In the Bible Belt, there’s basically a church on every corner—especially here in Nashville. It feels like there should be so many options to choose from if you want to join a faith community. But the church doors are often closed to people on the sex offender registry, including myself.
Sex offender registries are designed so that society treats you like a leper; as if you should be sent away somewhere, so that “decent” people don’t have to worry about you. I’ve felt that shame deeply in the five years since I was released from prison. But not being able to go to church feels like shame on top of shame. Like I’m not even worthy of faith anymore.
During the 10 years I spent in prison, it was the church community that sustained me. And still sustains me today, through correspondence. While incarcerated, a lot of people attend church not necessarily because of faith, but because they’re seeking a safe haven, or food. And in my experience, there was no judgment of those people—food, safety and comfort are things everyone needs, no matter where we are.
“Two life-changing components for those incarcerated are church and community,” Terrance Heard, currently incarcerated at South Central Correctional Facility where I served most of my sentence, told Filter. “The benefits reach far beyond what state-facilitated programs offer … the only alternative for empowering one another with accountability—and protecting each other from a prison culture filled with bad actors—is community. This is especially true for sex offenders, who not only bear the judgment of the state through the courts but must also find the grace to survive the court of public opinion.”
Heard worked as the chaplain’s clerk for many years, and is the de facto spiritual leader for the facility’s religious services. He was there for me multiple times during my sentence when my faith was being tested. But the compassion and acceptance I found in the prison church services have been much harder to find in the free world.
The pastor had never been in this position before either, so neither of us really knew what we were supposed to do.
When I was released in 2020, one of the first questions I asked my parole officer was whether I could join a church. There was one within walking distance of my home, and my PO said I could go there—if I got permission from the pastor to attend.
I reached out to the pastor, who agreed to meet with me to discuss my situation. I updated my PO. Like many people on the registry, in the early days of my parole I was wearing an ankle GPS monitor.
You’d think that a PO would be the person to ask about how these things work, and that they’d want to encourage healthy community reintegration efforts like seeking to join a church. But in my experience and that of other people I know on the registry, they don’t really provide any helpful information. I was told that if the pastor agreed to let me attend, then he’d have to contact my PO directly to confirm that I was approved, but I didn’t know what else was or wasn’t supposed to happen at the meeting.
The pastor had never been in this position before either, so neither of us really knew what we were supposed to do. He began asking me questions that made it feel more like an interrogation. Why had I been convicted? Who was the victim? How had my family and friends reacted? It went on. My anxiety was off the charts. Rather than being welcomed into a community of other people seeking grace, I was reliving the most shameful moments of my life. As if it had all just happened, and I couldn’t have spent the past decade learning and growing, in addition to serving my punishment.
But I also understand that he was doing his best to navigate an unfamiliar situation, the same way I was. He seemed to decide he’d done his due diligence, and approved me. My PO decided I could only attend the regular Sunday service, not special events like holidays or music services. I attended that church for the next year or so.
Eventually I asked my PO if I could try a different church. Once again he agreed, if I could get the pastor’s permission. I approached the pastor and asked if he had a moment to speak privately. This time, the experience was completely different.
I told Reverend Jay Voorhees I was on the registry and that I was hoping to attend his church. Without hesitation he replied, Sure thing. Then he asked for my PO’s number, so he could call him to follow up.
On my way out I saw him offer a bus pass and a few dollars to someone who was going through a rough time. I felt hopeful, welcomed, accepted and human again.
Holidays services, and other special events where we’re often not welcome, tend to be where deeper friendships are formed.
Unlike the first pastor, Voorhees had had many of these conversations before. He knew, as I did by that time, that there was no requirement to interrogate me, or to ban me from the holiday services. Voorhees would have allowed me to attend those if it was purely up to him. He had a few simple guidelines, but they were all straightforward things I knew to do anyway, like choose a seat away from families with children.
“Communication is important, with clear definitions about boundaries and procedures for participation,” Voorhees told Filter. “In my experience, those on the registry know what the limits are.”
This particular church had on-site transitional housing, and since families with children lived there, the church didn’t allow people on the registry to go into that area—but that would have been the case anyway, as it’s just common sense for people in our position to avoid situations like that.
A friend of mine who’s also on the registry, and also religious, always tells me he’s praying for me. But he himself doesn’t go to church anymore; he told me it’s just not worth everything you have to go through to be there. It broke my heart to hear him say that. But it’s difficult to keep putting yourself through so much shame and misery to be in a place that doesn’t seem to want you.
Those holiday services and other special events where we’re not welcome tend to be where deeper friendships are formed. Even in prison, it was after I started playing music during the church services that I truly found myself belonging to a community. I don’t miss prison, but I do miss being part of a church in that way.
“Being in ministry with those on the sex offender registry is complicated,” Voorhees said. “On the one hand, we have a responsibility to offer grace, love and hospitality to all. On the other hand, there are legitimate concerns for the safety of the vulnerable in our church. [But] there are ways for the church to provide love and support for those who find very few places for experiencing grace and a sense of community.”
Image (cropped) via Mississippi Department of Corrections
