Maybe You're the Jailer.
Notes
Transcript
Handout
This morning, we are going to look at one of the most common passages preached from in the book of Acts—Paul and Silas in prison. But my goal today is not just to recount a familiar story, but to see it in a fresh way, to pull out a truth that you may have never noticed before.
25 About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them, 26 and suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken. And immediately all the doors were opened, and everyone’s bonds were unfastened.
Pray
You know what I find interesting about most messages on this passage? Most sermons stop at verse 26. And it’s usually a cliché, generic message about how you just gotta worship until you’re free. *Spoiler Alert* We aren’t stopping at verse 26.
And everyone gets excited, everyone’s like, yeah! Let’s sing another song so the bondage that I’m in can break! But let’s be real… what about the bondage that I placed myself in?
The chains I keep picking back up, the cycles I refuse to break, the sins I don’t actually want to let go of? What about those?
See, for a lot of people, it’s not really about getting free. It’s about feeling better for a moment. It’s about coming to church, lifting your hands, singing loud—maybe even shedding a few tears—but then walking right back into the same chains you were in before.
Let’s be real—we unshackle our own chains at church, and then after church, we go right back and shackle ourselves up again.
We step into worship, raise our hands, shout amen, and for a moment, it feels like we’re free. But then we leave, and instead of walking in that freedom, we pick the chains back up. We go right back to the same habits, the same mindsets, the same sins—like we never left.
And here’s what’s really crazy—we don’t even realize we’re doing it. We think because we had an emotional experience in worship, that means we’ve changed. We think because we felt something in the moment, that means we’re free. But freedom isn’t in a feeling. Freedom is in surrender.
Some of us are asking God to break chains that we refuse to drop. We want to be free, but we don’t actually want to change. We want the emotional high of worship, but we don’t want the daily discipline of obedience.
Guess what? Worship and singing praises to God is not for you.
It was never about you. Worship is for God. It’s not about how it makes you feel; it’s about who He is. It’s about declaring His goodness, His holiness, His power—regardless of your circumstances.
But let’s be honest—sometimes what we call worship is really just manipulation. We’re not praising because He’s worthy; we’re praising because we’re hoping it will get us what we want. We lift our hands, not in surrender, but in negotiation. God, if I sing loud enough, if I pray hard enough, will you fix this? Will you change this? Will you do what I want?
That’s not worship. That’s bargaining. That’s not surrender. That’s trying to control God.
And maybe that’s why we keep ending up back in the same chains. Because we think worship is a tool to get what we want, instead of a response to who God is. We think if we just sing loud enough, we’ll get our breakthrough—but what if the real breakthrough isn’t about getting out of something?
Paul and Silas are in a dark, dirty, disgusting prison cell. Oh, and they were also beaten and battered.
Their backs were torn open from the whips, their bodies aching from the beating, their feet locked in stocks, crammed into the inner part of the prison where the stench of suffering filled the air.
And what is their response? To genuinely worship God.
Not to get out. Not to manipulate a miracle. Not to force God’s hand.
They weren’t worshipping for a prison break. They were worshipping because no matter what their circumstances looked like, they still wanted to honor God.
But hold on—how do we know that?
How do we know they weren’t just singing because they were hoping for a miracle? How do we know they weren’t just praising God in hopes that He would come through and break them out?
I’m so glad you asked.
Let’s keep reading.
27 When the jailer woke and saw that the prison doors were open, he drew his sword and was about to kill himself, supposing that the prisoners had escaped. 28 But Paul cried with a loud voice, “Do not harm yourself, for we are all here.”
People who are looking for a prison break don’t stay in prison when they get one.
They worship, their chains fall off, and the doors open. That’s the part of the story we love to preach about. That’s the moment where everyone shouts, where we celebrate the breakthrough, where we assume that the next logical step is to walk through the open door.
Paul and Silas could have easily walked out and said, “Look what God did! He broke us out of prison!” They could have left, moved on, and never looked back.
But they stayed. and so did everyone else that was in prison.
Why?
Why would Paul and Silas not run for it? God opened the door for them. Isn’t that what freedom is supposed to look like? The chains are gone, the doors are open—shouldn’t they take that as a sign to leave?
But what if the door wasn’t opened for them to leave?
What if God wasn’t setting them free just for their sake?
What if He was opening the door to break someone else out of a prison they didn’t even know they were in?
29 And the jailer called for lights and rushed in, and trembling with fear he fell down before Paul and Silas. 30 Then he brought them out and said, “Sirs, what must I do to be saved?” 31 And they said, “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you and your household.” 32 And they spoke the word of the Lord to him and to all who were in his house.
The jailer rushes in, terrified, sword in hand, ready to end his own life. In his mind, it’s over. The prisoners are gone, and with them, his purpose, his reputation, his very reason for existing. He has failed at the one thing he was responsible for, and in that moment, death seems like the only way out.
But then—Paul’s voice cuts through the darkness.
“Do not harm yourself, for we are all here.”
That doesn’t make sense. Prisoners don’t stay when the doors fly open. People don’t wait around when their chains fall off. But these men—these worshippers—chose to stay.
And something shifts inside the jailer.
Because the ones who should have been desperate to leave are still standing there, while he—who had the power, the authority, the control—is the one trembling on the ground.
So he asks the only question that matters:
“Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”
Paul and Silas begin to minister to a man that was keeping them captive. a man that contributed and participated in there physical condition.
Paul and Silas begin to minister to the very man who had kept them captive. The same man who locked their chains. The same man who contributed to and participated in their suffering.
Think about that.
Can you share the gospel with someone who has wronged you?
Could you share the gospel with the person who hurt you?
Could you extend salvation to the one who put you in chains?
Because this is the kind of love that doesn’t make sense. This is the kind of grace that stops people in their tracks. Paul and Silas didn’t see an enemy—they saw a soul in need of freedom.
And instead of running from the man who had wronged them, they turned toward him and gave him the only thing that truly sets people free.
but let’s take it a step further, look at verse 33
33 And he took them the same hour of the night and washed their wounds; and he was baptized at once, he and all his family.
Would you let the person who wounded you clean your wounds?
The same hands that locked them in chains are now the hands washing their wounds. The same man who stood guard over their suffering is now tending to the very pain he helped cause.
And here’s the part that hits hard—Paul and Silas let him.
They didn’t resist. They didn’t cross their arms and say, “No, you don’t get to touch these wounds. You did this to us.” They didn’t hold onto their pain as proof of their suffering.
They let the one who hurt them be a part of their healing.
But let’s be real—that’s not how most of us respond.
Someone wrongs us, and we build walls so high they could never climb over them. Someone wounds us, and we make sure they know we’ll never let them close again.
We won’t forgive someone for something hurtful they said to us. We won’t let go of a comment, an offense, a mistake from years ago.
But Jesus?
Jesus forgave the very soldiers who beat Him. The ones who spit in His face, mocked Him, jammed a crown of thorns into His skull. The ones who whipped His back until His flesh was shredded.
And then, as He hung there, struggling for breath, bleeding out for the very people who put Him there—those same soldiers sat at the foot of the cross and played a poker game over His bloody garments.
And what did Jesus say?
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
We hold grudges over words, but Jesus forgave the men who nailed Him to a cross.
We cut people off over offenses, but Paul and Silas let the jailer who chained them up be the one to wash their wounds.
Because real forgiveness isn’t just saying “I forgive you.” It’s letting go.
Forgiveness means we are surrendering the right to hold onto the pain.
It’s refusing to let bitterness become your prison.
Paul and Silas could have left that prison carrying the weight of what had been done to them. But instead, they left carrying the weight of the gospel.
And because of that, an entire household was saved.
34 Then he brought them up into his house and set food before them. And he rejoiced along with his entire household that he had believed in God.
Paul and Silas could have left that prison carrying the weight of what had been done to them.
They could have walked out still bound in bitterness.
But instead, they left carrying the weight of the Gospel.
And that weight is light—not heavy.
Because Jesus said:
28 Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. 29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30 For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
The weight of unforgiveness is heavy.
The weight of bitterness will crush you.
When you hold onto hurt, you’re carrying a burden that God never intended for you to carry. You think you’re holding onto it for justice, for self-protection, for control—but all it’s doing is weighing you down.
But the Gospel?
The Gospel isn’t about holding onto pain.
The Gospel is about letting go.
Jesus says, Take my yoke. Take my burden. Because it’s not like the weight you’ve been carrying—it’s light.
Paul and Silas had every right to be angry. Every right to walk out of that prison and never look back. Every right to hold onto their pain.
But they chose to lay it down.
And because they laid down their bitterness, they picked up something greater—the burden of the Gospel.
And that burden brings freedom.
Not just for them, but for the jailer.
For his family.
For an entire household.
Because real freedom isn’t just about what God brings you out of.
It’s about what He’s calling you into.
And maybe the reason you still feel heavy isn’t because you’re still in chains.
Maybe it’s because you refuse to drop the weight of bitterness and pick up the burden of the Gospel instead.
So what are you carrying today?
Are you carrying the weight of old wounds? The weight of unforgiveness? The weight of anger that’s been sitting in your heart for far too long?
Or are you carrying the Gospel?
Because Jesus said, My yoke is easy. My burden is light.
And it’s time to let go of what’s been weighing you down—so you can pick up what will finally set you free.
