Johnny Cash played concerts in prison. When asked the reason, he replied, “Because I’m a Christian.”
         
           A metal door slams. I turn my back to the guard and stretch out my arms. After the pat-down, I surrender my ID at the sally port, cross the exercise yard and head to the mess hall.
           A line of inmates files pass. Tattoos swirl down their arms: crosses, moons, stars, hearts and breasts. I catch a glimpse of other, more ominous designs: gang insignia that slither across shaved scalps and coil like snakes around their necks, poised to strike with venom and violence.
           Inside the mess hall, I grab a tray and take a seat. I offer a blessing for the wretched food, yet my thoughts stay fixed on tattoos. I think of last Sunday’s gospel reading but imagine St. Thomas examining ink on the skin of an inmate as opposed to scars on the hands of Christ:  
           “Three years in solitary,” mumbles the prisoner.
           The image of a skull grins beneath the hair on his chest.
            “Stabbed once. Raped three times.”
           I take a deep breath and step into the scene. I kneel next to Thomas. It is not doubt that afflicts me, but the shame of having run from the Cross like a coward.
           Memories of other sins well up from my soul. They appear in ink on my wrists, my arms. Public indictments of private shame.  
                 
           Unlike Mr. Cash, I do not visit prisons because I am a Christian. Rather, I minister in cellblocks because I sin.