Growing up, I don’t recall hearing much about the death penalty. Shortly before I was born, the United States Supreme Court declared existing capital punishment laws unconstitutional. By the time I was 8 years old, Ohio had enacted a revised law that aligned with stricter criteria. I have no doubt my parents, like many Americans during the Reagan era, believed the death penalty was justified.

I also don’t recall any preaching against the death penalty. During the first half of my life, Catholic teaching on capital punishment shifted significantly—from Pope Pius XII’s assertion that the condemned “has already disposed himself of his right to live” to Pope John Paul II’s declaration that the death penalty could only be used when it was an “absolute necessity” to defend society, and that “such cases are very rare, if not practically non-existent.” Despite this development, these teachings rarely made it from the ambo to the ears of the pews I sat in.

For my generation, the death penalty wasn’t a topic of concern. Perhaps it was because Ohio hadn’t executed anyone between 1963 and 1999, or because discussions about capital punishment were overshadowed by the abortion debate. Too few embraced the consistent ethic of life advocated by Joseph Cardinal Bernardin.

I accepted the Church’s teaching that the death penalty could be permissible in extreme cases, but I was not particularly drawn to advocacy. I attended a protest in 2001 outside the governor’s mansion, encouraged by my friend Jerry Freewalt. I was moved by the sincerity of the prayers for the condemned, their victims, and the victims’ families. However, I was put off by others, like the protester dressed as an oversized “grim reaper,” who was the only one to make the evening news.
For years, I remained passively against capital punishment—except for those rare, hypothetical cases of societal danger. It wasn’t until I worked outside the Church that my perspective shifted.

A Close Encounter with the Chair
In 2011, the Ohio Historical Society (now Ohio History Connection) unveiled an exhibit titled Controversy: Pieces You Don’t Normally See. Among the artifacts was Ohio’s electric chair, the device used to execute 312 men and three women. The exhibit offered minimal interpretation, encouraging visitors to engage with the objects personally. Materials at the exit provided historical context for those who wanted it, and there was space for reflection.
As a history enthusiast seeking a professional change, I applied to serve as an interpreter for the exhibit. My role wasn’t to guide tours but to support visitors who needed help processing their experience. During my interview, Megan Wood—now CEO of the Ohio History Connection—asked if I could navigate such controversial material. Having helped the diocese respond to the clergy abuse crisis, I felt prepared for the task.
Most of my time as an interpreter was spent near the electric chair. The chair drew all kinds of reactions, from those curious about its history to people convinced it was haunted. Some wanted to sit in it, a request I firmly denied. Over time, I became the person who had spent the most time next to Ohio’s electric chair—more than curators, prison guards, or perhaps anyone else.
With an iPad provided by the museum, I could research the stories of those executed in the chair. The Ohio Department of Rehabilitation & Correction’s website listed the names and final photos of the condemned, allowing me to answer visitor questions. Some of these interactions were deeply emotional.

The Human Impact
One elderly woman came to the exhibit because the man who murdered her mother had been executed in the chair. She shared how, as a child, she witnessed the man kill her mother after she reported him for altering timecards at work. Using the iPad, I found the man’s photo. She wanted to look into his eyes again and face the instrument of justice. As she left, tears streaming down her face, she told me she had hoped for closure but didn’t find it. I doubt there ever is closure for a lifetime of pain and the loss of a mother’s love.
This encounter deepened my desire to learn about the condemned and their victims. Some of those executed sought forgiveness in their final moments; others maintained their innocence to the end. Some were mentally ill, like the man who murdered someone en route to meet a radio star he was obsessed with, believing he’d be resurrected three minutes after his execution. The crimes of others were so horrific that they still haunt me. Yet, studying these cases led me to question whether the death penalty serves justice—or simply extinguishes the potential for transformation.

A Case That Stayed with Me
One particularly complex case was that of Julia “Maude” Lowther, the first woman sentenced to die in Ohio’s electric chair. Born into poverty in 1907, Maude endured abuse and exploitation before becoming entangled in a plot to murder Clara Smith, the wife of her lover, Tilby Smith. Though Maude committed the crime, her trial raised significant questions about fairness and her vulnerability to manipulation. While Tilby was executed, Maude’s sentence was commuted.
During her 17 years in prison, Maude worked in the maternity ward, helping to bring new lives into the world. After her release in 1954, she rebuilt her life, working as a nurse’s aide and living quietly in Columbus until her death in 1993. Her story challenges us to weigh accountability for heinous acts against the possibility of redemption.

Good Friday Reflections
On Good Friday in 2011, I spent hours in the exhibit, reflecting on the electric chair and the faces of those who died in it. I thought of their victims, their crimes, and the woman whose tears reminded me that true closure is elusive. I contemplated Jesus, condemned and executed on an instrument of terror that became a symbol of love and forgiveness.
Yes, victims deserve justice, and society needs protection. But I believe both can be achieved without resorting to execution. Pope Francis’s declaration that the death penalty is “inadmissible” resonates deeply with me. Mercy and redemption are more Christ-like responses than death.

The Path Forward
Public history challenges us to confront difficult truths. My time with the electric chair forced me to rethink the death penalty and embrace the evolving teaching of my faith. I hope we can soon abolish this unnecessary practice and choose mercy over death.