c. 1997 Religion News Service

(Tom Ehrich is an Episcopal priest in Winston-Salem, N.C., an author and former Wall Street Journal reporter. E-mail him at journey(at)interpath.com.)

UNDATED _ The security vestibule at Forsyth County Jail in Winston-Salem, N.C., is like an air lock. You enter the vestibule, the door to freedom clicks shut and only then does the door to captivity click open.

The Christmas story sounds different on the other side of the air lock.”O, little town of Bethlehem …” Inside prison, even if only for an afternoon of singing and gift-giving, one remembers that Bethlehem was a place of captivity. The inn was full because a dictator had exercised his power. Joseph and Mary weren’t on a romantic trek; a nine-months-pregnant woman was on a forced march.

When an American pastor named Phillips Brooks sat on a hillside in Palestine and composed a gentle hymn, he wasn’t”trolling a Yuletide carol.”He was in despair over the American Civil War and was looking for hope in”dark streets”where light had once shone.”O, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant …” The angels came first to shepherds _ the not-too-distant cousins of these women wearing blue or white jumpsuits with prison lettering on the back. In those days, shepherds were rascals, outcasts, doing necessary work but not welcome in polite society.

Inside cell block 10D, where a two-story common room is ringed by cells, one remembers that Jesus was an outcast, too, rejected by the polite and powerful. Before running the church became a source of worldly power and business contacts, the faithful were losers, the marginal.”Angels we have heard on high …” Every performer records a Christmas album. They tend to sound alike: angels”echoing glad refrains”amid cascading violins and trumpets. It isn’t like that at Forsyth County Jail. Prison is a raucous place. These women aren’t”singing sweetly through the night.”They whoop, they cheer, they sing with fervor. And they pray from the depths.

No banked poinsettias, no twinkling candles. Just cell doors, plastic tables, and outside unbreakable glass, a guard room with TV monitors.

One remembers here that the law-abiding and upright had nothing to do with Jesus. Only the broken, the sinful and the outcast rallied to him. For him, iron bars didn’t define worthiness.”What child is this …?” I watch a young woman as she listens to a reading of the Nativity. She is someone’s daughter. She bounced on someone’s knee and was”laid to rest”on someone’s lap. There was a time when all that stretched before her was hope and promise.

Her face relaxes as Luke’s words wash over her. She is still a child. But the familiar routines of American youth are probably lost to her: no prom, no boyfriend bringing flowers, no white gown, no first job, no pushing a stroller along a suburban lane.

One remembers here that our grasp on the good life is tenuous. We are all one bad decision away from captivity, one snort away from addiction, one financial trough away from foreclosure. We cannot make our lives secure.”Silent night, holy night …” The irony is overwhelming. It isn’t silent here. I doubt that prison is ever silent. It wasn’t silent in Bethlehem. That night in a Bethlehem homeless shelter wasn’t”calm and bright.”That wasn’t a candle-lighted New England church on a snowy Christmas Eve. Those were harsh days, probably more like this prison than a toasty-warm American church.

One remembers here that Luke opened the story of Jesus’ birth by describing captivity.”Merry Christmas …” I say those words by reflex. The prisoners smile and say in return,”Merry Christmas!”What in the world do we mean? This isn’t a”merry”place. The world that waits for us beyond the air lock isn’t a merry place.

In this concrete sanctuary, the phrase”Merry Christmas”sounds like the Jew’s cry,”Next year in Jerusalem!”_ a cry of longing, of hope beyond hope, a conviction that, by God’s grace, life could be merry some day.

As we pass through the air lock and return silently to our cars, the aroma that lingers for me is the strong scent of Irish Spring soap. Thanks to the Salvation Army, we left behind a small bag for each prisoner. Practical gifts like soap and toothpaste. No $70 Barbies. This is the world beyond Barbie.

MJP END EHRICH