Prison, justice, and the dignity that can’t be sentenced away

“I was in prison and you came to visit me” (Matthew 25:36). These words of Jesus should resonate in the conscience of any society that aspires to call itself just.

Yet all it takes is the word prison for hasty judgments, unqualified condemnations and that phrase some people repeat with appalling casualness to emerge: “Let them rot in prison.”

As if another person’s suffering were a victory, as if locking someone up meant solving the problem that brought them there.

‘A loom of tears’

Prison is, in an expression attributed to Xaquín Campo Freire (a Spanish priest and writer known for his commentary on social and prison issues), “a factory of weeping and a loom of tears.”

Behind its walls lie not only case files, sentences and identification numbers. There are human beings, shattered stories, mistakes made, victims demanding redress and entire families suffering the consequences of an absence. There are also loneliness, fear, uncertainty and, at times, a hope that slowly fades within four walls.

But there is an uncomfortable question worth asking: Is justice really the same for everyone?

In theory, we are all equal before the law. In practice, not everyone has the same means to defend themselves.

Those with money can hire prestigious lawyers, appeal rulings, submit expert reports and sustain a legal battle for years.

Those without resources may have to rely on a defense subject to greater limitations and face an added burden of anguish: not knowing whether they will be able to make their voices heard as forcefully as those with greater financial means.

Money does not guarantee innocence or necessarily buy a favorable verdict, but it can provide significant advantages in mounting a defense. And inequality does not end when the prison doors close.

Personal circumstances, financial resources, family support and access to an effective defense can make imprisonment a very different experience for different people.

Facing a sentence with companionship, resources and prospects for the future is not the same as facing it in abandonment, without visits, without means and without anyone waiting on the other side of the door.

That is why we should be wary of a justice system that confines itself to punishment without asking about circumstances, causes and consequences.

Society needs protection from crime. Victims deserve truth, recognition and redress. This is not about denying harm or justifying the unjustifiable. It is about understanding that justice loses part of its meaning when it confuses redress with revenge and security with the desire to make people suffer.

What Jesus’s own trial reveals

Jesus knew firsthand the arbitrariness of power.

He was arrested, interrogated and brought before the religious and political authorities of his time. His trial, as narrated in the Gospels, was marked by interests, pressure and decisions that did not simply reflect a search for truth.

Pilate, despite finding no guilt in Jesus that would justify his condemnation, ultimately yielded to the pressure of the crowd (John 18:38; 19:12–16). The scene involving Barabbas, recounted in all four Gospels, also shows the extent to which an accused person’s fate could become trapped in the decisions of those who wielded power.

Jesus was executed. The innocent man suffered condemnation, and his death continues to stand as an indictment of injustice exercised in the name of order.

His story does not allow us to draw simplistic equivalences between Roman justice and modern penal systems, but it does compel us to reflect continually: Who decides, according to what criteria and under what pressures? How often do we confuse authority with justice and punishment with a solution?

In Nazareth, Jesus proclaimed a mission that included the liberation of captives and good news for the poor (Luke 4:18–21). He did not announce a mercy reserved for those we find likable, nor a dignity granted only to those who never make mistakes.

His message placed wounded, excluded and forgotten people at the center. It included those whose presence makes us uncomfortable because it forces us to confront our own contradictions.

Toward a justice that doesn’t lose its soul

For this reason, a truly humane society must ask whether prison always fulfills its purpose of rehabilitation and reintegration.

Prolonged isolation, the loss of relationships, uncertainty surrounding legal proceedings and declining mental health can worsen situations that were already difficult.

Prolonged pretrial detention also raises a fundamental question: No one should be treated as guilty before their responsibility has been established through a fair trial.

We need a justice system that is firm but also intelligent, one capable of protecting victims while offering real opportunities for those who have committed crimes to change.

Mediation, when appropriate, restitution for harm, alternative measures provided for by law, education and support can help prevent a sentence from becoming a door that remains closed forever.

Not all crimes warrant the same responses, and not all alternative penalties are appropriate. That is precisely why each case must be examined rigorously and humanely.

Dignity does not disappear with a sentence. A person may have committed a crime and still remain a person. Recognizing this does not erase responsibility; it prevents our response from becoming an act of dehumanization.

Perhaps we need to listen again to the words of Matthew 25. Jesus does not tell us to visit only the innocent, the exemplary or those who deserve our approval.

He says: “I was in prison and you came to visit me.” This invitation does not ask us to abandon justice, but to ensure that justice does not lose its soul.

Because a society is measured not only by the severity of its sentences, but also by its ability to repair harm, support victims, offer opportunities and prevent mistakes from becoming irreversible destinies.

Ultimately, behind every closed door is a life that cannot be reduced to its worst decision. And outside those doors is a society that must choose what it wants to build: more resentment or more responsibility; more exclusion or more hope.

Justice will truly be equal for everyone when wealth no longer determines the quality of a defense, when poverty does not multiply invisible sentences and when no one is stripped of their dignity.

A truly just society is not one that manages to make the guilty suffer more, but one that knows how to protect victims, repair harm and offer an opportunity to change. Because dignity cannot be imprisoned, and hope cannot be sentenced to life without parole.

This is a translated and edited version of the column that first appeared on Religion Digital and has been republished with permission by Global Catholic.