.
Always remember who you are and never let anyone make you less.
My prayers are with you.
Mike
Father,
We sometimes forget to see past the external trappings in this case the prison garb and the shackles but the very old and the very young seem to have that gift perhaps because more often than not because they are pure of heart.
No matter how poor we are we can always afford a smile.
A soul I send up the odd prayer for in case he is in Purgatory is poor Oscar Wilde and I think how deeply humiliating it was for him when he was transported on the public railway system in prison garb a man who loved fine clothes and adored beauty.
I hate the sin of homosexuality for what it does to the souls of those who live the lifestyle but I feel great compassion for those who battle with this particular temptation and I feel poor Wilde may well have saved himself from hell when he wrote that beautiful children’s story “The Gentle Giant”.
If you have not read it before see if the library has a copy.I don’t know if your “home” allows family visits but if they do it would be a lovely story to have available for the children to read if they have to wait before seeing their father.
God Bless
Mary
Oh Father how scared you must have been and the indignity of it all. Just the thought of the armed guards scares me to death (most of the British police force are not armed unless matrix.) Godbless that wonderful old lady for her ’smile’ I am sure she saw past your ’shackles’ My thoughts and prayers are with you always.
love Jan
Father,
As a Catholic priest, you are in persona christi; we usually think of that as related to saying Mass. In your case it is Christ’s passion. Thank you for your posts as they remind me to keep you in my prayers. Be assured you are in them always.
God Bless you and Mary keep you!
Oh, Father- I continually have you in my prayers. The indignities you suffer… I can only say if it were not for the example Christ has left us, how would any of us get through each day?