Let me begin with something every Indian, whether in Mumbai, Delhi, Dallas, or Denmark, knows deeply in their bones: no matter the crisis, there’s always a song and dance for it.
In Indian cinema, if you have watched, characters break into song at the strangest moments. A couple just met five minutes ago? Suddenly they’re on top of the Alps, dancing in sync. The hero is heartbroken? Cue the sad violin on a rain-drenched street. A wedding is coming up? Get ready for six different dance numbers with matching costumes. Even we Indians laugh about it, but deep down, we also love it. Because these songs aren’t just music, they’re the language of the soul.
Isn’t that exactly what Paul and Silas are doing in the Acts of the Apostles?
Let’s set the stage again. Paul and Silas are not in a Hollywood studio, they’ve been stripped, beaten with rods, and thrown into the “inner cell”, that’s first-century code for the darkest, filthiest, rat-infested dungeon you can imagine. Not only that, but their feet are in stocks, wooden restraints that knotted the legs and prevented sleep, not like modern-day orthopedic sandals, these were brutal.
And what do they do at midnight? They don’t whine. They don’t rage. They don’t curse. They sing. That’s right. They start a midnight praise concert, right there in the dungeon. But why sing and that too at midnight?
The Bible has seen its fair share of midnight moments. Think of the Israelites in Egypt during the first Passover, waiting for deliverance in the dead of night. Or Jonah, in the belly of the fish, praying from the depths of darkness. Or Job, scraping his wounds by moonlight. In each of these moments, darkness was not just the absence of light, it was fear, confusion, and helplessness. But God always showed up.
Now back to Paul and Silas. Their song wasn’t just an expression of faith; it was an act of rebellion. It was a declaration that no amount of pain, no man-made prison, no earthly authority, could silence the truth of the Gospel. They sang because they knew something their jailer didn’t: that they were already free.
And then—boom! —comes the earthquake. God taps His foot to their tune and the whole earth shakes. It’s almost as if heaven couldn’t sit still anymore. Chains fall off. Doors fly open.
The miracle though isn’t that the doors open. It’s that they didn’t run. Because the mission wasn’t to escape, it was redemption. And just like that, the shackles of shame fall off the jailer too. He gets baptized, along with his entire household, and the jail becomes a sanctuary. The prison that held pain now holds praise. That, my friends, is resurrection.
Sometimes God doesn’t send earthquakes to get you out but to let someone else in. Your midnight song might be the key to someone else’s morning joy.
So, the next time you find yourself shackled by grief, anxiety, rejection, or even the burden of “being fine” when you’re not, sing. Even completely off-key like me. Because it’s not about performance. It’s about defiance. It’s about declaring, in the face of darkness, “You don’t win.”
Remember those movie moments I mentioned, their songs have power. They transform time and space. A broken heart gets soothed; a longing becomes poetry; a fight becomes a dance-off. It declares, “Even in sorrow, I choose beauty. Even in chaos, I choose rhythm. Even in defeat, I choose to sing.”
So, my dear brothers and sisters, when you find yourself shackled by sorrow, stress, rejection, or regret, don’t wait for a miracle to start the music. Start the music, and the miracle might just follow. So even if your life doesn’t feel like a movie, sing anyway. God might just choreograph something beautiful