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Kirby: What’s the worst that could happen?

An inmate sits on his bed in the geriatric unit during a media tour Thursday, Feb. 26, 2015, at the Utah State Correctional Facility in Draper, Utah. Gov. Gary Herbert said Thursday that he's opposed to the idea of allowing a state commission to pick a location to build a new prison instead of leaving the decision with the Legislature. (AP Photo/Rick Bowmer, Pool)

I went to prison at Point of the Mountain last week. Luck was with me. They kept me for only a couple of hours.

It wasn't my first "stretch" in the joint. Point of the Mountain is where I met Sonny. We weren't cellmates. He was a corrections officer and I was a newspaper reporter. That's a volatile enough combination without adding a claustrophobic cell to the bargain.

The reason I ... wait, first I have to tell you something hilarious.

Last week, Sonny admitted that he now has to wear hearing aids. Years of cannon fire have rendered him partially deaf. My only consequences for the same thing are assorted concussions.

So, if you see Sonny, act like you're talking to him but don't say anything out loud. He'll get frustrated and start messing with his ears. It's a scream.

Where was I? Oh, right, Point of the Mountain. The reason I went to prison this time was to speak to a group of inmates. I was invited to a monthly "fireside" by LDS Bishop J.B. Hendrickson, who oversees a Mormon inmate congregation.

The program began at 6 p.m. and consisted entirely of a hymn and me. I was the speaker and my audience was quite literally a captive one.

It comes as no surprise to me that there are Mormon church services in prison, and that active Mormon inmates attend. Not only did I once help put some of them there, I also have friends serving time.

I was a little nervous. Speaking in my LDS ward is hard enough. Not because I get stage fright, but rather because I have to watch my language, not say anything overtly insulting, and wear a tie.

Giving a talk in prison church carries with it a whole set of worries, not the least of which is that I might get stabbed if I fail to deliver an agreeable message.

Actually, it was nothing at all like Hollywood prison. While I imagine there are some terrible things that go on at the Point, Thursday night was eye-opening in a different way.

It was exactly like a priesthood session in regular church — a bunch of men of various ages, all dressed exactly alike, sitting in pews and waiting to get their spiritual marching orders. The only difference was that everyone was dressed in prison issue.

I have no idea if I said anything of worth. I talked about the importance of humor in life. I hope they at least came away from the fireside with something positive to reflect upon.

I did.

It would be easy to dismiss Thursday's congregation as a bunch of criminals guilty of some of society's most despicable crimes. But this isn't about their guilt. It's about my responsibility for compassion.

Most of us have no idea what deep, bottom-of-the-well humility is like. We live our lives without a clue of what it's like to lose everything, or what would become of us if we did. And I do mean everything.

What if you committed a crime so shameful that almost overnight you lost your marriage, your children, your grandchildren? Your job, all your friends, your former standing in the community, and every shred of your self-respect?

If that happened to me, I doubt I would have the courage to try to recover some sliver of value in my life. I'm betting you wouldn't either. Most of us are the sum total of external values. Take those away and we aren't much.

I came away from the prison with the idea that true humility is at best a vague theory to most people and religious congregations. So is compassion. The trick, I think, is learning the true importance of both.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.