I make my way to Pelican Bay State Prison at the top of the state of California, near the Oregon border. The Catholic chaplain, a gentle soul named Sam, has made the arrangements. Pelican Bay has long been considered the repository of the "worst of the worst." It has forever been the last stop of all the stops. Sam walks me through a segregated unit, one-man cells, holding the most "incorrigible." He announces me to the cell ahead: "It's Father Greg from Homeboy Industries." Many become little kids in Juvenile Hall again. "G-Dog, remember me. You used to throw Mass at Central ... at Eastlake?" After Sam would announce me, I would step up and carry on a brief conversation and end with a blessing ....
I celebrate Mass in the gym on A-Yard. Sam has secured a large group to gather and has also been allowed to take pictures, which is not a permission typically granted. After Mass, inmates pose with me-one, four, sometimes groups of twelve or more. I meet a guy named Louie with every inch of his face covered in tattoos, a calling card for a seriously traumatized human being. Tattoos like this can often be a "Keep Away" sign, meant to keep all comers guessing as to the mental stability of the tattooed one. Louie "has all day," sentenced forever and will never leave prison alive. He is goofy and charming, and not at all off-putting. He becomes the phantom, ever-present photobomber. He manages to insinuate himself into EVERY picture. Though never invited, he steps into the shot, and no one rebuffs him. He's·just a tender part of the scenery.
As Sam and I walk from the gym after Mass, I mention Louie and laugh about our intrepid photobomber. Sam tells me that some months earlier, he had planned a concert by Eric Genuis. Eric has performed at Carnegie Hall (and later, at Homeboy Industries). He plays the piano and has a couple others who accompany on strings. Sam had "ducated" (secured permission) for two hundred inmates, but only sixty showed up and Sam was a bit disappointed. Eric had planned to play for forty-five minutes, then engage in a question-and-answer session for fifteen minutes. He began to play, and something descended on these folks gathered in the same gym where I had celebrated the Eucharist. There was a reverent stillness thick in the air. Inmates and guards alike were held in this music's spell. It was the most glorious thing Sam had ever witnessed at Pelican Bay. He looked at the prisoners and soon they were all sobbing. He saw that the guards were discreetly flicking tears. The magnificent music had detonated some release so welcome and unexpected.
Eric finished and turned to his stunned audience and asked if there were any questions. There was only silence for some time. Then Louie, our photobomber, rose. He had something to say but he was still crying so hard, it was momentarily a struggle for him to locate his question. He could only utter one word: "Why?"
Eric began to cry as well and said, "Because you are deserving. You are worthy of beauty and music. And because ... there is no difference between you and me." And here, I suppose, is the faith that saves ... when we are anchored in love, tethered to a sustaining God and ever mindful of our undeniable goodness. That's why.
- an excerpt from the book, “Forgive Everyone Everything” by Father Greg Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries