Wearing a protective vest, I stood on a prison compound, my utility belt weighed down with handcuffs, pepper spray and a radio equipped with a body alarm. This was my required uniform as a chaplain in a high security men’s federal penitentiary in Pennsylvania. Before me, a crowd of incarcerated men filed out of a housing unit toward the cafeteria. A correctional officer approached me, skepticism in his eyes.
“How many of these inmates do you think you are actually going to help here?” he asked. I paused to think about the question.
The officer went on. “I asked the last chaplain here. He’d been in for eight years. Guess what he told me? One. Just one.” He leaned in, his voice low and firm.
“You can’t change these guys. It’s better not to care about them at all. You probably won’t come to hate the inmates — since you’re a chaplain — but try to get as close to hate as possible.”
This attitude was not unusual in prison, where an “us versus them” mentality between staff and incarcerated often prevails. Animosity was fueled daily, but as a chaplain in the prison, I had been called to model something different. I had been called to share the message of God’s love.
While they donned a different outfit and were rarely women, the presence of chaplains in prisons goes back centuries. Religious leaders have long ministered to the incarcerated, offering solace, guidance and spiritual instruction. Recognizing the role of faith in moral rehabilitation, early American prisons institutionalized prison chaplaincy in the 19th century.
Chaplaincy today is a highly professionalized career, requiring rigorous academic and practical training. Aspiring chaplains typically complete a four-year undergraduate degree, followed by a three-year Master of Divinity. Additionally, they must complete at least one internship or a unit of Clinical Pastoral Education to gain hands-on experience in spiritual care.
We serve as spiritual counselors, teachers, worship leaders and advocates, tending to the souls of people overlooked by society, often in their worst moments. By providing spiritual counseling, and by leading worship services, chaplains offer a bridge between the incarcerated and the divine, providing spaces that acknowledge the possibility of healing and redemption for all. In prison, the role of a chaplain is not just about religious services. It is about preserving human dignity. A skillful chaplain helps incarcerated individuals deepen their sense of purpose and value in the face of circumstances that often strip away human dignity.
Religion can have positive effects on an individual’s thoughts, emotions and behavior.
My journey to prison chaplaincy spanned several years. While a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School, I felt “called” — spiritually guided by God — to pursue chaplaincy in the military. The first step in my process was to obtain ecclesiastical endorsement from my church, but when I sought endorsement, I learned it was not an option for Latter-day Saint women. At the time, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints reserved military chaplaincy endorsement for men since women are not ordained. For several years, I advocated for a church policy change that would allow women to serve as chaplains in the military. Meanwhile, the church endorsed me for other forms of chaplaincy: first in a hospital, then at a prison.
My calling to minister to those in prison included a deep-seated belief that no one is beyond redemption. Jesus spoke of visiting the imprisoned and emphasized the worth of every soul. Latter-day Saint theology focuses on repentance, redemption and eternal progression; these principles guide me to view incarcerated people not as criminals but as God’s children in need of spiritual care.
I initially applied to a women’s prison but was instead offered a job at a men’s penitentiary. The prison held over 1,000 men, many of whom came from disadvantaged backgrounds and had joined gangs in their youth to find a sense of belonging. Even if violence had not been a way of life before incarceration, violence frequently became a means of survival once inside.
The men I met in prison often carried immense burdens — of past choices, of separation from family, of a society that had largely written them off. And now they had to endure the isolation of incarceration. As a chaplain, I tried to embody God’s love for each individual. I didn’t always do that, but sometimes I got it right.
In the chapel, I led a Christian worship service on Sundays. This was an austere space with tiled floors, white concrete walls, glaring fluorescent lights and large, metal doors. There were shabby plastic chairs for people to sit in and a portable pulpit. There were no adornments, but we had a grand piano — a thing of beauty in an unlikely place.
I envisioned the chapel as a place that we could set apart, a haven inside a harsh world. I wanted it to become a space of peace, a contrast to the noise and chaos throughout the rest of the institution. I realized that in this unique setting, dignity required a degree of discipline and structure. In the past, even the chapel had been a place where fights broke out, a common site to pass drugs and conduct gang business. Keenly aware of this, I made one simple rule: no talking while I’m preaching, or I’ll ask you to leave. I needed the men to know I meant business. I was not going to tolerate them coordinating a drug deal under their breath while feigning interest in my preaching. Because I insisted that the men come to the chapel for the right reason, and because I enforced this, the chapel became a safer space for everyone. I was under no illusion that the men would drop out of their gangs, but I worked to create the most sacred space possible so that those who wanted to connect with God in fellowship at least had one peaceful place to do so in the prison.
Once basic safety was established, we could build connection. I frequently reminded my parishioners that we ought to set aside differences and come together in our identity as God’s beloved. Such an ideal could not be realized without a foundation of respect, which is why, when I saw men exchanging gang signs when they greeted each other, I called them out. “When you come to the chapel,” I said, “you leave your gang affiliation at the door.” In keeping with Latter-day Saint custom, I addressed the men as “brother,” and the men began to echo my language, adopting the term themselves. I used music in the service, seating myself at the grand piano with my elementary playing ability. Although I could barely make it through the hymns, and although neither myself nor the men could sing well, we started a choir. I knew nothing about leading a choir, and the men couldn’t read music, but I printed lyrics and I nodded at them when they should start singing. We were off-key and off-rhythm, but something more important than song began to take shape. In the midst of our ragged harmonies, a sense of community emerged. Within that fledgling unity, I found openings to invite the men to use their spiritual capacity to care for one another.
I began asking them to help with the service by offering prayers. My supervisor warned me to be careful; he was afraid the incarcerated might say something offensive or use the chance to pray as a power grab. I took the risk, because asking the men to pray publicly communicated that their voice mattered and could positively influence others. Valuing the inherent dignity of the incarcerated and trusting them to participate led to mutual respect. The men not only respected me; they looked to me as their spiritual leader. Along the way, whether establishing ground rules, preserving a respectful environment, or preparing my sermons, I sought to model the fundamentally dignifying message of Christianity. I preached about suffering, compassion, repentance, forgiveness, redemption and Jesus’ unbounded love. I told the congregants that I did not know their suffering, but God knew. I invited them to reconcile themselves to those they harmed; to own their actions and take responsibility. I told them to cry out to God and that God would send help. I reminded them that Jesus loves them personally.
And I felt that love. When I looked over the faces of my congregation, I thought, “These men are precious to God.” As the weeks and months progressed, a bond forged between us. The men opened up about their concerns and some even allowed tears to roll down their cheeks — a surprising show of vulnerability in a place where men don’t cry. During a time set apart for sharing during each service, we unpacked their sorrows and fears, struggles and temptations.
I thought often about that officer who told me I should try to hate the incarcerated men. Other guards repeated similar sentiments. “You see them in the chapel,” said one guard. “I see them in the housing unit, and they are entirely different there than they are for you.” I believed those staff members; I believed the prisoners behaved differently in the housing units. Creating an ennobling, dignifying space in the chapel allowed something different to happen there, however small.
A skillful chaplain helps incarcerated individuals deepen their sense of purpose and value in the face of circumstances that often strip away human dignity.
Chaplaincy in prisons is not just about salvation; it is about creating spaces that honor the inherent worth of souls. Studies have shown that faith-based programs can reduce recidivism rates, helping incarcerated individuals find purpose and a moral framework for change. Courts have long upheld the right of prisoners to practice their faith, recognizing its role in rehabilitation, and Congress has passed laws protecting that right.
Research suggests that incarcerated people who engage in religious activities or participate in faith-based programs often experience greater well-being and are less likely to engage in misconduct while incarcerated. These findings indicate that religion can have positive effects on an individual’s thoughts, emotions and behavior. Faith-based rehabilitation programs aim to foster personal transformation by influencing character, motivation and overall outlook on life.
Yet, despite this, access to chaplains, faith-based programs and religious services remains limited in many correctional facilities. For example, an audit by the U.S. Department of Justice’s Office of the Inspector General highlighted a shortage of chaplains within the federal prison system. This shortage impairs prisons’ ability to implement effective religious service programs and provide for the diverse religious needs of incarcerated individuals. Funding cuts and staffing shortages often make it difficult for people in prison to engage in organized worship, receive spiritual care or even possess sacred texts. If we are to take rehabilitation seriously, our nation must invest in more faith-based resources within our federal, state and local prison system. We need to train more chaplains and equip them with resources to navigate difficult ministry settings. By providing these resources, we do not just help individuals — we strengthen our communities inside and outside of prison.
As a chaplain, I have seen the impact of faith firsthand, and have seen how faith dignifies people. I have watched men find peace in scripture, strength in prayer and joy in song. I have witnessed transformation not through punitive measures but through grace. For those who would ask, as that officer once did, how many incarcerated men I have truly helped, I would answer this: If even one person felt God’s love through my ministry as a chaplain, then answering my calling was worth it.
I know at least one person did. One hot summer evening, I stood on the prison compound, my body weary from the day’s work, the vest on my torso heavy, my arms damp with sweat, feet swollen in my boots. The sun’s golden hour rimmed the prison compound with a glow, the harsh heat of day giving way to sunset.
“Hey, Carson,” said an officer.
“Yeah?”
“See that inmate over there?”
He pointed to a thin figure walking across the compound. I squinted to see a man severely disfigured, as if someone dipped his body into a pool of boiling water, dissolving his skin.
“Just got here,” said the officer.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Dunno, but I call him ‘Deadpool.’”
Chaplains offer a bridge between the incarcerated and the divine, providing spaces that acknowledge the possibility of healing and redemption for all.
The man came to the chapel the next Sunday. His body was a hairless patchwork of brown, pink, and white skin. His puffy lips turned downward, slightly frowned. His hand, missing fingers, propped a Bible against his torso. The skin beneath his eyes drooped.
To look at him was to feel pain.
I redirected my attention, reflexively tightening my hands into fists and opening them wide. I looked at the congregation, trying not to look at the burned man, trying not to think of the officer calling him Deadpool, trying not to think of the cruelty of it all.
After the service, I approached him.
“It’s nice to have you here. Would you be willing to offer the closing prayer next Sunday?”
He looked up at me from his seat on the plastic chair.
“Yes,” he said.
The following Sunday, after the last hymn, his eyes darted toward me nervously from the back row. I nodded.
He stood up and slowly walked to the pulpit, his left hand holding a piece of notebook paper.
“May the Lord bless everyone in this room with peace, love, happiness, understanding and forgiveness.”
Quiet descended on us.
“For to reconcile with God,” he continued, “and go from being a sinner and enemy to being righteous before him, we must confess our sins and our wrongdoings, and ask for forgiveness, and then we will be reconciled with God. For our loving God is a forgiving God.”
After the prayer, a few seconds of silence lingered, thick with something unspoken. Then there was the scrape of plastic chairs against polished tile, the shuffle of bodies rising, the low hum of conversation — reverence giving way to routine. Everything seemed to return to normal, except for one thing: the man who prayed. The one who always wore a solemn expression was now beaming.
“I’ve never,” he told me, “done something like that before.”
He came to church every Sunday after that.
Men like him — men who have never prayed aloud, who have never been told their voice matters — deserve spaces in prison where they can. I don’t know where he is now, but I will never forget the weight of that moment. His voice mattered that day at the pulpit. It mattered to his brothers. It mattered to me. And it has always mattered to God.
Air Force Capt. Jenna Carson is the first female Latter-day Saint chaplain in the United States military. This essay is adapted from a forthcoming memoir about working as a female chaplain in a men’s prison. Her opinions are her own and do not represent the opinions of the United States Air Force, the Department of Defense, the Department of Justice, or the United States Government.
This story appears in the April 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.