Turning to Gratitude
Fourth Sunday of Easter | April 25, 2021
Acts 2:41-47
Luke 17:11-19
Borders are dangerous places. Wars are waged on borders. Borders are crossed at great peril as people seek a new life. Refugees are camped just beyond borders as they watch their homeland get destroyed. Borders are places where we want to put up a good defense—walls, cameras, armed guards. Borders are where we define ourselves—where we make clear who is ‘us’ and who is ‘them.’
Our Scripture reading takes place at the border between Galilee and Samaria. Galilee—where the true Jewish Temple is, where the true descendants of Abraham reside, where the true God sits. And Samaria—filled with half-breeds and places that never fulfilled their potential for God’s presence. Even under Roman oppression, the Jewish people had enough pride to still be able to look down on someone else—the Samaritans.
And even the Samaritans could look down on the unclean—people with leprosy and those like them. Because of the fear of this highly contagious skin diseasae, they were required to maintain their distance from the rest of the public. Because the bacteria would eat away at the skin and the nerves, eventually leaving people without extremities and unable to care for themselves. It would end in death. It was a serious condition.
So, these 10 men that Jesus encountered along the road weren’t even good enough for Samaria. If there is a ‘them,’ they were it. And among them, a double-whammy: A man from Samaria with leprosy.
We’ve probably all known times in our lives where we’ve felt like we don’t belong—like we’ve been left out, cast out, forgotten. But for most of us, we cannot imagine what life must have been like for these men and those like them.
I think of those who had been diagnosed with HIV/AIDS back in the 70s and 80s and even 90s. How they were ostracized. How people wouldn’t come near them, wouldn’t eat with them, wouldn’t hug them. How completely alone they must have felt. I think of those in prison who are, legitimately, kept from contact with one another. Only when they come to worship with us, they get a hug, a handshake. They get to share in a meal—here at the altar, as well as down in the Fellowship Hall.
I think of the children sent on the long journey to America, far from home and parents, waiting to find out what their future will hold, wondering if they’ll be sent back and whether they will ever see their parents again. I think of children who have run away from home, facing the possible fact that life on the street is preferable to whatever lay behind the familiar doors of their house. I think of people abandoned and ostracized by their families because they don’t fit some societal norm—because they identify as gay or lesbian, because they love someone their parents find shameful, because they feel out of place in their own gendered body.
No, most of us can’t imagine. But maybe we should try. Because it seems that it is in the healing of THOSE wounds—the wounds of community—that true gratitude really shines forth. Consider the man who returned. All the others began the journey home, slowly experiencing their leprosy leaving them. Of course they were excited. Of course they were grateful. And they only did what Jesus told them to do—“Go, show yourselves to the priests,” he said. That was the only way they would be accepted back—with the priest’s stamp of approval.
So they did what they were told. And after meeting with the priest to have their cure confirmed, they would make their offerings of thanksgiving, and then they could return home to their families and their work and their communities. They had been renewed. Their identities given back to them. Their lives restored. Not altogether unlike the ‘awakening’ we are beginning to experience as we plan to begin worship inside, together. As programs and events and activities begin to start up again for us in earnest. Like it was ‘before.’
And we often ask ourselves, why these men not return like the one to give thanks to Jesus? And the answer is simple. They suddenly had their lives given back to them. They didn’t want to waste a minute of it. They wanted to hug their children. They wanted to kiss their wives and embrace their family. They wanted to have purpose again. And there is no shame in that.
I think the real question is, why did the one return? He could have done like the others. But Luke makes it a point to tell us that this man was a Samaritan. Why does that make a difference?
Because Jesus—a Jewish teacher—had included him in the healing. He was included in God’s mercy. Though ALL of the men were cured, this one expected to be left out. He was a Samaritan. He wasn’t a true ‘child of God’—not the way the people of Judah defined it. He was nothing more than a half-breed, if that. They didn’t worship God at the temple in Jerusalem but at a place on Mount Gerizim. The Israelites original to the area had intermarried with Assyrians, so Samaria was now filled with people who worship pagan idols, as well as God. No, there was no reason God should have shown mercy to this man.
But Jesus always shows us a God who doesn’t meet our expectations. He included the Samaritan in the cleansing and healing. And for that, the man knew gratitude far beyond imagination. It’s one thing to get what you feel you deserve. It’s so much more to get better than you deserve—and to know it.
And so, when we talk about generosity, the focus today isn’t so much on sharing what we have but on why we have anything at all. We, as American Christians, have a pretty developed sense of who deserves what. And we’re often fairly certain we deserve more than we have, better than we get. It’s honestly the reality of humanity since the beginning of time. And it feeds into the tribalism that has tested humanity from the beginning of time—the idea that we’re better than them. It shows itself in everything from social castes to sports teams, from national identity to denominationalism. It’s great to be proud of who you are or where you come from—but never to the detriment of others.
The gospel makes it clear that the core of our identity is always and only ‘child of God.’ Not Jew or Samaritan, not Lutheran or Catholic, not white or black, not straight or gay, not Republican or Democrat, not legal or illegal, not good or bad. All of these divisions are evidence of Sin driving a wedge between the relationships for which God created us.
Sin creates the chasm that tells us we can’t go home again. That we don’t belong. That we’re dangerous. That we’re not worthy. That we don’t deserve God’s love. Sin is the Lie that creates divisions between us, reminding us how unlovable we are, but thank goodness we’re not like those who are worse. Sin is the wall that insists we will never be allowed into God’s world, into God’s heart. That God will take one look at us and send us back to where we came from—to the place in between.
But that’s exactly where Jesus meets us. Luke says he was walking between Galilee and Samaria when he encountered the men with leprosy. But there’s really no such place. I think Luke was making a bigger statement—that the place of in-between is a place where most of us find ourselves—between the comforts of familiarity and the courage of true life—between what we think we deserve and the mercy God gives us. And as long as we remain in that in-between place, we only live half-lives—ones in which our identity is defined by who we are not and our success is defined by what and how much we can obtain. And it is there where Jesus finds us, along with those with leprosy, without true community, without direction, without purpose, and without hope.
Jesus took care of every one of those men without testing their worthiness. He didn’t ask who they were, where they came from, what their names were, or what they planned to do with their lives. They said, “Master, have mercy.” And in his mercy, he cured their disease.
In HIS mercy. In God’s mercy, God has given us everything. God has given us God’s Son. God has given us God’s life. God died on the cross and defeated death. Not because we earned it but because God is generous. God is merciful. God is love.
God gives this mercy and life to the whole world. Period. And we get to simply go back to our lives, doing what we do, getting on with our days and our activities, school and work and sports and video games. We can do that. Or we can follow the example of the Samaritan and turn back. We can express our gratitude in HOW we worship, HOW we live, HOW we give, and HOW we treat others. And in the turning, we will hear God’s promise of salvation. By your faith, you are made well. A promise offered to all, but heard most clearly in the turning.
Pastor Tobi White
Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church
Lincoln, NE
