ERIK JOHNSON—LETTER FROM PRISON—SEPTEMBER 22, 2002

Dear Sisters, Dear Brothers-

    How do the mountains and hills sing a new song? On the dawn of this day the mountains and hills
of eastern Kentucky “clap their hands” (proclaims the psalmist) and I remember many remembered things.
The exuberance of memory connects me to a holy morning 19 years ago in another place a long, long way
away from here, in the Shenandoah Valley: my son, Peter, cried—life! Libby and I clutched each other in
sacred awe and gratitude and cried—joy! Peter’s 4 sisters gleefully cried—oh, brother! Cradling Peter as
precious gift we all cried—praise!


    How do the children of Appalachian cry? Just a few up and down, twisting miles separate this
prison from a rural mountain community where the Frontier School of Nursing is located. Ten years ago
Libby enrolled in the midwifery program at this school, noted for pioneering quality health care to women
who were counted among the poor of this impoverished region in the U.S. How ironic that a short distance
separates a life-bringing center from a life-denying one. Babies delivered with loving care and skill cry—
hope!


    How does a mountain cry—sorrow? A long, long time ago the Shawnee gently touched this
mountain in whose shadow I now dwell A short, terrible while ago, marauders in guest for obscene
profits, specifically “blackgold,” gouged this mountain leaving behind a wounded “holler” (small valley)
into which this U.S. Federal prison was hidden, couched between machine-gnashed cliffs, scarred,
blackened like dried blood. The beauty of trees on the ridge above, the constantly shifting skyscape, and
the occasional sighting of wildlife belies the violence visited upon this hallowed ground. Earth pained.


    How do the prophets cry—trust? There have been many mornings in the thirteen days I’ve been
here when these mountains and hills disappear completely into thickened mist at the foggy bottom of this
holler. From his own time of desolation and exile the prophet Isaiah assures us that although me mountains
and hills, symbols of stability, may disappear, the One who is Truth and Love will be steadfast and not
vanish from us. Indeed! Each day I awake to that Presence, confident in the power of nonviolent love to
alter the human condition. And a good fog-rising exposes the lies of this place and the human condition
therein. For many this is an unjust place rationalized out of sight and the men here are seen as devoid of
human worth, useful only as a source of cheap labor for corporations doing business inside the prison walls
(BDU-battledress uniforms for war in Afghanistan, in Iraq. ..Are manufactured here at FCI Manchester.)
And as a means of filling beds for unbridled expansion of the U. S. prison system in economically depressed
areas like Manchester. It was and still remains a spiritual choice that I am here. I trust in the things that
make for peace: nonviolent love, justice, mercy, reconciliation, gentleness, kindness—by grace!


    How do the men here cry—hope? The contours of any of the men here are marked with a
raggedness like that of the mountains of Kentucky. Most did not have an easy time getting here; years
were spent “behind the fence,” locked in cells in multiple prisons elsewhere. My six-month sentence pales
in comparison to the years these men have served and still left to do. At last count, 324 men (1300 plus at
the high security prison just over the ridge) are imprisoned here, each coming on his own trail of tears.


    Amazingly, many are able to reach out to one another in kindness, generosity, and genuine care. I have
been able to lean into many of their stories with an itchy and compassionate ear and celebrate our common
humanity, to encourage calm friendships, all the while voicing our thoughts, hopes, and dreams. Many
others are so disengaged from wholesome relationships, not recognizing, or choosing to ignore, their
unused potential. The lack of respect from many of the prison personnel reinforces this perspective. I have
encountered many prison staff members so indifferent to my gestures/invitations to be decent. Some of
them are me wordless guards in the night seeking a “count,” likely viewing us as cadavers in a morgue.
We are alive! In spite of the inhumane conditions of prison life, people are not entirely defeated in this
facility—bluegrass music, songs, gospel tunes, acts of kindness, hopefulness, laughter abounds in this
place. It’s a high privilege to affirm the goodness I see in many of the men here.


   The people, my people, cry—Is there no balm in Gilead? Darkened skies of wars are rumored and
my knees bend often to the hope that Bush and his legion of warmongers will not get their way. Bush,
seized by some deranged notion of a “manifest destiny,” justifies his pursuance of a scribed design of world
domination. His plans must be denounced. The Gospel compels me to decry violence directed to our
sisters and brothers in so many places, especially the mounting atrocities in Columbia and elsewhere in
Latin America. How much blood smeared across the world will it take to demand a halt to our
government’s insatiable appetite to devour, to befoul, to destroy? The mountains and hills may be removed
but I, among many others, testify to Truth, that the Spirit of Christ, lead us to denounce war and
preparations for war as evil. May there be a balm in Gilead, now!


    How do we cry—love? Numerous times each day I open the Scriptures and learn afresh that if we
love with a compassion that suffers with others, it’s genuineness will require the deep seriousness of
demanding justice for those who suffer. This requirement of a faith-filled life is to be open as a light on a
table. During these past days I have been remembering my 27 friends (SOA 43) imprisoned at other sites
around the country, and holding them in my heart and in my prayers with thanksgiving for their own
special courage and strength of witness. Special mindfulness is given for the five who have been
incarcerated since our July sentencing in Georgia. They have endured far, far more misery than I have or
will in my time here. The light of their witness to truth shines brightly in all the prison houses of darkness
that incarcerate them. I love them all. Visits from Libby, accompanied by friends, have blessed me beyond
words. Libby is a strong woman (no, not from Woebegone) and graciously extends tile tenderness of touch
that deepens the love we have for each other. I relish the soft, warm talks of things dear to us. Letters from
our children and friends carry their own tenor of life into this place. I am joyfully in the debt of so many
people. I am buoyed by thoughts of you and gladden by your remembrance of me and my friends in prison
for their action of love to Close the SOA and chart a new world of peace and justice for our sisters and
brothers in Latin America. Walking meditations fill my days here, and fasting each Saturday has become a
ritual. Presently, I am contemplating a 25 day fast during Advent to remain in solidarity with our suffering
brothers and sisters in Latin America. I am encouraged by your own struggle for peace and justice and the
wonderful love that knows no bounds.

              Dios sea contigo (God go with you),  Erik

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