Florida has continued to expand faith-based prison programs despite objections from civil liberties groups and questions about their effectiveness.

BY ALEXANDRA ALTER
aalter@MiamiHerald.com

RAIFORD - At Lawtey, a medium-security prison where the Bible Belt intersects Florida's prison belt, an anger management workshop looks like this: Ninety-six men in light-blue jumpsuits crowded into an unadorned chapel, singing and clapping as an eight-man choir sings gospel music.

''We thank you, Lord, for our confidence that we don't have to leave here the way we came in,'' said the Rev. Steve McCoy, a round, cheerful man who asks inmates to open their Bibles to Proverbs 14.

It may resemble a church service, but McCoy's class is part of Florida's growing faith-based prison program, and Lawtey is the flagship institution.

Behind several rows of barbed wire fence off a quiet two-lane road, Lawtey houses more than 800 inmates -- men convicted for crimes ranging from cocaine trafficking and grand theft to aggravated assault and second-degree murder. All chose to be part of a controversial experiment, one that tests the boundaries between church and state and entrusts religious volunteers with prisoners' rehabilitation.

Nearly three years after Gov. Jeb Bush inaugurated Lawtey as the nation's first faith-based prison in an elaborate Christmas Eve ceremony, Florida's Department of Corrections has rapidly built up its faith-based venture. Two more prisons have been converted to faith-based institutions, and the state plans to launch another faith-based prison in Central Florida, said Fran Barber, director of classification and programs for Florida's Department of Corrections. Seven prisons around the state now have faith-based dormitories.

But criminologists, scholars and civil liberties groups have warned against expanding faith-based prison programs, citing questions about their constitutionality and effect on prisoners' behavior. Some experts dispute claims that faith-based rehabilitation leads to fewer future arrests. Others have questioned whether such programs amount to special treatment for religious prisoners or proselytizing.

''I just don't think that saving souls is the job of government,'' said Howard Simon, executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of Florida.

Lawtey's 824 inmates come from 26 faith backgrounds, practicing everything from evangelical Christianity to Wicca, Rastafarianism and the Viking-inspired Odinist religion. Yet among the prison's 561 volunteers, 98 percent are Christian. Prison officials say they rely on support from local churches.

''You're in the Bible Belt,'' said Warden Douglas Watson.

A typical day at Lawtey begins much like life in other prisons, with a head count and several hours spent working in menial prison jobs and work-release programs. The infusion of faith starts after lunch and lasts through the evening.

Monday nights feature a class on ''practical Christian living.'' Tuesday nights, the Rev. Javardo Jones leads Bible study. Wednesdays, convict-turned-preacher Ken Cooper leads a class on overcoming addiction. Thursdays often feature a meditation group and a worship service put on by the Church of Jacksonville. Fridays bring a mix of traditions: Jumah prayers for Muslims; a Sabbath service for Jewish inmates; Spanish Bible study; and ``friendly faith sharing.''

Larry Lewis, 51, who converted to Islam in 1995 while serving time for burglary, said he was at first wary of faith-based prisons: ``I thought it would be too Christian.''

After landing in state prison again in 2005 for failing a drug test while on probation, Lewis sought a transfer to Lawtey because he thought a religious atmosphere would help him become more disciplined, he said. While the bulk of the prison's programs are geared toward Christians, Lewis said he has more freedom to practice his faith than he did in other prisons.

''We are given the same respect as everybody else,'' he said.

Mark Anthony, 37, a Jewish prisoner with 10 tattoos and five aliases who's serving five years for cocaine trafficking, transferred to Lawtey a year ago from a prison in Pinellas County. At Lawtey, he's able to wear tefillin -- small boxes containing Bible verses that traditional Jews strap to their foreheads during morning prayers. He celebrates Jewish holidays with visiting rabbinical students. His prisoner ID card carries the initials JDA -- Jewish dietary accommodations. Anthony occasionally joins Christian prayer groups out of curiosity, but is not pressured to attend, he said.

''This is prison, make no mistake about that,'' Anthony said. ``But there's a lot worse places you could be.''

Many Florida inmates agree: About 8,600 prisoners are on a list awaiting an open slot at a faith-based prison or dormitory, according to the Department of Corrections. To qualify, inmates must be near their release date and have a clean disciplinary record for three months to a year before their transfer. Their faith -- or lack of faith -- is not a factor. Participation in religious programs is strictly voluntary.

Religious volunteers cannot proselytize or attempt to convert anyone, prison officials say. But inmates are not bound by the same rules, and volunteers sometimes teach inmates to evangelize.

To avoid constitutional questions about spending state money on religious activities, Florida's faith-based prisons rely on volunteers. In a single year, McCoy's Neptune Beach church spent $35,000 on Lawtey's rehabilitation programs and bought prisoners chairs, drum sets and guitars, ceiling fans and television sets. No tax dollars pay for prisoners' religious education, state officials say. Otherwise, keeping an inmate at Lawtey costs the same as at other prisons: roughly $48 a day.

Lawtey senior chaplain William Wright and other officials say religious education helps keep prisoners from relapsing into crime after their release. As part of the faith-based programs, Lawtey's chaplains and volunteers refer inmates to religious and community groups that run halfway houses and substance-abuse programs. The vast majority of transitional programs, which are voluntary, are Christian.

According to statistics released by the Department of Corrections in September, just 8.5 percent of Lawtey's 1,173 former inmates have been arrested again so far, compared to a statewide re-arrest rate of 65 percent. And only a fraction of the inmates in faith-based programs have been sent back to the general prison population for disciplinary problems.

But some experts say faith-based prisons are too new to predict whether they will have a lasting impact on prisoners' behavior.

Thomas O'Connor, an administrator of religious services for the Oregon Department of Corrections who has studied religion in prison, analyzed six studies of faith-based programs and found that four showed no significant impact on prisoners' behavior, while two reported a modest positive effect.

Jason Jefferies, a 31-year-old serving four years for burglary, transferred to the faith-based dormitory at the Everglades Correctional Institution in southwest Miami-Dade last December because he thought it would be a better environment, he said.

Jefferies practices Wicca, a neo-pagan religion that involves goddess worship. Other inmates often try to convert him to Christianity, he said.

''A lot of people don't understand [Wicca]. They think it's devil worship,'' said Jefferies.

He and the other 128 men in the prison's faith-based program live in the B-dormitory -- a pair of open halls with bunk beds, a television and telephones. Most seemed relaxed and somewhat cheerful, resting on their bunks and talking in small groups.

Unlike the 1,400 other inmates also at Everglades, most of whom live in two-man cells, prisoners in the faith-based program are free to walk around the dorm.

On a recent afternoon, four men sat around a table playing cards when Philip Carlton, a volunteer chaplain whom inmates call ''Doc,'' strolled in with another chaplain.

''I hope you're not going to play cards through Doc's devotional,'' said the Rev. D'Mrtri Cato-Watson, the prison's head chaplain, eyeing the card players.

Carlton -- a small, wiry man with a shock of white hair who wore a large metal cross around his neck -- wandered through the dorm, greeting prisoners and inviting them to a prayer group. He wore a visitor's ID, a baseball cap and an emergency cord clipped to his waist to summon security if he's threatened.

Twenty men crowded into a small, dusty classroom with a window overlooking a barbed-wire fence as Carlton started to preach. He told personal stories about his work as a criminal defense lawyer, asked an inmate to read a psalm and counseled the men to follow Jesus' example by spreading the gospel.

''Each and every one of you is being commissioned today to go forth as an apostle,'' he said. ``This is your job. My job's over now.''