rich’s blog

 

Preface: 

So.  Today’s passage isn’t what I had intended for us to look at this week; but a combination of a late start along with me feeling spacey & sick meant taking a different route.  So next week you can look forward to a message called “Stuff Your Face,” which I hope is just tantalizing.

 

And this week we’ll look at a message that honestly may not be all that difficult, and may not be all that seldom seen.  Doesn’t really fit with the series we’re rolling with. So I’m calling today’s message:

 

“Not All That Difficult, and Seen Quite a Bit, Actually.” 

 

Introduction: 

But I do think that the passage that was read to us this morning from Luke really can speak into our lives in important ways; it’s relevant for us, Christians who form Smoky Row Brethren Church.  No matter how many times we’ve seen it, it’s worth seeing again.  And as we look at it, we’ll be reminded of what it means to be grateful, maybe what we’ve been saved for.  I’ll invite us to really enter into the scene, like we tried to do when we walked through the gospel of Mark all that time ago.

 

But let’s pray together.

 

Prayer: 

 

So let’s read this passage again, okay?

 

Luke 17: 

 

On the way to Jerusalem he was passing along between Samaria and Galiliee. And as he entered a village, he was met by ten lepers, who stood at a distance and lifted up their voices and said, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.” When he saw them he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went they were cleansed. Then one of them , when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice; and he fell on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving him thanks.  Now he was a Samaritan. Then said Jesus, “Were not ten cleansed?  Where are the nine? Was no one found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” And he said to him, “Rise and go your way; your faith has made you well.”  

 

In Greek, we’d read “your faith has saved you.”

 

Let’s enter into this scene, okay?

 

Ten Leprous Men:

So they stand there, these men, outside an unnamed village in an unnamed place in between Samaria and Galilee.

 

And we know those places, don’t we?  Those places that are not quite here, and not quite there, but somewhere in between.  The sort of places we either wish we hadn’t entered, or try to hurry through; and either way, want to leave.  In our years: not middle aged, but not a young adult.  Our vocations: stuck in middle management, pleasing nobody.  Iowa. But they stand there, forced there, really, because of their leprosy.

 

(The term for leprosy here can mean any number of nasty skin things; not simply  that pale-ish, numb, skin disease we all think about (cf. ABD: Leviticus).)

 

But more important than the definition of leprosy, is what it meant for the one having it: banishment, defilement, and outsider status.

 

Levitucus 13:45-46 let’s us know that “Anyone with such a defiling disease must wear torn clothes, let their hair be unkempt, cover the lower part of their face and cry out, ‘Unclean! Unclean!’ As long as they have the disease they remain unclean. They must live alone; they must live outside the camp.”

 

 So they can’t run out of there in between-ness, leave this place they’re in the way we try and leave our uncomfortable places. No one will let them; God won’t let them.  And their co-suffering has brought them together.

 

A Border Town: 

So here they are in a border town, on the outskirts of society, in that place where things are a little more chaotic, and rule is a little weaker.  People hold a little looser to things in a border town.

 

It’s a place where maybe Galileans and Samaritans mix a bit more than they should, and good people—faithful, righteous people—avoid.  Who knows who you might bump into there?  Who knows what you’ll kids will see?  Some heretic?  And its probably dangerous, and the whole village is probably un-clean, because of whoever doing whatever, so lock the doors and drive through that in-between place really fast, and make sure your tank is full, because you don’t want to stop for gas in that neighborhood.

 

A Community In Between: 

Suffering has brought them together, these men, in this place maybe best avoided.

 

They are outsiders together.  Either no one wants them, or no one can have them.  And we cannot sigh, and put our arms around them, and tell them “Well, Jesus is with you,” because even our awkward attempts at being kind don’t work with these guys.

 

They know that God can’t even stand them; because it is God—or at least, God’s rules, God’s people—who have put them there, alone in their togetherness, trying to find some safe place in their nowhere-ness, creating community out of their suffering in a part of the country the really faithful don’t go to.

 

But we know of suffering, too.  And suffering can bring us together, sometimes, right?  I mean, when you and I have both gone through the same thing, we’ve got that in common.  Our pain connects us.

 

And so we’ll give this group the benefit of the doubt and assume that they are close.  They are friends.  They know what it’s like to itch all night and not be able to scratch, cause your flesh might fall off.  They know what it’s like to miss your daughter’s hugs, or son’s kisses, or the caress of your spouse.  They know what sand feels like in open wounds, and the tear of your clothing when you pull it out from dried sores.  They are a community in between.  Their solidarity is borne of suffering, of pain and hurt and wounds, of loneliness and resentment.

 

Jesus Passes Through: 

But Jesus passes through.

 

And Jesus has a rep, apparently.  This group knows about Jesus.  They see him from a distance, his disciples kicking up a dust cloud.  And maybe they’ve been talking about him just like everyone else has, wondering for a year, if he’ll come by, if maybe he could do for them as they’ve heard he’s done for others.

 

And they shout.  They shout, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”

 

And Jesus knows about mercy.  And we would expect Jesus to do something, to respond in some great miraculous way, wouldn’t we, knowing what we know about Jesus.  And he does.  He responds to their cries for mercy.

 

Of course, he doesn’t heal them here.  He doesn’t touch them, or stand about as power goes forth from himself.  He doesn’t proclaim healing from afar.  He doesn’t do here what he’s done anywhere else; Jesus heals in all sorts of ways, rarely the same way twice.  In this case he tells them to go.  “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”

 

They Obey:  

And this unholy bunch; unholy because they aren’t set apart for God’s purposes, like holy things are supposed to be.  This unholy bunch, set apart because they are simply outside the pale, and not worth God’s while.

 

This unholy bunch does what even the holiest of Pharisees and Sadducees—the holiest of the religious insiders—haven’t done.  They obey.  They go.

 

And we should, maybe expect this: they’ve already called Jesus Master, “Lord”—a term only anywhere else used by the disciples.  They’ve given Jesus authority over their lives, and even though Jesus didn’t heal them, he sent them—and they decided to obey him.

 

Maybe their faith was so great, their trust so large, that they were sure they’d find healing at the priests or on the way.  Maybe they were confused, because they expected healing, and hadn’t received it, and had nothing else to do except scratch, really, so they went.

 

Maybe they went because they were used to doing what great people, what brokers of power and status, told them to do, and they thought Jesus was condemning them as all the other holy people had done, telling them “Look at yourselves.  You’re unclean, you’re scabby and gross; did you forget?  Go to the priests, they’ll remind you.”  And so they went in knee-jerk obedience.

 

But I think, maybe, they went because they really believed that this guy was their master, their Lord.  And they really hoped that it would all work out.    They knew that Leviticus 14:23 demanded those healed of leprosy be certified by a priest, and if the priest says hey, you’re alright, then the leper can join back into the community: so they ran, expecting somehow, hoping so much, for that certification (NIB Commentary, p.325).

 

He didn’t heal them, he sent them.

 

“And as they went they were cleansed.”

 

Can we imagine this? Like goose-bumps spreading across their body they felt it—skin and whole flesh, hot air and hot sun, and I wonder if they tore up their bandages, or if they fell off, their flesh no longer swollen and stretched, or if, covered in robes, they simply ran and ran and ran to the priests—however far away they were—clean, to be told by those whose vote mattered that they were clean.

 

But we read:

 

“Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, with a great voice praising God, and he fell on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving him thanks. And he was a Samaritan”

 

Again:

 

“Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, with a great voice praising God, and he fell on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving him thanks. And he was a Samaritan”

 

A Persistent Problem:  

So often I don’t turn back.  And I barely remember sometimes to say thank you, much less find myself praising God with a great voice, using all the strength under my own whole, healthy skin, and all the great words I know.

And I can count on my hand the number of times I’ve laid prostrate on the ground, face down, before the Lord.

 

Yet this one turned and ran back through the village, back to Jesus, yelling and screaming praises to God. Everyone around would have turned and saw.

 

I have been healed from great wounds, I have experienced a few real miracles.  I am a Master of Divinity.  I know about God’s goodness third, second, and first hand.

 

And yet when Jesus looks at this healed outsider, someone with all the wrong theology, living in a town on the outskirts of anywhere, rubbing his newly healed face in dirt and sand—when he looks at this outsider, this Samaritan, and says “Were not ten cleansed?  Where are the nine? Was no one found returning to praise God except this foreigner?”

 

Then I stand condemned.  Because I am one of the nine.  I am one of the “holy ones.”

 

But maybe this is only me.

 

The Nine:

And Jesus is shocked.  Where is everybody?

 

I wonder at these nine, probably Galileans, hoofing it to the temple.

 

It’s funny, because this foreigner, this Samaritan, wouldn’t even have been allowed inside, even though Jesus sent him there. There was an inscription barring “foreigners” from entering the Temple.  And not only is this the only time we see this word in the New Testament, it’s also the only time that we are invited to imagine a group of healed men running together to the Temple, one of them skidding to a stop at the door, as his old friends run inside forgetting him.

 

It’s funny how quickly we can leave behind those who were ours, were our friends and companions, partners in suffering or trouble, when we get healed and they don’t, when we get welcomed in, and they get left outside, alone, in a town where no one wants them.  The nine take off, you know.

 

And sometimes we act like them to our shame, when we find ourselves healed, welcomed back into the fold after we’ve been an outsider for a tiny bit.  We could talk about how quickly new Christians lose all their non-Christian friends.  We could talk about other things.

 

The One: 

But Jesus asks, where is everybody.  Because there’s only one person laying at his feet. The foreigner didn’t run with the nine; he turned around, grateful, and fell at the feet of Jesus.

 

His gratitude was larger than his obedience; and we don’t know—he may have kept going after this, gotten as close to the priests as he could.

 

It’s amazing here what Luke doesn’t tell us, doesn’t think we need to know.  We aren’t helped out in resenting the other nine, aren’t told they’re skin begins to rot again, aren’t told that the one healed Samaritan started tithing and followed Jesus until he grew old with age.

 

We aren’t told anything!  This is lame ending—a nothing ending, really.  Where is the closure!  Where is the “go and sin no more?”  What happens after this?

 

Instead, Luke tells us only the words of Jesus: “Rise and go.  Your faith has saved you.”  The whole point of the whole thing is packed here, into this little sentence.  Rise and go.  Your faith has saved you.

 

Saved you from death, from the fear of everyone, from even this fellowship that was, ultimately false—lasting only as long as those on the inside couldn’t find fellowship with other insiders, and had to pick you, a dirty Samaritan. A fellowship that was broken as soon as they could get away from you.

 

Jesus says to this man, because of his faith: Rise:  Resurrect!  It’s the same word, here: Pick up your life and stand, because your faith has saved you.  It’s not clear if Jesus, in telling him to go, is indeed telling him to go to the Priests. We don’t know.

 

And I would like to think that this guy goes on to lead a life of Christ-following, of great discipleship, but Luke doesn’t tell us. There’s no “follow me,” no anything.

 

 

What could we talk about?  

What do we do with this. What could we talk about?

 

I mean, it’s not difficult, right, this passage?  Doesn’t present us with all sorts of problems, except that there’s no epilogue at all to this story.   And most of has have probably seen this passage a hundred times.

 

We could talk about different things.  We could talk about what it means to help people as Jesus helps people.

 

Helping: 

I mean, If we are to be Jesus to the world, then it means at times that we will help those who ask for help—help them, truly, in the name and power and love of the Lord—but help them without demanding from them discipleship, or a codified prayer, one visit to church or a tract they have to read and sign.

 

It might mean, simply, that when they ask us for something they know we can give, we give it, and we save them from something.  And if they return to thank us, we praise the Lord with them, and tell them to keep on keeping on. If they don’t, we don’t reject them, take back what we’ve given.  But we should maybe honor & acknowledge those who are grateful, and thank God for what we have been able to do for them, for the small things we have saved them from.

 

Gratefulness: 

We could talk about gratefulness:

 

Will we be—are we—grateful at all?  Or are we the nine, running back to the temple, back to those who will pat us on the back, and remind us of our goodness, our faithfulness, and help us to forget the company we held with co-sufferers?  Have we forgotten where we have come from, or where we would be headed without the Lord?  Have we forgotten the prayers we make on behalf of so many, and the ways God answers them?

 

Solidarity: 

We could talk about fellowship, about commitment, about solidarity.  Standing together.

 

Maybe we can do what these nine could not do.  The nine were insiders, healed & headed back home. This was awesome. It was, you know?  Can you imagine living apart from your families, and your friends, and your favorite stores & restaurants, apart from our church, because of any reason that is outside your control.  But then you’re brought back inside, and everyone is praising God on your account; you’re healed and restored to us.  Awesome stuff.

 

But these nine would have never kept up their fellowship with this grateful Samaritan.  It just wouldn’t happened. Healed or not, he’s still a foreigner.  And yeah, they were connected for a season, but that was before they got their lives back.

 

We need to be people who don’t take lightly the bonds that we forge with others, no matter what happens.  No matter what happens or what changes with us.  We should remember that nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus, and that the Lord doesn’t lightly give up on us.

 

Conclusions:

Our faith has saved us, is saving us—both from something, and for something.  So when we read today’s passage, we should allow it to bring questions to our minds:

 

Are we thankful for what we’re saved from? Are we thankful for what has been healed in our lives? Can this Samaritan remind & model for us something that the Lord expects: a grateful heart.

 

Are we prepared for what we have been saved for, healed for?  Which is not simply obedience, and not only gratefulness, but both. This Samaritan did probably go find a priest; we are called to follow through on what the Lord asks of us, while still remembering gratitude.

 

And I think we should consider what it means to easily give up relationships we have formed.  We can’t, probably, keep every friend we have ever made.  But we should never allow conventions to destroy the relationships we have made–you shouldn’t hang out with people like that, you shouldn’t have friends who are fill-in-the-blank-, if you’re really one of God’s people, a Christian, you shouldn’t be seen with so-and-so.

 

So this passage.  It may have been a while since we’ve seen it.  I don’t know.  Think about it.  Let’s live like this One Samaratan, and avoid the examples of these Nine.

 

You know, not everyone who seems holy–set apart for God’s good purposes–might be a role model.  Sometimes we discover holiness under foreign bandages.