When the King Moves

Jericho and the Collapse of False Sovereignty

A City That Belonged to Itself

When Rome conquered a city, it did not simply occupy it; it staged a spectacle. Streets would fill with onlookers as trumpets sounded and captives were paraded through the city. The defeated king might be dragged in chains behind a chariot, spoils lifted high for all to see. At the center of the procession stood the Roman general—sometimes even the emperor—elevated above the crowd in unmistakable triumph. These ceremonies were not mere celebrations of military success. They were revelations. Rome was announcing, without apology, that authority had changed hands. The city no longer belonged to itself.

Joshua 6 unfolds with that same kind of gravity. It is not merely the story of a siege; it is the account of a public declaration of ownership.

The chapter opens with Jericho sealed tightly against Israel. “None went out, and none came in.” The city appears secure, fortified, and confident in its defenses. If we approach the narrative expecting a typical military account, we anticipate strategy, pressure, and eventual breach. Instead, we encounter something entirely different. Before a single step is taken, the Lord speaks to Joshua: “See, I have given Jericho into your hand.” The victory is announced in the past tense before any visible change has occurred.

Immediately, the center of gravity shifts away from Israel’s strength or Joshua’s tactical skill. The text repeatedly draws our attention to the Ark of the Covenant. Armed men move before it; a rear guard follows behind it, but the Ark—symbolizing the throne of Yahweh—remains at the center of the procession. Scripture describes the Lord as enthroned between the cherubim, and the Ark is called His footstool. In the ancient world, a king’s footstool symbolized dominion—what lay beneath his authority. When the Ark moves, this is not a sacred object being transported; it is the enthroned King advancing.

Jericho, then, is not primarily Israel circling a city. It is the King circling what already belongs to Him.

This pattern should feel familiar. When the Lord delivered Israel from Egypt, He described the plagues as judgments “on all the gods of Egypt.” The Nile—associated with Hapi, god of inundation and life—was turned to blood. The sun—linked to Ra, visible symbol of cosmic order—was darkened. Pharaoh himself, considered divine, stood powerless as death entered his household. Egypt did not simply lose labor; its gods were exposed.

Jericho stands in that same storyline. It is a fortified city with a secure king and a confident population. Yet Scripture never assumes that such security is spiritually neutral. The biblical worldview is layered, acknowledging both visible and invisible powers, human authority, and spiritual allegiance. Jericho’s walls represent more than stone; they embody a claim: we belong to ourselves.

That claim begins to fracture the moment the throne starts moving.

The story presses uncomfortably close to our own experience. Fortifications are not always built of stone. Some are constructed of reputation, others of control, still others of carefully managed distance. Most walls are reinforced quietly, brick by brick, until one day we realize we are not simply protected—we are enclosed.

Jericho believed it belonged to itself, and that illusion began to unravel long before the stones fell. The frightening reality about the presence of God is not that He storms the gates like a tyrant, but that He circles patiently and deliberately, laying claim to what is already His. When the King draws near, false sovereignty begins to tremble, often before anything outward collapses.

The Procession of the King

Yet the manner in which He moves is just as striking as the claim itself.

If Jericho were conquered according to the typical patterns of the ancient Near East, we would expect siege engines, ladders, and prolonged assault. Instead, the Lord gives instructions that would have sounded absurd in any military council: the people are to march around the city once each day for six days, accompanied by seven priests bearing seven trumpets before the Ark. They are to remain silent until commanded to shout.

There is no conventional warfare here. What unfolds is liturgical warfare.

Liturgical Warfare

The structure is saturated with symbolic weight: seven priests, seven trumpets, seven days, and on the seventh day seven circuits. Throughout Scripture, the number seven evokes completion and divine ordering. The march is not improvisation; it is a ritual enactment of divine claim. Israel is not attempting to weaken Jericho’s walls through repetition. They are bearing witness to a deeper truth—that Yahweh is present and Yahweh reigns.

Perhaps the most striking command is the command for silence. Ancient armies shouted to intimidate their enemies, using noise as a psychological force. Israel, however, is forbidden to raise its voice until Joshua gives the word. They are not to manufacture momentum or create emotional urgency. They simply walk.

This silence is not weakness; it is disciplined trust. The Lord has already declared, “I have given Jericho into your hand.” Yet for six days, nothing visible changes. The walls remain intact, the gates remain shut, and the city appears unmoved.

Faith That Walks Before It Shouts

The New Testament later reflects on this moment by saying, “By faith the walls of Jericho fell, after they had been encircled for seven days.” Faith in this passage is not a dramatic spectacle. It is steady obedience. It is walking around what appears immovable, day after day, without visible progress.

In Joshua 6, faith looks repetitive. It looks like obedience sustained after the initial thrill fades. It looks like alignment with a word already spoken, even when there is no immediate evidence of fulfillment.

This dimension of the story resonates deeply with ordinary discipleship. Much of what God calls His people to is not explosive but sustained: prayer that does not immediately dissolve tension, integrity that costs something without applause, and confession that must be repeated because the heart is still being formed. From the outside, such obedience appears unimpressive. From heaven’s vantage point, however, each circuit declares that Jericho does not belong to itself, and each trumpet blast announces that the throne is near.

On the seventh day, after the seventh circuit, Joshua finally commands the people to shout: “For the LORD has given you the city.” The trumpets sound, the people cry out, and the narrator records with striking brevity that “the wall fell down flat.” No engineering explanation is offered. The text refuses to satisfy our curiosity about the mechanics of collapse because its concern lies elsewhere. The wall did not fall because Israel discovered the right technique; it fell because the enthroned King had drawn near.

Allegiance and the Collapse of Walls

Yet the story does not conclude with fallen stone. After Jericho collapses, the city is placed under ḥērem—devoted wholly to the Lord. To modern readers, this can sound severe, but within Scripture it carries covenant weight. Jericho is not spoil to be divided; it is the firstfruits, wholly given to Yahweh as the opening declaration that the land belongs to Him.

Centuries earlier, God told Abraham that judgment would come only when the iniquity of the Amorites was complete. Divine judgment is not impulsive. By the time Israel enters Canaan, the land is marked by practices the text calls abominations: child sacrifice, ritual prostitution, divination, and sorcery. The conquest is framed not as ethnic aggression but as judicial action and covenant protection. The danger is not merely external wickedness; it is internal corruption. Israel is not immune to syncretism.

The following chapter confirms this danger. Achan secretly keeps devoted items from Jericho, hiding gold and garments beneath his tent. Israel’s subsequent defeat at Ai is traced not to inferior strategy but to concealed allegiance. The issue was not military strength; it was partial surrender.

Jericho’s external claim, “we belong to ourselves,” reappears internally within Israel’s camp. Allegiance is rarely tested only in dramatic rebellion; it is tested in quiet reservation. It surfaces in the habit we refuse to examine, the resentment we justify, the ambition we baptize because it appears fruitful. We build walls not with stone but with rationalization.

The Question Jericho Leaves Behind

The New Testament reveals that this pattern reaches its fullest expression in Christ. Paul writes that Jesus “disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, triumphing over them.” The language echoes Roman processions. What empires dramatized in civic spectacle, Christ enacted cosmically at the cross. The powers believed they were silencing Him; instead, they were exposed. In what appeared to be weakness, the deepest stronghold—death itself—collapsed.

The pattern holds: when the throne moves, false sovereignty cannot endure.

Joshua 6 is not ultimately about ancient ruins; it is about allegiance. The Lord has already declared the victory. The searching question that remains is whether we will live as though the throne truly belongs to Him. When the King draws near, His claim is not destructive to those who yield; it is liberating.

Wherever the true King advances, rival sovereignty cannot stand.