There are moments when we long to cry out—to be seen, to be heard, to be known. But something stops us.
In Luke 18, a blind man sits by the roadside, calling out to Jesus. “Son of David, have mercy on me!” The crowd tells him to be quiet, to stop making a scene. But he refuses to be silenced. He calls out even louder, and Jesus stops. Jesus listens. Jesus heals.
And then, in the very next chapter, we meet Zacchaeus. He doesn’t cry out, but there’s something in him that longs for Jesus. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s a quiet hope. But Zacchaeus doesn’t push through the crowd like the blind man. Instead, he hesitates. He climbs a tree, watching from a distance. Maybe he thinks he isn’t worthy. Maybe the voices in his own head whisper, He won’t notice you. You don’t deserve this.
Two men. One silenced by others, one held back by himself.
How often do we experience this tension? The world tells us to quiet down, to keep our struggles to ourselves. We’re encouraged to push through, to handle things on our own, to maintain the illusion of control. Admitting need can feel like weakness. Asking for help can feel like failure.
And sometimes, the strongest resistance doesn’t come from the world—it comes from within.
There’s that voice, the one we know too well:
You should have it together by now.
Other people have real problems—yours aren’t that bad.
You’ll just be a burden if you say anything.
You’re not worthy of healing, of love, of grace.
Or maybe it’s the opposite:
You’re too much.
You ask for too much, feel too much, need too much.
These voices convince us that we should stay quiet, stay small, stay hidden. They tell us that Jesus would rather focus on someone else. Someone more deserving.
But Jesus stops for both men.
He hears the blind man’s cry over the noise of the crowd. He stops. He listens. He responds.
And Zacchaeus? Jesus sees him—not just as a man in a tree, but as someone longing for something more. He calls him by name, inviting him into a new way of living.
What if Jesus is stopping for you, too?
What if, even in your hesitance, he sees you? What if, in the middle of the noise—both around you and within you—Jesus is already calling your name?
So I ask again:
What voices—internal or external—try to silence your own cries for grace or healing?
And what might happen if you called out anyway?
