And Our Walls Come Tumbling Down

One of the most famous scenes from the Old Testament is Joshua leading the Israelites in the battle for Jericho, 1,400 years before Jesus was born.

Listening to what God told him, and having faith in what he heard, Joshua fought a very unconventional battle.

He marched around the city of Jericho once a day for six days, but not to use warring weapons.

He circled around the city with what was really a marching band, priests with ram horn trumpets, or “shofars”, one of the earliest wind instruments in human history.

Instead of piercing weapons and stabbing swords, the breath of the priests, like a spirit wind from on high, was transformed through the curving ram horns into echoing notes that proclaimed their faith in God.

In ancient Israel the “shofar” symbolized our own human windpipes and had deep spiritual significance, the sound of the “shofar” summoning, the Israelites believed, God’s highest mercy.

On the seventh day, God told Jericho that his marching band should be joined by the people adding their own voices to the sounding trumpets.

Joshua, as we know, did just what God told him to do and the walls of Jericho came tumbling down without a single shot being fired.

Shouts to the Lord, not shots, carried the day.

In today’s Gospel lesson from Mark, we find Jesus and his disciples at the rebuilt city of Jericho and Jesus also causes walls to crumble just outside the city’s gates. But walls that are not made of stone, though these walls have a stoning effect.

Mark tells us that as Jesus and his disciples, along with a large crowd, were leaving Jericho, a blind beggar was sitting by the roadside. When the blind man, surrounded by walls of darkness, heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth he began to shout out, not unlike Joshua and his people did 1,400 years earlier.

The blind man pleaded with Jesus to have mercy on him.

As would sometimes happen, those with Jesus—all of whom had their sight—rebuked the blind man for bothering Jesus. They sternly ordered the blind man to be quiet.

But the blind man would not be silenced, crying out more loudly:

“Son, of David, have mercy on me.”

Mark’s next sentence is absolutely wonderful—Jesus stood still.

Jesus stood still.

Stopped right in his tracks.

And then, teaching those with him a lesson, Jesus tells his disciples to call the blind man over to him. He doesn’t call the blind man, himself, but instructs those who were rebuking the blind man to change the tune of their own voices and call the man to Christ.

They do so, and seem to have quickly gotten the point.

The disciples do not offer a grudging invitation but tell the blind man to “Take heart, get up, he is calling you.”

Though surrounded by the walls of darkness, the blind man reacts without any sign of caution, paying the dark walls little respect. He tosses off his cloak and, Mark tells us, “sprang up and came to Jesus.”

The blind man ran right through the walls of darkness surrounding him. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t walk hesitantly, groping to find his way through the walls of darkness.

He becomes his own new season.

He springs up, like a sudden bloom in winter, and just like that he is standing right in front of Jesus, who asks the most loving and compassionate question—What do you want me to do for you?

What do you want me to do for you?

There are no limits. No preconceptions. Everything’s on the table. All things are possible.

My teacher, the blind man responds, let me see again.

What happened next is simple:
And the walls came tumbling down.

Go, Jesus tells the man who is blind no more, your faith has made you well.

Immediately, Mark tells, us, the man regained his sight and followed Jesus on his way.

Just as are doing together, Jerichos all around.

All of us experience our own walls in this world.
Each of us know what effect those walls can have on our lives, trying to keep us from feeling the full measure of God’s love and grace.

Walls of doubt.
Walls of fear.
Walls of illness.
Of anxiety.

Of pain, rejection, sadness, or longing for love.

Some of us have walls that were begun, the first stones put in place, when we were young.

Walls that stoned their way higher and higher as we grew older.

Perhaps some of us are feeling a few stones of worry gathering together inside us, wondering about the future of St. Anne’s as we, once again, find ourselves looking for a new minister around a bend in the road we cannot see or be certain of.

Everyone’s wall is unique, individual, like a fingerprint.

Not every wall is the same height, or thickness, or strength.

But just about every one of us knows the way walls feel in our lives.

We can also sometimes be our own worst enemies, allowing doubts and fears to act on us much like the companions of
Jesus acted toward the blind man, shouting him down, trying to silence his voice of faith in the Lord.

Yes, each of us knows what the blind man felt like.

But we all know this too:

Jesus is standing still.
Jesus is not leaving us behind.

Jesus is in the darkness of our anxieties and pain with us.
Jesus is standing with us in the midst of everything we are facing, as individuals and as a congregation.

And Jesus is asking us the very same question he asked the blind man.

In a quiet voice deep within our souls, Jesus is asking you and me, today, right now, What do you want me to do for you?

What do you want me to do for you?

A question so very full of love because Jesus asks the question knowing that he will take our answer into his heart and respond to us with unconditional love and compassion, in ways that are sometimes not so obvious at first but become prayerfully and powerfully revealed, as clear as the towering oak tree outside the window above our altar, when we lift our hearts to feel the answer.

Like the blind man, and like the author of the 34th Psalm we just heard today, we can call out to the Lord in our affliction and feel the angel of the Lord encompassing us, becoming our north, south, our east and west, being with us in every direction of our journey.

The angel of the Lord encompassing us in every literal and figurative meaning of the word, like the melody of the ancient “shofar” trumpet, pulling apart the walls that the world tries to build around us.

We may not have our own ram horn “shofars” to bring down those walls but we have our own windpipes to breathe life into words of prayer that will also summon God’s highest mercy through the presence of Jesus, our Lord and Savior.

We can also be wind instruments of the Lord, sounding the refrain of God’s love and grace voiced through us, shining from us into a world where wounded people sit in dark silence waiting, some hearing voices from the surrounding world telling them to be quiet, just as the disciples first told the blind man.

Those voices are not our voices.

Together we are a marching band strong enough to take on the Jericho walls in the world we face.

If the walls do come, the walls will surely tumble.

The psalmist uses an extraordinarily rich word in the eighth verse of the 34th Psalm—Taste.

Taste and see that the Lord is good.

Taste is not a sense we are often invited to enjoy in a religious or spiritual context.

Or is it?

In a few moments, we will have the opportunity to taste the bread and wine of communion with Jesus Christ.

And our souls can take that momentary flavor of Christ’s love for us and partake more deeply, tasting the moment when we hear most clearly the voice of Jesus ask,

What do you want me to do for you?

Tasting the moment when we answer Jesus, our souls springing up like a winter rose, tasting the place where our faith and Christ’s love meet in a Holy Communion.

There is no wall that anyone can build around us, or that we can build around ourselves, strong enough to keep out Christ’s simple question to each of one of us, and to the collective family of Saint Anne’s:

What do you want me to do for you?

Nine words that add up to everything.

Nine words waiting only for us to answer.

Take heart.
Spring up.
He is calling every one of us.

3 thoughts on “And Our Walls Come Tumbling Down

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