Tag: Samaritan

Scripture: Luke 17:11-19

• Introduction
• Kevin
• Trevor
• Jesus
• Conclusion

Introduction

Sometimes we go through life unaware. Unaware of ourselves. Unaware of the burdens our neighbours carry. Unaware of the way our actions affect others, for good or ill. Unaware of what is just around the corner. No one thinks it will happen to them.

Kevin

Hi. My full name is a bit of a mouthful so you can just call me Kevin for short. It will make it easier for you. I know what you’re thinking, Will and I look exactly the same. The likeness is uncanny I know. But I’m actually slightly more handsome than Will (especially for my age) and better at preaching. Don’t say anything to Will though. He can be a bit sensitive about that sort of stuff.

Anyway, Will asked me to speak to you this morning because it is world leprosy day. I was born around 2000 years ago and lived in what you know as the middle east – on a hill in central Palestine, in the West Bank territory, to be more precise.

My father sold figs and other fruit in the local market. He was a kind man, probably too kind for his own good in his line of work. I loved being with him and he was happy for me to tag along.

Working in the markets as we did, bartering and haggling, you learned to be aware. Aware of who was around you and who was missing. Aware of regulars and tourists. Aware of small kindnesses and large injustices. Aware of those willing to pay a fair price and those who would rob you if they could. Aware of changes in mood and atmosphere – like the way people stiffened and closed up around occupation soldiers and then relaxed when the threat was gone. Always we were aware of honour and shame.

It’s not like that today. The people I see here, in your world, often seem unaware – plugged in and tuned out. It’s a self-preservation thing I suppose. You are saturated with information. Distractions are constant. I don’t blame you for using a filter. But it’s not good for you to be too closed off. You still need to let some light in.

My dad was aware. He let the light in. At the end of each day, when we were packing up and walking home he would always find something to be thankful for. Even on the seemingly bad days when we didn’t sell much fruit he still found something positive to focus on. Years later I came to realise it was his thankful attitude that funded his kindness.   

None of us know what’s around the corner. I certainly didn’t. My dad’s heart stopped when I was 14, which meant I became responsible for feeding the family. Just my mum and my younger sister. I carried on selling figs and I tried to be thankful but it wasn’t the same without dad. I made enough to get by but, financially, we sailed pretty close to the wind, like almost everyone else.

Things were okay for a couple of years and then I became aware of patches of discoloured skin on my body. There was a numbness in my finger-tips too, which was weird. I ignored it for a while. No one thinks it will happen to them.

Besides, I couldn’t afford to have anything wrong with me. I had to provide for my family. As the patches spread I did my best to cover them up. No one wants to buy fruit off someone who looks sick. But eventually I was found out. It was impossible for me to hide the loss of my eyebrows and eyelashes.  

One of my customers, the mother of a girl I quite liked actually, saw me fumble some fruit. It’s hard to hold onto things when you can’t feel them. She looked at my hand first, then at my missing eyebrows, before drawing a breath in horror and walking off quickly. The shame and humiliation of it was overwhelming.

Shortly afterwards I was aware of a change in the atmosphere. She must have told her neighbours because it wasn’t long before people in the market were whispering to each other and looking at me with disgust and fear, like I was an occupation soldier.    

Nothing is as dangerous as a crowd with an idea in mind. I packed up my fruit stand and headed home as quickly as I could. I didn’t get far though. The first blow was soft and hit me in the back of the head. Never saw it coming. Just a fig. The next blow was a lot harder though and hit me in the chest. A rock. Things were about to get ugly.  

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. In Leviticus the law laid down protocols for dealing with people with skin diseases. I should be examined by a priest, in private. The priest was supposed to make the decision about whether I was clean or unclean and even then there was a seven-day self-isolation period. If my skin disease had not improved in a week then I was to leave.

But the crowd had taken matters into their own hands. They didn’t want my kind around. So I ran as hard as I could and I didn’t look back.

With tears streaming down my face, I wondered if I would ever see my mother and sister again. I couldn’t go home because that would put their lives in danger. What would happen to them now I wasn’t there to provide? There was no government welfare system.

People often aren’t aware of the burdens their neighbours carry or how their own actions affect others.

That night I took shelter under a mustard tree, hungry, cold and exhausted. My feet were bleeding but I couldn’t feel any pain. Not physical pain anyway. There was another kind of pain though, like an emptiness in my heart, that I was all too aware of. Some of you might know it as loneliness. Despite the emptiness I couldn’t find room to be thankful.

I never thought this would happen to me. And by ‘this’ I mean leprosy. We always think it will happen to someone else. But why shouldn’t it happen to me? It happens to someone around the world almost every hour. I wasn’t so special.

There is a randomness to life, it seems, that is as cruel as it is blind. Why should one person be born rich and another poor? Why should one man die in battle and another live? Why should some women lose their husband and their son while others never grieve? God is moral. I know that to be true. But the world we live in is not. We do not get what we deserve. We get what we get.    

I waited for sleep to overcome me, hoping I would never wake up. But God, who is intimately aware of the thoughts of the human heart, sent his angel to watch over me.

Trevor

We often think of angels as perfect heavenly beings, all clothed in purest white, with beautiful faces, fresh breath and soft wings. Yea, nah. The angel God assigned to me was a real fright to look at. His clothes were stained and ripped, his breath smelled like rotten fish and where his wings should have been there was just an unsightly hump.

But he was perfect. Had God sent someone clean and healthy and well-groomed I would have only hated myself all the more for being none of those things. Instead God sent me someone beautifully imperfect, someone I could feel comfortable with.

Trevor, whose real name you could never pronounce, may have been hard to look at but he was the kindest person I have ever met. In that way, at least, he reminded me of my dad. Trevor took care of me. He bandaged my feet, gave me food to eat and water to drink, introduced me to others like us and taught me how to survive.       

Not just physical survival but mental survival. Each of us walks a tight rope in our mind you see. Trevor helped me to keep my balance – to avoid self-pity, resentment, bitterness and other forms of self-harm. By his own example Trevor showed me how to keep a sense of humour, maintain healthy boundaries and take care of myself without disrespecting those around me.  

And he understood the Scriptures in a way that was fresh and simple and profound all at the same time. Ironically, Trevor used to be a Jewish priest. That’s especially ironic because I am a Samaritan, from the West Bank. I suppose in today’s terms that’s like saying I’m a Palestinian.

Traditionally Jews and Samaritans have a long history of tit for tat reprisals and enmity. We hate each other or at least we are expected to. But Trevor didn’t get that email. He loved everyone. It hardly matters when you have leprosy anyway. Leprosy effectively puts Jews & Samaritans, rich & poor, black & white in the same category – unclean, outcast, to be avoided at all costs.     

Trevor explained to me that being unclean was not a moral thing. It was a ceremonial thing. We were not bad people or at least not worse than anyone else. Having leprosy was not a punishment from God. We may have been unlucky but our misfortune did not make us any less loved by God.

Likewise, although we were not able to participate in rituals of community worship, we could still praise God. Trevor taught me that God doesn’t just live in a temple. He fills the whole earth. God is not impressed by aesthetics or how something looks on the outside. True worship comes from a thankful heart, he said. This reminded me of my dad. 

Not everyone in our community was as positive or enlightened as Trevor though. Living with leprosy, being estranged from your family, not knowing where your next meal is coming from, all that sort of stuff is hard. It’s next level hard. And when life is tough it tends to create callouses on the heart. Thankfulness is too easily swallowed up by cynicism.  

But Trevor’s heart never lost its feeling. I think this was because Trevor was aware. Aware of himself and aware of his neighbours. He understood the way his actions affected others. I suppose you might call that empathy or compassion. No one knows what is just around the corner though, not even Trevor.

He died, suddenly one night. Just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Like my father I guess he was too good for this world. Death happened all the time in our community but that didn’t make Trevor’s passing any easier.

After Trevor’s death I almost lost my balance and fell off that tight rope in my mind. Somehow I managed to hold on by my fingertips. I wasn’t strong or wise or inspirational like Trevor. But I was aware there was no safety net for people like me. Holding on was all I could do. Sometimes though holding on is all you need to do.

Jesus

No one ever thinks it will happen to them. People never think they will win Lotto, but they still buy a ticket anyway, just in case. I never thought I would see my family again, but I still thought about them often and asked God to look after them.

It started out like any other day, no breakfast, just a gnawing hunger and the now familiar numbness. One of the men in our community, he used to be a doctor (leprosy doesn’t discriminate) asked me if I was coming with them. The man they called Jesus was rumoured to be passing by a couple of miles away.

This seemed strange to me. What was Jesus doing all the way out here on the border between Galilee and Samaria? I had nothing else to do so I joined the group. We had all heard about this man called Jesus, who apparently spoke with real authority, stood up to the religious authorities, drove out demons and healed people of all sorts of ailments. 

The ten of us walked in silence. There was no one around and therefore no reason to warn others we were coming. As we walked I felt something stir inside me. I didn’t recognise it at first because it had been a long time since I had felt it. It was hope. Hope is a frightening thing. Misplaced hope, hope that lifts you up only to dump you in a heap of disappointment, is dangerous.

Living with leprosy one learns to manage their hope. I had got into the habit of insuring against the loss of hope by thinking the worst. But that’s no way to live. You have to let some light in. You have to give yourself something to look forward to. Nothing too big. Just enough to keep you going.

So there I was, walking along in silence, aware of this tension within me. Torn between risking it all on this man they called Jesus and holding on to the security blanket of my despair. What if the rumours of Jesus passing our way were not true? Or even worse, what if the rumours were true but he rejected us? Rejection, by now, was my majority experience and it is very difficult to argue with your own experience.  

Unlike the other nine I had two strikes against me. Not only did I live with leprosy, I was a Palestinian from the West Bank and Jesus was an Israeli.

We came round a bend in the road and there he was. It’s strange how we had never seen the man before but somehow we knew it was him. Jesus had this presence about him. He was so centred, so completely at home in his own skin, so confident, without being a poser.

In your English Bibles it says that we stood at a distance and shouted out in a loud voice, ‘Jesus! Master! Have pity on us.’ The part about standing at a distance and shouting is true but that word translated in English as ‘pity’ isn’t quite right.

‘Pity’ urinates on dignity. It has a corrosive effect on your soul after a while. The pity of others makes you feel less somehow. It reminds you that you have nothing to offer, nothing the other person wants anyway. And it leaves you feeling worse than before. No, ‘pity’ is the wrong word.

In the Maori version of the New Testament, it says that we cried out for Jesus to have ‘aroha’ on us. Aroha is a better word. Aroha means love, affection or compassion. Aroha is what we wanted. Not money, not stones turned into bread, not a sign in the sky and certainly not pity. We wanted to be loved because when you are loved the emptiness in your heart is filled. When you are loved there is no room for loneliness but plenty of room for thankfulness.

Jesus saw us. I can’t begin to tell you what it means to be seen by Jesus. When you live with leprosy, people avoid looking at you. They pretend not to see you. They suddenly become interested in something on the ground. They don’t want to see you. But Jesus saw us. He looked at us and he understood the pain we were in, on the inside. My heart felt strangely warmed.   

Thinking about it later I reckon Jesus saw us because he was like us. Rejected, despised, misunderstood. There may have been a physical distance between us and Jesus on that road but there was communion with Christ in our hearts.

Jesus simply told us to ‘go and let the priests examine you’. This was in accordance with the law. Jesus was no liberal. Jesus did things by the book. Nor was he conservative though. Jesus transcended our categories and was in a class all of his own. He did something no one else has ever done. He fulfilled the law.

We hadn’t recovered from our leprosy though. At that point we were still unclean but we understood this was a test of faith. Naaman, the Syrian, was told by Elisha to wash in the River Jordan. Jesus told us to go and see the priests. So we obeyed, because Jesus had seen us and we trusted him.

I don’t remember the precise moment it happened but we hadn’t walked far when I became aware that the skin against my clothes was smooth again. Feeling had returned to my hands and feet. I felt around my eyes. The eyebrows and eyelashes had regrown. The ten of us looked around at each other. We had all been healed.

It was over. Our exile was ended. We were clean at last. We could finally go home to our families. We could find work and participate in worship once more. Maybe find a wife and start a family. All those things I hadn’t dared to hope for were now suddenly possible again.

We quickened our pace, looking for a priest to pronounce us clean as the law required. Then it occurred to me; Jesus was a priest of far higher standing than any in Jerusalem or Samaria. None of those priests could actually heal a person of leprosy. Jesus had healed me and so surely he could pronounce me clean.

I left the others and ran back to find Jesus. True worship comes from a thankful heart. I needed to worship God at the feet of Jesus. And so that’s what I did. Jesus is high priest and temple all rolled into one. In him the presence of God dwells.

When the man they call Jesus saw me do this he said to his disciples, “There were ten men who were healed; where are the other nine? Why is this foreigner the only one who came back to give thanks to God?”

Jesus was pointing out the irony to his disciples, that a Palestinian from the West Bank was more spiritually aware than the average Israelite was.

He called me a ‘foreigner’ because, from the disciples’ perspective, that’s what I was, a Samaritan. A traditional enemy to them. Someone they despised and thought was outside of God’s grace. Perhaps Jesus wanted his followers to become aware of their own prejudice. Maybe he wanted them to see that God loves all people, even Palestinian lepers.  

I’m not sure the disciples fully comprehended what Jesus was implying but eventually they would. Some years later a couple of those men came to the West Bank to tell us about Jesus, how he had been crucified and then raised to life on the third day. I welcomed them and they remembered me. 

I would have stayed there all day at Jesus’ feet but he said to me, “Get up and go; your faith has made you well.”

Jesus honoured me with his words. Those words gave me my dignity back. He is so generous. The credit for the healing belonged entirely to him and yet he shared the credit with me. He acknowledged the mustard seed of faith that I brought to the situation, respecting it like a precious pearl. For indeed it is.

Do you trust Jesus? Our trust is incredibly valuable to God. He treasures it more than we know.

Conclusion:

Sometimes we go through life unaware. Unaware of the hundreds of small miracles God performs for us each day. True worship comes from a thankful heart. A thankful heart funds kindness. My prayer for you is that you would let the light in and be aware that you are loved.

And if that seems impossible to believe right now, if you don’t want to take that kind of risk with your hope, then hold on. Jesus sees you.     

Will tells me you are going to sing a song now and collect a special offering for the leprosy mission.

May grace and peace be yours in abundance.

Questions for discussion or reflection:

What stands out for you in reading this Scripture and/or in listening to the sermon? Why do you think this stood out to you?

• Who do you identify with most in the story Kevin told? Why is that do you think?

• What does it mean to ‘let the light in’?  How might you let the light into your life?

• In what ways did Jesus fulfill the law for the men he cured of leprosy?

• Kevin made the comment that Jesus is high priest and temple all rolled into one. In what ways does Jesus function as a priest? In what ways does he function as a temple?

• True worship comes from a thankful heart. Think of one thing from the past 24 hours that you are thankful for? Take some time to remain present to that thing in your mind. Write it down in your journal. Hold it in your awareness through the day. How might you express your gratitude to God? Repeat this ritual every day for a week (or as long as you can).