THE MESS
The voice on the other end of the telephone conversation was gruff and gravely. The
words sounded intimidating, demanding and hard. “I understand you baptize at
your church. Well, I need to be baptized. I will see ya at Sunday morning service.” Beginning with that call, an incredible, most interesting journey, intertwined with pathos, admiration, and affection was born, now more than three decades past.
The journey concluded (at least the part of it that is in the realm of the physical) Tuesday morning, June 25, 2013.
Sunday morning arrived and an old, beat up pick-up truck paused for a moment in front
of the church and as suddenly as it appeared, it wheeled away. The driver would
tell me years later that the reason he did not stop was because the people were
not lined up to greet and welcome him, and in his “no excuses” persona, he meant
it; a fact that would bring much laughter to us both through the years. A short
time later the old chariot returned and this time the occupant came into the service.
If one thought the voice on the phone was intimidating, the physical image now
before me was even more so. Shoulder length black hair cascaded from the crown
of his head and fell rather carefree until it met and mingled with a heavy
beard. His clear eyes, sharp and penetrating, enhanced the sparkle of the ear
ring. He had more rings than fingers: too numerous to count (rings that is not fingers). It was obvious this fellow was obsessed with working out and lifting weights. Yet with all that strong physique, he walked with a distinct limp.
I would like to think that my “willingness” to baptize this very strange stranger
reflected some deep spiritual maturity complete with unconditional love,
unconditional acceptance, the “Christ-broadness” that takes risks, thinks
outside the box, and dares to go where mere religion refuses to go. I claim none of that.
All I can do is confess I was afraid NOT to baptize this dominating personality that seemed to tower over me. More likely afraid perhaps that he would “baptize” me and in that “watery grave” I would remain until the second coming.
Whatever the truth of that moment I did baptize this man and before the year was out, I
baptized around 75 members of his community and society of the Federal Penal
System of Canada.
Marshal Montgomery Lewis would often remark that his name seemed more a title than a
name. Birthed in Cape Britton Island, Nova Scotia, he was born into a culture of
addiction, violence, brokenness, fear and confusion. Shaped by that culture he
lived out everything he hated about it and swore he would never repeat. That
story can be found his book: The Caper.
A MESSAGE
After his baptism, “Monty” became part of the church of which I was the pastor. I
witnessed his wedding, dedicated his first child, watched over his evolution into the church
leadership. He walked with me through those difficult and pain filled early
years of my pastoral journey. He frequently offered his services (those with
which he was familiar and all too comfortable); i.e. breaking a few legs and
arms of those who made my life miserable thinking their “ministry” was to make a
pastor’s life miserable. This, too, we would laugh about through the years;
however, at the time he actually meant it. This reflected his former cultural
frame of reference.
I would hear the story of his conversion to Christ many times. I hear his voice
now repeating the story once more. I can see the light of his countenance and witness his enthusiasm and animation. Naked and alone, in the hole of a prison cell in London, Ontario,
teetering on the fringe of wild insanity, his soul riddled with paranoia and
convinced he would be put to death by the guards. The reality was incarceration
and his only conscious fear was that he would not die “like a man”; thus not
earning the respect in death those of his society would consider his due.
Dying “a hero” was the conscious motivation of his desperate cry into the walls and
ceiling of his confinement: “If there is a God anywhere in this universe please
come and help me die without cowardice – die fearlessly as I have lived.”
And so God came down right there in that prison cell, in the mess and nightmare that
is imprisonment, as much flesh and blood real as was the Salvation Army Chaplin
who now stood outside the bars and told my friend his real problem was sin and
that the only real solution to this real problem was the unvarnished gospel of
the grace of God. That revelation was what all the secular psychologists and
psychiatrists could never tell him because they are incapable within the
training of their profession to explain reality that only the Holy Spirit can
create and communicate.
To go from where my friend was in that moment; then, to become what he aspired in
the unfolding journey cannot be explained outside a chosen act of a Sovereign
God. This truth, this reality, and this experience was never compromised or
watered down. His was a God-story and not a Monty-story.
From that salvation morning in London, he finished his sentence from the earthly
courts and emerged from the prison system in Kingston, Ontario. I was his first
pastor upon his release. He finished his final calling last week and experienced his final
release.
Knowing none of his experiences at the time and just bouncing around the fringes of the
details, events and circumstances of then an uncharted journey, I would live to
discover that life is never about the mess but about the message that is formed
in the mess but emerges from it. King David lamented in his prayer of deep
repentance: “I have been evil from the day I was born; from the time I was
conceived, I have been sinful.” What he groaned concerning himself is
true of all men – we are birthed with a sin nature that guarantees we will sin.
When this is consciously recognized, the God-message to us forms and takes shape
in us. So it was with Monty - my great friend.
Being increasingly aware of that message and a growing conviction that the message in
the mess must be released to the world in a prison ministry, ‘Cons’ for Christ
was born. When the mission’s budget was divided, Monty Lewis left the board meeting with seven dollars and thirty six cents ($7.36) and Cons for Christ was off. It would become Bridges
of Canada Prison Ministry with its presently significant annual budget. But I,
on the night of this reflection, can see only (even through my present tears)
that tiny offering and I hear the voice of sacred scripture: “Despise not the
day of small beginnings.”
After that, my journey took me to Memphis TN. and shortly thereafter, his to
Fredericton, New Brunswick. Over the next 25 years our physical meetings were few but each
meeting and each phone call were God moments. He would tell me I had been upon
his heart and then proceed to give me a word that could only have been given to
him from the Holy Spirit.
Time passed – the seasons flew by. While blissfully unaware of the swiftness of their
passing suddenly the season we tiptoe most around was upon us: my great friend’s
health was failing. And even more suddenly I found myself staring at the Caller
ID on my office phone and not wanting to pick up the receiver; however, I did.
Following a very brief conversation, I sat in silence and deeply reflected upon the last
three visits with a brother now departed, a true friend now home with the Lord, a warrior of spiritual battles now at rest .
I will never reveal the contents of those conversations except to say that in
the end the soul of my great friend was poured out in its entirety – nothing
hidden, nothing held back, no shadows – all open and transparent.
THE GIFT
And yet one detail must be shared – the detail of the ruby ring. Monty had a hobby
as a means of unwinding, disengaging and relaxing: making jewellery.
He made jewellery from the beginning of the process by taking the stones
and gems in the rough to the finished product. For the last 15 years he kept
promising me a ring.
I am not a jewellery kind of guy so while I never exactly discouraged his desire I
never encouraged him either. All of that changed on a Monday evening, a week
before his home going.
I was returning from a rather long trip to Nova Scotia, still 1100 kilometres from
home and wanting to be there, but here I was in a hospital room in a city I did not
like because of some very sour, unpleasant memories of having been there before.
As I looked upon my rapidly departing friend, he gathered as much physical strength
as was left, and through tears told me the last thing he would do was make me a
ruby ring. In the presence of his tears and my own I knew this was no longer a
mere issue of jewellery and my personal taste: it was a matter of a "covenant gift" for
a keepsake that represented 30 years of relationship and friendship; 30 years of
mutual respect and honour in a shared journey of mess and message. This was now
about a prescient item of value as a symbol of things that are beyond earthly
value; symbols of values and value systems that most will never have or will
ever understand.
The memory of that moment will last forever. I bent low over the bed in an attempt
to hug my friend. I felt his effort to raise himself from his mattress. Being
unable to do so, I slipped my arms beneath his upper body and lifted him into my
embrace.
No words passed between us. Words were no longer necessary. Our language now
was that of our tears – far more eloquent than the greatest of oratory. This was
the moment my heart became one with his regarding the ruby ring – I MUST have
that ring for no reason other than his passion that I have it. My deep sadness
was that I knew it was now too late, that the last desire of my friend would
never be realized: he was simply unable to make the ring.
His final instruction to me was that I was to go to a particular address in the core
of the city and find a certain man. When I did as he instructed, I found the man was a jeweller. He sized my finger. The plan was that as soon as Monty was released he would construct my ring.
Tuesday morning dawned and the darkness of night scattered. I was torn between the
feelings that home was calling and the needs of a failing friend. I decided to
return to the hospital. I was amazed at what the night had done to my friend. I
tightly held his cold hand and I prayed from the depths of my spirit.
I left him with the only words that were in my soul trailing out behind me into
thin air: “I’ll see you on the other side of all of this, my great friend.” And
as incredible as it may seem, he left me with the whispered words most important
to his soul – whispered because that’s all the strength he had left, “I will see
to it that you get that ring.”
The voice was so diminished I had to position my ear almost against his lips, but I
heard what Monty said.
Seven days later my friend was in heaven while I was very much still on earth. My eyes
seemed strangely drawn to the naked finger that a week before had been sized.
Every view of the unadorned finger reminded me of my friend’s last request. Not
that it mattered to him now, I am sure, but my soul was flushed with sadness not
that I did not get the ring but that his final desire for me was denied.
It would not leave my soul and I still cannot quite believe my actions. Driven by
that consciousness I found myself way out beyond my comfort zone having a
telephone conversation with the man who had sized my finger. I entered the
conversation slowly and reluctantly – there was a definite stumble in my verbal
stride. Sensing my struggle and discomfort the “finger-sizer” came directly to
the point. “Dale, obviously I do not know you. But here is what I do know. Monty
knew you and his last request was that you have this ruby ring. I got the stone
from him and am making it now. It will be in the mail next week.”
And so I watch the letters appear and form words on the screen in front me and as my
fingers search for the proper keys I notice one finger in particular. I see the
gold band and my soul is strangely comforted. And then I catch again the flash
of the fire of this incredible ruby stone.
From somewhere deep within the soul a smile forms and slowly makes its warm and
pleasant journey to the surface of my face. In the privacy of my heart I think
simple thoughts: ‘Rest easy my great friend. Rest easy! We shared the mess. We
shared the message. And in some wonderfully mysterious way we now share a ruby ring.’
The voice on the other end of the telephone conversation was gruff and gravely. The
words sounded intimidating, demanding and hard. “I understand you baptize at
your church. Well, I need to be baptized. I will see ya at Sunday morning service.” Beginning with that call, an incredible, most interesting journey, intertwined with pathos, admiration, and affection was born, now more than three decades past.
The journey concluded (at least the part of it that is in the realm of the physical) Tuesday morning, June 25, 2013.
Sunday morning arrived and an old, beat up pick-up truck paused for a moment in front
of the church and as suddenly as it appeared, it wheeled away. The driver would
tell me years later that the reason he did not stop was because the people were
not lined up to greet and welcome him, and in his “no excuses” persona, he meant
it; a fact that would bring much laughter to us both through the years. A short
time later the old chariot returned and this time the occupant came into the service.
If one thought the voice on the phone was intimidating, the physical image now
before me was even more so. Shoulder length black hair cascaded from the crown
of his head and fell rather carefree until it met and mingled with a heavy
beard. His clear eyes, sharp and penetrating, enhanced the sparkle of the ear
ring. He had more rings than fingers: too numerous to count (rings that is not fingers). It was obvious this fellow was obsessed with working out and lifting weights. Yet with all that strong physique, he walked with a distinct limp.
I would like to think that my “willingness” to baptize this very strange stranger
reflected some deep spiritual maturity complete with unconditional love,
unconditional acceptance, the “Christ-broadness” that takes risks, thinks
outside the box, and dares to go where mere religion refuses to go. I claim none of that.
All I can do is confess I was afraid NOT to baptize this dominating personality that seemed to tower over me. More likely afraid perhaps that he would “baptize” me and in that “watery grave” I would remain until the second coming.
Whatever the truth of that moment I did baptize this man and before the year was out, I
baptized around 75 members of his community and society of the Federal Penal
System of Canada.
Marshal Montgomery Lewis would often remark that his name seemed more a title than a
name. Birthed in Cape Britton Island, Nova Scotia, he was born into a culture of
addiction, violence, brokenness, fear and confusion. Shaped by that culture he
lived out everything he hated about it and swore he would never repeat. That
story can be found his book: The Caper.
A MESSAGE
After his baptism, “Monty” became part of the church of which I was the pastor. I
witnessed his wedding, dedicated his first child, watched over his evolution into the church
leadership. He walked with me through those difficult and pain filled early
years of my pastoral journey. He frequently offered his services (those with
which he was familiar and all too comfortable); i.e. breaking a few legs and
arms of those who made my life miserable thinking their “ministry” was to make a
pastor’s life miserable. This, too, we would laugh about through the years;
however, at the time he actually meant it. This reflected his former cultural
frame of reference.
I would hear the story of his conversion to Christ many times. I hear his voice
now repeating the story once more. I can see the light of his countenance and witness his enthusiasm and animation. Naked and alone, in the hole of a prison cell in London, Ontario,
teetering on the fringe of wild insanity, his soul riddled with paranoia and
convinced he would be put to death by the guards. The reality was incarceration
and his only conscious fear was that he would not die “like a man”; thus not
earning the respect in death those of his society would consider his due.
Dying “a hero” was the conscious motivation of his desperate cry into the walls and
ceiling of his confinement: “If there is a God anywhere in this universe please
come and help me die without cowardice – die fearlessly as I have lived.”
And so God came down right there in that prison cell, in the mess and nightmare that
is imprisonment, as much flesh and blood real as was the Salvation Army Chaplin
who now stood outside the bars and told my friend his real problem was sin and
that the only real solution to this real problem was the unvarnished gospel of
the grace of God. That revelation was what all the secular psychologists and
psychiatrists could never tell him because they are incapable within the
training of their profession to explain reality that only the Holy Spirit can
create and communicate.
To go from where my friend was in that moment; then, to become what he aspired in
the unfolding journey cannot be explained outside a chosen act of a Sovereign
God. This truth, this reality, and this experience was never compromised or
watered down. His was a God-story and not a Monty-story.
From that salvation morning in London, he finished his sentence from the earthly
courts and emerged from the prison system in Kingston, Ontario. I was his first
pastor upon his release. He finished his final calling last week and experienced his final
release.
Knowing none of his experiences at the time and just bouncing around the fringes of the
details, events and circumstances of then an uncharted journey, I would live to
discover that life is never about the mess but about the message that is formed
in the mess but emerges from it. King David lamented in his prayer of deep
repentance: “I have been evil from the day I was born; from the time I was
conceived, I have been sinful.” What he groaned concerning himself is
true of all men – we are birthed with a sin nature that guarantees we will sin.
When this is consciously recognized, the God-message to us forms and takes shape
in us. So it was with Monty - my great friend.
Being increasingly aware of that message and a growing conviction that the message in
the mess must be released to the world in a prison ministry, ‘Cons’ for Christ
was born. When the mission’s budget was divided, Monty Lewis left the board meeting with seven dollars and thirty six cents ($7.36) and Cons for Christ was off. It would become Bridges
of Canada Prison Ministry with its presently significant annual budget. But I,
on the night of this reflection, can see only (even through my present tears)
that tiny offering and I hear the voice of sacred scripture: “Despise not the
day of small beginnings.”
After that, my journey took me to Memphis TN. and shortly thereafter, his to
Fredericton, New Brunswick. Over the next 25 years our physical meetings were few but each
meeting and each phone call were God moments. He would tell me I had been upon
his heart and then proceed to give me a word that could only have been given to
him from the Holy Spirit.
Time passed – the seasons flew by. While blissfully unaware of the swiftness of their
passing suddenly the season we tiptoe most around was upon us: my great friend’s
health was failing. And even more suddenly I found myself staring at the Caller
ID on my office phone and not wanting to pick up the receiver; however, I did.
Following a very brief conversation, I sat in silence and deeply reflected upon the last
three visits with a brother now departed, a true friend now home with the Lord, a warrior of spiritual battles now at rest .
I will never reveal the contents of those conversations except to say that in
the end the soul of my great friend was poured out in its entirety – nothing
hidden, nothing held back, no shadows – all open and transparent.
THE GIFT
And yet one detail must be shared – the detail of the ruby ring. Monty had a hobby
as a means of unwinding, disengaging and relaxing: making jewellery.
He made jewellery from the beginning of the process by taking the stones
and gems in the rough to the finished product. For the last 15 years he kept
promising me a ring.
I am not a jewellery kind of guy so while I never exactly discouraged his desire I
never encouraged him either. All of that changed on a Monday evening, a week
before his home going.
I was returning from a rather long trip to Nova Scotia, still 1100 kilometres from
home and wanting to be there, but here I was in a hospital room in a city I did not
like because of some very sour, unpleasant memories of having been there before.
As I looked upon my rapidly departing friend, he gathered as much physical strength
as was left, and through tears told me the last thing he would do was make me a
ruby ring. In the presence of his tears and my own I knew this was no longer a
mere issue of jewellery and my personal taste: it was a matter of a "covenant gift" for
a keepsake that represented 30 years of relationship and friendship; 30 years of
mutual respect and honour in a shared journey of mess and message. This was now
about a prescient item of value as a symbol of things that are beyond earthly
value; symbols of values and value systems that most will never have or will
ever understand.
The memory of that moment will last forever. I bent low over the bed in an attempt
to hug my friend. I felt his effort to raise himself from his mattress. Being
unable to do so, I slipped my arms beneath his upper body and lifted him into my
embrace.
No words passed between us. Words were no longer necessary. Our language now
was that of our tears – far more eloquent than the greatest of oratory. This was
the moment my heart became one with his regarding the ruby ring – I MUST have
that ring for no reason other than his passion that I have it. My deep sadness
was that I knew it was now too late, that the last desire of my friend would
never be realized: he was simply unable to make the ring.
His final instruction to me was that I was to go to a particular address in the core
of the city and find a certain man. When I did as he instructed, I found the man was a jeweller. He sized my finger. The plan was that as soon as Monty was released he would construct my ring.
Tuesday morning dawned and the darkness of night scattered. I was torn between the
feelings that home was calling and the needs of a failing friend. I decided to
return to the hospital. I was amazed at what the night had done to my friend. I
tightly held his cold hand and I prayed from the depths of my spirit.
I left him with the only words that were in my soul trailing out behind me into
thin air: “I’ll see you on the other side of all of this, my great friend.” And
as incredible as it may seem, he left me with the whispered words most important
to his soul – whispered because that’s all the strength he had left, “I will see
to it that you get that ring.”
The voice was so diminished I had to position my ear almost against his lips, but I
heard what Monty said.
Seven days later my friend was in heaven while I was very much still on earth. My eyes
seemed strangely drawn to the naked finger that a week before had been sized.
Every view of the unadorned finger reminded me of my friend’s last request. Not
that it mattered to him now, I am sure, but my soul was flushed with sadness not
that I did not get the ring but that his final desire for me was denied.
It would not leave my soul and I still cannot quite believe my actions. Driven by
that consciousness I found myself way out beyond my comfort zone having a
telephone conversation with the man who had sized my finger. I entered the
conversation slowly and reluctantly – there was a definite stumble in my verbal
stride. Sensing my struggle and discomfort the “finger-sizer” came directly to
the point. “Dale, obviously I do not know you. But here is what I do know. Monty
knew you and his last request was that you have this ruby ring. I got the stone
from him and am making it now. It will be in the mail next week.”
And so I watch the letters appear and form words on the screen in front me and as my
fingers search for the proper keys I notice one finger in particular. I see the
gold band and my soul is strangely comforted. And then I catch again the flash
of the fire of this incredible ruby stone.
From somewhere deep within the soul a smile forms and slowly makes its warm and
pleasant journey to the surface of my face. In the privacy of my heart I think
simple thoughts: ‘Rest easy my great friend. Rest easy! We shared the mess. We
shared the message. And in some wonderfully mysterious way we now share a ruby ring.’
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