St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Acts 16:16–34

The book of Acts is not a calm book.
It is loud,
messy,
disruptive . . .
and full of grace.

Over and over in Acts,
you get stories like today’s:
stories where chains fall,
systems crack,
and the status quo doesn’t get the final word.

And I think that’s exactly the kind of story we need
not just today, but always.
Not because it offers easy answers,
but because it shows us what faithfulness can look like
when things feel impossibly complicated.

Today, we meet two people:
one a girl,
the other a jailer.
They could not be more different,
and yet both are trapped,
both are seen,
and both are set free.

* * *

Let’s start with the girl.
The girl is nameless.
She’s a slave,
a child,
a spectacle,
a commodity.

She has something within her—
what Acts calls “a spirit of divination,”
something strange and powerful—
and her owners have figured out how to make a buck off it.

She tells fortunes,
generates revenue,
draws attention.

But no one actually sees her.
Only what she can produce,
only what she’s worth to them.

So along come Paul and Silas,
and this girls follows them day after day
crying out behind them,
proclaiming the truth . . .
but in a voice that sounds
more like mockery than prophecy.

Finally, Paul turns around—
annoyed, but also empowered—
and says seven simple words:
“In the name of Jesus Christ, come out.”

And just like that,
her chains are gone.

Not everyone rejoices, however, when someone goes free . . .
not when their freedom cost them their income.

She had been their profit center,
and now the profits are gone.
So Paul and Silas are arrested,
dragged off,
beaten,
and thrown into jail.

Because when you disrupt the system,
the system will always come for you.

Inside that jail, however, Paul and Silas sing.
Even in chains,
they sing hymns at midnight.
Because sometimes,
that’s the only way to hold the dark at bay.

* * *

Enter the jailer.
He, unlike the girl, is not enslaved in body,
but make no mistake . . .
he’s trapped, too.

Trapped by a job
that values performance over personhood.
Trapped by a system
that will kill him if he fails.
Trapped by the same false belief
many of us carry deep inside:
that your worth is what you produce,
what you control,
what you can prove.

So when an earthquake miraculously hits—
flinging the doors wide open,
causing the chains to fall right off—
the jailer assumes the worst.

He draws his sword and prepares to end it all . . .
because if the prisoners are free,
he will not be.

But then comes a familiar voice once again . . .
not the voice of panic,
but the voice of mercy.

“Do not harm yourself,” Paul says.
“We
are
still
here.”

Paul and Silas could have run off.
They could have escaped.
Instead, against all logic
and solely for the jailer’s sake . . .
they stayed.

And that, my friends,
is when the jailer asks the million dollar question . . .
the ultimate question,
the question that echoes through the ages
and still shakes the foundations of the world:

“What must I do to be saved?”

It’s not a political question.
It’s not even primarily a theological one.
It’s a human question . . .
the cry of someone
whose systems have failed him,
whose role cannot save him,
whose sword—sharp as it may be—
can no longer protect him from the truth.

He has seen what grace can do.
He has seen what love can look like.
And he wants in.

He is not innocent,
but he is not free, either.
And that is what makes this story so deeply human.

For you see, the systems don’t just bind those on the margins;
they bind those in charge, too.
Even the ones with keys in their hands
are still caught in something they cannot control.

* * *

All of this reminds me of something that happened years ago.

In my last town,
we sat one county over
from an immigration detention facility . . .
an old converted prison
run by a private company
and used to detain, hold, and process
those detained under immigration law.

While I wasn’t their usual go-to chaplain,
from time to time I would get a call
and be asked to go and provide the Sacraments.

One day, I got called to come perform a wedding.
It was a strange experience, to say the least.

Before I knew it,
there I stood in a small cell,
the bride next to me,
two guards behind us to serve as our witnesses,
and the groom—a detainee awaiting deportation—
standing on the other side of the plexiglass.
It was a no-contact wedding.
They were not allowed to touch or to exchange rings,
and the groom could barely hear me
yelling his vows for him to repeat
through the small speaker in the window.
The best I could do was to have them both
place their hands against the thick plexiglass.

I don’t know the circumstances;
I didn’t ask for details.
When you’re a priest
you offer the sacraments
with humanity, dignity, and grace
to whomever needs them.

But in that cramped little room
I got the sinking feeling
that this could very well be
the end of the road for this couple,
rather than the beginning:
that after this three-minute wedding,
she would drive away,
he would be deported,
and they may never see one another again.

It brought a who new weight to that phrase:
“What God has joined together, let no one put asunder.”

And yet, as I left the facility,
a couple of guards,
simply doing their jobs
and earning their paychecks,
laughed and ate lunch
on a picnic table outside,
talking about their kids
and enjoying the sun.

Truth is, this was a small community,
not exactly a place with endless opportunities.
They could have worked at
the Applebee’s,
the Walmart,
the Dairy Queen.
Instead, they so happened to work here.
It was just a job.
No malice . . .
just protocol,
process,
a system rolling on.

They weren’t villains.
They weren’t monsters.
They were just people
caught in a system,
doing their jobs,
eating lunch
while the world inside kept breaking apart.

But being “caught” doesn’t mean being innocent.
It simply means all of us are tangled
in something old and heavy
and hard to escape.

* * *

This week, in our own city,
we saw images that echoed a similar dissonance.

Not in a detention center,
but at a construction site.
Not through plexiglass,
but through zip ties.

On the surface,
moments like these feel like they are entirely political
and that political questions are the only ones worth asking,
but for you and me, the questions are deeply religious.

Whatever you believe about laws and borders,
you don’t have to look far
to see that people are caught . . .
not just the ones being detained,
but the ones doing the detaining.
Not just the laborers,
but the employers.
Not just those who break the law,
but those who built the system in which laws take root.

Some ask,
“How will our businesses survive this?”
Others ask,
“How could they hire people they knew were undocumented?”

But maybe none of those are real question
because beneath them all is a bigger one:

What kind of system is this that we are living in?
How has it come to bind us all?
And as the jailer asked,
“What must we do to be saved?”

* * *

The answer is not an easy one.

But if the gospel teaches us anything, it is this:
salvation does not begin by escaping the mess.

It begins by staying in it.
Looking at it.
Seeing it clearly.
Responding with Jesus,
binding up the wounds
of whomever and however you can.

That is what Paul and Silas did for the jailer.
It’s what the jailer did for them.
And frankly, it is what Jesus has done for us . . .
entering the mess,
sticking with us through it,
and standing by us still,
praying always that we might be one.

Because here’s the thing:

Peace by subtraction,
peace by disposal,
peace by elimination . . .
is never the peace of God.

It may look clean.
It may seem efficient.
But it always leaves someone behind,
or some part of ourselves.

That is not how God works.

Instead, the peace of God stays.
The peace of God sees.
The peace of God sings at midnight.
And the peace of God goes back into the jail cell,
back into the pit,
and says,
“I am still here. I see you.”

* * *

Honestly, y’all, there is nothing new under the sun.
The systems that bind us are old.
They’re polished.
They’re practiced.
And they do not go down without a fight.

But neither does the gospel.

The gospel stays.
The gospel sees.
The gospel walks into jail cells.
The gospel stands beside the enslaved.
And the gospel cries out in the name of Jesus,
saying to all who are watching:

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.
And you—yes, even you—are free.

Even the girl whose name we never learn.
Even the jailer who was ready to end it all.
Even the bride and groom joined in hope.
Even the guards eating their lunch.

Whatever freedom any of us have
is only because God has chosen not to leave us.

* * *

So what must we do to be saved?

Start here:

Do not turn away.
Do not shut your eyes.
Do not look for the exits.

Stay.
See.
Speak Jesus
into the lives of others
so they will know they are not alone.

It’s not easy.

But the truth is:
Even the jailers are not free.
Even the guards are not whole.
Even the builders of unjust systems
are not beyond the reach of grace.

That does not mean there is no guilt.
But it does mean there is always hope.

Always a hand that stays.
Always a voice that says,
“Do not harm yourself.
I am still here. I see you.”

The grace for us today
is not that we can fix everything.
It is that we do not face it alone . . .
not ever.

Even when we feel small,
even when we do not know what to say or do,
we are not abandoned.

Christ is still here.
And the gospel is still speaking . . .
breaking chains,
proclaiming life,
lighting the dark.

Some will rightly ask,
“Yes, but what do we do?”

The answer to that looks different for each of us,
but the question beneath it still holds:

Will you stay?
Will you see?
Will you be one of the ones
who dares to stick around
long enough to speak Jesus into the lives of others?

Because y’all,
much like the book of Acts,
the world is loud,
messy,
and disruptive.

But it, too, is still full of grace.

Grace still abides.
Grace that stays.
Grace that sees.
Grace that sings at midnight.
Grace that is still bound and determined
to set people free.

The jailers,
the slave girls,
the people behind bars,
the people with the keys,
and yes—even you,
and even me.

Because God knows . . .

we all need it.

Amen.