Jorge was 32 years old when I visited him in a Matamoros jail.  The angry bruise on his forehead and his cracked ribs testified to his recent failed escape.  Sitting in the prison infirmary, he was the picture of cocky impudence.  His smile and easy laugh seemed as winsome as his life was evil.  He talked to me about spiritual matters.

"Why would I stay in this place?  I've kidnapped 18 people and killed 33 others.  They've locked me away for life.  Better that I die trying to escape.  Let me ask you something - my nine year-old daughter told me, 'Papa, don't buy me anything for Christmas; use the money to get out of jail.'  How do you think that makes me feel?  And my mother says she believes in God, but she won't come visit me.  Why should I believe in that kind of a God?"

Jorge is not your average guy off the street.  I learned during my first visit a week earlier that all he really wanted was to match wits and take a wrecking ball to his visitors' faith.  The best tack, I realized, was to keep it simple.  "Jorge, you can say what you like.  You can say this chair doesn't exist, but there it is just the same.  Your saying that God doesn't exist won't change two basic facts: He does exist and he loves you."

His response was quick, "Why should I be a hypocrite?  Isn't it worse to tell you that I'm going to believe in God when I know I'm going to turn my back on him?"

"You're right, Jorge.  It's better not to be a hypocrite.  It's wrong for your mother to not come visit you here.  I can understand how you feel.  You need to know that people are always going to disappoint you.  But that doesn't change the fact that God loves you."

"Yeah, well, if he exists, he hasn't done much for me lately," Jorge smirked.

Just then a cellmate spoke up.  "Jorge, are you denying that miracle that happened last month when you tried to escape?  The guards had you cornered and were going to kill you right there, but then a man came running up and said, 'don't shoot.'  What about that?"

"That doesn't mean anything.  It just happened."

In the end, Jorge asked for my address and said that we'd be friends.  He even accepted a prayer, but nothing seemed to change.  I left him, mired in his own dark world.