Released From Chains, Bound To The Word: Acts 16:25-34

The guard at Philippi’s prison is on his routine patrol. He’s carrying out his duties as usual when two outsiders—Paul and Silas—are brought to him, already beaten and bruised. He’s commanded to confine them in the inner prison—the place designated for the most hardened, perhaps most dangerous offenders: those who had already been condemned and were waiting to die.

The inner prison was a disturbing place—nowhere near acceptable by modern standards. It was filthy, dark, and cold. There were no windows to let in sunlight for warmth or light, and no way to hear what was happening beyond the walls. The only sounds were the frantic voices of fellow condemned inmates—tormented souls—

shouting vulgarities at their captors,

sobbing in regret,

begging for mercy,

or wailing in desperation and agony.

Not a pretty sight.

The inner prison was, without doubt, not for the faint of heart—a place so miserable that even the prison guards, though bound by duty, probably dreaded going there. Yet, in strict obedience to his superiors, the guard on duty escorts Paul and Silas down the corridor leading to the dreaded inner prison. With every step, the air grows colder, the darkness thicker, and the frantic voices of the chained grow louder and more upsetting.

As he fastens their feet in the stocks, the commotion no doubt intensifies. Some inmates hurl insults in rage; others wail, beg, or moan in hopelessness. The guard does his duty—but does not linger. He can’t wait to get out of there. Once he secures Paul and Silas in their chains, he swiftly retreats to his post just outside the prison door—thankful to be somewhere not so filthy, dark, cold, or disturbing.

Relieved to be back at his post and away from the dreadful inner prison, he now braces himself for the long, lonely night of standing guard…

______________________________________________________________________________

I’ve never guarded a prison at night—but during college, I did work as a security guard at a performing arts theater. I remember how eager and excited I was that first night. I looked so impressive with my badge, walkie-talkie, and official security polo shirt.

I was ready to patrol, look tough, sound important, and tell people what to do! All night, I paced from door to door, from one end of the lobby to the other, hoping someone might try to sneak in—just so I’d have something to do. But nothing happened. (The most exciting thing was picking up trash someone had thrown on the lobby floor.)

It was just me, walking in circles, my eyes growing heavier throughout the night. With no supervisor or patrons nearby, it was mighty tempting to just close my eyes for a moment—and take a nap.

There wasn’t much at stake if I had fallen asleep. Maybe someone would have gotten away with running through the lobby at worst.

But the guard patrolling the prison? He had far more at stake. He was responsible for keeping watch over the most dangerous offenders—the kind that, if escaped, would cause panic in the streets and shame on him and his family.

And yet—he allowed himself to doze off. He fell asleep! He probably got bored. He probably just paced back and forth and eventually decided to stop resisting the urge to sleep. Maybe he thought to himself:

“There’s no way these guys can get out anyway. They’re chained by the feet, and the doors are locked. Besides, no one cares about them—they’re as good as dead. These men are the scum of the city. Who would want to break them out? There’s no threat here. I might as well rest a minute…”

Around midnight, as he sleeps, the ground begins to tremble—gently at first, then violently.

The shaking grows so intense that the very walls of the prison begin to crack and crumble, stone by stone crushing doors and snapping chains—freeing every prisoner locked within.

The shaking finally awakens the guard. He’s shocked—by the earthquake—but tortured by the open doors. Surely the prisoners must have rushed out. In an instant, he must have believed he had failed miserably. Even though he couldn’t stop an earthquake from crushing the doors, he could have, had he not been sleeping, drawn his sword to prevent these dangerous, wretched men from escaping.

He’s in trouble. His superiors will put him to death. Shame will be brought upon him and his household. Rome isn’t merciful to failures.

Humiliated and shattered, he draws his sword, about to take his own life.

But before he succeeds—he hears a voice yelling from the darkness—Paul’s voice saying:

“Do not harm yourself, for we are all here…”

All here?

He drops the sword, finds a candle, and staggers through the rubble toward what was left of the inner prison.

And there—he sees it.

All were still there.

All those dangerous, wretched, hardened, condemned prisoners were still there—