Titus as Role Model on Death Row
by
Ted Cole*, Livingston, Texas

The saints and blessed of the Church serve as models for Catholics in all walks of life and, as a Catholic prisoner on Texas’ Death Row, I find myself in need of a role-model at almost every moment of every day. Having come to the Church less than three years ago, this walking of the straight and narrow is a new experience for me, and old habits die hard.

I find myself constantly faced with the hatred and cruelty of my jailers — at best, with their simple contempt and indifference to my physical and spiritual needs — and meek acceptance of the situation does not come easily. Fortunately, there is a man whose example speaks directly to people in my situation: Father Titus Brandsma, 0. Carm.

Titus had no crime or wrong-doing on his conscience, but he didn’t rant and rave about the injustice of his imprisonment. He was fully aware of the evil he was defying; he knew he would eventually be arrested and he calmly and cheerfully accepted the consequences of his words and actions.

Titus’ first lesson to me was that all words and actions have consequences and, depending on the times and circumstances, anyone, anywhere can end up with a prison number on his or her chest. And once the gate has slammed shut behind you, it really doesn’t matter whether you’re guilty or innocent, a political prisoner or a criminal. The reality of prison life is the same for everyone regardless of who or what you are. How that reality affects you is the important thing — you can wallow in outrage, or in shame and guilt, or you can get over it by turning to God.

Titus brought the message and example of Christ to his fellow prisoners. He brought hope and comfort even though he was a prisoner himself, and he can still bring inspiration to prisoners today. Titus encouraged his fellow prisoners to pray for their Nazi captors, and he preached and lived forgiveness. I’ve been sentenced to die for my crime and, according to the laws of Texas, rightly so. But our guards seem to feel they have the right — perhaps even a duty — to help us “pay” for our crimes by making us as miserable as possible until the time comes when, like Titus, we will be given lethal injections. My first instinct is to lash out physically and verbally at these people who don’t know me and don’t know anything about me. But Titus says to me: “Accept it, forgive it, and let it go!” That can only be done through prayer and self-discipline, but if a man as virtuous and holy as Titus Brandsma says that this is the right thing to do, how can anyone as ignorant and guilty as I am possibly argue with him?

Titus’ second lesson to me is that forgiving and letting go can be very empowering. My peace of mind depends entirely on me and the way I react to those who are in positions of authority over me. The only power anyone can have over my mind and emotions is the power I give them, and following Titus’ example puts power over me back into God’s hands where it belongs. Titus knew this, and it was his intimate relationship with a Power much greater than the Nazis’ that enabled him to live and die as he did.

Titus also confirms for me the fact that I will find God where I am, and not necessarily where I expect Him to be. We, on Death Row in Texas, are no longer allowed to have religious services. The last Mass I had the privilege of attending — actually a very hurried and haphazard Communion service — was more than a year ago. But Titus’ life in prison is a poignant reminder that, regardless of how our actions may seem to prove otherwise, God is not confined to a church or a chapel or to any other physical place, nor is He confined to any rite or ritual, even on as sacred as the Holy Mass. Even as he lay dying at Dachau, Titus was, himself, a chapel where God was alive and well and still reaching out to others. Titus assures me that I can also be a chapel dedicated to God, and that one’s duty to serve others and to influence others to do good does not stop simply because “home” is now a prison cell.

He also shows, by his example, that the solitude and loneliness of prison, far from being a burden or a frustration, can be as asset in one’s spiritual life. Time alone with God is so very precious, and it seems to be something that very few people are able to take advantage of. Titus wrote, “I am here alone, but never was our Lord so close to me.” If firmly believe that what was accomplished in one man can, with the grace of God, be accomplished in my. If being able to sit attentively at Jesus’ feet is, as He said, the “better part”, then along with Titus, I have indeed been blessed!

So, by following Titus’ example I have a model of how to live with myself, how to live with others, and how to live with God. What more could anyone possibly need to know?

*Ted Cole has spent the majority of his life in and out of incarceration. Today he remains on Death Row in a Texas prison awaiting execution. Three years ago, Ted became Catholic, and in July, 2001 having completed his Formation, makes his profession as a Lay Carmelite. He has been guided along the way by numerous counselors, one of whom is an 80 year old Franciscan priest, Father Stephen Walsh, who makes the arduous trip, by car, from New York to Texas once a month, just so the prisoners in Livingston may receive some spiritual nourishment.

Titus Brandsma’s patience and forgiveness in the face of unwarranted arrest and persecution has had a profound impact on Ted. A prolific writer himself, having read “The Solitude of the Cell” in The Carmelite Review, he hastened to respond from the point of view of a prisoner justly judged. It is included in this collection by way of sharing an example of how Titus, a minister to prisoners of his day, continues to minister to a prisoner today.