When I was about ten years old, my family took a trip to San Francisco. My father, brother, and I took a tour of Alcatraz, that famous prison on an island in the middle of the San Francisco Bay. We were shown cells with breathtaking views of the ocean and the city skyline-the sort of views that any city-dweller would kill for (which would be a good way of getting that view). My father, however, commented that for him, such an imprisonment would be even more difficult to bear given the view-to know that all that beauty and freedom were out there, and that you could not be a part of it.

I remember being led by a U.S. Park Service ranger down to solitary confinement, and then our tour group was locked in one of the pitch-black cells. I just happened to have one of those keychain flashlights, so I pulled it out of my pocket and turned it on, much to the annoyance of my brother and father and the rest of the tour group, who wanted to soak up the "ambiance" of solitary confinement. I thought, "Hello, it's not solitary if we're in a tour group!" But I had to admit (to myself at least) that it was rude to enlighten our darkness when the darkness was the whole point of being there.

That tour of Alcatraz was the first and last time I ever set foot in a prison. I've never pursued prison ministry, nor have I had to visit anyone in prison, nor have I done anything that could've landed me in prison. At least, I've never been arrested for anything that could land me in prison. I've never been persecuted for my faith or detained for my political beliefs, and I've always managed to avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In short, the only other experience I have of prisons is driving by them and praying for the prisoners, guards and their families.

So I can't relate directly to what happened to poor Paul and Silas when they were imprisoned, though I can certainly sympathize with their plight. Instead, what I can do is listen to the stories told about prisons and prisoners, and occasionally, I'll tell such a story, in the hope that in these stories I can learn something of the perfect freedom that comes from serving God at all times and in all places, just as Paul and Silas do in this reading.

In fact, you may recall I told one such prison story last time I preached, on May 2nd, when I recounted Captain James E. Ray's heroic experiences as a prisoner of war in Vietnam, how his knowledge of the Bible helped him survive the torture of his captors. Near the end of that sermon I said, "Reading Captain Ray's story, I can't help but wonder about our own soldiers in Iraq. I wonder what will carry them through 'the perils which beset them.' I hope that their families and communities of faith have given them the gift that Captain Ray was able to draw upon in his hour of deepest need."

When I wrote those words about our troops, however, I was completely unaware of a contemporary story of American soldiers and torture in a POW camp unfolding in Iraq. Only this time, the Americans weren't the tortured, they were the torturers.

Too many things have been written and said about the prisoner abuse scandal at Abu Ghraib already, without my throwing a sheaf of sermon notes onto the fire. Yet as an American citizen, a Republican, a Christian, and your priest, I cannot simply ignore what has happened. As the philosopher Edmund Burke famously said, "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to say nothing."

So, setting aside as much as possible nationalities and politics, extenuating circumstances and inflammatory rhetoric, I just want to say one simple thing about this scandal in light of today's reading from Acts: Prison changes people. Being a prisoner changes you, and being a prison guard changes you. How it changes you, however, is dependent upon your response to any given situation.

So let's look at how Paul and Silas respond to their predicament. Paul and Silas were dragged into the public square. The authorities ordered them to be stripped naked, and then a mob beat them with rods. They were flogged, thrown in prison, and put in stocks. It's a good thing digital cameras weren't available in the first century A.D., because if the authorities had taken photographs of Paul and Silas, this story would be illustrated with pictures of Middle Eastern men, naked and beaten and shackled, and they'd look pretty familiar to us.

Paul and Silas were changed by this experience. Yet they were not chained by it. And I have to admit, had I been Paul or Silas, I would not have done what they did next. Instead of cursing, as I would have done, they are heard "praying and singing hymns to God."

Next, Acts recounts, "Suddenly there was an earthquake, so violent that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately all the doors were opened and everyone's chains were unfastened." When the jailer (who had followed the authorities' orders and likely participated in torturing Paul and Silas) awoke during the earthquake and saw that the prison gates were hanging wide open, he was sure his detainees had made a break for it. As the violent servant of violent men, he knew what grisly fate lay in store for him. Court-martial. Dereliction of duty. Public humiliation. His family dishonored. Imprisonment. Torture. Death. So he drew his sword to kill himself. But Paul, reassuring him that none of the prisoners had fled, implored him not to harm himself.

At that moment, Paul and Silas were free, and the jailor was imprisoned. Paul and Silas could have watched with justifiable satisfaction as the distraught jailer disemboweled himself. It would have been, quite simply, poetic justice. But no, Paul and Silas have to ruin it for us. Instead, the jailed free their jailer. For those of us committed to traditional notions of justice and accountability, Paul's deed, while noble, is deeply unsatisfying. The jailer doesn't get his just deserts, after all.

Acts wraps up the surprise happy ending for us: "At the same hour of the night he took them and washed their wounds; then he and his entire family were baptized without delay. He brought them up into the house and set food before them; and he and his entire household rejoiced that he had become a believer in God."

Instead of retaliation, the stories of the New Testament consistently offer us reconciliation. When bombarded by stories of revenge and retaliation, such as the ones coming out of Abu Ghraib Prison, we do well to recall and recount stories of repentance and reconciliation, such as this one from Philippi Prison. For only stories such as these hold out the promise that God's kingdom is indeed stronger than the kingdoms of this world.

So what does this mean for us? Should we let the Abu Graib soldiers off with a slap on the wrist and add insult to the Iraqi detainees' injuries by preaching that all they really need to do is "forgive and forget"? Am I to approach these beaten and bloodied prisoners chiding, "Why can't you be more like Paul and Silas?" Let's not be naive. Certainly, those who abuse others must be held accountable for their abuses, and those who are abused must be protected, and to the extent possible, restitution must be made. But why stop there?

The hard truth of the matter is that healing only occurs when both abusers and abused are given opportunities for reconciliation. So far, that hasn't happened, nor does it appear likely that either side is willing to be vulnerable enough to risk it. After all, we're fighting a war, right? Yet, I know reconciliation works, because I have seen it work in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa that Archbishop Tutu led. I know it works because I have experienced reconciliation on a smaller scale in my own life.

At the same time, in the midst of this scandal, I am almost ashamed to speak of reconciliation. It's too early for that, isn't it? Problem is, it's always too early for reconciliation. Three days after the crucifixion was too early for reconciliation, but the resurrection demonstrates that when it comes to the triumph of good over evil, sooner is indeed better. If we wait for our own justice to be satisfied, we will settle for the inflated blood-money of revenge; we will be satisfied with the wages of sin-death-and never bother to search for the costly and priceless treasure of reconciliation, the fount of new life and lasting peace.

In this morning's story from Acts, God's response to the violence of the crowd, the magistrates, and the jailer is nothing less than a "violent earthquake." Yet God's violence harms no one; it only shakes the foundations of our human justice, breaking down the walls that separate us, and unshackling both jailed and jailer alike. You and I need to be shaken up by God's violently nonviolent earthquake. We need to embrace an earth-shattering commitment to reconciliation, which will only happen when people like you and me refuse to be placated by lies and revenge, refuse to accept the scapegoats the powers of this world offer in place of the Lamb of God, and instead insist on truth and reconciliation, however embarrassing and costly that may be.

God has called us to live lives of truth and reconciliation, which may be as simple as telling your neighbors that you aren't satisfied with revenge, that you actually want something good for these soldiers and the prisoners they abused. For as long as we build up our prison system of retaliation, the deeper we go into that innermost cell of human bondage that corrupts and destroys the creatures of God. The farther we will be from the light of God's reconciliation. We can choke to death breathing toxic threats of retaliation and murder, or we can live and move and have our being in the One who reconciles us to God and to each other: Jesus Christ our Lord, by whose Spirit we are inspired to offer unending prayers of thanksgiving, singing ceaseless hymns of reconciliation.