Imagine the scene… there are about 150 of you lined up outside high walls of stone and razor wire. Suddenly you are allowed to funnel in, one by one, past many, many checkpoints… all the time being counted, counted. Behind you, you hear the doors of iron “clang” shut, the sound of which screams down the many corridors as it echoes to places yet unknown to you. Then there’s the sound of the keys, keys the size of a man’s hand, fighting with locks, to open the way ahead. And that’s just getting in…

You soon find yourself sharing a largish room with the rest of these radicals – but something, something has changed. The brass band fires into action heralding the Name of the Lord God Most High. And something changes. It’s then when we actually realise why we are here in this place, this place of seeming hopelessness. We are here to pray and in so doing, speak Hope and Life and Grace into the spaces where despair and death and condemnation are cruel taskmasters.

Then we are on the move – the brass band leading as in days of old, playing those rhythmic “koortjies” that, regardless of your rhythmic capacity, you can’t help but sing to – and you can almost sense walls falling down. The sound of praise resonates throughout the prison as it proclaims to the gates of hell “You shall not prevail”. And so we advance, 150 plus people of different backgrounds, different colours, different ages, different languages, different denominations all marching as one – praying, singing – being the Church, not a harem, but the Bride of Christ…

And so we pray for the people there as we walk past the cells. Some mock us and call us all kinds of colourfuls. I recall a time when we were met with a barrage of sound, like something from a scene in Lord of the Rings. I could actually feel the “nasties” flying, scuffling about. There was this one person at the back of a crowded cell with the weirdest eyes and her stationary hair that seemed to be moving although “oozing” would be a more accurate description. So we pray. Some are curious as to our being there and struggle to believe that strangers would come from all over on their behalf, just for them. There was this guy, lets call him Schabir, who was absolutely bowled over by this, especially since he was Muslim. (Incidentally, he still asked for prayer). And so we pray…

They ask for all kinds of prayer, for themselves, their families and for their re-introduction to society. Then there was the time when this stereotypical looking Black Mama Granny was bent over these three boys behind bars, still in their PJ’s. They were huddling each other while her arms enveloped them – And they were praying. You just knew, the Lord, the Lord God Almighty was there…

You would hear testimonies. I once asked a guy what I could pray for. He very politely interjected and told me that a few months earlier he had become a Christian in that crowded cell. He was the only one then – But now there were three of them. They would pray for me. And they prayed…

All the while, the sound of Praise and Prayer is heard… and not just on Earth…

I recall the times when we prayed through the crèche, where moms and their younger-than-two-year-olds, are incarcerated. You would see a mom holding her child up to the bars so that the infant’s limbs would dangle through. She’s crying for you to pray for her child who may not know life outside these walls… and the Red Letters become real… about those who are sick, orphaned, widowed, hungry, thirsty, alien, without clothes, in prison – the least of these…

You see, this place is only around 6km beyond the walls of my own church building. We share the same road. This is wonderful because it proves to me that I have opportunity to be “Jesus with skin on” right in my back yard… And I remember the Red Letters… What a time for the Church to be just that, The Church… And the gates of hell will not prevail…