A Friday View from a Pew: The Power of Praise

There is a sound that hell can’t handle — the sound of a believer who knows how to praise through the pain. If you know the biblical story of Paul and Silas then you know they weren’t just locked up; they were buried deep in the belly of a prison — the dungeon of despair. Not the holding cell, not the county jail, not even general population — they were in maximum security, chained to the cold, damp walls that symbolized everything working against them. But here’s the revelation: even maximum security couldn’t silence maximum praise.

See, what the guards didn’t understand — and what the enemy still can’t comprehend — is that praise travels. You can lock my hands, but you can’t lock my hallelujah. You can chain my feet, but you can’t chain my faith. You can confine my body, but my spirit? My spirit still has wings! Because praise doesn’t need perfect conditions — it needs a willing heart.

The acoustics in that dungeon were divine. Nobody could see Paul and Silas, but everybody could hear them. That’s what praise does — it echoes. It carries beyond your circumstances. It moves through concrete, chaos, crisis, and confusion. It tells the world, “I may be down, but I’m not defeated. I may be bound, but I’m still blessed.”

And let’s be real — some of us are in our own kind of dungeon right now. It’s not made of brick and bars, but of bills, burdens, betrayal, and brokenness. Yet here you are, still showing up, still smiling, still lifting your hands on Sunday morning. Folks see your worship, but they don’t see your wounds. They hear your hallelujah, but they don’t feel your hurt. You’ve learned how to praise God so consistently that nobody even knows you’re fighting battles in the background.

That’s the power of praise — it confuses the enemy and it confounds the crowd. When you can bless God in the midnight hour, when you can shout through the storm, when you can dance in the dungeon — that’s when deliverance shows up. Because the Bible says when Paul and Silas prayed and sang praises, the ground began to shake. God Himself moved on the sound of their faith. The very foundation of the prison — the system designed to hold them — broke loose. Doors flew open. Chains fell off. Not because they begged, but because they believed. Their worship became the earthquake that set them free.

And here’s the lesson for you and me: praise doesn’t just change your situation — it changes the atmosphere. It shifts the temperature of your trouble. It invites heaven to intervene in earthly circumstances. When you start praising, heaven starts moving.

So let me help you, if you learn to praise God in your dungeon, people will stop prying into your problems. They won’t know if you’re broke or blessed, single or struggling, weary or winning — because your praise will sound the same in every season. You’ll no longer be moved by what you see; you’ll be anchored by what you know.

Be a consistent praiser. Not a “crisis Christian” who shouts only when things fall apart, but a faithful worshiper who praises because you know He’s worthy. Praise Him when the sun is shining and when the storm is raging. Praise Him when you’re in the choir stand and when you’re in the cell. Praise Him when the bills are paid and when the lights are about to go off. Because God hasn’t changed — and your praise shouldn’t either.

And don’t miss this: when Paul and Silas praised, not only were their chains broken, but every prisoner’s chains came loose. That’s what happens when you praise in the dark — your worship sets other people free. Somebody else’s breakthrough might be waiting on your praise.

So the next time midnight hits — when life feels heavy and hope seems far away — don’t panic, don’t complain, don’t give up. Just remember Paul and Silas. Lift your voice. Open your mouth. And praise until the walls tremble, until your spirit lifts, until freedom finds you.

Because that’s the power of praise — it turns prisons into pulpits, dungeons into sanctuaries, and midnight into morning.