I Had to Go to Prison to Be Released

Some Sundays move differently.

Usually, a visit to Richland Correctional is a fairly easy drive to Mansfield, Ohio. I’ve made the trip before—most times with a group of brothers who serve alongside me in this calling. But this time, every one of them was home for various reasons. Life happens. No harm, no foul.

Still, something felt different.

I left Columbus behind schedule. No big deal—I’ve made up time on I-71 before. But this trip became a maze of detours and disruptions. From I-70 W to I-71 N, rerouted to I-670 W, then to Rt. 315 N, onto I-270 E, and finally back to I-71 N—just to escape the metro area. Add in the fact that every driver on the road seemed to have forgotten basic traffic rules, and I found myself balancing between faith and full-blown frustration.

I wasn’t just battling traffic. I was wrestling with something deeper.

For weeks, I had been questioning whether the Lord was still on my side. Whether His presence was still walking with me. Whether He still heard me. And while I just wanted to fulfill my commitment at the prison, I didn’t realize that Richland wasn’t just another assignment—it was my altar.

Because what I thought was a delay turned out to be divine.

I arrived to witness a baptismal service for 11 men who had surrendered their lives to Christ. I stood among nearly 200 incarcerated brothers, hands lifted, voices raised, tears falling, faith rising. And somewhere between their praise and my prayer, I felt something in me break open. Something long bound up finally set free.

This Black man had to go to prison to be released.

And in that sacred space—the religious center of a correctional institution—I understood Paul and Silas a little better. “About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them. Suddenly, there was such a violent earthquake that the foundations of the prison were shaken” (Acts 16:25–26). That night in Philippi, their praise unlocked something in the spirit before it ever opened the physical doors. That’s what I experienced—chains breaking, not just in the men I came to serve, but in me.

Authentic worship doesn’t wait for ideal circumstances. It breaks chains. It rattles foundations. It transforms prison walls into places of purpose.

I wish I could show you what I saw. I wish there was video evidence of how the Spirit of God filled that place. But some moments are too holy to capture—too weighty for social media. So, let me try to paint the picture:

Imagine nearly 200 men worshiping under the leadership of a Black woman chaplain who has faithfully discipled them. Imagine that atmosphere being set not for performance but for presence—not for a program but for power. And now imagine God—the Eternal Monarch—showing up in glory that knows no demographic, no background, no barrier.

Maybe the problem is we’ve spent too much time deciding who we think needs to be set free.

Jesus declared: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, because He has anointed Me to proclaim good news to the poor… to proclaim liberty to the captives… to set at liberty those who are oppressed” (Luke 4:18). And He didn’t say this was only for those on the outside of bars—but for any soul imprisoned by fear, shame, doubt, trauma, or the system.

Maybe if we truly believed the words of Jesus—“Whom the Son sets free is free indeed” (John 8:36)—we’d stop putting limits on liberation.

This visit reminded me that God is still in the business of deliverance. And sometimes, to receive what you need, you have to go to the places others avoid.

Because freedom doesn’t always come with open doors. Sometimes, it shows up behind bars.

Scriptures to Reflect On:

  • Acts 16:25–26 – Paul and Silas’ midnight worship and prison shaking breakthrough
  • John 8:36 – “So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”
  • Luke 4:18 – Jesus’ mission to set the oppressed free
  • Psalm 34:18 – “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
  • Hebrews 13:3 – “Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them…”
  • Isaiah 61:1 – “He has sent Me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives…”

Closing Prayer:

God of Liberation and Love,
Thank You for meeting us in the most unexpected places.
Thank You for using those we overlook to show us the depth of Your grace.
Help us to see freedom not as a location but as a transformation.
May we never forget that You can move behind bars, within hearts, and beyond our expectations.
Break every chain in us, Lord. Release what’s bound. And let us walk in the freedom only You can give.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Stay Sharp

By Dr. Charles W. Ferguson

The most unsettling thing in the world to me is the feeling of being out of control. When my mind drifts without grounding, it’s usually a sign that I haven’t tended to my personal needs—emotionally, spiritually, or physically. That neglect slowly turns into imbalance. And when things fall out of order internally, everything around me starts to feel off.

The Word reminds us in Proverbs 25:28 (NIV): “Like a city whose walls are broken through is a person who lacks self-control.” When we are unguarded and spiritually exhausted, our ability to function with clarity becomes compromised. We are open to attack—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

I’m learning that when I’m unwell inside, responsibility starts to feel like a burden instead of purpose. Love starts to feel like pity. Correction starts to feel like an attack. And lack—whether emotional, physical, or financial—starts to feel like a personal failure. The problem isn’t always what’s happening to us but what’s happening within us. We’re often functioning with malfunctioning hardware: our minds fatigued, our spirits weary, and our souls running on fumes.

Romans 12:2 (ESV) reminds us, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind…”Without renewal, we stay trapped in dysfunctional cycles. We begin projecting our pain rather than processing it. Even our best intentions are distorted by unhealed wounds.

As I reflect, I know there are apologies I owe—grace I must ask for—from family, friends, and loved ones. Because when I’m dulled by life’s weight, I become less gentle, less patient, and less whole. Ecclesiastes 10:10 (NIV) says, “If the ax is dull and its edge unsharpened, more strength is needed, but skill will bring success.” This verse strikes me deeply. When we are dull—spiritually or emotionally—it takes more effort to do basic things. And in that struggle, we unintentionally cause harm to others and ourselves.

How can I ever become the man I aspire to be without slowing down to do the work of maintenance? The answer is: I can’t. Even Jesus, in the midst of His power and purpose, modeled moments of rest and solitude. Luke 5:16 (NRSV) tells us, “But he would withdraw to deserted places and pray.” If the Son of God needed a reset, how much more do we?

I’m reminded of something simple but profound I once heard in the kitchen: it’s better to be cut by a sharp knife than a dull one. It sounds counterintuitive, but it makes sense. A dull knife takes more effort and causes more damage when it finally breaks through. A sharp knife cuts clean and with control.

Hebrews 4:12 (ESV) says, “For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit…” The power of sharpness isn’t just about effectiveness; it’s about discernment and healing. The Word cuts with purpose, not recklessness. And so must we.

When we allow ourselves to grow dull—burned out, resentful, unbalanced—we cause more harm than we realize. But when we stay sharp, we move with clarity, precision, and grace. We cut through life’s difficulties without tearing everything around us apart.

So here’s my word of encouragement—for myself, and for anyone else who feels like they’re on the verge of unraveling: Stay sharp.

  • Stay sharp so your insecurities don’t injure others.
    (“A gentle tongue is a tree of life, but perverseness in it breaks the spirit.” — Proverbs 15:4)
  • Stay sharp so love feels like love again.
    (“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” — 1 Peter 4:8)
  • Stay sharp so your purpose doesn’t feel like punishment.
    (“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9)
  • Stay sharp so you can keep showing up as the version of you that God, and those who love you, deserve to see.
    (“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” — Psalm 51:10)

And if you feel dull? Pause. Reset. Breathe. Tend to your spirit. You don’t have to live broken just because you’re used to the pieces. God specializes in restoration.

Isaiah 40:29-31 (NIV) speaks life into weary souls:
“He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak… but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

Let’s make a commitment together—me, you, all of us—to stay sharp.

Closing Prayer:

God of Renewal and Restoration,
We come to You acknowledging the wear and tear of life on our minds, bodies, and spirits. Too often, we’ve tried to keep going while neglecting the internal wounds that slow us down. Forgive us for moving without intention, for speaking without healing, for serving without resting.

Sharpen us again, Lord.
Cut away what is dull and unproductive in us.
Renew our minds with Your truth, restore our hearts with Your peace, and refresh our souls with Your presence.

Teach us to embrace the rhythms of rest and restoration.
Help us to love without injury, lead without ego, and live with clarity and compassion.
And when we are tempted to push through in our weakness, remind us that Your strength is made perfect in it.

We choose today to stay sharp—not for our glory, but so that we may be vessels of purpose, healing, and light.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Bleeding While Leading: The Unspoken Cost of Caring

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I hate what happens when you genuinely care for people.

Because when you care, you give. You pray, labor, sacrifice, and remain present even when your body says rest and your heart says retreat. But when you care, you open yourself to the inevitable: the heartbreak. The disappointment. The silence after the investment. The betrayal after the trust.

And deep down, you know it’s coming. You can sense it before it arrives. You try to brace for it. You even entertain the idea of becoming calloused enough to not feel it so deeply. But no matter how much you prepare, pain still finds its way in. That’s the strange paradox of pastoring: you are asked to be fully present, wholly available, spiritually discerning, and emotionally intelligent—while also guarding your heart from being shattered repeatedly.

I’ve often heard, “Don’t take it personally,” when people walk away from the congregation, speak poorly of a ministry effort, or misrepresent what pastoral leadership really entails. And while the advice is often well-meaning, I struggle with it. Because I am a person. I do take it personally. My humanity is not a separate compartment from my calling—it’s intertwined with it.

Someone once told me, “You’ll have to learn how to lead while bleeding.” I’ve never forgotten those words. But as I’ve grown, I’ve also come to believe this: ministry doesn’t require sepsis to prove your dedication. You don’t have to die inside to stay faithful to your post. You don’t need to sacrifice your wholeness to prove your worth.

Instead, I’ve found something more meaningful: the sacred space of holding humanity and holiness together. The pastoral role is not to bleed out, but to feel deeply without infecting others. I don’t want to become numb. I want to be authentic. And authenticity means admitting: some days, this is hard. Not because I don’t love God. But because I love people—and loving people means risking heartbreak.

Is there an answer to how we navigate the personal from the prophetic? Can a pastor bring their full self—heart, mind, spirit, and scars—into the pulpit and still walk in power?

I believe we can. I believe authenticity is not only possible—it’s necessary.

But we have to take our cues from Jesus. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus was fully divine, but also fully human. He didn’t pretend that the weight of the cross was light. He questioned. He lamented. He asked for another way. And then… He accepted the assignment.

That garden moment gives me permission to be honest with God. To weep. To feel. To ask. To hope. And still to lead.

Maybe we’re all in some kind of garden right now—struggling with obedience and honesty at the same time. Hoping to arrive at peace while still reeling from pain. Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said strength is made perfect in weakness. Maybe the hard places don’t disqualify us—they disciple us.

I don’t have all the answers. I just know some days, I wish it didn’t hurt so much.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the step of faith.

Prayer of Reflection:

God of Gethsemane and Calvary,
Teach us to lead with tender strength.
Give us space to feel,
Permission to question,
And courage to continue.

Guard our hearts,
But don’t let them grow cold.
Let our humanity remain a gift,
Not a liability.

And when we’re in our garden moments—
Bleeding, bargaining, or broken—
Remind us:
You were there too.
And You stayed.

Amen.