As AFM missionaries, our job is to go to the unreached, to the spiritually darkest places on earth. As the strongholds of the enemy are torn down and the Gospel banner is planted, Satan fights back with all his wrath, using any means possible to remove the Gospel messengers. The nature of the battle we are in became starkly clear to me when I visited a prison in Lomé, Togo recently to visit and pray with Pastor Monteiro, a GC missionary who has been held unjustly for more than a year. Though imprisoned, he continues the work to which God has called him: ministering to needy souls.

As usual, Pastor Monteiro sits waiting in the corner of the prison visiting room. Soon his faithful wife will come with lunches for him and his friend, Bruno Amah. His son Alesandro will also be with her. This is the highlight of his dismal day. For 30 fleeting minutes, he will be permitted to see them and forget that he is sitting in a wretched prison with no prospect of release anytime soon.

He has long since gotten used to the noise that surrounds him. The 12-foot-square visiting room is packed with dozens of prisoners talking with loved ones. Actually, they are yelling, each trying to be heard above the din. But these are the fortunate prisoners. Many others have been incarcerated for years without once receiving a visit. In this respect, Pastor Monteiro feels blessed.

ince March 15, 2012, Pastor Antonio Dos Anjos Monteiro has been sitting in prison in Lomé, Togo. For 14 months, he has been waiting in vain for a trial or a hearing. Together with three other innocent men, he is passing his days in conditions few people on the outside can even imagine. There is no evidence against him and no reason to believe he is in the least bit guilty of the crime he is accused of.

Pastor Monteiro’s accuser, Mr. Simliya, claimed to have killed more than 20 young women to use their blood and organs in occultist rituals. He claimed that Pastor Monteiro ordered the killings, and he implicated three other men as well. Later, to an expert psychiatrist who works with criminals, he admitted to lying about Pastor Monteiro’s involvement and that of the three other men. He said he was tortured and forced to tell the lies. The psychiatrist described Mr. Simliya as emotionally unstable and unpredictable and doubted he even committed the murders. Military police scoured Pastor Monteiro’s house and office and even the church he attended, but they found no evidence linking him to any crime. Although Mr. Simliya claimed that the four men he accused were working together in the crime, none of the men knew each other, and they all attended different Adventist churches. Pastor Monteiro first met one of the others accused, Bruno Amah, in prison.

Pastor Monteiro and the others are innocent victims of a political game few people understand. Somebody has profited from their imprisonment, but it is hard to know who. Repeated attempts to get Pastor Monteiro and the others released have been fruitless. Somebody in the government seems to be blocking justice from being done.

The Sahel Union Mission, located in Lomé, continues to employ Pastor Monteiro, since there is no reason to believe he is guilty of any crime. His office sits as he left it, waiting for him to return. Somebody from the Union visits Pastor Monteiro at least once a week. I was told Pastor Guy Roger, the Union President, tries to visit him twice per week. The Union Mission has made its vehicle and chauffeur available to Mrs. Monteiro and Mrs. Amah so that they can visit their husbands each day. Mrs. Amah takes breakfast to the two men, and Mrs. Monteiro takes them lunch. Every day, every week, every month for 402 days.
The dilapidated Lomé Civil Prison appears to be in a state of slow-motion collapse. The outer walls are cracked, and the bricks are fragmenting. The steel spikes on the top of the wall are rusty. A sign above the door says the EU inspected it in 2006, but it is clear that no maintenance has been done since that time. Doors and shutters hang in disarray. The paint is faded and peeling, and mold covers the walls in damp places. The interior of the prison is in better shape, but just barely. Designed to house 400 inmates, the building now is home to somewhere between 1,800 and 2,000. Prisoners sleep on thin plastic mats in bare sleeping rooms. Pastor Monteiro and Bruno Amah are thankful to have a room with only 33 or 34 men in it. They all have just enough room to lie down on the cold, grey 12-by-15-foot floor. Their belongings hang in sacks from nails in the walls. Other sleeping rooms are packed with up to 82 men. Violence often erupts, but all three of the men I spoke with assured me they are not in any danger.

As Mrs. Monteiro, Alesandro, and I pushed through the crowded visiting room to the corner where the Pastor was waiting, I was struck with how normal he and other prisoners looked, and how hard it was to distinguish prisoners from visitors. The prisoners wore normal street clothes. Pastor Monteiro was wearing a clean beige polo shirt and beige shorts. If we were not surrounded by the cacophony and smell of an overcrowded prison, I could have thought we were having a visit on his front porch.

As Pastor Monteiro tenderly kissed his wife and son, I was not prepared for the emotions that washed over me. While I would soon return home to my family, Pastor Monteiro gets nothing more than a kiss and a short time each day with his family. Tears sprang to my eyes as I realized how blessed I am and what a painful situation this man of God is in. Throughout our time with him, he caressed his wife and son, giving Alesandro countless high-fives and hugging him over and over. His tender love for his family was obvious and touching. At one point he told me, “We have been married for 28 years. In all that time, we were never apart for more than 30 days at a time. When I would travel to do evangelistic campaigns, I would take her with me, even to the U.S. Now, I have been in here for 402 days.” He bowed his head and blinked back tears.

I explained to Pastor Monteiro that many people all over the world are praying for him. He told me, “Thank you. Please keep praying. Keep praying. God has His time. Things will not happen too early or too late, but right on time. We might think it is too long, but He has a plan.”

“Pastor, are you in danger?” I asked.

“No, I am not in danger. Angels surround me, and some of the men inside have promised to protect me. There is violence, but I am not in danger.”

“When violence breaks out, do the guards come in to restore order?”

“Guards? No, the guards never come into the prison. In 13 months, I have never seen a guard inside the prison. The prisoners do whatever they want.”

“What is a typical day like?”

“For most men, there are only three activities—eating, washing, and sleeping. I do some writing. Some men do drugs. There is no program, no plan, no organized activities or diversions.”

Pastor Monteiro talked about the pain of the injustice he was suffering and of the insults he received initially after being arrested. “I was put into a small room and stripped naked. For 14 days, I was naked in a small cell.

“The judge has said clearly that he knows I am innocent, but he says there is nothing he can do to free me. I don’t know how much longer I will be here.

“I could never do what they have accused me of. I can’t even kill a bird. When I was 12 years old, I decided I wanted to be a pastor. I don’t know why, I just knew that was what I was going to be. Pastoring has been my entire life. My mission is to help people by preaching the Gospel and leading them to salvation. I could never kill anybody. My work is to save people.” Although the injustice hurts, Pastor Monteiro’s faith is strong. “I am in God’s hands, and He will take care of me.”

When Pastor Ted Wilson, the General Conference President, had a worship service in the prison, Pastor Monteiro demonstrated the forgiveness he has extended to Mr. Simliya, who is also in the prison, by washing his feet before the Communion service. He truly has left his case with God, and holds no grudges.

I looked down at the lunch basket Mrs. Monteiro had brought. “Pastor, you get breakfast and lunch from you wife and Mr. Amah’s wife. Does the prison serve any food?”

“Yes, one meal per day, but it is very poor quality. I don’t eat it. I leave it for those who have nothing else. There are people in here who have not had a visitor in four or five years.”

As our visiting time ended, Pastor Monteiro called a man over and gave him the food basket to take back into the prison. Pastor Monteiro leaned over to me and said with a smile, “In here, you have to pay 100 francs just to say ‘Bon jour’ to somebody!”

I didn’t understand what he meant, so he explained. “Nothing is free. We have to pay for everything. That man who took the food basket back into the prison, he gets 1,000 francs (about $2) per week for doing that. I have to pay 1,000 francs every time I come into this visiting room. Nothing is free here.”

The worldwide Adventist Church has been trying hard to get Pastor Monteiro released. Pastor Ted Wilson has visited him in prison and tried to have meetings with top government leaders. Pastor Wilson even sent funds to repair the baptistery in the prison, which has since been put to good use. The General Conference has sent lawyers to Lomé to assist the Union’s lawyer. The West African Division has voted to provide an international criminal justice lawyer to assist the Union as well. Dr. Ganoune Diop, SDA representative to the UN, has also visited Lomé and was able to have meetings with some government officials. One man in the Union told me that Mr. Simliya made a mistake when he accused a pastor of such a well-organized international church community. “If it had just been a local congregational pastor, it would have been simpler for them to keep him in prison. Now, they have no peace, and we trust that God will work for the release of Pastor Monteiro and the others.”

Pastor Monteiro is also very grateful for the personal messages of encouragement he has received. “The General Conference sent me a Christmas card. People have sent me thousands of cards. Children have drawn pictures and written me notes. It warms my heart. When I get out, I will hang all those letters up on the walls of my home. I want to be able to always see those pictures and notes. A friend in Mexico has helped me a lot and keeps in touch with me regularly.”

Even in prison, Pastor Monteiro is still a pastor. He ministers to his fellow inmates, praying for them and telling them about the Savior who loves them. Since his arrival, 10 prisoners have been baptized into Jesus and the Seventh-day Adventist Church. Each Sabbath, they meet together for worship. Many inmates have said they will be sad when Pastor Monteiro finally leaves. He has been a spiritual father to them, a giant of faith through his innocent suffering.

Thirty minutes after we had arrived, the tone of the shouting in the visiting room peaked, and we knew it was time to leave. Pastor Monteiro asked me to pray. I tried to pray loud enough to be heard, but my voice cracked. My throat was dry, and it was only with difficulty that I finished the prayer. I opened my eyes, and they were full of tears. We hugged Pastor Monteiro goodbye, he gave a final high-five to Alesandro, and we departed.

I walked out into an unknown future determined to do all I can to reach the unreached around me while I have time. I walked out convicted that the case of Pastor Monteiro portends difficult days ahead for all the servants of God, especially those who pioneer the Gospel in the world’s darkest places. I walked out hoping I could be as faithful in my realm as Pastor Monteiro is in his. I walked out into open air and freedom, to face the daily hassles of life in Africa, more committed than ever to the work God has given us and determined to pray for this man of God until the Lord sees fit to release him. Please join me in those prayers.

• Twitter