Society brands you permanently. The conviction—whether just or unjust—attaches to your name like a tattoo that no amount of scrubbing will remove. You can be pardoned, exonerated, acquitted on appeal, vindicated by every scrap of forensic evidence available—and the headline that ran on the day of your arrest will still be the first thing that appears when someone searches your name. The media that broadcast your accusation will not broadcast your vindication with equal enthusiasm. The neighbors who whispered about your arrest will not whisper about your innocence with equal fervor. The label “convict” or “ex-convict” is permanent in the court of public opinion, regardless of what the actual courts eventually decide. In some unusual cases, like mine, a substantial minority will look favorably upon the convict, even going so far as to call him a “hero,” easing the pain and transition, but only partially.

My friend Pablo Morales worked tirelessly to combat the lies circulated about me in the Chilean and international media—creating tweets and videos proving that I was neither a fugitive nor a ruffian nor a racist nor a misogynist nor a white supremacist, five outrageous fabrications propagated by the leftist establishment and media. His efforts were heroic and effective among those who cared about the truth. But the truth does not travel as fast as libel and slander, and it does not linger as long. The great majority of people who heard about my case heard only the prosecution’s narrative, and that narrative—however false—is the one that defined me in half of the public imagination.

How Churches Treat Returning Members

I wish I could report that the church is an exception to society’s pattern of stigmatization. It was the case with Historic Baptists, but in many cases, it is not. The returning church member who has been incarcerated faces a range of responses from his congregation, most of them discouraging. Some churches welcome the returning member with genuine grace and practical support. These churches are relatively rare, and they deserve recognition and imitation. Most churches respond with some combination of the following:

Awkward avoidance. The returning member is neither explicitly rejected nor embraced. People do not know what to say to him. Conversations become stilted. Social invitations decrease. He sits in the same pew he always did, but the seats on either side are inexplicably empty.

Conditional acceptance. The church welcomes him back, but with qualifications. He is expected to demonstrate sufficient penitence, regardless of whether he committed the offense. He is excluded from leadership positions—even those he held before his incarceration—on the grounds that his “testimony” has been damaged. He is treated as a probationary member, required to re-earn a trust that was never fairly withdrawn.

Outright rejection. In some cases, the returning member discovers that his membership has been quietly revoked, his family has been absorbed by other social networks within the congregation, and his presence is no longer welcome. This response is more common than most church leaders will admit, and it represents a failure of Christian love so fundamental that it calls into question the spiritual health of the congregation itself.

The biblical response to a returning brother is modeled in the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32)—and even more directly in Paul’s letter to Philemon regarding the returning slave Onesimus. Paul does not merely ask Philemon to tolerate Onesimus’s return. He asks him to receive him “not now as a servant, but above a servant, a brother beloved” (Philemon 16). The returning member is not a project or a liability. He is a brother. Treat him accordingly.

Employment, Housing, and Social Barriers

The practical obstacles facing an ex-convict—even an exonerated one—are formidable.

Employment. Most employers conduct background checks. A criminal conviction—even a wrongful one—appears on the record and triggers automatic disqualification from many positions. Professional licenses may be revoked. Academic credentials are viewed with suspicion. The man who was a professor, a pastor, a consultant, or a business owner before his incarceration may find that none of these doors will open for him again. He is overqualified for manual labor and disqualified for professional work—a limbo that is as demoralizing as it is economically devastating.

Housing. Landlords conduct background checks. A conviction makes rental applications problematic. Home ownership, already difficult for a man whose finances have been destroyed, becomes effectively impossible when lenders factor in a criminal record.

Social relationships. Friends who distanced themselves during the incarceration rarely return when the sentence is complete. New relationships are complicated by the question that inevitably arises: “So what did you do before?” The ex-convict must decide, with every new acquaintance, whether to disclose his history—and if so, how much. Full disclosure invites judgment. Concealment invites discovery and the accusation of dishonesty. There is no comfortable option. In my case, I lost almost no friends and gained many others, and I was able to openly discuss my case and innocence. Most ex-cons do not have that privilege.

The Final Indignity: How You Leave

Even the act of leaving prison is an exercise in humiliation that foreshadows the stigma to come. When I left my bunk for the last time, the machucados—the bottom-feeders of the prison hierarchy—ransacked my belongings, stealing my book, my thongs, toilet paper, light bulb, hand soap, dish soap, drying rags, hand cream, toothpaste, socks, outlet adapters, power strip, toothpick brushes, winter coat, bedding, and paper towels. In reality, what more could be expected of scumbags, lowlifes, riff-raff, and rabble? The things you accumulated over years of confinement—each item hard-won, smuggled in, or purchased at extortionate prices—are stripped from you in minutes by men who have no compunction about stealing from a departing neighbor. You leave prison with less than you arrived with, and you arrive in the free world as a man who has been thoroughly, systematically plundered. To be honest, those losses are so small compared to the gains of being free again that they are not a great consideration. I wanted to give them to poorer disciples anyway.

Yet, the scumbags took that possibility away. This loss was not merely physical. It was symbolic. The prison takes everything—your time, your dignity, your possessions, your reputation—and then, in a final act of contempt, it lets the other inmates take whatever remains. You walk out the gate with nothing but the clothes on your back, into a world that views you with suspicion, and you are expected to rebuild from zero. I thank God for my brethren and friends who helped me. Most inmates do not have friends waiting for them when they get out.

Psychological Scars