A Living History of Jail Ministry

Born in a Restless Time

In the early 1970s, the cracks in America’s prison system were impossible to ignore. The Attica uprising, from September 9 to 13, 1971 shocked the nation and forced hard questions about how incarcerated people were treated and whether dignity still had a place behind bars. Governor Nelson A. Rockefeller refused to meet the prisoners’ demands. The riots resulted in the deaths of 29 inmates, nine hostages, and four corrections officers, with 89 others injured. From that turmoil came a growing conviction among many people of faith: something had to change, and someone had to show up.

In 1974, that “someone” took shape here in Onondaga County. Bill Cuddy, serving as chaplain of the Newman Community at Colgate University, petitioned for reassignment to the Onondaga County Jail in 1974. He felt called to bring the Gospel’s simple instruction — “I was in prison and you visited me” — into real, daily practice.

From a diocesan office in downtown Syracuse, Bill convened a group to discuss some form of ministry for inmates in the Onondaga County Jail. Inspired by the vision of Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker Movement, they began to seek a way to carry out this mission.

Bill never claimed the title of founder, but he was the convener, the one who put out the call. Others quickly answered: Mary Czelusniak, Sister Rose, Sister Fran Dempsey, Carol Baum, and a growing circle inspired by Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker movement.

With the approval of Sheriff Patrick Corbett, Jail Ministry began — not with a grand plan, but with presence.

Learning by Standing in Line

The first jail visits began in December 1976. Jail Ministry was offered the privilege of skipping the long sign-in line, a courtesy also extended to attorneys. Jail Ministry declined. Instead, they waited with families — mothers, partners, children — standing in the same lines, sharing the same uncertainty. It was there that Jail Ministry learned what incarceration really meant beyond the cell: missed buses, unaffordable bail, lost jobs, hungry families, and isolation.

Before Jail Ministry was fully inside the jail, it became Jail Ministry in the community. People needed rides to distant prisons. They needed someone to help post bail. They needed food. They needed bread.

Bread, Bail, and Belonging

Out of those needs grew the ministry’s earliest efforts — often referred to simply as Buses, Bail, Baskets, and Bread.

One of the challenges faced by the inmates’ families was that they had no means of transportation to visit their loved one after they were transferred to a state facility. Jail Ministry workers put out word to that community that they were looking for people with licenses who could drive buses. Over the years, nine people volunteered to drive for long day trips to places like Attica, Albion, and Elmira Correctional Facilities.

Another early challenge taken on by the group was bail. Bill once recounted the incident:

“A young senior from a local high school was charged with robbery and had been in the jail for a number of weeks. His foster parents were willing to welcome him back home but did not have bond money. We went through a local bondsman posting a $1,500 bond. We also talked to his teachers who said he was a good student and on a track to graduate. He went on to finish high school and leave the area with his degree in his pocket. This was the start of the Jail Ministry Jubilee Bail Fund that continued for 45 years.”

And Then There Was Bread

The Glory Bee Bread program began almost accidentally, with donated equipment and shared recipes. Soon, “jail bread” was being baked, sold, and eagerly anticipated across churches and offices. It raised funds, yes — but more importantly, it raised awareness.

Jail Ministry was becoming known.

A Home Called Slocum House

In 1974, the Junior League of Onondaga County gifted Jail Ministry a tall, imperfect old house at 208 Slocum Avenue. It quickly became known simply as the Jail Ministry House.

Slocum House was more than an office. It was hospitality. It was storage for inmates’ belongings. It was a place where volunteers were gathered, bread was baked, calls were answered, and people who had nowhere else to go were welcomed in. Over the years, its walls held meetings, meals, protests, prayers, celebrations, and grief. Slocum House became the heart of Jail Ministry.

Speaking Up When It Mattered

From the beginning, Jail Ministry understood that presence also meant witness. In the mid-1970s, as the death penalty returned to the national conversation, Jail Ministry joined The People vs. the Death Penalty, holding monthly vigils and speaking publicly against capital punishment. Some voices, like Kathy Dillon — whose own father was killed in the line of duty — carried particular moral weight.

Jail Ministry did not shy away from difficult conversations. As the years passed, another reality became impossible to ignore: overcrowding.

By the 1980s, the Onondaga County jail population had more than doubled. National “tough on crime” policies and the War on Drugs were reshaping the justice system, and mass incarceration was no longer a theory — it was visible every day.

Expansion, Advocacy, and Constant Phone Calls

Legal action eventually forced change. The old Public Safety Building was declared unfit for human habitation, and a new Justice Center opened in 1995. Jail Ministry opposed building a larger jail, fearing — correctly — that it would simply be filled. Still, the ministry adapted, expanding its presence inside the facility.

One of the most transformative moments came in 2003, when inmates were granted one free phone call per day to the Jail Ministry office. Overnight, the phones never stopped ringing — 60 to 80 calls a day. People needed help contacting landlords, employers, family members. They needed someone to hold documents, track property, and simply listen.

Jail Ministry answered every call it could.

Quiet Courage and Moral Witness

Overcrowding also exposed abuses. When a shackling practice came to light, volunteer Kathleen Rumpf took an extraordinary step — living in a cage outside the jail for nine days to collect stories and demand accountability. Her action drew national attention and led to a permanent ban on the practice.

This was Jail Ministry at its core: not part of the system but close enough to see what others could not — and brave enough to speak. Remarkably, Jail Ministry became an official part of the referral system inside the Justice Center. The importance and exceptional nature of this change cannot be overstated. Few jurisdictions have an organization such as our Jail Ministry. Fewer permit the organization such ready access to the incarcerated population.

Entering a New Century

As leadership evolved, Jail Ministry continued to adapt without losing its soul. Bill Cuddy retired in 2019, and Keith Cieplicki assumed the role of Executive Director. New leadership strengthened relationships with jail administration while preserving independence. Spiritual Ministers were added, beginning with Geneva Fortune, to serve inmates of all faiths — a rare and powerful bridge in a system that often isolates people by labels.

Weekly visits to inmates locked in their cells for up to 23 hours a day became routine. Programs closed and reopened. Bread baking rose again. Volunteers aged, retired, and were replaced by new generations who answered the same call.

Through it all, one principle remained unchanged: relationship comes first.

Covid as a Turning Point

The Covid-19 pandemic did not interrupt Jail Ministry’s mission — it redefined how that mission could be lived. Inside the Justice Center, everything changed at once: leadership structures shifted, access narrowed, routines disappeared, and long-standing relationships were disrupted. Trust and presence had to be rebuilt in a system that became more procedural and cautious.

Some conditions improved. The Disciplinary Unit, once heavily used to confine men for up to 23 hours a day, became nearly empty, replaced by alternative approaches. Mental health structures stabilized, including continued attention to the Men’s Mental Health Unit.

Other changes revealed inequities. The women’s unit was consolidated into a single pod, increasing stress and overcrowding — a reminder that reform does not arrive evenly.

Family visitation was reshaped. Online registration, staggered scheduling, and clearer communication improved order and safety, but the loss of daycare and play space meant children lost one of the few gentle places available to them.

Worship life adapted. Weekly Mass gave way to volunteer-led communion services, preserving sacramental presence even as clergy access narrowed.

Beyond the jail walls, Jail Ministry itself changed. The ministry relocated to Park Central Presbyterian Church, gaining stable offices, parking, internet access, and a deepening partnership grounded in hospitality. Administrative work became fully volunteer-led, renewing the ministry’s grassroots character.

Programming adapted rather than diminished. Houses of Healing classes moved into housing pods, increasing participation and visibility.

Bail reform in 2020 eliminated most low-cash bail, ending one long-standing assistance role. The ministry responded by reorienting its work to meet emerging gaps.

Material support evolved as well. Package deliveries are now made directly by Jail Ministry volunteers, turning logistics into human encounter. Inmate tablets introduced educational and communication tools.

Presence could no longer rely on access alone. It had to become more adaptive, relational, and creative.

The mission endured, but the form evolved.

And once again, Jail Ministry did what it has always done: it showed up differently, but it still showed up.

Loss of a Lion

In 2023, Jail Ministry marked the passing of its founder and long-time spiritual anchor, Bill Cuddy. A man of deep kindness, moral clarity, and quiet strength, Bill was equally at ease walking the floors of the old Public Safety Building or the Justice Center, listening closely to people whose voices were often ignored. He was a gifted teacher and public speaker, able to explain complex realities with warmth and clarity, and a mentor who believed leadership should be shared.

Bill consistently encouraged others to step forward, fostering a worker council and core leadership that reflected his conviction that ministry is strongest when it is communal.

His presence — marked by attentiveness, generosity of spirit, and an unmistakable smile — left people grateful simply to be in the room with him. Though his death closed a long chapter of faithful service, Bill’s vision of accompaniment, empowerment, and unconditional love continues to shape Jail Ministry’s identity and practice.

Still Looking for the Key

Jail Ministry has never been about efficiency or neat solutions. It has always been about people — about risk, trust, and what Bill Cuddy once called unconditional love. Sometimes that love defied common sense. Sometimes it carried loss. But it always carried hope.

Decades later, Jail Ministry remains a grassroots, spiritually grounded community — advocating for the incarcerated, standing with families, and reminding the justice system that human dignity is not optional.

As the old phrase reminds us:

In prison, there are no Thursdays — only sameness, only waiting.

But once a week, a door opens.

A burden is shared.

And we keep looking for a key.

— From the early Jail Ministry tradition