On April 22, 2019, after years of work, SJR159 passed, which is the first step in making the abolition of slavery universal in Tennessee, with no exceptions. A friend in prison convinced me years ago that mass incarceration will never end until we can no longer apply slavery and involuntary servitude to those who are convicted of a crime. Four and a half years ago when I pledged that No Exceptions would lead the struggle for universal abolition, I was told by numerous individuals that it would never happen in Tennessee. It’s happening. Thank you to all of you who believed. Stay tuned though, we aren’t close to finished, this is the first step in a multi-year process in Tennessee, and once it is on the ballot we will need folks fighting for this constitutional amendment across the state. Additionally, we are taking this fight to the federal level. The 13th Amendment doesn’t actually abolish slavery as most of you know by now. In collaboration with other groups at the national level, we’re going to change that reality. A huge thank you to our partner in this struggle Rep. Joe Towns, who never quits; and also a big thank you to Sen. Akbari for working this through the Senate.
Cascade Books has just released No Exceptions co-founder Michael T. McRay’s new book Where the River Bends: Considering Forgiveness in the Lives of Prisoners, with a foreword by Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu.
Myriad works discuss forgiveness, but few address it in the prison context. For most people, prisoners exist “out of sight and out of mind.” Their stories are often reduced to a few short lines in news articles at the time of arrest or conviction.
But what happened before in the lives of the convicted? What has happened after? How have people in prison dealt with the harm they have caused and the harm they have suffered? What does forgiveness mean to them? What can we outsiders learn about the nature of forgiveness and prison from individuals who have both dealt and endured some of life’s most painful experiences?
Expanding on his MPhil dissertation Echoes from Exile (with Distinction) from Trinity College Dublin, Michael McRay’s new book brings the perspectives and stories of fourteen Tennessee prisoners into public awareness. Weaving these narratives into a survey of forgiveness literature, McRay offers a map of the forgiveness topography. At once storytelling, academic, activism, and cartography, McRay’s book is as necessary as it is accessible.
There is a whole demographic we have essentially ignored when it comes to conversations on forgiveness. What would we learn if we listened?
Here’s what some folks had to say about it:
Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, from the foreword
“[T]his book is important … We cannot encounter these pages and remain unaffected. But what will happen to us if we listen to those we tend to ignore? This book is one way to find out. I encourage us all to listen.”
Michelle Alexander, author of the best-selling The New Jim Crow
“At a time when our nation leads the world in incarceration rates, and activists as well as politicians across the political spectrum are questioning for the first time whether the ‘get tough’ movement and the politics of punitiveness have taken our nation down the wrong path, we would be wise to pause and consider whether forgiveness might hold transformative power and potential. We can theorize about what forgiveness really means, or we can talk and listen to those we have viewed as unforgivable.
Where the River Bends does both, and thus offers depth of insight and perspective that is rare yet essential if we are going to move to higher ground.”
Shane Claiborne, activist, abolitionist, and author of Executing Graceand the best-selling Irresistible Revolution
“In this book, Michael McRay shares the stories that should make the headlines, but usually don’t. These are the stories of grace, mercy, and forgiveness—both the rewards and challenges. They are the stories of offenders who made victims and were also victims themselves. These stories are about folks who desire forgiveness but not forgetfulness, whose memories demonstrate the power and pain of mercy. On these pages, Michael McRay proves that our wounds have the power to hold us hostage to the past or to compel us to build a future where grace gets the last word. Here is a book pregnant with the hope that comes through the power of forgiveness.
Don’t just read this book–let it move you to become an agent of mercy in a merciless world.”
Everett L. Worthington, Jr., author of Moving Forward: Six Steps to Forgiving Yourself and Breaking Free from the Past
“Michael McRay has written an extraordinary book. It tells the grand narrative of how justice, forgiveness from God, seeking and receiving forgiveness from others, and struggling with forgiving the self come together like a turbulent river. The origin of this particular river is in McRay’s understanding of forgiveness, and McRay draws most heavily upon the superb theology and psychology of theologian Miroslav Volf, and peacemakers John Paul Lederach and Desmond Tutu. Then, fourteen prisoners’ personal stories form ‘tributaries’ that arise from the turbulent river. Those stories recount crimes, address justice, and describe self-recrimination. It is forgiveness that often bends the flow of narrative into the grand narrative that forgiveness of self and others changes lives.
This book could actually change your life.”
Donald B. Kraybill, co-author Amish Grace
“This book stands tall among the tomes on forgiveness. McRay takes us deep into the souls of prisoners, who explain the hard grubby work of releasing rage. Their stories make it clear: the recipe for forgiveness is not simple or easy. Yet the gritty work of letting go, opens the door to freedom even behind bars.
Caution: reading these heart-wrenching stories may change your life.”
by Michael T. McRay
It is not what you think. I was not harassed by prisoners. I did not burn out from over four years of regular volunteering. Actually, I was banned by the warden.
In 2009, I began volunteering inside Nashville’s Riverbend Maximum Security Institution. Over the next four years, I spent most Saturday evenings at Riverbend with several insiders and outsiders, participating in a contemplative prayer/conversation group. This was my church. After returning to Nashville in May 2013 from graduate study in Belfast, I began volunteering as a chaplain and built meaningful relationships with men all over the compound.
But everything changed in March 2014. Word spread around the compound that a new “security” system called “Tier Management” (TM) was coming to Unit 6. With two tiers of cells in each pod, TM promised to unlock only one tier of cells at a time, theoretically segregating the unit’s population. This system was expressly intended to affect inmates in “medium- or higher-custody units,” and though Unit 6 is designated as a medium-security unit, it housed staff-support inmates who were primarily minimum-security. This unit has had few, if any, major security incidents in the 26 years since the prison opened. One could argue it is the model unit in all TDOC (Department of Correction) facilities. Men work hard for years keeping their records clean to gain transfer to Unit 6. Genuine cultivation of good character among many prisoners, as well as various incentives (such as extended available recreation time), made Unit 6 one of the most non-violent units in Tennessee, a reality especially attractive when facing a life sentence, with or without parole (which in Tennessee is practically the same thing). Thus, instituting this “security” system seemed unnecessary at best and malicious at worst.
During my chaplaincy rounds, I heard anxiety from many men. Aware of the effects of TM on the maximum-security side, the men feared significant disruption to their lives, including the loss of various programs, Bible studies, and reduced rec time. These men lived as “general population,” able to move about various parts of the compound relatively unhindered. Generally, their clean records demonstrated their gratitude for these liberties. TM threatened all that, and no one knew why it was coming. The administration, upon hearing the disquietude, offered no clarification.
So, I organized free-world volunteers to write/call the TDOC administration and express concerns regarding implementing TM on Unit 6. I suspect calls and emails inundated them because I soon received a phone call from a high-ranking TDOC individual, expressing deep disapproval of my actions.
Shortly after, the warden summoned me. At the end of the hour-long interrogation, he told me the administration would be “evaluating whether you are a benefit to the institution,” and I would know my volunteer status “within 24 hours.” One month later, I finally received a letter, terminating my services. I emailed the warden to ask if I could return once more to say goodbye to my close friends, with whom I had visited for over four years. His response: “There is no other need for you to enter the facility.” Just like that, my committed presence at Riverbend ended.
Soon after I had received the call from TDOC in mid-March, I also received an email from TDOC Commissioner Schofield stating, among other things, that as volunteers, we are expected “not to discuss problems concerning the institution … with an inmate” and “not to challenge the policies of the institution or department.” This seemed directly contrary to previous invitations from TDOC for volunteers to offer feedback to the administration. “You are our eyes and ears,” I heard TDOC officials say in more than one forum. “We value your feedback.” But when a collective outcry arose, punishment was swift.
As a Tennessee resident, this deeply concerns me. Why does our prison administration require silence from its volunteers regarding the implementation of policy and “on-the-ground” dynamics in the prison? Why does it wish to mute the concerns of those who spend significant time working with and relating to prisoners? One of my friends on the inside was shipped from Riverbend some months back after residing there for years. He and I had been writing letters about a new book I’m working on. Upon his transfer, the administration told him that writing me indicated he was working as an “informant.”
In a government-run prison, funded by our one billion tax dollars, why is TDOC dismissing challenging voices and accusing prisoners of being “informants”? What is happening inside Tennessee prisons that would make TDOC so afraid of transparency? What would happen if we all demanded an answer?
by Michael T. McRay
The following is a revised version of comments Michael shared on a panel discussion at the Scarritt-Bennett Center in Nashville, Tennessee on June 19, 2014, as well as a blog post for Red Letter Christians.
Over the last year, Tennessee has appeared often in national news after it decided in April 2014 to bring back the electric chair as a possible means of execution. As a Tennessee citizen, teacher, Christian, and abolitionist, this was and remains abhorrent. Not only should we denounce the electric chair, but we should also reject the notion of execution altogether.
Myriad arguments can be made against capital punishment. One could speak of the economic issues, pointing out that the majority of “death row” inmates come from poor and disadvantaged backgrounds. Or one could note that the death penalty costs the taxpayers far more money than even housing inmates on life without parole charges.
One could denounce the death penalty on racial grounds, explaining that a defendant is more than three times as likely to face the death penalty for killing a white person as a defendant accused of murdering a person of color. This country has built itself on favoritism for light-skinned bodies, a reality visible not only in state executions (whether in prison or by police), but also in the history of slavery, Jim Crow, and modern-day mass incarceration, a progression brilliantly exposed in Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow.
One could also speak to the significant flaws in capital punishment, noting that, according to a recent study by the National Academy of Sciences, 4% of death row inmates are in fact innocent.
One could even reject the death penalty on religious grounds. Like many here in the Buckle of the Bible Belt, I come out of the Christian tradition. And as my friend Shane Claiborne has said, this is a tradition that holds to the dual conviction that none of us are above reproach or beyond redemption. In a state where over 80% of the population claims to be Christian, I am shocked that last year’s electric chair bill passed in the House 68-13 – on the day before Good Friday, no less – a day when Christians remember the death of Jesus, who was also executed on death row.
Not only must pro-death-penalty Christians wrestle with the fact that we follow an executed Christ, but our Scriptures also contain such figures as the Apostle Paul, formerly known as Saul, a man whom the Early Church would likely have considered as “Public Enemy Number 1”. He dragged Christians out of their homes to beat, imprison, and stone to death. If Saul lived in Tennessee today, he would certainly be on death row–unless of course he could afford a top-notch lawyer and was only convicted of killing black people.
But many Christians venerate Saul, who through an encounter with Jesus on the Road to Damascus, converted to a new way of living and, taking the name Paul, became what many call the “greatest missionary of the Church.” I remain baffled at how we can proclaim the story of Paul and the possibility of grace and redemption for everyone, but then turn to those on “death row” and clarify, “Well, everyone except you…”
Because this is in fact what we are saying when we execute other humans, that they exist beyond the possibility of redemption and transformation. “Sure,” we might say, “Paul orchestrated the killing of numerous Christians. Yes, King David so objectified and lusted after Bathsheba’s body that he used his power to have her husband Uriah killed so that David could quench his craving. But they are different.” We rightly believe killing is wrong, but then ironically demonstrate that by killing those who have killed to show others that killing is wrong.
I believe we are able to operate under this warped logic for two primary reasons. First, we have bought into the myth of single stories; and second, because we have an un-nuanced and fairly uncritical view of justice.
In an eloquent TED talk titled “The Danger of a Single Story,” Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Adichie tells us that single stories are stories that depict only one side to a person or an event. Our media narrates single stories about all kinds of people: Arabs are violent, Muslims are terrorists, immigrants are threatening, poor people are lazy, etc. These single stories produce stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes, Adichie explains, is not that they are necessarily untrue, but rather that they are incomplete. There’s more to the story.
Our criminal justice system, however, thrives off single stories. Our judicial process cares very little (if at all) for the complexity of the accused. We look to assign blame: Did he or she commit the act in question? Are they guilty? Our system is one that often judges people (sometimes forever) for the worst thing they did on the worst day of their lives. Though the theology of Christianity that pervades this state, region, and country is supposedly one of scandalous mercy and forgiveness, we do not extend it in any practical, tangible terms for those convicted of crimes. We have written single stories of these individuals, often in the form of three or four sentence paragraphs in the local news section of our papers, and we accept these reduced narratives as truth. “What more do we need to know?”
I think the first task then, as we consider the values and interests that uphold capital punishment, is to rehumanize our perceptions of those behind the walls. Single stories dehumanize, because they reduce and simplify humans. Human beings are complex; we tend to live in flux, always in a state of becoming. To see the other as human, we must see him or her as complex. We must cultivate a kind of sacred curiosity, an open-minded inquisitiveness that seeks to learn and acknowledge the multiplicity, complexity, and dynamic quality of the other. Creating such a space for storytelling and story-hearing does not guarantee forgiveness, love, or even acceptance of the other, but it carries great potential to foster empathy, that vital exercise where we come to see the world through the other’s particular lenses. It is through empathy that we may find ourselves converted from old prejudices to new ones, ones altered by new faces, new names, new stories, and new relationships.
This has certainly rung true in my experience. Meeting and befriending people in prison transformed them in my mind from constructs of my imagination to companions of conversation, from lifeless black and white ink to life-filled black and white musicians, philosophers, theologians, and comedians.
I had been visiting prison regularly for two years before I ever walked into Unit 2, or “death row,” at Riverbend here in Nashville. My chest was tight with anxiety. I suppose I expected to see the “monsters” of television dramas and horror films. That’s not what I saw. I met men with whom I shared similar insecurities, fears, beliefs, accents, loves, histories, aspirations. When I served as a volunteer chaplain at Riverbend before being banned from the institution, I often attended a Friday-noon prayer service with death row inmates, where we prayed for the abolition of the death penalty. I believe that when you sit around a table with a group of people, holding hands and praying in common, you can no longer advocate for their murder. I suspect this is why Governor Haslam has not accepted the invitation of men on death row to come pray with them.
Because the reality is, proximity affects ethics. Our conception about what is just changes the closer we are to the offense, whether to the wrong-sufferer or the wrongdoer. If it is our loved one who has been killed, raped, attacked, then our view of justice will likely be more demanding, more final, than if it was our loved one who was facing the jury. I suspect many of us who condone capital punishment might begin to reevaluate our justice paradigm if it was our son, our daughter, our friend or parent who suddenly found him or herself awaiting the jury’s verdict. But everyone on death row belongs to somebody. That is someone’s child.
And while the death penalty is a serious and immediate issue that requires address, it is only part of the larger crisis – that of mass incarceration, a systemic disease in this country that results both from our racist heritage and ideologies, as well as our destructive justice paradigm. We understand crime to mean a violation of the state’s laws, and not a violation of human relationships. Thus, we say justice occurs through punishment and pain for breaking the state’s laws, rather than through the collaboration of all affected parties to find a solution that lends itself toward healing and reconciliation.
Perhaps we should ask the question, “Where should justice lead us?” If we want societies of wholeness, health, peace, and security, should we not advocate for a justice that heals and restores, rather than dehumanizes and divides?
We should look for a justice system that liberates rather than enslaves, that seeks to create life rather than destroy it.