We Both Possess the Divine

As the disheveled man shouts obscenities at me through the plastic divider of the jail visiting booth, I try to ground myself and find a sense of internal calm so that I can do what I came here to do as a public defender: provide zealous advocacy. The man’s vitriol, fueled by unmedicated mental illness or drug use, may be unjustifiably directed at me, but his anger—at the systems, people, and institutions that have failed him—is undeniably valid. In this moment, I focus on the spirit that flows through both of us. We both possess the divine, and we both seek happiness, security, and stability. I know that subjecting this man to the punitive machinery of the carceral state will do nothing to promote his healing, and I feel called by the spirit to fight that injustice.

This act of grounding—of refusing to meet dehumanization with more dehumanization—is itself a form of spiritual resistance. The carceral system relies not only on concrete walls and steel bars, but on a moral framework that reduces people to their worst acts and strips them of complexity. To resist spiritually is to reject that framework, even when doing so feels uncomfortable or unsafe. Sitting in that visiting booth, choosing to see this man as fully human is a quiet but radical refusal to participate in his erasure.

In a society that demonizes difference and marginalizes those who fall outside of white, capitalist notions of productivity and worth, I understand sacred resistance as the intentional practice of recognizing and uplifting the humanity, and divinity, within all people. As a public defender working within the carceral system, I carry out this resistance by advocating fiercely for my clients’ goals and dignity. To do so, I must listen deeply—something that can only happen if I consciously reject the labels imposed by police reports, charging documents, and public narratives. It breaks my heart– and fills me with profound gratitude– when clients tell me that I am the first person who has ever truly listened to their story. Bearing witness in this way is not passive– it is a spiritual practice that pushes back against a system designed to silence.

Spiritual resistance also requires discipline. It asks me to return, again and again, to the belief that people are more than their worst moment. It demands that I acknowledge harm without collapsing into condemnation, and that I advocate fiercely without denying the pain experienced by others. This tension is uncomfortable, but it is essential. It is far easier to disengage or to label people as irredeemable than it is to remain present with moral complexity.

I was a prison abolitionist before becoming a public defender because I believed the carceral system to be both spiritually bankrupt and ineffective at creating a safer society. That belief was easy to hold in the abstract. It became far more challenging when I began this work two years ago. Since then, I have represented people accused of—and sometimes convicted of—the worst crimes you can imagine. In those moments, spiritual resistance demands more than ideology; it demands humility, honesty, and a willingness to sit with discomfort rather than retreat into certainty.

What sustains me is the conviction that abandoning people to cages does not heal victims, communities, or those who caused harm. The spirit I return to insists that accountability and compassion are not mutually exclusive, and that justice divorced from humanity is no justice at all. Each time I show up for a client who has been written off, I participate in a lineage of resistance that insists on the sacredness of human life.

Nikki Mauldin is a 2021-2022 alum of Quaker Voluntary Service, Portland house. When not overwhelmed with readings for law school, she can be found exploring various dog parks with her deaf French Bulldog, Lil Bit.