Correctional Services of Canada chaplain Pascal Bergeron believes there is no better way for churches to show their communities what they are really all about than to take in and disciple prison inmates released on parole."The system doesn't do forgiveness. And that's where the Church can shine," he says.
"It can say to the offenders, 'What you've done was wrong. You deserved [punishment]. But we also extend forgiveness. We will love you and journey with you in that restoration process.'"
Bergeron runs Community Chaplaincy in the Lower Mainland, a government-funded service in partnership with the Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada. It helps inmates in the federal prison system—those sentenced to two years and up—get back into society. In particular, it helps those with often new found religious beliefs connect with a place of worship in their community willing to accept them.
"They feel unworthy, they don't feel they can connect with our squeaky-clean Christianity, so to speak," says Bergeron. "That's where we come in to help bridge that gap. Our motto is, 'Beyond the gate, friends await.'"
A year and a half ago, Bergeron started a program called High-5 in hopes of encouraging and training churches to come alongside his ministry.
"It's absolutely vital," says ex-inmate Richard Murphy (not his real name). "Most of the guys I know feel incredibly repentant and sorry about what they did, and they want to get back to society. But without something like a High-5 program, it's extremely difficult."
Of the 800 to 900 people across the region who are either on, or shortly will be on, conditional release, only five so far have been placed with a church.
One of the biggest challenges Bergeron faces in getting churches onboard is convincing them that if parolees are given the proper boundaries, there is nothing to fear from them. In fact, they are always under the watchful eye of a parole officer and the police.
"They're babysat," he says. "Everywhere they go, they must ask permission. They have to disclose when questioned, 'What did you do? Why did you go there? Why did you meet with this person?' If they live in a halfway house, they have to sign in, sign out, call in to report. They're constantly being monitored."
And because their lives behind bars had been so regimented for so long, adjusting to life on the outside can be just as difficult. "The pressures are enormous," says Bergeron.
Sarah Prentice (not her real name) is one of a group of five women who support a female parolee who attends her church under the High-5 program. Apart from them and the pastoral leadership, no one else knows about her crimes and her punishment.
"One of her big things is learning to forgive herself," says Prentice. "So we're on the alert that this is her area of weakness. If we haven't heard from her in a few days or she starts pulling away, we have a verbal contract with her that 'we're going to come after you.'"
Murphy says most ex-cons are desperate to be treated this way.
"My crime was against one person, but it impacted many others. So what I did was against society," he says. "So every time someone extends forgiveness to me, that's a show of support. They're willing to give me a chance."
Those giving this support also feel rewarded. "Transformation is always so exciting to see," says Prentice, who hopes more churches will join the program. "When you get to walk beside people and watch God transforming their lives, you will just be so blessed by it."
"It can say to the offenders, 'What you've done was wrong. You deserved [punishment]. But we also extend forgiveness. We will love you and journey with you in that restoration process.'"
Bergeron runs Community Chaplaincy in the Lower Mainland, a government-funded service in partnership with the Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada. It helps inmates in the federal prison system—those sentenced to two years and up—get back into society. In particular, it helps those with often new found religious beliefs connect with a place of worship in their community willing to accept them.
"They feel unworthy, they don't feel they can connect with our squeaky-clean Christianity, so to speak," says Bergeron. "That's where we come in to help bridge that gap. Our motto is, 'Beyond the gate, friends await.'"
A year and a half ago, Bergeron started a program called High-5 in hopes of encouraging and training churches to come alongside his ministry.
"It's absolutely vital," says ex-inmate Richard Murphy (not his real name). "Most of the guys I know feel incredibly repentant and sorry about what they did, and they want to get back to society. But without something like a High-5 program, it's extremely difficult."
Of the 800 to 900 people across the region who are either on, or shortly will be on, conditional release, only five so far have been placed with a church.
One of the biggest challenges Bergeron faces in getting churches onboard is convincing them that if parolees are given the proper boundaries, there is nothing to fear from them. In fact, they are always under the watchful eye of a parole officer and the police.
"They're babysat," he says. "Everywhere they go, they must ask permission. They have to disclose when questioned, 'What did you do? Why did you go there? Why did you meet with this person?' If they live in a halfway house, they have to sign in, sign out, call in to report. They're constantly being monitored."
And because their lives behind bars had been so regimented for so long, adjusting to life on the outside can be just as difficult. "The pressures are enormous," says Bergeron.
Sarah Prentice (not her real name) is one of a group of five women who support a female parolee who attends her church under the High-5 program. Apart from them and the pastoral leadership, no one else knows about her crimes and her punishment.
"One of her big things is learning to forgive herself," says Prentice. "So we're on the alert that this is her area of weakness. If we haven't heard from her in a few days or she starts pulling away, we have a verbal contract with her that 'we're going to come after you.'"
Murphy says most ex-cons are desperate to be treated this way.
"My crime was against one person, but it impacted many others. So what I did was against society," he says. "So every time someone extends forgiveness to me, that's a show of support. They're willing to give me a chance."
Those giving this support also feel rewarded. "Transformation is always so exciting to see," says Prentice, who hopes more churches will join the program. "When you get to walk beside people and watch God transforming their lives, you will just be so blessed by it."
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