Either way, there is no counseling protocol for this. There is no three-step process that addresses a man who expresses his agony by driving a needle into his own flesh. What there is, is the presence of God—mediated through the presence of His people—and the Word of God, which is “quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit” (Hebrews 4:12). You cannot fix the man who stabs himself. But you can be present in the aftermath. You can pray over him and ask God to bring him to Christ through healing his body. You can point him to a God who is acquainted with suffering—a God who Himself was pierced for our transgressions (Isaiah 53:5).

I also witnessed the slow, grinding desperation of men with untreated medical conditions. A man named Richard, a Bolivian Pentecostal, had swollen, fungus-infected toes that went untreated for weeks because he had no family support in Chile and no money for medical treatment. I photographed his diseased feet and shared the images with my visitors so that they could bring antifungal cream through the visitor supply chain. The simple act of getting a tube of “illegal” medicine inside required coordination across multiple people and a greater expense. This is the reality of medical care in prison: a man’s feet rot while the system looks away, and the only intervention comes from a fellow inmate with a smuggled cell phone camera and a network of Christians outside the walls who care enough to buy cream and sneak it through security.

When Violence Erupts

Violence in prison is not an occasional disruption. It is a constant presence, like humidity in the tropics—always there, sometimes visible, always felt. The crude spears fashioned from sharpened steel bed frames. The beatings in sealed cells at night. The screams that echoed across the compound: “Don’t do it! Please stop!” The men who bled out on the floor or were threatened with asphyxiation while the night guard took his time arriving, because most calls were false alarms.

When violence erupted, my role as a minister was not to intervene physically—to do so would have been suicidal in most cases—but to be present in the aftermath. To pray with the shaken. To speak truth to the fearful. To point men to the God who is “a very present help in trouble” (Psalm 46:1) for those who are truly faithful to Christ.

There were times when violence was directed at individuals I knew. An evangelical named Aaron came to módulo 118 after having been beaten in módulo 111 for his faith—or at least for his perceived faith, which in the prison context amounts to the same thing. Violence against known Christians is a reality that the comfortable church must understand. The inmate who identifies publicly as a believer may be targeted by other inmates who resent his sobriety, his honesty, his refusal to participate in illegal activity, or simply his differentness.

The minister’s role in the face of violence is not to be a hero. It is to be a shepherd. Comfort the wounded with the Gospel after reminding him that his little taste of hell is nothing compared to what he will face in a Christless eternity. Pray with the frightened for their salvation. Preach the Word to the angry about the only hope for living in peace with God and relying on Him to avenge us (Romans 12:18-21). And trust that the God who preserved Daniel in the lions’ den, Shadrach in the furnace, and Paul in the shipwreck is still sovereign over every act of violence committed within these walls.

The Author’s Own Battles

I would be dishonest if I presented myself as a man who sailed through five years and five months of imprisonment with unwavering spiritual confidence. I did not. There were seasons of darkness—what the mystics call the “dark night of the soul”—when the promises of God felt distant, when prayer felt hollow, when the Bible’s assurances seemed like words written for someone else in a different century. In my first year, suicide seemed at times to be a reasonable option, even though later I learned that my life insurance policy, a rationale used to justify suicide to help my wife, excluded death in prison.

My wife went through periods of denying the faith—basically falling apart under the pressure of my imprisonment, the financial devastation, the social isolation, and the relentless cruelty of the Chilean legal system. Watching the person closest to you lose her grip on the faith you share is a particular kind of agony that compounds your own doubts even as you fight to maintain your own footing. I thought my marriage was over as my wife turned so far against me, so selfish, and not thinking about the injustice that had happened or the rightness of defending oneself or his neighbor from aggressors. She had little faith, did not pray or read the word, and was thus woefully disobedient. Death was attractive to me.

Depression settled on me like fog. Not the clinical depression that responds to medication—though medication would have been welcome and was unavailable—but the spiritual depression that arises from the sustained assault of injustice, isolation, and helplessness. I knew the theology. I could quote the verses. But there were nights when the gap between knowing and feeling stretched to a chasm that no exegesis could bridge.

What brought me through was not the absence of doubt but the persistence of faith in spite of doubt. Not a triumphant faith that roared with confidence, but a battered, stubborn, teeth-gritted faith that simply refused to let go. Job said, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him” (Job 13:15). That verse became the bedrock of my survival—not because I felt the trust, but because I chose it. Faith is not a feeling. It is a decision, grounded in the character of God and sustained by His grace, to keep holding on when every natural instinct says to let go.

If you are in that dark place now—as a prisoner, as a family member, as a minister—hear me: God has not left you. The darkness is real, but it is not permanent. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). The morning may be tomorrow, or it may be eternity. But it is coming. Hold on.

Action Steps

If you encounter a suicidal inmate, do not leave him alone and do not be surprised. Stay with him physically and make every visitation. He has 168 hours a week in terrestrial hell and no more than three or four with you: make them count. Talk to him. Listen more than you speak. Do not minimize his pain. Do not offer easy answers. Point him to Christ, but first, be Christ’s hands and feet by being present.

Learn to recognize the warning signs of suicidal ideation in the prison context: withdrawal from activity, giving away possessions, sudden calm after prolonged agitation, talk of being “done” and abandoned or stricken, or having “no reason” to continue.

For ministers battling their own despair: you are not disqualified by your weakness. Paul said, “When I am weak, then am I strong” (2 Corinthians 12:10). God’s power is perfected in weakness, not in triumphalism. Be honest with a trusted brother about your struggles. Do not pretend to be invulnerable.

Address addiction as idolatry, not merely as behavioral failure. Teach the theology of the heart—that we worship whatever we turn to for ultimate satisfaction—and present Christ as the only object of worship that satisfies.

Prepare for violence by planning your spiritual response in advance. You will not have time to think theologically when the crisis hits. Know the psalms of distress. Know the promises of protection. Know whom you will pray with and how you will respond.

Discussion Questions

How should a Christian minister respond when he encounters a suicidal inmate, especially a member of his church or a related church? What is the balance between spiritual counsel and practical crisis intervention?

Read Job 13:15. What does it mean to trust God even when He seems to be working against you? Is this kind of faith a feeling, a decision, or both?

How does the biblical understanding of addiction as idolatry differ from the secular disease model? What are the practical implications of each approach for prison ministry?

The author admits to his own seasons of doubt and despair. How does pastoral vulnerability—admitting weakness—affect the credibility and effectiveness of prison ministry?