In the crowd at the scene of the blind man of Jericho (Luke 18: 35-43) three kinds of voices surrounded the blind beggar. These same voices perhaps echo in every crowd and groupings.
First, there are those who sit beside us in our darkness. They are helpless, just as we are helpless. They know what it means to be stuck, to feel powerless, to wait by the roadside while life passes by. These are our companions in struggle.
Second, there are the messengers of hope. These are the people who lean in and whisper: "Jesus is passing by." They point toward possibilities we cannot yet see. They tell us that change is near, that help has arrived, that this moment—right now—could be different from all the moments before.
Third, there are the silencers. "Be quiet!" they shout. "Know your place. Don't make a scene. Accept your situation." These voices try to keep us small, to maintain order, to preserve the way things have always been.
The blind man of Jericho heard all three voices. But he made a choice. He chose to ignore the silencers. And then he did something extraordinary: he raised his voice even louder, he called out loud, "Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!" He moved from silent resignation to loud persistence, social invisibility to personal audacity. Think about what this required. He couldn't see Jesus. He didn't know if Jesus would stop. He had no guarantee of anything. This is the anatomy of faith. Not certainty. Not sight. But the willingness to call out into the unknown. Faith is believing in the unknown, unseen, unheard, and unachieved. What transformed the blind man wasn't just his healing—it was his refusal to stay helpless. Faith transforms. Even before Jesus healed his eyes, the blind man had already begun to see. He saw that this moment mattered. He saw that Jesus was his chance. And that is faith. Remember, Jesus saying, ‘your faith has healed you’.
Here's a truth the blind man discovered: People oppose you only until you win. Then they disperse. The crowd that tried to silence him didn't have the final say. Their opposition was loud but temporary. Their "no" was not stronger than his "yes." The blind man didn't wait for permission. He didn't wait for the crowd's approval. He pushed through the resistance because he knew the opportunity might not come again. He sat by the roadside in blindness, yes. But also in waiting. And when the moment came, he didn't hesitate. He didn't doubt. He didn't let others define what was possible for him.
Your voice matters. Even when you cannot see the way forward, your willingness to call out can change everything. The blind man of Jericho teaches us that transformation requires more than need—it requires the courage to cry out, the persistence to keep calling, The blind man left the roadside that day, along with it, his blindness, his helplessness, his place at the margins, and the voices that tried to silence him. And he gained his sight, his agency, his place in the story, and his voice of praise.
Jericho was a threshold city—the gateway to the Promised Land. We all have our Jericho moments—times when we're on the verge of something, sitting in our darkness, waiting. The question is, will we recognise Jesus passing by? Will we refuse to be silenced? Will we cry out?
Postscript: What about the crowd? They move on. We see them again silencing and trying to stop the woman touching the fringe of Jesus' garment; again in the house of the official whose daughter was sick and dead, trying to discourage Jesus away from what he was about to do; or again standing under the sycamore tree, on which Jesus found Zacchaeus, grumbling against Jesus for offering to dine with a tax collector; and the crowd moves on.

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