The Radical Prison Ministry of Early Christians

IN THE SECOND century, Jesus’ followers were not a reputable bunch. Most people had probably never heard of Christians, but some knew the rumors: They worshipped a crucified criminal, ate flesh and blood, and obstinately refused to sacrifice to the gods. And they were notorious for hanging around prisons.

This is partly because many early Christians ended up in prison themselves. Jesus did. Peter did. Paul did. Ignatius of Antioch did.

But Christians were also known for showing up at prisons voluntarily. In one of the earliest surviving references to the Christian movement by an outsider, the second-century writer Lucian, who thought followers of Christ were laughably ignorant and naive, mocks them for the support they gave an imprisoned Christian leader named Peregrinus. Lucian describes widows and orphans loitering around the prison while their leaders bribe the jailers to get inside, bringing Peregrinus food and encouraging him with the scriptures. “It’s incredible how quickly they respond in such situations,” he remarks. “They get to work immediately, and spare nothing.”

Apparently, one of the first things observers noticed about Christians — and ridiculed them for — was their concern for the imprisoned. Ancient Christians saw care for prisoners as emblematic of the justice and mercy to which Jesus had called them. And so they showed up, sometimes in large numbers, to care for and encourage prisoners, bringing food, bribing their way inside, and advocating for humane treatment. Although initially they were focused on supporting fellow believers who were imprisoned because of their faith, they soon came to extend this compassion to all, regardless of the reason for their incarceration.

This legacy has never been more relevant. Despite modest declines over the past decade, the prison population in the United States is still five times what it was 40 years ago. In 2015, one of every 115 adults was behind bars — not including 30,000 additional people held in immigrant detention centers. No other state has ever utilized incarceration on such a scale.

And as best-selling books such as Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow and Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy explain, there are deep racial disparities in the American carceral system — with devastating consequences: According to a recent estimate, one of every three black men can expect to be incarcerated during his lifetime. As a result, one in every 15 African-American children has a parent in prison at any given time.

Christian and interfaith organizations are responding by advocating for prison alternatives and sentencing reform, by supporting ex-offenders as they re-enter their communities, and by building relationships within prisons that seek to restore wholeness and dignity. Whether they know it or not, they are building on a tradition that is as old as Christianity itself.

Burdens and bribes

The earliest evidence of this tradition is found in the New Testament. “Remember those who are in prison,” the author of Hebrews urged his readers, “as if you were in prison with them” (13:3). Imprisonment was common enough among early Christians that such empathy did not require a great leap of imagination (10:32–34).

But remembering those in prison was not just a matter of thoughts and prayers; it included material care and support, undertaken at considerable risk. One reason Paul wrote his letter to the Philippians was to thank them for sending Epaphroditus to care for his needs while in prison. Paul was grateful for the emotional and spiritual support Epaphroditus provided (2:29–30), but his support was also practical: Prisoners in the ancient world were given inadequate food, if any at all, and quite often died of starvation or disease while in custody. No wonder Paul described the Philippians’ gift as “a fragrant offering” (4:18). It may have provided his first real meal in weeks.

By the late second century, some churches were taking up monthly benevolent offerings that were used, in part, to provide food for prisoners. This was not only a great gift to the prisoners themselves, but also an act of care for prisoners’ families, who otherwise would have borne the financial burden alone. As is the case today, many of the families affected by incarceration were already living on the brink of poverty. Without the support of the church, losing a breadwinner to prison would have left remaining family members with few options. As one ancient writer lamented, wives and sisters and daughters of prisoners were often forced to resort to begging or prostitution.

Church funds were even used to bribe jailers. Although modern Christians might find this practice morally problematic, ancient believers saw it as an important means of advocacy. Anyone who has been inside a U.S. prison knows the incarcerated can be victims of degrading and arbitrary violence at the hands of their keepers. Such cruelty was common in ancient prisons, and jailers were seldom held accountable. Using gifts to gain the guards’ favor was thus an important precaution. Do not neglect a condemned Christian, instructs a third-century church manual called the Didascalia apostolorum, but “from your labor and from the sweat of your brow send him food for his nourishment and payment for the soldiers guarding him, so that your blessed brother may be relieved, receive attention, and not be utterly afflicted.”

The story of the third-century martyr Perpetua shows what a difference such support could make. Arrested and imprisoned because of her newfound commitment to Christ, Perpetua was terrified: “I had never before been in such a dark hole,” her memoir recounts. “With the crowd the heat was stifling; then there was the extortion of the soldiers.” Worst of all, though, was a deprivation that remains an agonizing one for many incarcerated women today — she was separated from her child. “To crown all,” she writes, “I was tortured with worry for my baby.” Imagine her relief, then, when two local deacons bribed the guards. Perpetua was relocated to a less dismal part of the prison, allowed to see her family, and, most important, was able to nurse her child.

‘Let us have mercy’

Clearly, early Christians were devoted to helping those who were imprisoned for their faith. But they did not reserve their compassion only for other believers. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus reminded his disciples that God makes rain to fall on the righteous and unrighteous alike (Matthew 5:45). At their best, the early Christians approached care for prisoners in the same way. Their own experiences of incarceration taught them to view the imprisoned not with hostility or contempt, as most of their neighbors did, but with sympathy, whatever the reason for their imprisonment. “Are those in prison murderers?” asked fourth- and fifth-century bishop John Chrysostom. “Well, let us not grow weary in doing what is right. Are they grave-robbers and adulterers? Let us have mercy, if not on their wrongdoing, then on their misfortune.”

One particularly striking story comes from fourth-century Egypt. As a young man, Pachomius was among a group of recruits conscripted into the army of Constantine the Great and imprisoned to prevent them from deserting. That evening, a group of believers learned of the young men’s fate and turned up at the prison to provide food, drink, and comfort. Pachomius was floored. He knew nothing of Christians and asked who these kind folks were. They are Christians, he was told, people who are merciful to everyone, even to strangers.

Some Christians did see prison as an appropriate punishment, especially once the church had enough clout that Christian leaders could use incarceration to threaten and punish their opponents. But many believers were convinced that imprisonment was by its very nature oppressive, even when employed in response to serious criminal behavior. According to the apocryphal Acts of Andrew, the apostle Andrew once refused to heal a prominent Philippian man’s son until the man had released two criminals that he had locked up in prison. There is no indication that these prisoners were Christians, and they certainly were not innocent. They had committed, we are told, “an unspeakable crime.” Still, Andrew was insistent: “How can you ask help for your son while you keep these men bound?” Although this story is likely fictional, still it attests to the strong conviction of many Christians that prison was fundamentally unjust, a means by which the rich and powerful oppressed the weak. Indeed, one early church manual warns bishops not to accept donations from rich persons who oppress the poor, mistreat their slaves, or have people locked up in prison.

As the church gained institutional power in the fourth century, it also began to take on a more systematic role as an advocate for prisoners. We can glimpse the scope of its work by paying attention to the kinds of advocacy that the Roman authorities outlawed. The Emperor Theodosius, himself a Christian, warned church leaders and monks to stop trying to whisk away prisoners who were being transferred under escort. He tried to regulate the practice of granting asylum to those fleeing arrest. He forbade clergy from interceding on behalf of prisoners who had confessed or already been convicted — that is, from interceding on behalf of the guilty. And he tried to stop Christians from winning the freedom of prisoners by paying the debts for which they had been imprisoned. The only explanation for the existence of any of these laws is widespread and effective action by Christians on behalf of the imprisoned — even those who, in the eyes of the law, deserved their chains.

‘Vengeance is mine, says the Lord’

What motivated this persistent, even subversive compassion for prisoners? One answer is that ancient Christians took seriously the words of Jesus. Third-, fourth-, and fifth-century preachers reflected often on Jesus’ assertion, recorded in Matthew 25, that when his followers attend to the needs of those in prison, they are in fact caring for Jesus himself. When early Christians looked at prisoners, they saw not only convicts, but Christ.

Christians also distrusted the retributive logic that, in the eyes of others, made prison seem reasonable and even just. While explaining why Christians should not serve as soldiers, Tertullian, the early Christian apologist from Carthage, expressed horror at the possibility that they might be assigned to work as jailors: “Shall he apply the chain, and the prison, and the torture, and the punishment, who is not the avenger even of his own wrongs?” If, as Paul commanded, believers are not to avenge themselves (Romans 12:19), how could they take vengeance on behalf of others by serving as prison guards? Clearly, Tertullian saw no essential difference between the retributive “justice” of the state and other forms of vengeance. Christians were not to participate in either.

Recently there have been signs of hope that the prison epidemic in the United States is beginning to wane. After decades of dramatic increase, the number of people held in jail or prison has declined slightly over the past few years. At the federal level, there has been bipartisan interest in sentencing reform, as well as in finding alternatives to prison for those convicted of nonviolent drug-related offenses.

These are worthy efforts, and merit our full support. But the early Christian witness invites us to something more radical than reduced sentences for the least threatening offenders. It summons us to what Jesus called the love of enemies — the persistent refusal to ignore the humanity even of those society hates most and fears most. It reminds us to be suspicious of what goes by the name justice. And it invites us to stand resolutely alongside the imprisoned and their families. That, after all, is where Jesus is.