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Following the deputy sheriff through the main cellblock of the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center, I kept my eyes fixed on the floor. I didn't want to look up for fear I would see the angry face of someone I'd arrested, someone whose freedom I had taken away.

I had no idea when I left the police department to pursue a call into full-time ministry in 1989 that I would end up teaching English to the people I'd spent my career putting in jail.

The burly deputy motioned me into a tiny, sterile classroom and told me to push the red button by the door if I needed assistance. When I asked him what type of assistance I might require, he smiled impishly and said, "You know. You were a cop once."

As the deputy's key turned in the lock and the dead bolt slid noisily into place, I turned to face my students. The deputy had told them I was a former cop, a police detective for five years; some of them probably remembered me since I recognized their faces as ones I had arrested. The orange-clad inmates stared at me with cold, dead eyes.

"My name is Mr. Winship," I began.

"Shut up," came the reply.

Instinctively my hand moved to the place where my service revolver was once holstered, and several of the men laughed.

"Ain't no weapons in here, teacher," one man sneered. "And you're all alone."

In the tense silence that followed, I whispered a prayer to the Lord. Use me. Please Lord, use me.

Talking to "Dead Man"
"Let him talk," a heavily accented voice commanded from the back of the room. The speaker was a dark, olive-complexioned man whose words fell clumsily from his mouth as if he were drunk. Sensing my confusion with his speech, he explained, "It's the drugs they give me to keep me under control. If I don't take them, perhaps I would kill someone. Like you."

In spite of the seriousness of his tone, his words had a calming affect on the other inmates.

"What's your name?" I asked, anxious to keep any class interaction going.

"Dead Man." His head rolled slightly forward and with great effort he focused his eyes on me. He tried to lick his dry lips but his tongue was swollen and unresponsive, the result of powerful sedatives. He started to speak again, then stopped. After several seconds he repeated his name. "Dead Man."

For the rest of the hour no one spoke. No matter how strongly I prodded and cajoled trying to invite response, the class remained silent. When the deputy returned to escort the prisoners back to their cells, I was filled with despair.

"You survived, huh?" the deputy joked as the inmates filed out of the room.

"Not really," I replied sulkily.

"What's with him?"

I turned. Dead Man remained seated in the back of the room.

"I want to stay and talk to the teacher," he mumbled.

"Can he?" I asked, not allowing the deputy the chance to deny Dead Man's request.

The deputy studied the inmate. "He's so wasted on Thorazine, I doubt if he'll give you any trouble. You've got 20 minutes."

Use me. The silent prayer burst from my heart as I pulled a chair next to Dead Man.

"They have killed me," he said. "They have taken my life and they have killed me. I am dead. I am in hell." He began to cry.

I tried in vain to console him. I knew from my years of working the street that his drug-clouded condition prevented him from understanding anything I said. Talking to him was a waste of time.

With a renewed sense of failure, I pulled a Gospel of John from the pocket where my detective's shield once hung, and slipped it into the weeping man's hand. When I left the room, two thoughts darkened my heart: God didn't hear my prayer, and Dead Man was truly dead.

Dead Man's curriculum
The next Tuesday I returned with little enthusiasm. I had spent the week questioning my resignation from the police department and wondering if God had really called me into full-time ministry.

"They're in there waiting for you," the deputy chided as I passed him into the classroom.

"I bet," I answered sourly, preparing myself for another hour of silent failure. Again I asked God to use me, and forced myself to walk into the room.

The instant I entered, I knew something was remarkably different. Not only were the inmates sitting in their desks in neat rows, each with pencil and paper at the ready, but there in the center of the front row sat Dead Man, wide-eyed and alert.

"I want you to teach me about this book," he demanded, waving the Gospel of John in the air above his head. "The class will be silent as you teach."

Dumbfounded, I began to explain that I worked for the Fairfax County adult education program and the government required I teach English, not religion. The book was only a private gift.

"Nonsense!" Dead Man roared. "I can already speak English and Persian. In fact I can speak Hebrew and Arabic and Bulgarian. Languages have never affected my life. This book has. Teach it to us now. Tell me how Jesus could forgive those who wanted to kill him."

Pressured by nods of approval, I set aside my English grammar textbook and pulled a New Testament from my shirt pocket.

The next three hours began more than two years of teaching Dead Man the Bible. I eventually stopped working for the adult education program (they were concerned because of my evangelism) and just went to the jail as an unpaid volunteer.

New life for Anoush
I learned that Dead Man's name was Anoush.* He was a high-ranking Iranian diplomat who fled his country when he became convinced of the new regime's hatred for the West. In the United States, while waiting for political asylum, he was attacked and brutally beaten by a group of men sent from his home country. One week later his house burned to the ground. The night his wife announced she was leaving him and his two daughters, he lost control and shot the man she said she loved. For two years, Anoush had been sitting in his cell, considering himself dead.

"Teach me how to know Jesus," he demanded on that Tuesday afternoon. "Teach me to forgive." On the following Tuesday, Anoush surrendered his life to Christ.

Today, Anoush is a free man. Fully pardoned by both his Lord and the governor of his state, he has led many Muslims to Christ.

As I developed a relationship with Anoush, I met his two daughters as well. At first, I found them living alone, just 17 and 16 years old, in Anoush's home. I began visiting them, helping them with homework, buying groceries, and assisting them with college admissions. They became like my daughters. Anoush's oldest daughter has now graduated from seminary and hopes to return to Iran as a missionary. His youngest daughter graduated from George Mason University.

After almost two years of teaching English in Virginia, I moved with my wife and three boys to Indonesia to teach in an international school.

Whenever Anoush and I talk on the phone, two thoughts brighten my heart: God always hears the prayers of his people, and Anoush is truly alive.

A Christian Reader original article.
* Name has been changed.

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