You’ve seen the wall all your life. How could you help it? It’s huge. Yards thick, and miles high. Each brick is built by the hands of a slave, the product of pain, sweat, and blood. Gritty, red stains adorn them. Over the years they’ve piled up, accumulating at a unsettlingly rapid pace. You can’t help but see it. However you turn, wherever you hide, its shadow can reach you. It blocks out the light. You can’t climb over it- its stones are too rough. Guards patrol the wall top, attacking any who try to climb it with whips, clubs, and spite filled curses.
You wouldn’t care if you didn’t know there was something better on the other side of that wall. You would just go on with your life, living and eventually dying behind the wall. Most do. They pretend that they don’t see it, that they can’t hear the noises of celebration and see the beautiful lights, or smell the savory food cooking, all on the other side. Some try so hard to convince themselves it isn’t there, that for them, it isn’t. They go mad in their blindness.
Evey day you stand in front of the wall, shouting out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You’ve seen the beauty on the other side. But it is unreachable, because of you. Your raw, blood stained hands give you away: the bricks are yours. You are a slave, just like all the rest. But on they go pretending, acting like their aching knuckles don’t hurt that badly, and the ever present scent of blood is just their imagination.
Then He comes. Wall-breaker. Hammer. Mender. This man in the faded sweatshirt and tattered jeans has been called by many names, but one thing is for certain: He hates the wall. And he will do anything to knock it down. Every hour of every day, for years and years he stands with his hammer, thudding into that wall. Boom. Boom. Boom. The swings aren’t small. At no point does he slow, or weaken. Every muscle of his body tenses, over and over again. The hammer whips through the air, whistling as it flies. Fweeee… BOOM.
The noise brings observers. The guards seem nervous. Chips of brick and dried blood ping off His rough, sinewy flesh. Some men of the village, those who have blinded themselves, begin to shout at him, screaming for him to Stop. Stop. Stop! Their angry words echoing in his ears, he swings on. He knows his purpose. Please! they shout. You don’t know what you are doing! He mutters softly, but his voice is heard by all when he responds, You do not know what you are asking.
The wall shudders with every hammer blow. The Man’s brow shines with sweat, his arm bleeding from cuts made by the flying debris. The mad men grow angrier and angrier by the moment. With no one to hold them back, they rush at him, grabbing him and thrusting him against the brick wall. With his own hammer, they nail him to the wall itself, blood streaming from his body. With his final breath, he shouts out, It is done! After this, the soldiers atop the wall lower hooks, carrying his body out of sight atop the wall. Eventually, the crowd disperses, some laughing manically, others sobbing.
Three days pass. His dried blood on the wall is a stark contrast to the gray, now near-broken bricks. From the wall top, to the surprised eyes of those below, appears a striking light. He is alive. And in his torn, broken hand is a hammer. With a final swing, the hammer sinks into the wall top. Boom. The wall crumbles, falls. Every stone is shattered. And the light is revealed to all.
The wall is destroyed. Step beyond it, friends. Meet the man with the Hammer.