I Held Hands With a Murderer.
And it changed the way I see business, ministry, and the power of God.
I held hands with a murderer.
That’s a sentence I never imagined I would write. Even more surprising? I was completely comfortable doing it.
A few days ago, I voluntarily walked into a maximum-security prison in Wichita, Kansas. Why? Because a friend, Jonathan Lewis with Fathers For Fathers, invited me.
I didn’t know what to expect. I had plenty of preconceived notions about the men I would encounter, the environment I was entering, and what the experience might look like. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
What I experienced behind those walls challenged nearly everything I thought I understood about business, leadership, redemption, and the extraordinary power of God.
And I’m still trying to process it.
A Business Behind Bars
Years ago, a businessman named Pete (last name removed because he doesn’t want this story to be about him, but solely for the Glory of God) faced a challenge many entrepreneurs understand: he needed employees. Out of necessity, he moved his manufacturing business, Seat King, inside a maximum-security prison.
What began as an economic decision became something far greater. Something I believe only God could have orchestrated.
As we approached the prison, we passed through razor-wire fences, multiple security checkpoints, and heavy steel doors. Each gate slammed shut behind us with the sound of metal “clanking.” There was no turning back.
I’ll admit it. I was cautious. I frequently looking over my shoulder, just in case.
After all, I was surrounded by men convicted of some of the worst crimes imaginable. Murder. Drug trafficking. Sexual assault.
Then we entered the Seat King manufacturing facility. And everything changed.
I Expected Prisoners. I Met Craftsmen.
I’ve been inside manufacturing operations before, but what I witnessed at Seat King was unlike anything I’d experienced.
These men were moving with incredible speed, precision, and purpose. The operation was efficient, organized, and remarkably productive. They worked tirelessly. I was sweating just watching how hard they worked.
They weren’t just assembling seats. They were building something. And they were proud of it.
The men greeted us with warm smiles, firm handshakes, and genuine enthusiasm. They eagerly explained their responsibilities, demonstrated their processes, and shared how they had improved the operation.
Then I met AJ.
AJ helps lead the operation, but calling him a manager doesn’t do him justice. He’s a builder of men. As we walked through the facility, AJ stopped at nearly every workstation to recognize someone. Not with generic compliments. He knew their names. He knew their contributions. He knew their stories.
At one station, I met a man who had been, I believe, incarcerated for 29 years. 29 YEARS! He greeted us with a smile and a handshake that conveyed genuine respect. AJ immediately put his arm around him and began praising his work. He explained how this man’s ideas and process improvements had helped the operation double its daily output.
Then AJ made sure we understood something. “That wasn’t my idea. It was his.” You should have seen this man’s face as he radiated pride.
For a moment, I wasn’t looking at a prisoner. I was looking at a man who had been seen. Valued. Respected. And I couldn’t help but wonder: What if someone had poured into this man earlier in life? What if someone had recognized his potential, encouraged his ideas, and shown him this kind of love before he ever committed the crime that brought him here? Would his life have been different? I don’t know. But I couldn’t shake the question.
A Man With 16 Years Left and a Reason to Get Up Every Morning
As the tour continued, I separated from the group and struck up a conversation with a man named Uriah. His job was pulling foam cushions from their molds.
It was repetitive, physically demanding work. The kind of job many people on the outside would complain about, including me. But Uriah didn’t complain. He talked about accountability. He explained that every man on the production line depended on the others. If one person slowed down, the entire operation suffered.
There was no room for coasting. They held each other accountable because they were working toward something bigger than themselves.
Then he started talking about his daughters. Uriah had approximately 16 years remaining on his sentence. Sixteen years. But he had a purpose.
He explained how the money he earned was divided among savings, financial obligations such as child support, and personal spending. A meaningful portion was being set aside for his family’s future.
He was saving money to help pay for his daughters’ college education.
Let that sink in.
A man with 16 years left behind bars was working tirelessly to create a better future for his daughters. He couldn’t tuck them into bed every night, something I, like many, take for granted. He couldn’t attend their school events. He couldn’t be there for so many moments fathers take for granted. But he could work. He could provide. He could demonstrate love through sacrifice, and he was doing exactly that.
As I stood there listening, I felt incredibly humbled. How many things have I taken for granted?
A loving family. Parents who cared. Food on the table. The ability to earn a living. The freedom to pursue opportunities.
Things I barely think about are things some of these men may never have experienced consistently. And here they were, behind prison walls, discovering dignity, accountability, community, and purpose.
It struck me that some of these men had to go to prison before they encountered people who truly believed in them. That thought broke my heart.
Then We Went to Church
After leaving the manufacturing facility, we entered the main prison population where approximately 1,200 men were incarcerated. The heavy metal doors slammed behind us again. My guard went up again.
We passed inmates walking through the corridors, watched over by a relatively small number of unarmed guards. I was back to looking over my shoulder. Then we climbed the stairs to a room where Pete had helped establish a Christian ministry, and 15 incarcerated men were hearing the word of God from this large man with long dreadlocks, built like an NFL linebacker. The guy was bigger than a fridge.
I have rarely heard someone preach with such conviction, such power. Only a person filled with the Holy Spirit could ever deliver a sermon like this. His name was Jerome.
There was no polished stage. No impressive lighting. No production team. No elaborate worship experience like many churches have today. It was just a man sharing the Word of God with a passion that captivated the room.
As he preached, the businessmen who had entered with me sat quietly around the perimeter. Grown men. Successful men. Free men. Men who had built companies, led organizations, and accomplished incredible things.
Jerome brought many to tears with his preaching. There wasn’t a dry eye in the group.
Then Pete introduced us to Jerome. He had been incarcerated for 28 years… for murder. Twenty-eight years earlier, Jerome had taken someone’s life.
Now he was standing in front of us proclaiming the love, grace, and redemption of Jesus Christ.
The world saw a murderer. I was beginning to see a man transformed by God. That doesn’t erase his crime. It doesn’t undo the suffering of his victim or the pain left behind. But it reminded me of something we Christians say often and perhaps don’t fully comprehend: No one is beyond the reach of God’s grace.
The Moment the Walls Disappeared
After the sermon, the men invited us into a discussion where they asked questions about business, entrepreneurship, and marketplace ministry. They wanted to understand how business could be used to serve others and advance God’s Kingdom.
Think about that.
Men serving decades in prison were asking how they could use business to make a difference, much like Pete. Many of the businessmen in our group moved from their chairs and joined the inmates at their tables.
Something beautiful happened. The separation disappeared. It was no longer businessmen and prisoners. Free men and incarcerated men. Successful people and convicted criminals. We were simply men sitting together, sharing our faith. Children of God.
Then someone suggested we pray and we formed one large circle and held hands. On my left was a man convicted of murder. On my right was a man convicted of drug trafficking.
Earlier that day, I had been looking over my shoulder just walking through the prison. Now I was standing shoulder to shoulder with these men, holding their hands, preparing to pray. What sounds crazy as I type this and only the men in that room could feel and share was the presence of Peace.
A peace I can only attribute to the Holy Spirit and what happened next was even more powerful.
I had naively assumed that we, the visiting businessmen, would pray over the incarcerated men. That we would encourage them. That we would minister to them, which we did, but then they began praying for us.
They prayed that our businesses would flourish. They prayed for our safe travels. They prayed for our families. They prayed that our children, and our children’s children, would know and love Jesus Christ.
Men who had lost their freedom were praying blessings over men who still had theirs. Grown men wept.
It's difficult to put into words what happened in that room. Fourteen of us had voluntarily entered that prison, believing we were going to witness a ministry. Instead, we became the ones being ministered to. We walked in thinking about what these men lacked. We walked out realizing how much they had to give.
The Man Who Walked Away From Everything
As we left the prison, I was at a loss for words. I truly didn’t even know what to think or how to feel in that moment, but I hoped in the truck with Pete to thank him and share how deeply this experience had affected me.
Then Pete told me something about Jerome that made the entire experience even more extraordinary.
Jerome hadn't always been a preacher. He had once been deeply involved in gang life. He became one of Seat King's earliest employees and his transformation in his faith began. He eventually become one of the company’s best employees.
According to Pete, Jerome was earning approximately $45,000 annually. Inside prison. To put that into perspective, only about 72 of the prison's 1,200 inmates had the opportunity to work at Seat King. Other prison jobs might pay approximately $7 per month.
Jerome had an opportunity almost no one else had. He had income. He had purpose and because of his employment, he had access to better, safer living conditions outside the general prison population. He had what most men inside those walls could only dream of.
Then God called him to preach, and Jerome walked away from the job. From the money. From the safer living conditions. From the privileges he had earned. He voluntarily returned to the general prison population so he could minister to the men who needed him.
Think about that sacrifice.
In his world, he was among the privileged few and he gave it up. Not because he had a better financial opportunity. Not because someone promised him an easier life, but because he believed God had called him to something greater.
Jerome traded financial security for spiritual obedience and this is where the story gets even better.
When the other men at Seat King learned what Jerome had done, they began giving, tithing a portion of their own earnings to support him. Prisoners supporting a prisoner who gave up his income to preach the Gospel.
That's the Church.
Not a building. Not a Sunday service. Not a religious organization. People sacrificing for one another because they believe in something greater than themselves.
The Men Who Gave More Than the Church
Pete shared another story that I haven't stopped thinking about. A prison guard had developed cancer and the men working at Seat King wanted to help his family. These weren't wealthy philanthropists. These were incarcerated men who had very limited opportunities to earn money, yet the sought ways to contribute.
One idea involved purchasing $10 hamburgers for $20 to support the family. Admirable, and would have generated $720 for this guard and his wife, but they decided that wasn't enough.
Together, the men reportedly contributed approximately $15,000 to help the guard's family.
Fifteen thousand dollars… from men behind bars.
AJ contrasted their generosity with a contribution of approximately $700 from the guard's church. I don't share that to criticize the church as I don't know the circumstances. I share it because of what those men demonstrated. They had every reason to hold tightly to what little they possessed.
Instead, they gave generously.
They didn't wait until they were free. They didn't wait until they had more money. They didn't wait until life was easier. They saw someone in need and they acted.
Generosity isn't measured by how much you have. It's revealed by what you're willing to sacrifice.
The Kind of Return That Doesn't Fit on a Balance Sheet
I've spent much of my professional life around business, investments, capital allocation, and evaluating opportunities. We measure returns, assess risk, build financial models, evaluate performance, and those things matter. Businesses must be economically sustainable.
However, standing inside that prison, I was reminded that some of the most important returns in life cannot be captured in a spreadsheet or KPI.
How do you value a father being able to contribute to his daughter's college education from behind bars?
How do you measure the impact of a man discovering his God-given gifts after decades of incarceration?
How do you quantify a murderer becoming a preacher?
Or incarcerated men giving thousands of dollars to help a prison guard battling cancer?
How do you calculate the generational impact when one person finally feels valued, respected, and loved?
You can't. But that doesn't make those returns any less real.
Pete Ochs understands something that I believe far too many Christian business leaders have forgotten.
Business isn't just a vehicle for creating wealth. It can be a vehicle for transforming lives and advancing God's Kingdom.
Pete didn't set out to build a prison ministry. He just needed employees who would show up, and what better place than a prison, right? But he was willing to see an opportunity where others saw only obstacles.
He was willing to see potential in people others had written off and he was willing to let God use his business for something far greater than its original purpose.
Through Pete's leadership, AJ is building men.
Through AJ's encouragement, incarcerated men are discovering dignity and purpose.
Through the opportunities Seat King provides, fathers are supporting their families, men are learning accountability, and communities are being formed.
And through Jerome, the Gospel is reaching men who might otherwise never hear it in such a personal way.
The impact doesn't stop at the prison gates. It reaches children, families, and future generations… and even visiting businessmen like me.
Four Things I Can't Stop Thinking About
I'm still unpacking this experience. I suspect I will be for a long time and I hope I never forget which is why I am writing, but four truths have become impossible for me to ignore.
1. No one is beyond redemption.
We serve a God who can redeem anyone. A murderer can become a preacher. A man serving decades in prison can become a mentor, a leader, and a source of hope.
We should never confuse someone's worst decision with the entirety of who they are or who God can transform them into. Grace doesn't eliminate accountability, but accountability doesn't eliminate the possibility of redemption.
2. If you're a believer, think bigger.
I don't believe God calls us to build small lives centered only on our own comfort, financial success, and security. He gives us gifts, resources, influence, relationships, and opportunities for a reason.
What if the business you're building isn't just about the product you're selling?
What if your company is the platform through which God intends to change someone's life?
What if the greatest return on your investment isn't financial?
What if it's generational?
3. Don't let culture put limits on what God can do.
Our culture is quick to label people: criminal, failure, lost cost, and beyond help. As Christians, we often fall into this trap, but God doesn't operate within the limitations of our expectations.
I walked into a maximum-security prison expecting to encounter dangerous men. I left having encountered extraordinary examples of faith, sacrifice, generosity, and leadership. The very people I thought needed to be ministered to ended up ministering to me.
4. Business should create economic, social, and spiritual capital.
Economic capital creates sustainability, opportunity, and financial resources. Social capital builds dignity, relationships, trust, accountability, and stronger communities. Spiritual capital creates opportunities for people to encounter Christ and experience genuine transformation.
These three forms of capital don't have to compete. In fact, when intentionally aligned, they can reinforce one another. Pete's business is proof of what's possible.
And I believe Christian entrepreneurs, investors, and business leaders should be asking a much bigger question: What would happen if we measured success not only by the wealth we created, but also by the lives we transformed and the Kingdom impact we made?
I Held Hands With a Murderer.
When I entered that prison, those words would have filled me with discomfort. Now they fill me with gratitude because the man holding my hand wasn't defined solely by the worst thing he had ever done.
He was praying for me. For my business. For my family. For my children and grandchildren. He was asking God to bless a stranger who had walked into his world for just a few hours and in that moment, I wasn't thinking about his crime. I was thinking about the grace of God.
I went into that prison believing I was going to see how Pete Ochs was changing the lives of incarcerated men. I left realizing God had used those very men to change mine.
Pete is one of the most humble and impactful men I've had the privilege of meeting. His faith is not simply something he talks about. It's something he has built into the very foundation of his business.
AJ is building men.
Jerome is preaching the Gospel.
Uriah is working toward a better future for his daughters.
Countless lives are being affected in ways we may never fully understand.
I walked into a prison surrounded by men who had lost their freedom.
I walked out wondering how many of us on the outside are still imprisoned by our own limited vision of what God can do.
Maybe the greatest thing I witnessed wasn't a successful business operating inside a prison.
Maybe it was a reminder that when we surrender our businesses, resources, and ambitions to God, He can accomplish things far beyond anything we could have planned.
And maybe that's what Kingdom business is really all about.
Not simply making a living.
Making a difference that lasts for eternity.