Cornerstone Magazine: Fall 2014 Volume III Issue II | Page 6

Invited to Care
MATTHEW HARRISON

John hurried to the chalkboard at the front of the room as
soon as class was dismissed. He had only a minute, but he
wouldn’t waste the opportunity to learn something about
exponential functions that had confused him in a textbook.
As the other students left the classroom, I quickly answered
his question and was rewarded with his “Aha” moment.
What could be more satisfying to a professor than seeing
an eager student finally grasp a difficult concept! In that
moment I would have gladly spent hours with John, explaining
exponential functions, drawing connections to what we were
learning in class, sharing with him the beauty and splendor of
mathematics. And then John was gone, hurrying away with
the rest of the students, leaving me alone in the windowless
classroom with the odd but now familiar smell. I quickly
erased the board, collected my belongings and left the room.
My first impression of John was a bit sinister—something
about the way he trimmed his beard, I suppose—but he was
delightful in class. John was by far the best student. He was
tutoring many of his classmates (a role that he relished) and
was working through several textbooks that were far more
advanced than ours. Those brief questions from John at
the end of class always came from these advanced texts. I
often had a secret desire to ignore the other students in the
room and give a great lecture aimed at John. But I stuck to
the curriculum, and eager John was pushed to the margins,
those fleeting moments of transition between classes.
Those were the only times I ever interacted with John. As with
most students I never saw him outside of class, never got to
know him, don’t know where he came from, nor where life
has taken him. Well, that last bit, although true for most of my
students, is not technically true for John. I know exactly where
John is. He is within 200 feet or so of the classroom where I
always taught him: somewhere within the state’s maximum
security prison. John (that is not his real name) is serving a life
sentence for brutally murdering a stranger just for the fun of it.
When I first felt called to teach inside prisons, I assumed that
my Christian faith would be what kept me going. Christ’s
challenge to love my enemies and to visit the least of his
brethren in prison would be the mantras that enabled me
to persevere in this difficult calling that would have me
interacting with intimidating people in a dangerous place. I
assumed that the intellectual knowledge of what Christ called
me to do would help me overcome my emotional aversion
to the people and situations I would certainly encounter.
These assumptions were only partly correct. My faith has
kept me going, but not for the reason I expected—in fact,
for very nearly the opposite reason. I discovered that higher
education inside a prison is, for the most part, just like
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CORNERSTONE Magazine

higher education anywhere else. The men and women that I
have taught in prison seem remarkably normal.The variation
in personalities and abilities is about the same as in any
college classroom. Some are engaged in the material, some
are not. Some struggle valiantly, others master the content
with ease. Most worry about grades. Many are friendly and
appreciative; a few, entitled or adversarial. Many succeed,
but some do not. And I discovered that, just like all the other
students I have taught, I cared deeply about the ones I was
teaching in prison. I wanted them to master the material, to
succeed in the course, to grow in intellect and in confidence,
to move on to new challenges and new possibilities.
Loving these students was easy. I didn’t need reminders
from the Bible that I was supposed to love them. They
didn’t feel like my enemies. But I knew they were
somebody’s enemy. And that began to torment me.

Loving these students was easy.
They didn’t feel like my enemies.
I had taught John for a month or two before I learned the
details of his crime. There is a difference between knowing
that someone likely committed a violent crime and reading
about the details of the crime—seeing the picture of the
beautiful life so senselessly ended. It changed the way I
thought about John... until I was back teaching him again.
Face to face, discussing math, it didn’t matter. And John was
not unique in that way. Ten of his classmates were serving
sentences for murder. I cared about each of them. And I
began to feel very guilty for caring about them. The victims
came from all walks of life: rich, poor, male, female, adults,
children. They had families who loved them, who undoubtedly
still love them and