The economic devastation wrought by imprisonment is total, systematic, and largely invisible to those who have not experienced it. The state takes a man’s freedom. In the process, it also takes—or creates the conditions for the destruction of—his livelihood, his savings, his professional reputation, his earning capacity, and his ability to provide for those who depend on him. Financial ruin is not a side effect of incarceration. It is an integral part of the punishment, whether the system intends it or not. Most people do not care about the financial destruction wrought on prisoners because they presume that they deserve it or worse. This sentiment is unbiblical and damaging to those related to the prisoner by bloodline, friendship, or spiritual union.

In Suffering Unjustly, I analyzed this phenomenon in its theological and economic dimensions, documenting how modern democratic societies inflict property and wealth destruction on Christians through public policy, judicial decrees, and the institutional machinery of the criminal justice system. In this chapter, I want to bring that analysis down to the ground level—to the concrete reality of what financial destruction looks like from inside a prison cell and from the kitchen table of the family left behind.

How Prison Destroys Economic Life

Consider what happens to a man’s financial life the moment he is arrested. His income stops. If he is an employee, he is terminated. If he is self-employed, his business collapses. If he is a professional—a doctor, a lawyer, a professor, a consultant—his credentials are tainted, and his client base evaporates. The income that sustained his family disappears overnight, with no notice, no severance, and no unemployment benefits.

On the one hand, his expenses explode. Legal defense is expensive. Even public defenders, when available, cannot provide the level of advocacy that a complex case requires. Private attorneys charge fees that drain savings within months. Expert witnesses, forensic consultants, translators, and filing fees—each one is another draw on resources that are already depleted. On the other hand, his adversaries have effectively unlimited resources available at their disposal through the state.

His assets deteriorate. Property that is not maintained tends to fall into disrepair. Investments that are not managed decline. Unserviced debts accrue penalties and interest. Foreclosure may occur. A man in prison cannot readily sign contracts, manage properties, supervise employees, or respond to financial emergencies. His financial life continues without him, and it continues downhill.

The prison itself extracts money. Food at the kiosk costs twice or three times the market price in some prisons that permit monopoly vendors to gouge. Phone access requires payment. Medical care may require bribes or demeaning sycophantic behavior. The informal economy system, the informal economy, the corrupt guards who sell privileges—all of these drain whatever funds the family can scrape together and funnel into the institution.

The costs compound in ways that outsiders never imagine. When I needed to change cells to escape a mentally unstable cellmate, it cost fifty thousand pesos in bribes—roughly sixty-three U.S. dollars—paid through the mozo who quickly zipped the cash inside his chest pocket. When another cell move became necessary, I paid thirty thousand pesos to Carlos the pedophile, who had sexually abused his eight-year-old daughter, to “buy cigarettes”—the euphemism for a bribe that everyone understood. “I am a libertarian,” I told Sergio, “and I do not mind paying for services, even if others consider them to be repugnant or immoral.” But the cumulative effect of these payments—multiplied across months and years—was devastating. Every bribe, every inflated purchase, every payment for a privilege that should have been a right, represented money that my wife could not spend on groceries, on rent, on my teenage or grown children’s needs.

The prison concession system made the extraction systematic and institutional. In Rancagua, the company that operated the facility—Siges—also owned the snack monopoly, which was termed in Chilean prisons as “Econo-Mato.” Visitors were restricted from bringing many food items, precisely to force prisoners to buy poor substitutes (mainly junk food) from the cart at grossly inflated prices. If prisoners satisfied their hunger with what visitors brought, they would buy less from the booming and highly profitable concession. The kitchen workers threw out enough food daily to feed four módulos—instead of giving it to the inmates, since reducing their hunger would reduce snack sales. As the American libertarian Lew Rockwell rightly observed, privatizing something evil, like a prison, only made the bad business worse and more lethal. The state and its corporate partners conspired to extract maximum revenue from the most vulnerable population imaginable—and the families outside bore the cost.

During my imprisonment, my wife bore the brunt of this financial assault. She managed our household on whatever she could earn and whatever supporters contributed. She brought food bags to the prison—spending money she did not have to feed me and, frequently, my cellmates, who consumed her generosity without reciprocating. She paid for legal consultations, for document preparation, and for translation services. She absorbed the costs of visitation—travel, time off work, the clothing and supplies that the prison permitted her to bring.

The total cost of six years of imprisonment and parole, measured in lost income, legal fees, destroyed assets, and direct prison expenses, is a number I have not calculated because the exercise would serve no purpose other than to deepen the wound. Suffice it to say that the man who went into prison with five college degrees, decades of professional experience, and the capacity to earn a comfortable living came out with effectively nothing. Starting over at my age (63), with my record, in my circumstances, was not a question of rebuilding. It was a question of beginning from zero.

The Biblical Framework for Understanding Wealth Destruction

Scripture does not promise Christians material prosperity. The prosperity gospel—the heresy that equates faithfulness with financial abundance—is refuted by virtually every page of the Bible and by the experience of every serious Christian who has ever lived.

What Scripture does promise is that God cares for His people’s material needs (Matthew 6:25-34; Philippians 4:19), that the righteous will not ultimately be forsaken (Psalm 37:25), and that the temporary loss of earthly treasure is infinitely outweighed by the eternal treasure stored in heaven (Matthew 6:19-21). These promises are true, and they sustained me during the darkest periods of financial crisis. But they do not eliminate the practical reality that a family needs food, shelter, and clothing today—not merely the assurance that God will provide them eventually.

The biblical model for addressing the material needs of suffering believers is the body of Christ functioning as a body: “Neither was there any among them that lacked: for as many as were possessors of lands or houses sold them, and brought the prices of the things that were sold, and laid them down at the apostles’ feet: and distribution was made unto every man according as he had need” (Acts 4:34-35). The early church did not merely pray for the destitute. It provided for them. It reorganized its resources to ensure that no member lacked the essentials. Rather than showing off a great theology, didn’t Jesus say that men would know that we are His disciples by the love, in giving not just in words, that we have for one another (John 13:35)?

How far the modern church has drifted from this model is evident in its response—or non-response—to the financial devastation of incarcerated families. One-time offerings are appreciated but insufficient. What is needed is sustained, systematic financial support that matches the crisis’s duration and severity. Again, the imprisonment may last for years; the financial support must also last for years.

Practical Planning for Financial Survival

For the man facing incarceration—or already behind bars—and for his family, I offer the following practical counsel.

Before incarceration (if possible): Arrange power of attorney for your spouse or a trusted family member. Ensure that all financial accounts, insurance policies, and legal documents are accessible. Pay essential bills in advance. Reduce recurring expenses. If you are self-employed, designate someone to manage or wind down your business affairs. These preparations may seem premature or pessimistic, but the man who makes them will spare his family enormous suffering.

During incarceration: Communicate with your spouse or financial manager regularly about the family’s financial situation. Be realistic about expenses. Do not ask your family to send more money to the prison than they can afford—the informal economy will consume as much as you give it. Prioritize legal expenses over comfort expenses. Look for ways to reduce costs: share food purchases with cellmates, avoid the most egregiously overpriced goods, and resist the temptation to buy “status” within the módulo through unnecessary spending. In my case, we had generous givers who thought it best for me to be considered de panna (generous) by the inmates (indirect protection) by providing extra food and cleaning supplies to share. As good as that seems, not everyone in prison will have that option.

After release: Do not expect to return to your previous financial position. The job market does not welcome ex-convicts, even those who were wrongfully convicted. Professional credentials may be revoked or rendered effectively useless by the stigma of a criminal record. Begin with whatever work is available—not as a permanent destination, but as a starting point. Accept help from the church and from friends. Pride is a luxury that financial ruin does not permit.

The Church’s Role in Financial Support