Standing on others' shoulders

Rev. Paul Beins was a mentor of mine.

Beins, a Lutheran, was the longtime permanent chaplain of the old St. Louis city jail, which he served for 28 years

Beins was alternately patient and scolding; he was rough and compassionate.

He did not speak the King's English in conversation, perhaps a consequence of decades spent dealing with the incarcerated.

My tenure with Beins, from 1991 to 1992 -- as one of his student chaplains -- was foundational in my understanding of the Christian concept of grace.

The men in the jail fell into two categories:

• Those awaiting trial or sentencing.
• Those who had been convicted and were detained until being sent to Fulton, Missouri, for processing to a penitentiary.

This columnist didn't imagine a career ministering to those in the penal system.

Indeed, my year of internship was, to-date, my only experience with a jail setting.

My seminary required "contextual education" in order to graduate.

I didn't want to serve my intern year in a church or in a social work setting -- which were the paths chosen by most of my peers.

The jail represented an opportunity to stretch my thinking and test my ministerial approach with people the culture despises.

A particular New Testament text also came to mind in making the decision to spend a year with Beins at the lockup.

The pericope of Matthew 25:35-40 is attributed to Jesus.

I was hungry and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in. I needed clothes and you clothed me; I was sick and you looked after me; I was in prison and you came to visit me. Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'

Beins would assign us to visit the "tiers" of the jail, essentially common areas outside inmate cells.

Wearing clerical shirts with a collar, required by jail administration, the chaplains would go up to the bars and talk with whomever approached.

I would visit the jail weekly, sometimes more often.

There were occasional weeks when I didn't go at all, and Beins noticed.

He didn't miss much.

As part of the internship, we would meet regularly off-site with Rev. Beins to discuss our experiences with the men.

As a person dressed in ministerial garb, my recollection is many of the inmates wanted forgiveness.

A common refrain:

"If you say God forgives me, then why am I still here? If what you say is true, why can't I get a second chance?"

Beins' theological clarity, his laser focus on what God's extended hand of forgiveness, which is to say grace, is -- and what it isn't -- was quite welcome.

"There is God's forgiveness, which is certain, and also man's law. If you did the crime, you do the time," Beins said.

A tough-talking theologian with a heart of gold, Beins would allow us to preach to the men after he had edited our sermons first.

I never saw so many red lines, crossed out words and corrections in the margin.

Once you understood he was only trying to help, it was all right.

Beins' crystal-clear understanding of God's relationship to human beings is something this writer has cherished.

We all stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before.