In guilt or innocence, presence counts the most

One of the most challenging times in my life was a year spent as student chaplain in the old St. Louis City Jail. Each day I entered the lockup I was frisked. I had to wear a clerical collar at all times so as to be immediately identifiable in case of trouble on any of the tiers (cellblock sections); it was, after all, a maximum-security facility.

My boss was a crusty, straight-talking clergyman close to retirement who taught me that my role was to minister to the incarcerated, not to judge guilt or innocence. Let the legal system do its work, he preached, and you do yours. There will be a judge and jury for each man (the jail had only male inmates); my job was to see after the man's spirit.

For the most part, the men on my tier wanted me to work the phones for them. If you were locked up, you could only make collect telephone calls and then only at designated times. I was asked to call mother, girlfriend, social worker and public defender. One man in particular didn't want any of that from me. He wanted to talk privately; such visits were permitted under supervision. We met several times.

The man's name was Emory Futo, a former St. Louisan who had relocated with his wife and child to Riverside County, Calif. Futo was arrested for murder, accused of killing his parents and two brothers. He admitted flying to St. Louis under an assumed name after lying to his spouse about taking a camping trip with a friend. It was a celebrated case that ended with Futo being sentenced to four consecutive life terms without the possibility of parole. But when I knew him, circa 1992, he was still awaiting trial. The prosecution had a treasure trove of physical evidence including fingerprints, footprints and the airline ticket showing he was in St. Louis at the time of the killings. Futo told me a story that was, to put it mildly, farfetched.

After recounting this elaborate tale for me, Futo asked, "Do you believe me?"

In the years since, I've had occasion to hear a number of stories of people accused of crimes: A woman accused of shaking a neighbor's baby, who consequently developed blindness in one eye. She claimed she didn't do it. More recently, a clergy friend was accused of larceny. He tells me he's innocent. There are more situations than space permits; the point seems clear, however.

I'm at a severe disadvantage in these encounters. I don't know the truth. I wasn't there. I also know that a judge and/or jury will be tasked with determining guilt or innocence. As a Christian, then, should I cut off people when they get in trouble? Conversely, should I unreservedly take their side, as all of them desire me to? The former seems counter to the witness of Christ; the latter seems contradictory to the dictates of conscience.

There is a third way. When Emory Futo asked me if I believed him 16 years ago, my answer was, "It doesn't matter if I believe you. I'm here." It's the attitude I've taken ever since about other trouble when it has blown my direction. I'm hoping Jesus will approve. And if not, I'm praying he'll reveal a more excellent way.

Jeff Long is pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Cape Girardeau. Married with two daughters, he is of Scots and Swedish descent, loves movies and is a lifelong fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers.