Knowledge Is Power

—And Sometimes, That’s Why They Fear It

There’s a phrase you’ve probably heard before: “Knowledge is power.” It’s simple, direct, and for me, it’s as true as the air we breathe. But here’s the thing about power—it’s not always welcomed. Sometimes, people fear it. And sometimes, that fear gets you kicked out of six different prisons over 22 years.

Yes, you read that right. Six prisons. Not because of fights or bad behavior, but because I dared to push for knowledge, education, and change in places designed to resist both. What I’m about to share isn’t just my story; it’s a window into a system that promises rehabilitation but often punishes those who pursue it.

Standish Prison: The Fight for Faith and Fellowship

Let me take you back to where it started: Standish Maximum Correctional Facility. By this time, I had a growing faith and a vision for something bigger—a discipleship program for men seeking spiritual growth. The prison already allowed prisoner-led groups from various faiths, but when I proposed a Christian discipleship program, resistance flared.

Conversations with the chaplain and grievances followed. Seven grievances, to be exact. Each one challenging the refusal to let us assemble like other faith groups. The leadership finally made their stance clear: they didn’t like the idea of Christian prisoners influencing others. It wasn’t about policy; it was about power.

Their solution? Transfer me to EC Brooks Prison. Problem solved—for them, at least.

EC Brooks Prison: When Silence Isn’t an Option

Brooks was where I learned just how dangerous it is to speak up. One of my closest friends, Raymond, became seriously ill. He sought medical attention repeatedly, only to be dismissed time and time again. Ten days later, he couldn’t walk, couldn’t see, and barely spoke. Still, the prison ignored his pleas—until it was too late.

By the time they finally sent Raymond to the hospital, he was dying. His family hadn’t even been notified. I couldn’t let that stand. I contacted my family and the press, sharing Raymond’s story and the prison’s negligence. The fallout was immediate: negative press, public outrage, and questions the prison didn’t want to answer.

Their solution? Transfer me. Silence the messenger.

Chippewa Prison: The Cost of Compassion

At Chippewa, tragedy struck again. A man I often spoke with passed away—by his own hand. His death hit me hard. I asked for grief counseling for those of us who knew him. The response? Denial. No counseling. No space to process.

I wrote to the administration, urging them to recognize the need for mental health support in the wake of his death.

And you can guess what happened next: I was transferred again.

Newberry Prison: Planting seeds of hope

Newberry brought a new opportunity. I created Hope Church, partnering with Church of the Servant in Grand Rapids. Together, we explored what it meant to live with purpose and mission, even behind bars. Men began to heal, to dream, to see their lives differently.

But change is disruptive, especially in prison. It challenges the status quo. My efforts drew attention—some supportive, some not. Before long, I was shipped off again.

As I was on my way out to be transferred, one guard approached me, looked at me and said, “Bloom where you’re planted, Sir.” I still think about his words to me till this very day and the unexpecting influence that phrase brought me.

Richard Handlon Prison: The Gladiator School That Feared Change

If there was ever a place that tested me, it was Handlon, known as the “Gladiator School.” Violence was rampant, and survival often meant blending in. But blending in wasn’t my style.

I created the Life Change Group, a book club and speaker series that brought people together to discuss ideas, challenge their thinking, and find hope. We invited speakers like Kirk Cousins, Brian Jenkins, and even Mayor Hartwell. The group grew, and for the first time, men saw new possibilities for their futures. (The group still functions to this day 15 years later)

I also worked with my father, Reverend Richard Rienstra who was incredibly influential in the lane of community change. Him and I developed and instated Celebration Fellowship to the inside of Handlon (Michigan’s first official inside-outside worship community in any Michigan prison). Additionally, I worked with Calvin University and the Michigan Department of Corrections to launch a five-year bachelor’s program inside the prison (that also is still in operation to this very day).

But knowledge—true, transformative knowledge—is a threat to those who profit from the status quo. Handlon’s administration became short with me after a while and stated clearly for my understanding that I “knew too many people” and transferred me to Lakeland.

Lakeland Prison: The Hope STUDY

At Lakeland, I organized yet another group of men determined to bring a college program inside the prison. With the help of mentors, we developed plans, met regularly, and built something we believed could change lives. We were granted space and time in the prison library to meet in order to develop the college we wanted to see here. There were nine men including myself that assembled regularly and working with passion to see this through.

During this time I was also asked to join the Violence Prevention Program (VPP) while attending meetings, the program director became familiar with my work in creating a prison college and offered himself as a mentor to our group of nine guys. Obviously, we accepted his offer. We worked with him for a little over a year. During that timeframe he would talk with us individually about wanting to understand why we each felt inclined to pursue the development of this college and how we felt about it. While it was happening we all felt completely comfortable with the questions as we had been working with someone from the "outside" and felt he was trying to build a healthy working relationship with the group.

Out of nowhere, the program was shut down. All nine of us in the group were accused of receiving "special favors", completely confused each one of us fought the accusation. The real blow came when we discovered that our mentor had used us as his own secret focus group in order for him to complete his master thesis "The Hope Theory" without our knowledge or known participation.

All that time we worked with a man who was studying us for his gain. He wanted to understand how someone like myself toting around a life sentence had "Hope" to create a college, even if I'm not leaving prison. The program director studied what drives all nine of us to continue experiencing hope amidst our sentence, our conditions and our environment.

The final result? All nine of us in the group were thrown into solitary confinement for five days. Our research and plans, were confiscated. When we were released from solitary, we were all scattered to nine different prisons across the state. That's some irony to chew on, wouldn't you say? The subjects of a secret "Hope Theory" thesis study have been dismantled and striped of hope...

Knowledge Is Power—That’s Why It’s Feared

Here’s what I’ve learned after 22 years in 17 different prisons: knowledge is power, and power is dangerous in a system built on control. Prisons aren’t designed to rehabilitate; they’re designed to contain. The more you learn, the more you grow, the more you challenge that system—and the more the system pushes back.

Consider this: most prisoners aren’t eligible for educational programs until they’re within three years of release, unless they’re classified as severely mentally ill. That means men serving long sentences—those who need the most growth—are excluded from opportunities to transform.

According to a 2018 study from the RAND Corporation, prisoners who participate in education programs are 43% less likely to return to prison. Yet access to education remains limited, especially for those serving life or long terms.

The term "rehabilitation" gets thrown around a lot when people talk about prison, but let’s be honest—it’s more buzzword than reality. Most prisons are not designed with rehabilitation in mind; they’re designed for control, compliance, and containment.

Programs that could actually help people understand their behavior, address trauma, and build a future are treated like optional luxuries instead of essentials. Think about it: if we really wanted people to leave prison better than they arrived, wouldn’t we invest in robust mental health care, trauma-informed practices, and universal access to education? Instead, we invest in overcrowded cells, understaffed facilities, and punishment over progress.

The reality is that rehabilitation isn’t just underfunded—it’s systematically deprioritized.

A 2020 report from the Urban Institute found that only about 6% of correctional budgets nationwide are spent on programming like education, vocational training, and therapy. And the programs that do exist are often riddled with waitlists, bureaucracy, and limitations that make them inaccessible to most prisoners. It’s a system that says, “Change your life,” while giving you no tools to do so.

True rehabilitation would require a shift in perspective—a willingness to see incarcerated people not as lost causes, but as human beings capable of growth. Until we make that shift, the system will continue to fail not just the people inside, but society as a whole.

I was kicked out of six prisons because I believed in the power of knowledge. I believed in the potential of every man behind those walls to grow, to heal, and to change. And I still believe it.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: no system, no transfer, no solitary cell can stop the spread of an idea whose time has come. Knowledge is power, and that power is unstoppable.

Stay strong, stay curious, and keep fighting for what matters.

-Troy Rienstra