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THE SCARLET F: WHEN ‘FELON’ BECOMES A LIFE SENTENCE
What if our words offered dignity instead of disgrace?
When Sammy set out to pursue a counseling license, the new chapter in his career had been years in the making. He held a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s in professional counseling. He was a devoted husband and father, rooted in his community and steady in his Christian faith.
One day, he had to make a phone call to continue the process. The young man with a promising future had no idea what awaited him on the other end of the line.
THE SHADOW OF THE PAST
Sammy had spent six years behind bars for unlawful possession of a firearm more than a decade ago, before he gave his life to Christ. Because of his criminal record, his license application required documentation that other candidates were not asked to provide. To gather what he needed, Sammy called the court.
A court clerk struggled to locate Sammy’s records—paperwork required to verify that he had long since completed the conditions of his prison sentence.
As the search dragged on, the clerk’s tone sharpened. Sammy asked whether she might write a letter explaining the delay, something that would acknowledge his efforts and keep the process moving.
“No!” the clerk snapped. “You’re a felon!”
Her quick dismissal shook Sammy. It was as if years of effort had collapsed into a single word. Felon.
Looking back, Sammy says, “Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. I had spent so many years becoming a better man, only to be judged in that moment by my criminal record. Emotionally, it went straight to my soul.”
The term “felon” seemed to erase everything that followed his conviction: the education, the family, the service. Her disdain confirmed a fear he had carried for years. No matter how hard he tried to change, someone could always deny him a second chance.
LONG WAY TO FREEDOM
Fear and instability had overshadowed Sammy’s life early on. His mother struggled with mental illness, and home was a turbulent place. In sixth grade, he was expelled for bringing a knife to school.
Sammy cycled through group homes and an alternative school. He began running away and committing crimes to meet his material needs. By 19, he was sitting in jail and facing prison time, acutely aware that the life he had led was not the one he wanted. Free from distractions, Sammy realized he faced a choice: continue on his current path or find another way forward.
For his first few years in prison, Sammy continued his criminal lifestyle and selling drugs. But as time passed, he felt emptier inside. He knew he couldn’t change in his own strength. Sammy surrendered his life to Christ behind bars and began seeking community with other believers. As he read God’s promises in Scripture, he embraced hope for his future.
When Sammy was released, his new sense of purpose propelled him forward. But unexpected challenges confronted him on the outside.
Sammy realized he faced a choice: continue on his current path or find another way forward.
LIVING LABELED
Sammy settled in Virginia, resolved to build a different future. He married a woman named Crystal and began building a home, determined to create the kind of family he didn’t have growing up. Then he set his sights on becoming a licensed substance abuse counselor—someone who could help others traverse the terrain he knew too well. Sammy was hired at a residential treatment center, where he poured into local teens on a daily basis.
Sammy also served as a Justice Ambassador at Prison Fellowship®, volunteering his time to advocate for juvenile justice reform. His demonstrated leadership and insight caught the attention of then-Gov. Terry McAuliffe, who appointed him to the Advisory Committee for Juvenile Justice and Prevention. Every subsequent governor has reappointed him, and Sammy now serves as the committee’s chair. He also became senior director of grassroots and reintegration at Prison Fellowship, supporting the advocacy team to champion justice and human dignity.
The word “felon” tells only a fraction of Sammy’s story. It flattens a life into a single chapter. But Sammy is not only a person who once broke the law; he is a son, a brother, a husband, a father. A man made in the image of God, already living a transformed life.
For millions of Americans, a criminal conviction functions as a kind of life sentence. An estimated 80 million people in the U.S. live with a criminal record. On any given day, 1.9 million are incarcerated. While inside, they are often referred to as “inmates.” Though short and to the point, the term has historically been used to dehumanize people behind bars.
Most incarcerated men and women will be released one day. And most of us know someone who lives with a record. Yet long after release, that history haunts them. Words like felon, ex-convict, and offender reinforce the notion that people are permanently defined by their worst moment. Too often, language hardens into stereotype. Stereotype seeps into policy. Policy forecloses possibility.
The word “felon” tells only a fraction of Sammy’s story. It flattens a life into a single chapter.
WORTHY TO BELONG
Words shape what a culture considers normal and whom we consider worthy. Labels reduce people to their past, reinforcing a system already in need of repair. Person-first language, by contrast, elevates humanity above history. It reminds people with criminal records, and those around them, that their identity is not a scarlet letter and their belonging is not some distant dream.
Organizations like Prison Fellowship witness this reality up close. Working at the intersection of incarceration, advocacy, and reintegration, we acknowledge the real harm caused by crime while also confronting the unnecessary hurdles faced by people who have paid their debt to society. Through initiatives like Second Chance Month®, we seek to widen the narrow passage back into civic life.
“We believe it’s possible for people to rise from their broken past, make amends, and help restore the communities they once harmed,” says Heather Rice-Minus, president and CEO of Prison Fellowship. “This growing movement of second chances should embolden policymakers to unlock doors of opportunity and allow more Americans with a criminal record to pursue a new beginning.”
Every person is made in the image of God and worthy of dignity and care. Person-first language is a small but consequential way of acknowledging this truth. It says: I see you, not as a category or a cautionary tale, but as a person.
LIGHTING THE WAY AHEAD
Change can begin in our everyday conversations, from the conference room to the dinner table. Instead of convict or inmate, say incarcerated person, or simply call them by name. Instead of felon, try a man or woman with a criminal record, or returning citizen. The words cost nothing. The impact can’t be measured.
When our language offers dignity instead of disgrace, we echo the challenge Jesus gives in Matthew 25: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of Mine, you did for Me.”
“Christians are to be salt and light in the world … and that compels us to work for justice and righteousness amid the injustices of our society. … It is a powerful witness to an often-skeptical world that the Gospel is not a benign, abstract philosophy but a life-giving relationship with the living Christ Who has the power not only to change human hearts but to bring real hope to situations the world may deem hopeless.”
—Chuck Colson, founder of Prison Fellowship