Made Clean

Luke 17:11-17

October 12, 2025

 

            My mom was a stickler for manners. My dad was a polite person as well, but my most vivid memories about learning to “mind my manners,” came from my mother. Phone manners were a big deal. If she overheard me calling one of my friends and asking for that friend like this, “Is Marci there?” or “Can I talk to Marci?” she would stand behind me and firmly correct me saying, “May I speak to Marci please?” I would roll my eyes and repeat those words begrudgingly but in the end they stuck because my mom did this as many times as it took to make them stick.

            We also had to abide by table manners. Elbows were not welcome on the table. To this day, if I catch myself putting my elbows on the table while I’m eating, I take them off as quickly as possible hoping that my mom did not see it – even from Heaven. And while we were at the table, you didn’t just reach across the table to get the dish you wanted, you asked for it to be passed to you. Mom didn’t like us to use what she called a “boarding house reach.”

            There were manners connected to sharing. Woe be to me if I pulled out a piece of gum or candy in front of my friends and didn’t offer to share with them. If I didn’t have enough of something to share with everyone, then the gum or the candy needed to stay out-of-sight and out-of-mind.

            Then there were the basics. I was drilled in my use of the “magic words,” otherwise known as “please” and “thank you.” “Please” and “thank you” were not reserved for home use only. I was expected to use them with every person I met. If an adult spoke to me, I was expected to respond politely. If we were in a restaurant, I was expected to speak politely to our server or anyone else we encountered. If I failed to mind my manners – which I did – I heard about it. And if my mom or dad were not around to remind me about manners, another adult would not hesitate to speak in their stead.

            As a kid, I hated hearing the words, “mind your manners.” I remember vowing to myself that if I ever had children I would not do the same thing to them. Then I had two children and guess what? I did the same thing to them. My children were also drilled on phone etiquette and sharing manners and the use of the “magic words.” I didn’t do this to my children because I wanted them to be mindless automaton Stepford children. It’s just that when I became a mom I finally understood why my mom pushed manners so hard. It isn’t about being the etiquette police. Manners are not about conforming to social norms. But teaching my kids to speak respectfully also taught them about being respectful. Teaching them to say, “thank you” taught them about gratitude. I wanted them to know that manners gave them the power to make others feel included and welcomed, that they could turn an awkward moment into something joyful, and that two simple words – thank you – could be transformative.

            Thankfulness is the outward theme of this story from Luke’s gospel, although I suspect there is more at the heart of this passage than meets the eye. Jesus encounters ten lepers, heals them of their leprosy and out of those ten only one turns around and says “thank you” to Jesus for his healing.

            This isn’t the first time in Luke’s gospel or in any of the other three that Jesus meets people with leprosy or who are unclean for whatever reason, but the idea of giving thanks to Jesus for healing is unique to this passage. I doubt Jesus healed someone, and then prompted that person with “what are the magic words?” But in this story, we are told specifically that out of the ten who were healed, one of them turned around, returned to Jesus and gave thanks. And this one was a Samaritan.

            I’ll be honest, Jesus’ statement about this makes me uncomfortable.

            “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”

            Except this foreigner. As one commentator wrote, it seems that Jesus is speaking over the Samaritan, not to him. Jesus is speaking as though the Samaritan were just an object, a lamp or a bowl, rather than a living person, which feels awkward and distinctly unmannerly. But I think that Jesus is speaking to his disciples, pointing out to them that it was not the healed children of Israel who returned to him to give thanks, it was the Samaritan, the foreigner, the one who was specifically “other.”

            Jesus’ words may very well have made the disciples uncomfortable too, but not because his statement lacked manners. It would have made them uncomfortable because once again Jesus made it clear that no one was too “other” to be outside of God’s love and grace, no foreigner, no stranger, no enemy, not even a Samaritan. I’ve preached before about the enmity between Jews and Samaritans. The animosity between them was pronounced to say the least. The Samaritans were the “others” in the eyes of Israel, and I imagine that the reverse was true for the Samaritans.

            But leprosy seems to have been the great equalizer because these ten people were together, even though one of them was a Samaritan. Lepers were some of the leading outcasts of this culture. Not only was leprosy – and there were many kinds of leprosy – considered to be a physical ailment, but it was also thought to be a spiritual calamity as well. Like other illnesses, it was believed to be a spiritual punishment brought on by the disregarding of the Law by the leper’s parents or an infraction or sin on the part of the leper himself or herself.

            Lepers created their own colonies because they were forced to live outside of the main community. When clean people approached their “space,” lepers were required to call out “unclean, unclean!” This warned people to keep their distance. Yet charity from other people was their only means of survival, so despite their uncleanness, they would sit near major traffic ways and beg for alms.

            But even living as others and outside the larger community did not seem to have kept the news about Jesus from these ten. They have heard about him. They clearly have heard about his acts of healing. When they see him approach, they keep their distance but call to him.

            “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”

            Jesus sees them and tells them to present themselves to the priest. This was required by the Law. When someone was healed of leprosy, they had to show themselves to the priest. The priest would declare them clean and they could return to the larger community. When Jesus tells them to do this, they obediently turn and make their way. As they were going, they were made clean. But it was the Samaritan who sees that he has been made clean. He sees his skin healed and unblemished. He sees the transformation on his skin and I also think he realizes that a larger transformation has occurred as well. He sees, so he turns around and goes back to Jesus. He prostrates himself before Jesus. He, the Samaritan, thanks him.

            Did this happen because the Samaritan’s mother was a stickler for manners just like mine was? Was the Samaritan just more polite, or did he realize that his otherness had been overcome. The Samaritan, the foreigner, probably understood better than the others, that his otherness came from more than just the disease that ravaged his skin. He was a foreigner, a stranger, an other. But this Jesus, healed him. This Jesus made room for him. The lines that would have been drawn between them in other circumstances were not merely unimportant, but they were also erased completely. This man, this foreigner, this other, sees that he has been healed, and maybe he realizes that he has been seen as well. He has been seen as a child of God.

            Maybe that’s what Jesus was pointing out to the disciples and anyone else who witnessed this. Maybe that’s what Jesus wanted them to see and understand. This outsider, this foreigner, was more than just the labels he bore and more than the disease that plagued him. He was a child of God. But maybe it was his status as an “other,” as an outsider, a foreigner that helped him to see in ways that the “insiders” could not. Maybe it was because he was a foreigner that made him grasp the import of being healed, and so he turned around and he gave thanks.

            Once again, we are being reminded vividly that God’s kingdom is upside down. It is the reversal of all we think we know and understand. Every category we create, every label we bestow means nothing in the kingdom of God. We may not use the word “unclean” today, but if we’re brutally honest there are people we think of as being just that. They are unclean for their beliefs or unclean because of their status in society or unclean because of their politics or unclean just because they are different. And the truth that really gets to me is that there are people who think the same of me. In some people’s eyes, I am the other. I am the foreigner. I am the stranger. I am the outsider. We all make categories and rules to help us navigate a world that is chaotic more than it is calm. But the kingdom of God, the kingdom that Jesus proclaimed is now in our midst, does away with all of it. No category is left standing. No label is not overthrown. The kingdom of God turns everything upside down and on its head.

            And when we can see this, really see it, see our transformation and see the “others” in our world in the same way, we may just want to turn around, fall at the feet of Jesus, and give thanks. Thank you, Jesus, for healing us. Thank you, Jesus, for loving us. Thank you, Jesus, for turning our categories and our labels and our lines and our walls upside down. Thank you, Jesus, for making us clean. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.

Increase Our Faith -- World Communion Sunday

Luke 17:5-10

October 5, 2025

 

            Spoiler alert: I’m about to mention the end of the movie The Wizard of Oz. Since the movie premiered in 1939, I am assuming that most of us here and most who may be watching from home know the movie and know its plot. If you don’t, I apologize for spoiling it for you, but as I said, it premiered in 1939.

            Dorothy finds herself in the strange land of Oz, trying to find her way back home to Kansas. She begins a tumultuous journey from Munchkin Land to see the wizard who resides in Oz, to ask for help in getting home. Without even meaning to, she defeats not one but two wicked witches. She befriends a scarecrow, a lion, and a tin man. She faces flying monkeys – which were the part of the movie that always terrified me when I was a kid. And finally she comes face-to-face with the one person she most wanted to see – the Wizard himself. Only it turns out that the Wizard isn’t so much a Wizard as he is an old man, who was also stranded in Oz, and made the best of it by pretending to be a great and powerful Wizard.  

            All Dorothy wants is to go home, and she hopes that the Wizard will be able to help her. Even though he isn’t really a Wizard, he still believes he can return her to her home and her loved ones, but that plan goes awry at the last minute, leaving Dorothy in despair of ever getting back to Kansas. But just when Dorothy and the rest of us think that all is lost, Glynda the Good Witch returns to help. Glynda tells Dorothy that she has had the power to go home all along. That power is found in the ruby slippers on Dorothy’s feet; ruby slippers that became Dorothy’s when her house landed on the Wicked Witch of the East. All Dorothy has to do is tap her heels together and repeat,

“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

It works! Dorothy wakes up back in her bed, back in her house, surrounded by her family and friends. It is a happy ending, one that I accepted without question as a child. But as I grew older, I started to ask one question that may or may not be answerable. Why didn’t Glynda tell Dorothy that she had the power to go home from the very beginning? Why didn’t Glynda clue Dorothy in about the power of the ruby slippers from the get-go? Dorothy asked to go home, a straightforward request, and Glynda’s response seemed evasive at best.

I won’t claim that Jesus was being evasive in his reply to the disciples at the beginning of our passage from Luke’s gospel, but I will say that his response seems impatient and just plain strange.

The apostles said, “Increase our faith!” This is an imperative statement meaning that they are not just asking for more faith, they are demanding it. Increase our faith, Jesus! Now please! This demand may seem as though it comes from a place of entitlement and superiority, but I think it more likely comes from anxiety and fear. If we were to read the first four verses in this chapter, that anxiety would make sense. In chapter 16, Jesus was addressing the pharisees, but now his words are directed once more to those closest followers. He tells his disciples that they bear a tremendous responsibility for those who follow them. If someone stumbles and falls short because of the words, actions, and deeds of a disciple, it would be better for that disciple to have a millstone hung around their neck and thrown into the sea. Don’t cause a little one, a person young in faith, to mess up. And if one of you sins against another of you, you must call out the offender. But if that person repents, then you must forgive. And if the other sins and repents seven times a day; you must forgive seven times a day.

Once again Jesus is telling the disciples that none of this will be easy; that being a disciple, being faithful, is the hardest task they will ever undertake. And they respond, “Increase our faith!” Give us more faith, Jesus, so we can do this. Give us an extra dose of faith, so we have a chance of making this work.  

Instead Jesus says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea and it would obey you.’”

The Greek word used for if implies not just a possibility but a reality. So, it’s more like Jesus is saying, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, and by the way you do, you already have this faith, you could say to the mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea …”” Just as Dorothy already had the power to get home, Jesus is telling the disciples that their faith is already sufficient to do what seems both absurd and impossible.

Had Jesus ended here, this would have still been a challenging passage, but its challenge might have felt more manageable. But verse six is not the end. Jesus then speaks about the relationship of a master and a slave. The use of the word “slave” grates on my 21^st century ears  and stings my conscience because of the brutal history of chattel slavery in our country. Rightly so. It would be wrong to interpret these words as Jesus justifying slavery, but it also must be acknowledged that the master/slave relationship was common in that time and place. The disciples would have recognized and understood it. So, Jesus tells them that when the slave does what’s expected of him, he doesn’t get praise or thanks. The slave is just doing what he’s supposed to do. The slave is just doing what’s required of him; the slave is merely doing his duty.

Jesus gives this an interesting twist because he implies that the disciples are the slaves of God. This makes God the slave master, which adds greatly to my discomfort. But even if we translated the word doulos as servant instead of slave, I would still be uncomfortable. Because at the end of the day, I don’t want to think about God being stingy with rewards. And I’m also honest, I would like some thanks and praise for serving. I suspect the disciples would too, especially because this serving is hard work. It’s scary work. It is imposing work. And if they are going to do it, they need as much faith as possible, and how about a “thank you” thrown in for good measure. It’s not like Jesus doesn’t speak of their greater reward at other points in the gospels. Why change that now?

But I wonder if Jesus is trying to get the disciples to understand that faith is not about quantity. Faith is not something that can be measured in amounts. You can’t just fill up your faith like you can gas in your car. When the disciples cry, “Increase our faith,” maybe they’re not just simply asking for more, but asking for it to be simpler, easier. Give us an extra jolt of faith, Lord, so this won’t be so hard for us. Give us an extra measure of faith, Jesus, so this won’t be so challenging, so intimidating, so frightening. Increase our faith, so this won’t demand quite so much of us.

But Jesus tells them, you have enough faith. You have plenty of faith already. You have the enough faith to tell a tree with the deepest of roots to pull itself up and jump into the sea. You have enough faith to do what is impossible right now. But faith is not measurable in a way that is quantifiable. Faith does not increase because you get a refill or an extra dose or a larger amount. Faith grows by the doing. Faith is not something you get, faith is something you do. Faith is serving. Faith is acting. Faith is doing. You serve God and you serve others because that is what grows faith. Faith is not something you get. Faith is something you do. You already have enough faith. You already have what you need. You just have to do it. Faith is not what you get. Faith is what you do.

Like the disciples, though, I would rather have it the other way around. I would rather have my faith topped up by some supernatural increase than do the hard work of faith. Because to do the work of faith requires more of me than I think or want to give Doing the work of faith requires me to love people who I don’t want to love and to forgive people I don’t want to forgive. Doing the work of faith requires me to resist “othering” people, to resist trying to categorize people under various labels, so they will be the others I don’t have to deal with. And that is hard work indeed, and everything in our culture suggests that I should do the opposite. A supercharge of faith would surely help me do all of this wouldn’t it? It would make it so much easier if my faith could just be increased. But faith is not something we get. Faith is something we do. If we want to increase our faith, we must do the work of faith. And we do it not for reward or praise or thanks, but just because.

In a few minutes we will come to the table and celebrate the Lord’s Supper. On this World Communion Sunday, we do this with Christians of every denomination, of every creed, of every color, of every gender around the globe. At this table we will be fed and nourished and strengthened. But sharing the bread and drinking the cup will not magically increase our faith. It is the act of coming to the table that will increase our faith. It is the act of breaking the bread and drinking the cup that increases our faith. This table is not about refueling but about gathering and doing and loving and sending. Faith is not something we get, faith is something we do. May we increase our by the daily work of faith, even when that work is hard or seems impossible. May we increase our faith by the daily work of faith, and daily may we share the mercy and grace and love of God with all God’s people. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.