Paul went from dragging Christians off to prison to having a prison become his own final resting place. Imprisoned for preaching about Jesus, he came into conflict with Jewish leaders and Roman authorities and was accused — among other things — of inciting unrest among the people. In Nero’s Rome, he remained under arrest until his execution, guarded at all hours by the Praetorian Guard.

I imagine the deep introspection he underwent after years spent preaching an expanding faith — amidst miracles, shipwrecks, and the ever-present proximity of death. It was there that his “Captivity Epistles” were born.

Inspired by the Spirit and addressed to Christians of the early church, these epistles focused on various themes. The Letter to the Ephesians touched upon unity in Jesus; Philippians revisited that theme, calling for joy and a focus on Christ as the ultimate treasure — even in the midst of suffering; Colossians highlighted the supremacy of Christ in the face of false doctrines. The Letter to Philemon overflows with reconciling grace, while 2 Timothy encourages endurance in the face of hardship.

Since then, countless imprisoned Christians, armed with nothing more than a scrap of paper and something to write with, have chronicled the transformation that faith undergoes when subjected to incalculable pressures. It is within this epistolary tradition that the young Cuban political prisoner Ernesto Ricardo Medina now takes his place.

In the early hours of February 6 of this year, agents from the Ministry of the Interior arrested him in the city of Holguín, alongside Kamil Zayas Pérez; both are members of the collective El4tico.

This media project — boasting nearly 140,000 followers on Facebook (the most popular social network on the island) — has, since 2025, established itself as one of the most influential independent political voices within the country. Such leadership — and its critique of socialism from a standpoint outside the system’s control — is anathema to the regime.

Ricardo Medina was raised in the evangelical tradition and regularly incorporated visible Christian messages into the backdrop of the space where he and his colleagues filmed their videos. “Jesus is the Light” was one such message. His three-year-old daughter, Emma, watched as her father was handcuffed and taken into custody. Following the raid on his home and the confiscation of his equipment, he was charged with the alleged crimes of “propaganda against the constitutional order” and “incitement to commit a crime.”

This month, two letters written by Ricardo Medina from prison were made public. And, in the finest Pauline tradition, they place Christ at the center, speaking from a context of persecution and injustice, despite being separated by nearly 2,000 years.

The letters penned by the Cuban political prisoner are addressed to different recipients — a distinction evident from their very titles. One is the Letter to Cuba; the other, the Letter to the Brothers in Christ.

In the first, he personifies the nation as a woman. “I know that you are sick and racked with pain, that death feels imminent, and that your stained eyes refuse to look upon the light,” he wrote. “Jesus is the Light — the only Way — and within Him lies a cross. Turn away from your wicked path; repent; fix your eyes on the things of heaven, and finally die — truly die — together with the Lord.”

The brief missive included a second paragraph. In it, he offered words of hope and encouragement.

“You must understand that hope does exist — that the problem has never been a lack of strength on your part, but rather that the hardest thing of all is to surrender,” Ricardo Medina emphasized. “You simply need to come to know the true Love — the Good Shepherd — and you can be certain that you will rise again alongside Him. He is near; by His mercy, we have not been consumed.”

He closed with a wish: “Blessed be you, Cuba; may your agony be transformed into joy.”

A week after his arrest, I spoke with a pastor on the island — Jorge, known as “Mayím” — and asked him to visit Doris, Ricardo Medina’s wife, and present her with a “love offering.” In that dark hour, she and her daughter needed the embrace of the church more than ever before.

A courageous man, “Mayím” found a way to travel the 50 miles separating Victoria de Las Tunas from Holguín, right in the midst of yet another peak in Cuba’s systemic fuel crisis. When he arrived, he noticed a surveillance presence surrounding the modest home, located on the second floor. Even so, he climbed the stairs and prayed for Doris and her household.

That display of Christian brotherhood may well have influenced Ricardo Medina’s second letter — one that spoke directly to the faith community on the island.

In it, he began by discussing his own personality and that of his friend Kamil; he then acknowledged the irony of the phrase “El4tico represents us all” — a slogan widely shared on social media following their arrest — for he understood that the imprisonment of the two of them mirrored the reality faced by millions of Cubans deprived of their civil liberties.

Perhaps he was alluding to a popular saying I often heard among journalists: that all of Cuba is one vast prison where, if you misbehave, they can throw you into an even smaller one. Although Ricardo Medina had sensed this beforehand, he later stated that, from behind bars, he had confirmed that life in prison shared far more in common with contemporary Cuban society than he had ever imagined.

“I yearn for my freedom with a deep desire, yet I know that this is an opportunity the Father has given me to glorify Himself through me. He is the God of all comfort, and although the pain has been greater than I imagined, His presence has been greater still,” he revealed.

To Cuban believers, he offered a reminder — echoing biblical themes — that “with every trial comes a measure of how much we can endure; God is just.”

Regarding the redemptive value of suffering as a testimony of faith, he confessed that he remains vigilant: “keeping watch with a divine purpose of love — that I may be of service to you, that you may find joy in me, and I in you. Trusting in God has been my strength; it is my strength.”

“To do something for the good of Cuba — and for your sake — has always been my intention; and while human wisdom proved insufficient for me, the love of God sustains me,” he concluded. “I pray for you all — that we may soon attain the freedom we so deeply yearn for.”

Today, there are more than 1,200 political prisoners in Cuba — the highest number in the Western Hemisphere. Like Ricardo Medina, some are fathers and husbands who have done nothing more than voice their opinions or express themselves peacefully.

On one occasion, the political police summoned me to a station in Havana; however, before the meeting took place, they subjected me to a strip-search in a holding cell — presumably to verify that I was unarmed and would not attempt to record the interrogation. Beyond their hellish stench and filth, these Castro-era cells represent yet another link in the chain of arbitrary abuses to which citizens are subjected by the totalitarian machinery. Inside one, you feel utterly powerless.

It is a miracle that Ricardo Medina can find any hope in such a desolate place. It is an even greater miracle that he — rather than being the one in need of comfort — is the one offering encouragement to his brothers and sisters in Christ, and to the nation itself. A blend of miracle and agony, tempered by faith.