Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
There were ten of them: men,
miserable with leprosy, a disease that slowly killed the skin from the outside,
flaking it away like a terrible sunburn, while nerves burn like shingles from
the inside. Lepers were in constant agony until they weren’t. And when it
didn’t hurt any more, that meant the limb was, in effect dead. A dead limb on a
dead man walking. If, as Hollywood says, zombies are the un-dead, lepers are
the un-living. Their bodies slowly and painfully failing them, losing nerve and
muscle control, and eventually even the ability to care for themselves as
individuals. As commanded by Moses in the Law of the Lord, the disease forced
them out of town, out of the community and, most importantly, out of the
worshipping body of Israel. They couldn’t work, they couldn’t live with their
family, they couldn’t play with the kids and grandkids, they couldn’t join in
the community’s prayers for Messiah to come and save. They relied on family,
friends, or a well-wisher to toss them food, clothes, and medicines from a safe
distance, as if feeding a wild, chained animal. Adding insult to injury, if
someone came too close to their encampment, they would have to call out with whatever
voice was left, “Unclean! Unclean!” It was a warning lest someone who was
healthy, clean, and living, get too close, become contaminated with the
disease, and join them waiting to slowly die.
Ten men. Ten lepers. In the
Bible, ten is a number of wholeness, completion, perfection, and harmony. The
number betrayed them. They were anything but whole, complete, and perfect and
their disease demonstrated the disharmony that existed among God’s once-perfect
but long-fallen creation.
I imagine them in a lousy,
miserable camp in the hardscrabble land outside the city walls. Think of the
terrible homeless camps you’ve seen on the news, minimal shelter, clothes of
thrown-away rags, a smoldering fire with some indistinguishable food scraps
nearby. The smell is almost indescribable admixture of body odor and rot. No
birds sing, but buzzards roost, watching and waiting. The ten are there, in
various positions of laying down, propped up, and leaning, the strongest caring
for the weakest who can do nothing but wait.
What a strange, melancholy and
ragtag welcome they offer Jesus as He enters their town. It wasn’t the city
fathers, or the synagogue leader, or even another rabbi welcoming Him with
praises and honor and applause. Instead it is, ten men, more dead than alive,
who welcome Him with their plea for His attention, hoping He doesn’t just pass
them by like everyone else, praying that the Great Physician is able to help.
They cry out for mercy.
What else can you pray for in
that position but Jesus’ mercy? They know who He is – He is the Great
Physician. He is the one who calms storms. He heals with touch, with words,
even with spittle and mud. To the One Man, the ten call, cry, whimper, whisper,
“Jesus, Master, have mercy.” What is fascinating, though, is that their prayer
is not what you would expect. They aren’t asking for a healing touch or for
cleansing. They ask for mercy. They pray for salvation, seeing their leprosy
not only as a sign of their mortal, fallen condition but their eternal
condition as well.
“Jesus, Master, have mercy on
us.” This is the prayer of the church, calling out in unison and also
individually for the Lord of Life, the Son of God, Immanuel – God with us, to
give us merciful relief, aid and comfort both now and into eternity. “Jesus,
Master, have mercy,” is the cry of faith that rests in the power of Jesus, the
Son of the Most High God. It confesses we cannot mercy ourselves; He must do
it. We have no strength; He has great power to save: save us from the
separation, destruction, and eternal consummation of hell that sinners deserve.
Redeem us from the lostness that we experience in a moment of illness,
loneliness, lostness, sadness, destruction – those things that, now, point to
what could endure into eternity outside of Jesus.
Those few words, have mercy, are
prayed in hurricane-destroyed and rubble-strewn neighborhoods that once held
beautiful homes and in neighborhoods where you would never go alone; they are
prayed in prisons and jails; they are prayed in hot combat zones in Eastern
Europe and Africa; they are murmured in quiet nursing homes and loud hospital emergency
rooms; they are prayed by the elderly who desire to be with Jesus and by the
young who are only beginning to experience life; they are prayed in the privacy
of a home, a living room, a bedroom, and in the public worship in the
sanctuary, a gym, or a field. They are sung in harmony from the hymnal and they
are murmured when no other words will come to form prayers from our lips. They are prayed in boldness and confidence;
whispered in moments of fear and dread; cried in moments of despair and
loneliness. Wherever, however, and whenever it may be, the prayer of the
faithful isn’t merely prayed into the empty voids of nothingness. The prayer
for mercy is prayed through faith in Christ.
Remember, Jesus is going toward
Jerusalem. He is going towards the cross. The cross is the place from whence
mercy flows – mercy finds its source in the throne of Jesus that stands on
Golgatha and flows from nail-pierced hands and feet. It’s ironic: mercy is not
getting what you deserve. To grant you mercy, Jesus gets what He doesn’t
deserve. He doesn’t deserve to be beaten, or whipped, or crucified, or
abandoned or die. He does it out of His
great love for His Father and for us. He comes to restore that which was broken
in man’s fall into sin. He comes to make right what has been wrong since the
world was cursed by Eve and Adam’s action. He comes to heal the fallenness of
the world and to make it holy again. He comes to re-establish the relationship
between man and God.
He takes the brokenness of the
world into Himself and in His flesh and in His blood, carries it to the cross.
With your cries of “Jesus, Master, have mercy,” your kyrie eleisons
confess your hope and trust, in faith, in the power of Christ to restore. Christ mercies you until your beggar’s sack
overflows. In the empty cross is a picture of the restoration that will take
place in the resurrection of all flesh. Love, without end; forgiveness, without
limit; hope, without fear; joy, without tears; peace, beyond understanding.
The One Man speaks to the ten
lepers, simply and directly: Go. Show yourself - to the priest, to the family,
to the world! Show them what it is to have been mercied. Show them what is to
receive pardon, to have a life sentence commuted, to have a death penalty
absolved. Show them what it is that faith, in Christ, saves.
Ten men, ten men dying, ten men
who are the un-living, they go at Jesus’ command. Surely, they believed Jesus’
command would somehow grant mercy. Lepers move as little as possible because
going hurts. This time, however, they go because they are compelled by the Word
of Jesus. His command gives them the strength needed; His very command enables
them to go. Having faithfully prayed for mercy, now they faithfully go,
expecting to hear from the priest that they had been healed of their death
sentence and could then be restored to the community of faith and life. That
verdict was still necessary – without the priest’s approval, no matter how
healthy, they would not be whole. They needed the priest to see for himself.
On the way, ten men make a
remarkable discovery: they have been healed. The un-living are again among the living.
I wonder what their first clue was: a shuffle became a stride; arms began to
swing in rhythm without pain; crutches became a hindrance; hands and feet
didn’t hurt; they could see and hear and speak clearly. Imagine the laughter
and joy as ten men, once dead men walking, now living men rejoicing, clapped
each other on the back, hugged, and wept.
Ten men were healed. Presumably,
nine go on to the priests – healed, yes, but now to be declared restored and welcome
back into their homes, their neighborhood, and their synagogue and temple. Nine
men would be restored and completed. Nine men, once dead – now alive.
But one man, no longer a leper,
returns to give thanks to the One Man, Jesus, who granted mercy. One-tenth, a
tithe, returns to Jesus with thanksgiving for the incredible gift of restoration,
both now and into eternity. Only one - whom Jesus notes - is a Samaritan. Ten saw
Jesus as a miracle worker. Ten saw Jesus as a means to salvation. But nine,
presumably Jesus’ fellow Jews and fellow Sons of Abraham, could not grasp Jesus
was indeed the Messiah whom they longed for. For the nine, their journey would
end with the priests, healed, but still waiting, missing the Messiah who spoke
mercy to them. .
But for one, for one Samaritan,
his journey returned him to Jesus. His thanksgiving shows his faith in Jesus as
the source of healing and all mercy and comfort. There’s an interesting play on
words. Our translation records Jesus words as being, “Rise and go your way;
your faith has made you well.” A better way to say it is, “Your faith has made
you holy,” that is, “Your faith has saved you.”
Whether it is one man, one woman,
one child who hears those words, or a whole congregation that gathers in
unison, there are no greater words that can be spoken to the child of God.
Whether it is one person or the church who confesses weakness, desperation, and
cries for God’s mercy, the Lord of Life promises to hear and answer. The answer
was given at the cross, delivered in your baptism, and repeated to you over and
over in Word and Sacrament, that you are forgiven of your sins through faith in
Jesus.
So, go. Go and show yourself - to
your friends, to your family, to coworkers, classmates, neighbors, and to the
world! Show them what it is to have been mercied. Show them what is to receive
pardon, to have a life sentence commuted, to have a death penalty absolved.
Show them what it is that faith, in Christ, saves.
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