Post by Yaw on Feb 20, 2004 17:29:52 GMT -5
Original article from Orlando Weekly News
The Jesus Jail
By Jeffrey C. Billman
Published 2/19/04
Against a backdrop of "Amen!"s and clapping hands, and a three-piece band playing an upbeat number, the 12-member choir starts in, shaking tambourines and swaying back and forth as they sing: "Jesus/ Mighty God/ Mighty God in heaven/ Every moment let's call out your name/ I will worship you all my life ..."
The 90-minute service that follows is much the same as you might find in any charismatic congregation. There's some preaching, some singing, quite a bit of testifying about the wondrous acts God has performed in the lives of the 160 attendees -- all of whom are male, most of whom are black. There are a few bored stares, but there are just as many men clapping, singing along, pounding their chests and waving their worn Bibles in the air.
But this is no middle-class, suburban church with parents bringing their kids to learn the Ten Commandments, sing hymns and kill time before the football game begins. This is a prison run by the state of Florida.
The revival hall is the gymnasium of the Lawtey Correctional Institute, a medium-security prison halfway between Gainesville and Jacksonville. In Decem-ber, Gov. Jeb Bush dedicated Lawtey as the first "faith-based," government-run prison in the country. "I can't think of a better place to reflect on the love of our Lord Jesus than to be here at Lawtey Correctional," Bush, a devout Catholic, told the inmates. Bush added that he and his brother, President George W. Bush, agree that the best way to rehabilitate prisoners is to "lead them to God."
The prison isn't officially about worshipping Jesus, or pushing Jesus on a captive audience. That would violate the separation of church and state. Lawtey employs a nonspecific sense of faith and spirituality in an effort to lower the state's 38 percent recidivism rate.
The American Civil Liberties Union has threatened a lawsuit, saying the prison blatantly violates church-state separation. State officials defend Lawtey's constitutionality by pointing out that volunteers, not taxpayers, provide religious materials and instruction, and that prisoners aren't forced to attend services that offend them.
That's the key, Department of Corrections spokesman Sterling Ivey insists. Prisoners are free to transfer out if they become uncomfortable. "They're here because they want to be here."
But it's not that simple. Questions of constitutionality aside -- and there are plenty -- the reality is social conservatives need Lawtey to work. They're desperate to claim success in the ongoing battle to convince people that marrying government programs to religious groups is a good idea. Artificially or not, the state has set Lawtey up to succeed, which is important to remember when Gov. Bush begins praising its success.
'The media's coming'
Lawtey, Fla., isn't much of a town. There's one traffic light, a few businesses, no hotels. It appears to exist for two reasons: the jail, and as a speed trap. (In 1995, AAA designated Lawtey as such along with Waldo, a nearby north Florida town -- the only two cities so named in the United States). The nearest hotel is in Starke, seven miles to the south, a town famous for housing Florida's death row.
It's an execution, in fact, that brings me and six media colleagues to Lawtey this Tuesday afternoon. Ivey scheduled this "media day" at Lawtey -- the third since its faith-based conversion -- to coincide with Johnny Robinson's execution, Feb. 4.
"All day, they've been trying to clean this place," Lawtey inmate Ronald
Derosa tells me. "All day, they've been telling us, 'The media's coming, the media's coming.'"
Which might explain why everything is so tidy. The prison grounds are immaculate. The grass is neatly cut, the sidewalks swept. There isn't a piece of litter to be seen.
At 3 p.m. the assembled media gather in the prison's administrative building to meet with Ivey and Dwight White, the warden. They've had a rough day so far: An inmate at a nearby work-release unit White oversees was kidnapped at gunpoint from a bus and disappeared for several hours, resurfacing later at the hospital.
White is a tall, imposing man in a light suit and cowboy boots, a Jehovah's Witness with two decades of corrections experience under his belt. And as we tour the prison -- from a classroom in which soon-to-be-released inmates learn money management, to the mess hall, to a dorm -- he explains the best part about bringing in faith-based groups.
"They sponsor the programs themselves," he says.
Fact is, the state has drastically cut funding for prisons across the board. Gone are the GED classes, computer classes, vocational classes, even television antennas. The faith-based groups, and their army of volunteers, bring these things back. Such programs are essential to helping inmates live crime-free on the outside.
White's two chaplains are tasked with finding faith-based organizations. To date they've brought in more 600 volunteers, and plan to add 1,400 more by April. "Even when the state had funding [for prison programs], we still solicited volunteers," White says. "[though] it wasn't on that magnitude. We raised the bar out of necessity."
Stacking the deck
While the image of hardened criminals turning their lives around with a dose of faith may appeal to the public, the fact is that the Florida Department of Corrections is doing a bit of cherry-picking. Lawtey has never been a place for the hard-core and dangerous; instead, its population is considered safe enough that members routinely work in the community. In fact, it opened in 1973 as a work-release center, and became a real prison four years later. Most inmates here have convictions for offenses like burglary and drug possession.
"If they're troublemakers, they don't send them here," says senior chaplain William Wright.
Newcomers, in fact, are required not to have any disciplinary reviews -- called DRs -- for misbehavior for three months before they transfer here; most have been clean for longer than that. Even one DR can send you packing; already "three or four" inmates have been booted out, White says.
The fact that these are model prisoners who are less likely to re-offend is important to keep in mind when the state releases data on this experiment.
Although nearly a dozen prisons now have faith-based dorms, the programs haven't been around long enough to determine how successful they are. The expectations are high, however.
"Inmates in a faith-based dorm are not a staff problem," Ivey says. In general, he adds, you see "[less] recidivism, [better] inmate behavior and fewer staff problems based on facilities like this."
"One of the things I've seen [since Lawtey went faith-based] is the inmates wanting more and more programs," Wright says. "Before it was a place where you just did your time."
We tour Dorm C, which resembles a military barracks. There are no cells, just four double-decker beds crammed into the dorm's 10 pods, each of which has a name along the lines of "Men of Truth," or "Men of Courage." It's not a terribly frightening place, but there is a creepy Promise Keepers vibe and absolutely no privacy. This is prison, after all.
After a routine inmate count, the 80 residents of Dorm C file out for dinner. From there, and for the first time, the media get access to the prison yard, and a chance to talk to the people Lawtey is designed to change.
By Jeffrey C. Billman
Published 2/19/04
Against a backdrop of "Amen!"s and clapping hands, and a three-piece band playing an upbeat number, the 12-member choir starts in, shaking tambourines and swaying back and forth as they sing: "Jesus/ Mighty God/ Mighty God in heaven/ Every moment let's call out your name/ I will worship you all my life ..."
The 90-minute service that follows is much the same as you might find in any charismatic congregation. There's some preaching, some singing, quite a bit of testifying about the wondrous acts God has performed in the lives of the 160 attendees -- all of whom are male, most of whom are black. There are a few bored stares, but there are just as many men clapping, singing along, pounding their chests and waving their worn Bibles in the air.
But this is no middle-class, suburban church with parents bringing their kids to learn the Ten Commandments, sing hymns and kill time before the football game begins. This is a prison run by the state of Florida.
The revival hall is the gymnasium of the Lawtey Correctional Institute, a medium-security prison halfway between Gainesville and Jacksonville. In Decem-ber, Gov. Jeb Bush dedicated Lawtey as the first "faith-based," government-run prison in the country. "I can't think of a better place to reflect on the love of our Lord Jesus than to be here at Lawtey Correctional," Bush, a devout Catholic, told the inmates. Bush added that he and his brother, President George W. Bush, agree that the best way to rehabilitate prisoners is to "lead them to God."
The prison isn't officially about worshipping Jesus, or pushing Jesus on a captive audience. That would violate the separation of church and state. Lawtey employs a nonspecific sense of faith and spirituality in an effort to lower the state's 38 percent recidivism rate.
The American Civil Liberties Union has threatened a lawsuit, saying the prison blatantly violates church-state separation. State officials defend Lawtey's constitutionality by pointing out that volunteers, not taxpayers, provide religious materials and instruction, and that prisoners aren't forced to attend services that offend them.
That's the key, Department of Corrections spokesman Sterling Ivey insists. Prisoners are free to transfer out if they become uncomfortable. "They're here because they want to be here."
But it's not that simple. Questions of constitutionality aside -- and there are plenty -- the reality is social conservatives need Lawtey to work. They're desperate to claim success in the ongoing battle to convince people that marrying government programs to religious groups is a good idea. Artificially or not, the state has set Lawtey up to succeed, which is important to remember when Gov. Bush begins praising its success.
'The media's coming'
Lawtey, Fla., isn't much of a town. There's one traffic light, a few businesses, no hotels. It appears to exist for two reasons: the jail, and as a speed trap. (In 1995, AAA designated Lawtey as such along with Waldo, a nearby north Florida town -- the only two cities so named in the United States). The nearest hotel is in Starke, seven miles to the south, a town famous for housing Florida's death row.
It's an execution, in fact, that brings me and six media colleagues to Lawtey this Tuesday afternoon. Ivey scheduled this "media day" at Lawtey -- the third since its faith-based conversion -- to coincide with Johnny Robinson's execution, Feb. 4.
"All day, they've been trying to clean this place," Lawtey inmate Ronald
Derosa tells me. "All day, they've been telling us, 'The media's coming, the media's coming.'"
Which might explain why everything is so tidy. The prison grounds are immaculate. The grass is neatly cut, the sidewalks swept. There isn't a piece of litter to be seen.
At 3 p.m. the assembled media gather in the prison's administrative building to meet with Ivey and Dwight White, the warden. They've had a rough day so far: An inmate at a nearby work-release unit White oversees was kidnapped at gunpoint from a bus and disappeared for several hours, resurfacing later at the hospital.
White is a tall, imposing man in a light suit and cowboy boots, a Jehovah's Witness with two decades of corrections experience under his belt. And as we tour the prison -- from a classroom in which soon-to-be-released inmates learn money management, to the mess hall, to a dorm -- he explains the best part about bringing in faith-based groups.
"They sponsor the programs themselves," he says.
Fact is, the state has drastically cut funding for prisons across the board. Gone are the GED classes, computer classes, vocational classes, even television antennas. The faith-based groups, and their army of volunteers, bring these things back. Such programs are essential to helping inmates live crime-free on the outside.
White's two chaplains are tasked with finding faith-based organizations. To date they've brought in more 600 volunteers, and plan to add 1,400 more by April. "Even when the state had funding [for prison programs], we still solicited volunteers," White says. "[though] it wasn't on that magnitude. We raised the bar out of necessity."
Stacking the deck
While the image of hardened criminals turning their lives around with a dose of faith may appeal to the public, the fact is that the Florida Department of Corrections is doing a bit of cherry-picking. Lawtey has never been a place for the hard-core and dangerous; instead, its population is considered safe enough that members routinely work in the community. In fact, it opened in 1973 as a work-release center, and became a real prison four years later. Most inmates here have convictions for offenses like burglary and drug possession.
"If they're troublemakers, they don't send them here," says senior chaplain William Wright.
Newcomers, in fact, are required not to have any disciplinary reviews -- called DRs -- for misbehavior for three months before they transfer here; most have been clean for longer than that. Even one DR can send you packing; already "three or four" inmates have been booted out, White says.
The fact that these are model prisoners who are less likely to re-offend is important to keep in mind when the state releases data on this experiment.
Although nearly a dozen prisons now have faith-based dorms, the programs haven't been around long enough to determine how successful they are. The expectations are high, however.
"Inmates in a faith-based dorm are not a staff problem," Ivey says. In general, he adds, you see "[less] recidivism, [better] inmate behavior and fewer staff problems based on facilities like this."
"One of the things I've seen [since Lawtey went faith-based] is the inmates wanting more and more programs," Wright says. "Before it was a place where you just did your time."
We tour Dorm C, which resembles a military barracks. There are no cells, just four double-decker beds crammed into the dorm's 10 pods, each of which has a name along the lines of "Men of Truth," or "Men of Courage." It's not a terribly frightening place, but there is a creepy Promise Keepers vibe and absolutely no privacy. This is prison, after all.
After a routine inmate count, the 80 residents of Dorm C file out for dinner. From there, and for the first time, the media get access to the prison yard, and a chance to talk to the people Lawtey is designed to change.