If you have ever had the joy of teaching Bible stories to
children, there’s a good chance you know this one. I can
still remember the Sunday school felt-board version of
this story, the drama as the scene gradually unfolded.
Ten cutout lepers (the unclean, the outcast, living in
isolation) see their chance as Jesus walks past. So there
in the middle of nowhere, they cry out for mercy. Jesus
hears their cry, sees them, and gives them what they
ask. “Go show yourselves to the priests…” The ones who
could confirm their healing and welcome them back to
the community. On the way, as they go, they are made
clean. They are cured, healed. Nine keep on walking.
One stops in his tracks, runs back to Jesus, falls to his
knees in praise, gives thanks.
And I remember the lesson. The hero. The moral of
the story. This one healed man did the right thing. He
said thank you. We too should thank God for the many
blessings in our lives. And we should thank others as
well, beginning with our parents. It’s the polite thing to do.
Now, there is nothing wrong with this tidy message on
proper manners, but I do want to suggest this morning
that there is more to this encounter than simply a
display of proper etiquette, that the text itself points us
to something deeper. Return to the response of Jesus to
the leper.
Why are you the only one who came back? Get up, go
again, your faith has made you well.
The reaction is mystifying to my mind for at least two
reasons. First, the other nine did not return to Jesus
because they were doing as Jesus directed them.
Should they be called out for following instructions?
Come on, Jesus!
Beyond that though, what does Jesus mean about the
tenth leper being made well?
Didn’t that already happen? Wasn’t his healing the
reason for his outburst of praise and thanks? The
order feels off.
To see Jesus’ meaning, we need to understand his
language. Hang with me here. It’s going to get a little nerdy.
In verse 15, when the man discovers that he is cured,
the gospel writer Luke uses the Greek verb for physical
healing. He is cured of his leprosy. Just the word we
would expect. But in verse 19, Jesus changes the
meaning when he shifts the verb. Now unfortunately, our
translation uses the anemic “made well,” but that’s not
really right. What Jesus says in the original Greek is “you
have been sozo-ed.” Sozo means “to be saved” in the
divine sense. In the Peter, standing before the crowds
at Pentecost, “Everyone who calls upon the name of
the Lord shall be sozo-ed.” Saved. Delivered. Rescued.
Freed. Liberated.
Yes, ten lepers are healed. Jesus cures the disease of
ten men. But one of them is saved. And I believe the
encounter leaves us with an important question. What
was distinctive about this one Samaritan leper? What
sets him apart? The answer, I believe, is gratitude. It
is his gratitude that saves him. Friends, there is a truth
here that moves far beyond basic manners. We are
all receivers of a gift we did not earn and could never
deserve. That gift is grace.
And if you believe it, if you believe that you have
received the unearned gift of grace, the question you
will spend the rest of your life answering is this: how will
I respond? Theologian Karl Barth was fond of saying
that the basic human response to God is not fear and
trembling, not guilt and dread, but thanksgiving. Barth
wrote, “What else can we say to what God gives but to
stammer praise?” Grace evokes gratitude.
And this Commitment Sunday, I want to tell you that
gratitude is the only reason to give. That only gratitude
will rescue you, save you, from a life centered on
acquisition, protective posturing, harmful hoarding, and
miserable miserliness. Gratitude is freedom.
My friend Margaret Curtis recently sent me a reflection
she wrote for her newspaper out in Arizona. Margaret
describes Sunday mornings decades ago when she had
the unenviable responsibility of getting four preschoolage children ready for Sunday school and church. One
week, just as they were about to walk out the door, she
realized she was missing Michael, the youngest. The
other siblings turned the house upside down looking for
their brother. They called the neighbors, but no one had
seen him. Finally, Margaret decided to get in the car and
drive around in hopes of spotting her young son walking
the streets. It was then that Margaret found Michael in
the place she least expected him, asleep in the back
seat of the car. Margaret remembers how another son
complained about going to church that day. Afterall,
they were already late. Finally, the brother asked, “What
do we need God for, anyway?” His older sister thought
for a second and then answered, “So that we will have
someone to thank for finding Mike.” Margaret says no
one objected to that answer.
The message of the Samaritan leper who returned
to Jesus is this: true gratitude, gratitude that has the
power to save us, connects the dots between a gift
and its giver.
I’ve been reflecting this week on the role of faith
communities, really of faith itself, in this era of
accelerated unraveling. Fear is ascendant. The tensions
between us are raw and real. What is the mission and
message of the Church for such a time as this? It’s a
question that congregations like ours need to consider
with sober seriousness these days.
Here’s one thought drawn from our text and our
tradition. At the heart of the Reformed Tradition is an
acknowledgment, an awareness, that humankind, on
the individual and collective level, is fundamentally
broken. A mess. We are desperately in need of
salvation. Repair. Healing.
And what’s more: we cannot save ourselves. Since
we are part of the problem, we cannot on our own be
the solution. Like the ten lepers, we must ask God for
mercy. I am concerned about a sometimes subtle but
still significant shift that has taken place in our selfunderstanding. As institutions have lost influence, and
cynical nihilism has taken hold, we tend to neglect
moral formation as a universal human need. Instead,
we posture and point fingers. We pretend. We say
and perhaps even believe things like: People like me
are basically good. My tribe, my people, my party is
basically right. And it’s all those other people who need
to be fixed…or, perhaps even better, vanquished. In
such a context, faith becomes not humble gratitude
for undeserved grace, but a weapon wielded against
perceived enemies with a different politicized identity.
If you think I’m being too extreme, let me suggest that
a brief survey of sermons preached in many settings
this fall would confirm the appeal of these messages.
And even in this blessed place, I occasionally receive
requests for sermons that call out people on the “other
side” for their failures.
I am convinced that these messages would only
deepen our divide. I am persuaded that they will not
save us. That in place of the breach, we need a shared
identity, a common story. And for people of Christian
faith, it is the story of grace. It is the identity of grateful
receivers. Gratitude saves us from self-righteousness
and resentment. Gratitude changes us, and it unleashes
a holy imagination.
This Tuesday, November 19th, is the 186th anniversary
of the founding of Second Presbyterian Church in 1838.
In the grand sweep of Second’s rich history, I’m still a
newcomer here on my 2,361st day. But, with the eyes
of my heart, with holy imagination, I have a vision of
what the next chapter of our life together can be. A
vision grounded in gratitude for our deep roots and
of expectation that precisely the faithful leadership
we have to offer is more important now than at any
time in our history. That what we do together matters
now. To live into this vision, it’s going to take all of us
contributing to the work that God has called each of us
to do, and to pursue it together.
So, in advance, let me say thank you three times.
Thank you for who you are. In a time when too
many congregations succumb to the temptations of
tribalism and only reflect the same deep rifts that we
experience in every other part of our common life, you
are trying to be something different. A community of
faith defined by grace that makes us gracious. I do
not want to make this sound easy. It is not natural. To
seek repair in a time defined by bitter discord is in
fact a kind of miracle. I’m not exaggerating when I say
that many churches are coming apart or alternatively
acquiescing to purely political fault lines. And so,
yes, I am grateful for the boldness of your witness to
Christ’s call and your commitment to the steady work
of building relationships.
Second, thank you for what you do. If you do not see the
impact of what is happening here, rest assured that I do,
and it gives me both courage and inspiration. Because
of Second Church, real neighbors are having their real
needs met every single day. Because of your witness in
our city, partnerships are forming that will bring hope out
of despair and fresh new possibilities for transformation.
Because of your compassion and care, the grieving will
find comfort here, the lonely will find friendship, faith will
be fortified, the lost will be welcomed home, and the gifts
of prayer and song will breathe life into troubled souls.
Thank you for what you do.
Finally, thank you for the future that you imagine. At
this baptismal font and on these chancel stairs, the
story of our future is being written. In the work of our
counseling center, preschool, food pantry, ministries
of outreach and care. In the bold steps we will take
today following worship to proclaim our commitment
to emerging generations of faithful leaders, now in their
teens, twenties, and thirties. It matters that we dream.
In a time when many churches struggle to survive, your
commitment is making it possible for us to imagine. It
matters. I hear every single week in my work how much
it matters to our city and state. How much it matters to
our nation and the world God calls us to love.
Last Sunday, I said that every aspect of Second’s
ministry has seen steady growth since 2020, and that is
true. But it is also true that we are not finished yet. Far
from it. The vision of our ministry is strong as we enter
2025. But our ability to realize that vision is entirely
dependent on our commitment.
As for me and my family, we choose to tithe. We will
commit a tenth of our income to support the mission
we believe has a transformative impact on the lives of
our sons, our city, and our souls. And we are aware that
this decision makes us unusual. Even in a time when
so many are gifted with unimaginable abundance,
statistics would tell us that fewer give generously. We
are determined that our lived priorities reflect our deeply
held values. We are committed to being stewards of the
gifts we have been given.
So, why give? The answer is simple but not easy. The
only reason to give is because you have received. The
only reason to give is because you are grateful. The
tenth leper had it right. Jesus had it right. Allowing your
life to be defined by gratitude will save you. So, this
morning, give not because you must; give because you
are grateful. And you have someone to thank. Amen.