BY KATHI STEARNS

Staff Writer

JACKSON--There is a brightness to the electric lights overhead that dims the daylight filtering through two small windows into the tiny room.

A man dressed in white is seated on a bench near a sink. He draws himself away from the group for a moment of privacy. He opens his Bible, makes the sign of the cross and recites the Our Father.

Roger Collins is readying himself to receive the sacrament of baptism. He is one of several brought to the Catholic faith against the toughest odds by an inmate he calls his godfather, and one of hundreds on death row across the nation who have had a conversion experience.

When Collins finishes with his prayer, he brings himself back to the group standing haphazardly in the center of the room. He brags nervously that within the next hour he will be baptized by Archbishop John F. Donoghue.

While waiting, he jokingly tells six inmate friends who have come to share the event with him that he is wearing white in honor of the special occasion. Some of them laugh and tell him they did the same.

But Collins realizes this day will bring months of intense preparation to fruition. He appears as excited as any other believer on the verge of becoming a full member of the Catholic Church. Only his personal history suggests the uniqueness of the event.

Collins, 39, is a convicted rapist and murderer living on death row in G-House at the maximum security Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison. The white he and his friends wear is a uniform with "state prisoner" printed across the back. His friends are fellow inmates, also "UDS," under death sentence.

Collins was convicted in 1977 of the rape and murder of 17-year-old Delores Luster and has lived on death row for over 20 years. In 1986 he received a stay of execution and does not know when he will be called to face the death penalty.

He does know that on this date, April 1, thanks to the evangelizing of a fellow death row inmate, he will become a member of the Catholic family.

That's a huge reality for a man who has been on his own since he was 12. "I've never had any family," he says. "Today is the best day of my life because I finally belong someplace."

"I feel so nervous," Collins, who wears a mustache and glasses, whispers to a fellow inmate just out of earshot of Archbishop Donoghue, who will also confirm Collins and celebrate first Eucharist with him.

"It is going to be such a new feeling to have Christ in me," he tells his friend.

"I'm anxious to see what that is going to feel like," he says, his smile and the glistening of his dark brown eyes betraying the hope of his expectation.

Today Collins believes. But it was not always so.

"I never believed in organized religion," Collins says. "I always believed there was a God, but I can't honestly say I believed in him. Today I can say 'I believe' without any hesitation."

He owes his conversion to the committed and loving work of Jack Potts.

Potts is a 53-year-old inmate convicted in Forsyth County for the 1976 armed robbery, abduction and murder of Michael Priest. He was baptized that same year at Reidsville Prison by Bishop Raymond Lessard of Savannah, and since that time has brought over 20 converts into the faith.

"When I was initially captured, I thought the police were going to kill me," he says. "That second I made a promise to Jesus and Mary that if my life were spared, I'd bring others to know Christ."

"That has been my mission since I've been here," said the 5-foot 8-inch balding man in wire frame glasses.

He's working now to bring inmates Joshua Bishop, 23, and Stanley Allen, 43, both present for Collins' baptism, into the church.

"You really have to work with these guys," Potts says. "You can't push them. A heart has to be open to Christ before he can work in it."

Potts says he begins the process by simply telling his fellow inmates about Christ. "Once I've done that, I start sharing my literature about the faith with them and try to get them acquainted with the Bible. Then I try to give them an overview of the sacraments."

"I celebrate with each man who comes to know and love Christ. For if a man does not have Christ, he has nothing," says Potts, who is serving as Collins' godfather and confirmation sponsor.

"I've waited so many years for this," Potts says. "I've spent hours praying with him and trying to be a Catholic role model through my words and actions."

"This is truly a day for rejoicing. Now I know that no matter what happens to either one of us, God will take care of us," Potts says. "If you don't have a personal relationship with God in this place, you can't make it."

Potts says that even though he lives in a controlled environment there are still many temptations that can pull one away from God.

"The only way you can survive, and the only way you can deal with the constant fact that people want to see you executed, is by the strength you receive through the sacraments," he says.

Jack Alderman, another inmate on hand for Collins' baptism, knows Collins will be strengthened by the sacraments just as he is.

The 46-year-old Alderman was convicted in Chatham County in 1975 for the bathtub drowning of his wife so he could collect insurance money. Alderman says his faith is all he has now, and all he needs. He attends Mass or a Communion service at the prison each week.

"Wednesdays are my favorite day of the week," he says softly. "For one hour I have a break from the dehumanization that occurs in this place."

For Alderman, the weekly Mass or Communion service in the makeshift chapel, which is normally the barbershop, is "60 minutes in which our Lord is praised and not cursed."

Robert Conklin, another product of Potts' witness and also present to celebrate Collins' baptism, agrees.

"Jack told me from the beginning that you need something bigger than yourself to survive in here," he says.

"It was Jack's example, the way he lived his life, that helped me come to the Catholic faith and know, love and serve Jesus," the 37-year-old inmate says.

Conklin was baptized by Archbishop James P. Lyke, OFM, in 1991.

"I chose the Catholic faith because of the strict morality," he says. "In this faith there is an absolute right and wrong. Actions are either black or white. There is no gray," the 6-foot 2-inch inmate explains.

"The Catholic Church teaches discipline," Conklin continues. "Through discipline and sacrifice you can gain a closer personal relationship with Christ. That is important to me because the structure of the church is set up so that you always know where you stand with God. I need that."

Conklin, who is currently earning a bachelor's degree in economics through a correspondence course at Western Illinois University, was convicted in 1984 for the murder and dismemberment of attorney George Crooks, his alleged lover.

There are many who think death row conversions are suspect. But Conklin, Potts and Alderman say they have experienced forgiveness.

While forgiveness is offered by the church, restitution for the imprisoned is not always possible, admits Conklin. He says he personally relies on the sacrament of reconciliation and hopes God will communicate his apology to those he has hurt.

Conklin is aware that the sacraments Collins is about to receive in the 9-by-6 makeshift chapel are life-changing.

Inmates are allowed to enter the chapel one at a time. Before entering or leaving, each is stripped and cavity searched. Their soft cover missalettes and paperback Bibles are searched for razor blades or knives which commonly are hidden in hardbound books. Four armed guards peer through windows with steel bars to ensure the safety of visitors and Mass participants.

The archbishop, wearing his red chasuble and purple zucchetto, brings a singular sense of holiness to the drab concrete room. He begins the Mass by telling the inmates that Christ came to this earth to be our source of salvation.

"We are all sinners," he says. "Some sins are more serious than others. But Christ died on the cross to free us from our sins. The most important thing we can do is ask forgiveness for our sins and stay close to the Lord through his sacraments."

"The sacraments are vital," the archbishop tells Collins and his supporters. "We are reborn through the waters of baptism. We are cleansed through the sacrament of reconciliation. We are strengthened by the Holy Spirit in the sacrament of confirmation and we are fed and nourished through the Eucharist."

After the homily, the archbishop asks Collins to come forward. Since there is no baptismal font or candle, Collins bends over the sink which is used daily by the barber, but the holy water poured over his head by the archbishop sets him apart. He is baptized in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Collins rises, holy water running down his brow, a smile tracing a path from one of his ears to the other. The archbishop hugs him, as does Deacon Tom Silvestri, who ministers weekly to the inmates on the prison's death row.

Collins joins the archbishop, Deacon Silvestri, Potts, Alderman and Conklin as a member of the Catholic family and the family of God.

"I made it," Collins says as he shakes hands with those in attendance. "I can feel Christ dancing in my heart."