It’s easy to love the sick and hungry, but can you love the lost and hurtful?

By Kali Dingman
For Murphy News Service

The early morning Minnesota snowstorm brings stillness to the usually hectic front lobby of the Wright County Jail. Wearing a modest black T-shirt, baseball cap and blue jeans, Cody James drags a guitar case, music stand, speaker and Bible through its front doors. He flashes a smile as he embraces the jail program coordinator and proceeds into the housing area, passing the security guard who opens the thick and heavy door with a loud buzzer. James forces it open, pulls his instruments through, and lets it go. It makes a loud thudding noise as it finds its permanent place.

James, now a suburban father of two, is no stranger to the dimly lit jailhouse hallways with doors leading to the kitchens preparing the inmates’ food or to the laundry where orange and green sweaters, pants, and socks are washed. He has walked through them more often than he would have liked. But on this day, he enters the jail gymnasium as a minister–performing Christian rock concerts, as he does for inmates across the country, and sharing his testimony of when he shed his orange jumpsuit and accepted Jesus into his life.

“Being arrested was the best thing that ever happened to me,” James said.

Cody James and his sisters were reared in a small Oregon city by their single mother. His father was never around, but his mother tried to give James a Christian upbringing. The lack of a father was a shadow on his self-confidence. “I grew up thinking I had less value than others,” James explained. Innocent nights of underage drinking quickly spiraled into an intense addiction.

He never knew his father, but his home was a comforting one, always filled with the sweet sound of singing and instruments being tuned. His mother and sisters were musicians. James said he learned numerous different genres, from rock to country, through his life at home. He began writing poetry when he was in third grade, which he says later developed into the Christian rock lyrics he writes today.

James prepares his instruments in the Wright County Jail gymnasium while a couple of inmates set up the audience chairs. He maneuvers around the volleyball net and foosball table, all luxuries that were included when the new jail was built in 2009. About 50 inmates soon start filing into the gym. James greets each one at the door with a firm handshake and friendly smile. The women are brought in first and seated in the back rows followed by the men who are seated in the front. The men wordlessly sit in their seats, while the women talk among themselves. The program coordinator raises her hand. The chattering ceases. “Enjoy and pretend you’re somewhere else today,” she says with a smile.

James was divorced for the second time at 28 and living a toxic lifestyle attached to the bottle. In the hopes of supporting her son’s talent, James’ mother encouraged him to “make it” in the music industry. “Only those that dare to dream can make a dream come true,” she said to him.

Armed with his mother’s charm necklace and blessing James moved to Nashville. He was discovered by the country musician pioneering legend Loretta Lynn after long nights playing his guitar and singing in local bars. Lynn mentored James and helped him get in contact with many other successful musicians, including Kenny Chesney and Tim McGraw.

“She was like a second mom to me,” he said. “Very sweet and very country.” James earned opportunities to tour with some of those musicians and make recordings. But the fear of achievement became too overpowering, and the nights of drinking remained consistent. He still couldn’t shake his addiction to alcohol no matter how successful he became. “I was running around in a million dollar bus and I still felt worthless,” James said.

James begins his performance by joyfully strumming his guitar and singing an upbeat song. The inmates still converse with one another quietly, but tap their feet to the beat of James’ loud guitar and melody of his sweet voice. When the song is over, there is a polite round of applause. “I’m a husband, a daddy, a minister, a singer and songwriter,” he says. “I was also sitting in those seats just a few years ago.”

The inmates’ attention quickly shifts from simple amusement to intense focus, their bodies pulling slightly out of their seats. “Back when I was locked up in Chisago County, guys would come in to speak and never had problems. I thought, ‘He doesn’t know where I’ve been.’ It was hard to take his words for truth,” James says.

As the inmates listen, James passes “before-and-after” photos of himself to them. Before displays a buzz-cut man, eyes glazed and staring into the distance: his mug shot. The other shows a man with blond hair, shining blue eyes and a slight smile. That one was taken, he says, after he accepted Jesus into his life.

James’ mother fell ill in 2003, so he packed up his guitar and addictions and moved home to care for her. She died about a year later with her son holding her in his arms. Afterward, James says he hit rock bottom. “My mom was my connection to God so to speak,” James said. “I barely managed life before. Now that my rock was gone I didn’t care.”

James started running instead of continuing to pursue a music career. Anywhere he could reach.

He remembered when he had toured the country with Lynn, and said, “how beautiful Minnesota was,” so he traveled to the state and began working construction. But his addictions spiraled more deeply out of control. He spent much of his time in and out of jails. “I was never a street drunk, but I could have always done better. I self-sabotaged myself because of internal fear,” James said.

It wasn’t until 2006 that he discovered his true path, when James received an old guitar.

Britt Downs was the program coordinator at the Chisago County facility when he met James as an inmate. James attended one of the jail church services while serving time. He asked Downs After the service if he could bring a guitar into the jail so he could play.

“I’m a musician,” he said. “I miss my guitar.”

So the next day Downs brought in his best guitar for the inmate to strum. “You break my [first] guitar and I’m going to hurt ya,” Downs joked as he handed him the instrument. James played a few tunes before thanking the man and promising to send him one of his CDs once he was famous.

Down’s phone rang one day a few years later. To his surprise, it was James.

“Jesus saved me from a life of trouble and addiction,” James explained. “I need to get back into the Chisago County jail so I can tell your people they can be free like He freed me.” So Downs booked him. Not as an inmate, but as a jail program so James could perform for the inmates and share his testimony.

As James continues performing a mix between heartfelt ballads and upbeat music for the Wright County Jail inmates, tears fill the inmates’ eyes. Women rush for Kleenexes, and chuckle at their own emotions. “I love you. I care about your life, families and futures,” he tells them. “I’m someone who will pray for you, do anything for you. The love of God sent me. God’s love will change your life.”

James has not only obtained his ministry license over the past few years, but has gained access to most of the jails and prisons in Minnesota. He drives his van from city to city due to donations given by those who support his cause.

Many of those donations come from ex-inmates who have battled addictions. They credit James for their improvements. Mike Swafford has been sober for three-and-a-half years thanks to his time in the Wright County Jail where he met James. Swafford attended James’ concert because, he said, “It was a good way to get out of my room.” Yet, by the end of the concert, Swafford said he found his life had changed.

“His life sounded a lot like mine,” Swafford added. “A life out of control with addiction and alcoholism.”

Swafford immediately joined the Salvation Army recovery program after he was released, where he successfully completed treatment. He supports the ministry every month and attends James’ concerts for those recovering from addictions.

Many support James’ ministry, but he still struggles to find enough money so he can travel to each of the jails that request his program. Many Americans have a poor idea of inmates, making donations are hard to come by, James said. But jail ministry, he says, is a big need. “America has such a need that many other countries come here on missions trips,” he says. “If I said I was going to Haitian jails, people would throw money at me. It’s hard for people to see there is a financial need here.”

Wright County Jail Program Coordinator Jo Carpenter, a short woman with a soft smile and a blunt manner, waves her hands as she passionately speaks about the importance of jail programs such as James’ concerts. “Many people think we should lock them up and throw away the keys,” Carpenter said. “They don’t understand that the law decides who is going to be arrested, but jails have to house those people.”

Housing those who don’t choose to live together can make it difficult to control inmates’ behavior. Carpenter said programs promote safety because they are considered “rewards” to the inmates; if they do not follow the rules, they are not allowed to attend activities. “These programs promote a safe living environment for the inmates,” she said.

That is why jail program coordinators such as Carpenter keep encouraging James to perform at their jails. “When you see grown men cry you know someone has touched them,” Carpenter said.

James performs the final song of the concert, and the inmates clap their hands and dance in the name of Jesus. Even Carpenter joins, accompanied by a few laughs from the inmates. More than half of them had raised their hands when James asked if they would accept Jesus into their lives. The response, he says, is a record.

As the inmates return to their cells, James packs his gear to leave. he says it doesn’t matter if he’s busting Top Ten charts or booking into a Nashville music hall. To him, he says, he has finally made it in the music business.

“God didn’t call me to entertain Christians,” he says, the look of excitement never leaving his face. “He gave me the gifts for the lost and the hurting.”

Kali Dingman is studying journalism at the University of MInnesota.