My name is Jason McGuire. Some people know me as a lobbyist, a political leader, a pastor, or a friend. To others, I am a son, a brother, a husband, or a father. Today, in the eyes of the state of New York, I am inmate 090198, locked down in Echo Block-4 for 60 hours in the Livingston County Jail. This is my first experience of incarceration.
Why am I here? On the face of things, I am here because I pleaded guilty to two misdemeanors. In filing some campaign finance documents, I left out three transactions, totaling less than $1,300. It was an honest mistake, but I pleaded guilty to avoid having to raise $250,000 to defend myself at trial (my legal defense had already cost $70,000). The real reason I am here, however, is that I got in the crosshairs of Letitia James, the New York State Attorney General. How did I manage to do that? Who knows? Maybe she doesn’t like my organization’s pro-life position, or the fact that we want to keep boys out of girls’ locker rooms. Maybe she didn’t like it that I opposed her campaign for office or the campaigns of her allies. Maybe she got angry that I had helped file two lawsuits against the state — one that challenged a gun control law affecting churches and another that alleged that the Office of the Attorney General’s collection and retention of nonprofit donor data violated the First Amendment. Or maybe it was a combination of these factors. In any case, the result was a nightmarish three-year investigation that affected my organizations, my family, and others close to me. In any event, I pleaded guilty to put a stop to all of it, and I was sentenced to eight weekends in jail.
I wasn’t prepared for the door of the transport van to slam shut behind me. But it wouldn’t be the last time a door would close that I couldn’t open from the inside. When I stepped into my cell that evening, I laid down my bedding and turned, just in time to hear the heavy, echoing clink of the door behind me locking shut. It was a foreboding sound that I won’t soon forget.
What I didn’t yet realize was that I’d be in total isolation, separated even from the other three inmates sharing the block. No mattress; just a cold metal shelf. No comforts; at first, I did not even have toilet paper. And dignity? That was surrendered with my first strip search. The irony of receiving a prison-issued jumpsuit that was two sizes too big, along with undergarments that were two sizes too small, did not escape me. Even more disorienting is the presence of female deputies serving as my primary jail guards. Their professionalism is appreciated, though the lack of privacy — particularly regarding basic hygiene — is a new and humbling experience.
A phone hangs just outside my reach. I stare at it, longing to punch in my PIN and call my wife, Lorenne, just to tell her that I am all right. The next day, a fellow inmate offers to help. I hesitate — unsure whether it is allowed or wise to hand him my wife’s number — but decide the risk is worth it. I think Lorenne would agree that it was. Our call is brief, but she knows that I am okay and that we are going to be okay.
Despite the loneliness of my 9’ x 9’ cell, I am comforted by the knowledge that thousands on the outside are praying for me. God answered those prayers. I feel no claustrophobia. For even in the starkness of this place, there are glimpses of God’s grace.
One moment stands out. Twenty hours after I entered the jail, a female deputy offered to let me out of my cell for a shower. I know that I haven’t yet been cleared for the general inmate population and that she would have to accompany and supervise me. I thank her, but decline. When I declined, I take a chance and instead ask her for three things: toilet paper, writing paper and a pen, and a Bible. With a quiet spirit and kind eyes, she replies, “I’ll see what I can do.” Soon after, she returns with a roll of toilet paper, a few pages of copy paper, a black Bic pen without a cap, and a brand-new paperback NIV Bible.
I am blessed.
In a place where nothing is mine, to hold the Word of God and have the means to write down my thoughts is a precious and timely gift. Out of all the possessions that I could have had in that place, my Bible is what I wanted most. I begin furiously scribbling, trying to capture every detail of what I have experienced thus far. I remembered Luke 9:23, a Scripture that I had often turned to as a teenager: “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” This passage sounded so noble when I was young. Today, it feels much heavier, but also more real. This is not the stuff of youth group slogans. It is the crucible where Christ reveals Himself more clearly.
I do not write any of this to seek sympathy. The trials I am facing are light compared to those faced by many other believers. But they are real, and they are mine. And God is using them, even now, to show me what it truly means to suffer with Christ. I am not without hope. Romans 5:3-5 reminds me: “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame…”
That hope is my anchor. Though I sit behind bars, I know I am free in Christ. Though I am accused, I know the Righteous Judge sees all. Though my reputation is under attack, my identity in Him remains untouched. Though I am deprived of human connection, I am not alone.
So I write from Echo Block not with bitterness, but with gratitude. For even in a jail cell, Jesus meets me. Even in Echo Block-4, He is enough.
And for that, I rejoice.
Originally published at the New York Families Foundation.
Jason J. McGuire serves as the Executive Director of New York Families Foundation and its affiliated organization, New York Families Action. Mr. McGuire has been on staff with New York Families since 2007, and has been an integral part of the continued growth and impact of the organization since that time.
