Each spring, the sacred calendars of Judaism, Christianity and Islam draw us into stories of liberation, sacrifice and divine mercy. Passover, Easter and the rhythms of revelation in the Quran all echo a central truth: God is present with the oppressed, attentive to the cries of the captive, and committed to liberation — not only spiritual, but tangible, embodied and communal.
Yet in the United States, a nation that publicly reveres these sacred traditions, we remain one of the world’s leading incarcerators. This tension should give us pause. What does it mean to celebrate deliverance while millions remain behind bars? What does it mean to proclaim resurrection while entire communities are buried under the weight of carceral systems?
Nicole Wiesen
The story of Passover begins in bondage. In the Torah, we encounter a people enslaved in Egypt, their labor exploited, their dignity stripped, their future constrained. In Exodus 3:7, God declares: “I have indeed seen the misery of my people. … I have heard them crying out … and I am concerned about their suffering.” This is not a distant or abstract God. This is a God who listens, who sees, who moves toward those in captivity.
Passover is not merely a historical remembrance; it is a theological mandate.
“Remember that you were slaves in Egypt,” Deuteronomy 5:15 reminds us. This command is not about nostalgia — it is about moral orientation. It calls communities of faith to remain aligned with those who are still enslaved in whatever form bondage takes.
Easter, too, is a story shaped by state violence and confinement. Before resurrection comes arrest, trial and execution. Jesus is detained, interrogated and sentenced by political authority. His body is placed in a tomb sealed, guarded and controlled. And yet, the resurrection narrative interrupts that finality. The stone is rolled away. Life emerges where death was expected to have the last word.
In Luke 4:18, Jesus proclaims his mission clearly: “He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners … to set the oppressed free.” This is not a metaphor alone. It is a declaration that liberation is central to the gospel message.
The Quran reinforces this moral imperative through its emphasis on justice and mercy. In Surah Al-Balad (90:13), righteousness is described, in part, as “freeing a slave.” In Surah An-Nisa (4:36), believers are instructed to “do good … to relatives, orphans, the needy, the neighbor … and those whom your right hands possess.”
The consistent thread is unmistakable: Faith is demonstrated through how we respond to those with the least power.
“Faith is demonstrated through how we respond to those with the least power.”
Across these traditions, captivity never is normalized. It is named. It is resisted. And it is ultimately transformed.
And yet, in our current moment, incarceration has become routine. It is bureaucratized, distanced and often rendered invisible to those not directly impacted. Prisons sit on the margins of our communities — geographically and psychologically — allowing us to celebrate freedom without confronting its absence for others.
But the sacred texts do not allow for that distance.
Hebrews 13:3 offers a direct instruction: “Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison.” This is not charity. This is identification. It calls for a radical empathy that collapses the boundaries between “us” and “them.”
For those of us working in reentry and with individuals navigating Post-Incarceration Syndrome, we understand captivity does not end at release. The nervous system carries the imprint of confinement — hypervigilance, distrust, emotional restriction, disrupted identity. The transition home is not a simple return; it is a complex reentry into a world that often does not recognize or accommodate what incarceration has done.
In this way, captivity extends beyond physical walls. It becomes internalized, shaping how individuals experience safety, connection and belonging.
This is where the intersection of faith and public health becomes critical. If our religious observances are to have meaning, they must move beyond ritual into response. They must inform how we build systems, how we design policies and how we treat those returning from incarceration.
Passover asks us to remember bondage. Easter calls us to believe in transformation beyond death. The Quran instructs us to act with justice and mercy toward the marginalized. Together, they form a collective moral framework that challenges us to confront the realities of mass incarceration.
“What would it look like for faith communities to fully embody these teachings?”
The question is not whether these traditions speak to captivity — they clearly do. The question is whether we are willing to let them shape our response.
What would it look like for faith communities to fully embody these teachings?
It would look like advocating for alternatives to incarceration that prioritize healing over punishment. It would look like investing in transitional housing, mental health care and community-based support systems that recognize the trauma of confinement. It would look like welcoming returning citizens not as risks to be managed but as individuals to be restored.
It also would require us to examine the ways in which we, consciously or not, participate in systems that perpetuate captivity. Silence, indifference and distance all contribute to the maintenance of the status quo.
Liberation, as presented in our sacred texts, is not passive. It is active, communal and often costly.
As we move through this season of remembrance and resurrection, we are invited to expand our understanding of what freedom truly means. Not as an individual possession, but as a collective responsibility.
The stories we tell each spring are not finished. They continue in the lives of those who are still waiting — for release, for restoration, for recognition of their humanity.
If we are to be faithful to these traditions, we must do more than remember. We must respond.
Because the same God who heard the cries in Egypt, who raised Jesus from the tomb and who calls believers to acts of justice and mercy, is still listening.
Are we?
Nicole L. Wiesen is a Post-Incarceration Syndrome expert, public health social worker, consultant, lecturer and author and the founder of Returning Her Home, a trauma-informed reentry housing and support program for women.