An Infusion of Religious Funds In Fla. Prisons
Church Outreach Seeks To Rehabilitate Inmates

By Alan Cooperman
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, April 25, 2004; Page A01

LAWTEY, Fla. -- A lively game of dominoes was in progress in Dormitory B at Lawtey Correctional Institution. But a blanket covered the table, muffling the click of tiles out of consideration for Paul Santana.

Santana, 30, sat alone in the faint wash of a ceiling fan, elbows propped on a math book. The first time he went to prison, he explained, all he gained were some tattoos; they sprawl across his powerful arms like a landscape of regret. "I said if I got to go to prison this time, before I leave here, I'm going to better myself," he said.

Until last August, Florida's Department of Corrections paid for Santana's pursuit of a high school equivalency diploma. Now, his teachers and textbooks are supplied by religious volunteers. So are the ceiling fans in his dorm. So are other physical improvements, plus educational, counseling and recreational programs for all of Lawtey's 780 inmates.

On Christmas Eve, Gov. Jeb Bush (R) rededicated the 30-year-old, minimum-security state penitentiary here as the nation's first entirely "faith-based" prison, where every inmate has signed up for intensive religious instruction.

Enthusiastic state officials believe this novel arrangement will reduce recidivism and save taxpayers' money. But some civil libertarians, religious minorities and penal experts question whether it is fair and effective -- let alone constitutional.

Moreover, what is happening at Lawtey has turned the faith-based initiative of the governor's older brother, President Bush, on its head: The president's aim is to help religious charities obtain government funding to provide social services. As Florida has slashed spending for prison rehabilitation programs, money is not flowing from the state to religious groups. It is flowing from religious groups to the state.

The Rev. J. Stephen McCoy of Beaches Chapel Church in Neptune Beach listed a few of the expenditures his congregation has made in Santana's dorm: $1,163 for ceiling fans, $4,000 for musical instruments, $1,500 for a sound system, $2,500 for computers, $500 for Bibles, $840 for books, $2,500 for food, games and candy.

Altogether, McCoy said, his 1,000-member evangelical church has injected more than $30,000 into the prison, and that does not begin to count the value of volunteers' time. More than 100 Beaches Chapel members visit Lawtey each month, teaching inmates about computers and job hunting as well as about Jesus and the Bible. Other churches sponsor other dorms.

No one has brought a constitutional challenge to the Lawtey prison, but Florida officials say they expect one. In January, the Washington-based advocacy group Americans United for Separation of Church and State filed a request for internal documents about the prison's operation and funding.

"Right now, we have a lot more questions than answers," said Americans United spokesman Joseph Conn. "We're not opposed to people coming into prisons to minister to inmates. But if the state of Florida is just dumping prison rehabilitation programs and job training on the church's doorstep, that does not seem like good public policy."

The Rev. Paul E. Smith, a Southern Baptist minister who drives four hours each way from his congregation in East Stuart to minister at Lawtey, contends that the only question that matters is whether religious instruction helps turn inmates' lives around.

"It's a miracle that's happening here," he said. "And my attitude toward all of the naysayers is, if you've got something that's better, come up with something else."

Four other states -- Texas, Kansas, Iowa and Minnesota -- have tried something a bit different, turning over wings of prisons to Prison Fellowship Ministries, the Reston-based evangelical Christian ministry run by convicted Watergate conspirator Charles W. Colson.

Prison Fellowship describes its rehabilitation efforts as "Christ-centered." Early last year, Americans United filed suit against Iowa's program in federal district court, charging that it violates the First Amendment by using state funds and revenues from inmates' phone calls for sectarian purposes. The trial, set for October, will be the first major test of such programs nationwide.

By contrast, Florida's program theoretically offers instruction in all faiths equally.

Lawtey's inmates mirror the prison population statewide: More than 90 percent of those who express a preference are Christians, 5 percent are Muslims and less than 1 percent are Jews. Alex Taylor, the state's chief prison chaplain, said there is a waiting list of 1,400 inmates -- including Wiccans, Odinists and atheists -- seeking spots at Lawtey and faith-based dorms at a few other prisons. The only requirements are that they have a clean disciplinary record, be within 36 months of completing their sentences and want to learn more about their beliefs.

In principle, the community volunteers should be of all faiths, too. But in practice, all the groups sponsoring dorms at Lawtey, almost all the clergy who volunteer as pastors and the vast majority of the laymen who help out are Christians, Warden Dwight J. White said.

They are also almost entirely from one tradition: Southern Baptists and other evangelicals who read the Bible as the literal word of God, believe in creationism and hold that Jesus is the only way to salvation. White said the prison has had difficulty attracting clergy of other faiths.

At the same time, Florida is known among prison experts as a bread-and-water state.

Operating on the principle that inmates should live no better inside than the state's poorest residents do on the outside, Florida does not install air conditioning, has banned state spending on recreation equipment and has cut daily operating expenses from $40 to $35 per prisoner since 1999.

While touting its faith-based approach, Florida has chopped funds for chaplaincy, eliminating 13 full-time chaplains and 60 support staff from its 52 prisons last year.

Dapper in a beige suit with matching pocket handkerchief, White strolls across Lawtey's yard bantering with inmates in blue shirts and striped pants, calling each of them "Sporty" but making it sound like an individual nickname.

"We have no more resources per prisoner than any other prison," he said. "All the prisons have less than we used to."

Because of this financial squeeze, White said, each church group wishing to sponsor a dormitory was required to invest at least $10,000 in equipment, including ceiling fans and musical instruments. Because the dorms are not segregated by faith, all prisoners benefit from the material improvements. And any inmate is permitted to skip an exercise he considers contradictory to his faith. But the educational and spiritual activity, from morning prayers to evening choir practice, is geared toward born-again Christians.

"If you ask what this program is really based on, it's based on demonstrating to these guys that we love them and we believe in them," said pastor McCoy, 51, who has the approachable but authoritative air of a football coach in a winning season. "And in doing that, we see hope restored in them."

Most of Lawtey's inmates, like those in other Florida prisons, spend their mornings at menial jobs inside the prison or on work-release programs. The difference begins in the afternoon, when church volunteers teach all inmates such secular skills as how to write a résumé, open a bank account and manage a household budget.

Evenings bring a mix of religious and nonreligious instruction. In a typical schedule, Monday night is Bible study. Tuesday is community night, featuring prayer, music and testimonials. Wednesday is computer training. Thursday is a mixed bag: Inmates get help with their studies, perform music and drama, or meet with volunteer mentors to talk about managing anger, being responsible fathers or whatever else is on their minds.

Friday night is for Evangelism Explosion, a course in how to convert others to Christ. Santana, who was in the first group to complete the 13-week course last year, remembers the graduation celebration as his happiest day in prison.

"Pastor Steve brought in 55 pizzas," he said, referring to McCoy. "He brought pizzas, cookies and Cokes, and we sat there like fat rats."

Other inmates said tales of the pizza party -- which was open to everyone in Dormitory B, Christians and non-Christians alike -- spread rapidly through the prison, helping to build an appetite for faith-based programs in dorms that did not yet have church sponsors.

Santana, who is serving time on a drug conviction, is also enthusiastic about Beaches Chapel's plan to start Narcotics Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous chapters.

Although he has passed through five Florida prisons, he said, he was not offered any form of drug rehabilitation before.

Inmate Burl Dees, however, was less inspired by the Lawtey experience.

At a recent community night, 160 residents of Lawtey's B and C dormitories, both sponsored by Beaches Chapel, gathered in the prison gym. They started with prayers and singing but moved quickly to testimonials, with men rising one by one to say something about themselves and, usually, to give thanks.

"I'm Roy Spaulding, . . . C Dorm," one began. "I got a good group of brothers over here, they encourage me and they also are my keeper, you know, when I slip up or do something wrong. I'd just like to thank God for this opportunity."

As the wireless mike moved down the bleachers, prison chaplain William Wright slipped into a utility room that contained a sink, mops, pails and three Muslim inmates.

They sat at a chipped Formica table with two Korans and an Arabic-language workbook. Wright, who is trained to minister to all faiths but says he knows little about Islam, offered to write a letter soliciting Muslim volunteers and study materials if the inmates would tell him where to send it.

Dees, 36, who wears a white Islamic skullcap and has two diamonds inset in his front teeth, thanked the chaplain. But as soon as he left, Dees offered a testimonial.

"You know, in the manual you would read that all religions are reverenced, but it's understood it's under Christian dictatorship," he said.

His list of grievances was long: In 12 months, the prison had been visited once by a Muslim cleric. All inmates were encouraged to join in Christian "devotions" each morning. There was little instruction in other faiths. Squalid as the utility room may be, Dees and the other Muslims were glad to have it, because they had been told that participation in community night was mandatory.

"It's more like a service than a community meeting. It's really a form of worship," Dees said, as gospel singing rang in the background.

Sterling Ivey, spokesman for the state Department of Corrections, said it is too early to tell whether religious instruction will help reduce a startling figure: 40 percent of Florida's ex-convicts, and 47 percent of ex-convicts nationally, are convicted of a new crime within three years of release. But he said state officials are so optimistic that they converted a 300-bed women's prison in Hillsborough into a second faith-based prison this month.

"If this is successful, we'll consider converting other prisons. Anything that reduces recidivism is good for the state of Florida," he said.

The record in other states is mixed. Thomas P. O'Connor, who holds a doctorate in religion from Catholic University and is administrator of religious services for the Oregon Department of Corrections, this year reviewed 10 studies of religious programs in prisons across the country. Four found no impact on inmates' behavior, either in prison or after release. Six found a modest positive effect, and none found a negative impact, he said.

The studies show "very encouraging but not yet conclusive evidence" that religious programming is effective, O'Connor said. "It's not a panacea, it's not a silver bullet. But it can help."

The error that some states are making, in O'Connor's opinion, is thinking that religion can supplant, rather than accompany, other rehabilitation programs, such as job training, psychological counseling and addiction treatment. For many years, he said, criminologists paid too little attention to religion. Now, he argued, some prison officials and religious groups are ignoring criminology.

From the "what works" literature -- hundreds of studies worldwide -- it is clear that to have the most impact on recidivism, rehabilitation programs must focus on the hardest criminals and try to change whom they associate with and how they think, O'Connor said. But religious groups often focus on the easy cases and do not know much about criminal psychology, he said.

"The argument is, let the churches do this for us," he said. "That's a big mistake."

Todd R. Clear, professor of community justice and corrections at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York, is particularly critical of Florida's approach.

The state has "systematically over the last decade made prison time nasty time," he said. "But then they say private individuals can set up other types of facilities with amenities that make them much more comfortable places to do time, and all you have to do is give your life to Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior. That doesn't feel to me like it's a constitutional arrangement."

Florida officials insist that volunteers are not allowed to proselytize. "Proselytizing or browbeating inmates out of their faith into another is not the answer, and we don't tolerate it," said Taylor, the state's chief chaplain.

But those restrictions do not apply to inmates, including those who are being taught how to evangelize. "We don't stop the faith talk that takes place among inmates. That's a constitutional right," Taylor said.

Dees said some fellow inmates have tried to convert him.

Pastor McCoy said that, in his view, proselytizing is not "really an issue" because most of the inmates are already Christians, and the evangelism class just helps "to firmly establish them in what they believe."

Asked whether he would object if Christian prisoners were housed in a prison where Muslims were in the majority and received lessons in how to share their faith, McCoy laughed good-naturedly.

"I don't know. That's pretty hypothetical," he said. "This is the Bible Belt, you know."