They hadn’t intended to spend the night here. Well, maybe in this town. Not this hotel. The accommodations were significantly less than desirable. Unyielding, uncomfortable floors holding up drab gray walls without a stitch of color. Limited lighting due to an unfortunate incident resulting in the builder forgetting to install a window. A trickle of water from an earlier rain ran down the inside of the wall. Apparently, that counted as the necessary facilities. The furniture was sparse. Nearly nonexistent. No sofa. No chair. No bed. Of course, it is difficult to lie down when one’s feet are locked in stocks.
It began as such a normal week. Logically locating the place people would assemble to pray. Preaching Jesus to the women gathered there. Baptizing Lydia and her family. All normal “apostle” things to do. Things they did in every town they visited as the opportunity arose. Preach. Pray. Baptize. Occasionally the necessity to confront evil spirits arose. Some came or were brought by concerned friends or family. People who desperately wanted to be free from bondage. People who knew the power of God was mightier than the thing that held them in its grip. People who hoped, believed, prayed that the God Paul and Silas preached would be the One to release their souls. No one was asking this time.
For days a young girl with a spirit of divination followed them around town. It is difficult to state exactly why. Perhaps her owners, a couple of men using her dubious skills as a money-making endeavor, sent her to see if the visitors would indulge in a reading. Maybe she was bored. Maybe she was curious. Perhaps some inner part of her soul knew Paul and Silas could help her find freedom from evil enslavement. Whatever the reason, she followed them constantly, periodically calling out, “As bondservants of the Most High God, these men are here to talk to you about salvation.” It was a bit like having their own herald.
They didn’t need one. Neither Paul nor Silas felt the desire to be announced as they traveled from house to house, establishment to establishment. Especially Paul. He had quickly grown weary of the added attention. Day after day his annoyance grew. Day after day he dutifully held his tongue. At least for a bit. Eventually, annoyance won out. Turning to the girl, he rebuked the spirit and cast it out in the name of Jesus Christ, forever releasing the girl to live in freedom. It should have been a day of rejoicing. It probably was. For the girl, at least.
Her handlers were far from elated. They didn’t see freedom and peace and rest. Didn’t care if she’d been miserable in their employ. They only saw descending dollar signs. And with every dropping dollar came a rising tide of rage. Gone was their easy income. Gone was their lazy living. Gone were their mellow personalities. Greed and rage overtaking them, they sought revenge.
Grabbing the arms of Paul and Silas, they marched them straight to the authorities. Stopping before the chief magistrates, the mouths of the mercenaries spewed forth unrepentant lies with ferocious speed. “These men are stirring up the city. Confusing people! Causing dissension! Commanding people to violate Roman customs!” The fervor with which the accusations flew stirred up the attending crowd. As the mob rallied against Paul and Silas, the magistrates vaulted into action. Ripping the robes from the apostles’ backs, they ordered them beaten with rods and threw them into prison, reminding the jailor that his life depended on keeping those men securely locked away.
It was how they had ended up in this less than 1-star hotel. Locked in the innermost part of the prison, devoid of light and fresh air, their feet tightly secured in stocks. As the sun dropped behind the hills and darkness crept across the sky, their prison room grew even darker. Suffocatingly so. The loss of sight heightened their other senses. Increased the sounds of racing rodents searching for food. Enhanced the scent of unsanitary facilities. Encouraged their imaginations to gaze at their current circumstances, see the horror, and dip a toe in the pond of self-pity.
We wouldn’t blame them had they dived in head first. If Paul and Silas had tilted back their heads, sucked in a breath of stench-laden air, and cried out to God in upset frustration, irritation, anger, and pain, we wouldn’t have a single word to say against them. We wouldn’t dare judge them. How could we? We do it all the time. Stuck in the dark recesses of our unpalatable situation, we throw back our heads and scream at God, “Why me? Why is this happening? Why are You allowing this? Don’t You care? Don’t You love me? Why don’t You just fix it? Where’s my miracle?” We justify our ranting as a normal human response to adversity. Maybe it is…for us.
Not for Paul and Silas. Stuck in the last place they would choose to be, locked in stocks, beaten and bruised, untended wounds oozing on their backs, they threw back their heads and cried out to the heavens. Not with complaints and whining. Not with arguments and frustrations. Not with accusations about God’s love or questions about His sovereignty. No. At the midnight hour, when their situation had no possibility of becoming any less favorable, they lifted their spirits by raising their voices in prayer and praise to God. (Acts 16:13-40)
I wonder what words they sang that night. From where I’m sitting, they had few earthly things for which to be thankful. An undeserved arrest? A vicious beating? A dank prison cell? But the passage doesn’t say they were giving thanks to God. It says they were praising God. They were joyfully singing commendation, laud, and honor from hearts full of awe for who and what God is, for His character, His purity, His sovereignty. Their words that night had nothing to do with themselves and everything to do with their God. And other prisoners noticed.
As the words of God’s greatness echoed through the dark recesses of that prison, all groaning, grumbling, cursing, and crying stopped. One by one the men fell silent, dumbstruck that someone locked away in the deepest part of the dungeon could find the courage, the strength, the joy to look beyond their dire circumstances and light up the night with songs of praise to their God. Encouraged to know that somewhere out there was a God who was real and true and deserving of awe and reverence and praise. Not because He’d miraculously rescued them, but simply because He was worthy.
He is, you know. Worthy. God is worthy of all praise and glory and adoration. In Psalm 145-149, depicted in words far more beautiful than I could ever dream of penning, the psalmist expounds on the unsearchable, unfathomable greatness of our God. Glorious in splendor and majesty. Mighty in acts and powerful in works. Abundant in goodness. Gracious. Merciful. Loving and kind. Righteous and just. Creator, Sustainer, Redeemer, King. Go read those Psalms. The words alone will make your heart soar, your confidence rise. Unless you are caught in the darkness of midnight with the evil one relentlessly riding you to dive headfirst into the pool of pity.
In the dark night of your soul, when calamity and casualties and commotion surround you, the evil one, that professional liar, will say the words aren’t true for you. He’ll say God loves other people more than you. He’ll say the Psalmist, unlike you, was perfect and clearly one of God’s favorites. He’ll question what you have to sing about. He’ll get your eyes so focused on yourself and your circumstances that you forget how great, how awesome, how powerful is your God. Even if He chooses not to miraculously remove your untenable situation, the fact you serve a God who undeniably has the power to do so should make your lips burst forth in jubilant song. The evil one will do anything to silence you. You’ll have to fight back. Make a choice. Take a stand. (John 8:44; II Corinthians 11:3; Matthew 16:23; James 4:7; I Peter 5:8-9)
You’ll need Psalm 150 then. Not just to read. To obey. It has to be what Paul and Silas were doing. In words of praise issued as a final command, the Psalmist says, “Praise the Lord!” Everywhere. In church, in the coffee shop, in the hospital, in the hay fields, in the depths of your soul. Praise Him for everything He is and does, His character, His power, His wisdom, His sovereignty. Praise Him out loud in every possible way. Play an instrument. Dance. Crash some cymbals. Sing. Speak. Don’t stop. Ever. Not when things are perfect and beautiful. Not when things are out of control and going awry. Not in the midnight hour of your life when you feel locked in a prison not of your own making. Sing out even then. Especially then. Turn your tear-drenched face upward, lift your heavy heart heavenward, and raise your voice in praise to God for Who He is and what He’s done. Praise Him because He is worthy of glory, honor, reverence, and awe. (Psalm 95:1-11; Hebrews 13:8,15; Psalm 103; Isaiah 25:1; Exodus 15:2; Ephesians 5:19; Deuteronomy 10:21)
And people will notice. Friends. Family. Acquaintances. Strangers. As you encourage yourself with songs of praise and words of exaltation to God regardless of your circumstances, people will notice. They will see your attitude, your positive response to a negative situation, your strength in the midst of an enormous storm, and they will take notice. Not of you. Of your God. And they will be drawn to Him. Drawn to the God who travels every valley, weathers every storm, and endures every hardship right beside the children He loves with an everlasting, unwavering, infrangible love. You. Me. And everyone who dares to utter a midnight cry of praise. (Jeremiah 31:3; Matthew 5:16; James 5:13; Colossians 3:16-17; Psalm 115:1)
Amen!