Proper 23C (Pentecost 18 2025)

Text: Luke 17:17–19 “17 Then Jesus answered, “Were not ten cleansed? Where are the nine? 18 Was no one found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” 19 And he said to him, “Rise and go your way; your faith has made you well.””

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

I. The Ten Who Were Cleansed

Ten men stood at a distance. Ten men whose skin told the truth that no one wanted to see.

Ten men whose very presence was a warning sign to others: unclean, unworthy, unwanted.

They had no place to go. No home. No community. No future.

But when they heard that Jesus was passing through, they lifted their voices as one:

“Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”

It is a short prayer, but it is one that God never ignores.

And if you want to understand this story, you must see yourself in them.

Because their sickness is only a picture of yours.

You were born with something far worse than leprosy—

a disease that has eaten its way through every human heart since Adam fell.

You were born spiritually blind, unable to see God or His mercy.

You were born spiritually dead, cut off from the life of God.

And that death does what death always does: it isolates.

Sin curved you inward upon yourself until you could love only your own desires.

It left you alienated—from God, from others, even from your own true self.

No human medicine could cure it. No moral discipline could cover it.

You were, by nature, an outcast—unclean, unfit for the presence of God,

and without hope in the world.

That is the sickness Jesus came to heal.

And the prayer of those lepers—“Jesus, Master, have mercy on us”—

is the prayer that every sinner must learn to pray.

Jesus sees them. He speaks to them.

“Go,” He says, “and show yourselves to the priests.”

And as they go, something happens.

The infection fades. The skin clears. The sores close.

The raw, open wounds that had separated them from the world are suddenly gone.

The Word of Christ carries divine authority—even sickness must obey His voice.

Their flesh is made whole again. Their bodies, once decaying while they lived, are restored by the living Word.

But the miracle runs deeper than the surface of their skin.

The disease that had defined their entire existence—how others saw them, how they saw themselves—is suddenly gone.

For years they had been known only as lepers: outcasts, untouchables, men who must shout warnings before anyone came too close.

Now, for the first time in years, they are free to walk back into the village, to cross a threshold, to be greeted by name.

They can be embraced. They can be home. They can be human again.

Their healing means that everything about their lives is changed—how they eat, where they sleep, whom they love, and how they are seen.

They have their lives back.

II. Faith That Sees Mercy

All ten are healed. But only one sees what has really happened.

Luke says, “When he saw that he was healed, he turned back.”

He looked down at the skin that only moments ago had been diseased—whole again, clear again—and knew what it meant.

He saw more than the surface of the miracle.

He saw mercy—mercy that had found him, mercy that had cleansed him, mercy that had come in the flesh.

That is what the Word of Christ does.

It speaks life into death, purity into uncleanness, forgiveness into sin.

But do not imagine that this Word is spoken lightly.

Every word of mercy that comes from His mouth is backed by blood.

When He says to the sinner, “Be clean,” He knows what it will cost Him.

He will take that uncleanness into Himself.

He will bear the contagion of our sin all the way to the cross.

The Son of God became the outcast.

He was driven outside the camp.

He was pierced, stricken, and forsaken.

He bore in His body the very disease that infected ours,

so that by His wounds we would be healed.

And now the crucified and risen Christ still speaks that Word to you.

“I forgive you all your sins.”

It is not a ritual phrase. It is the living echo of Calvary.

It is the voice of the One who traded His purity for your guilt,

His fellowship for your exile,

His life for your death.

When His Word declares you clean, it is because His cross has made you clean.

The infection of your guilt, the corruption of your heart, the shame that eats at you from within—He has carried them to the grave.

They are gone.

In their place, He gives you His righteousness, His holiness, His peace.

That is what faith sees.

Faith looks at the cross and says, “That is for me.”

Faith opens its eyes and recognizes what has already been done.

Faith sees that the wounds of Christ are the source of its healing.

Faith is not blind optimism.

It does not pretend everything is fine or deny that pain is real.

Faith looks honestly at the world’s brokenness, and yet it sees through it—through sickness and loss, through disappointment and death—to the steadfast mercy of God at work beneath it all.

Faith is the sight that comes from being forgiven—

the sight that looks at the crucified Christ and knows: There is my healing. There is my life.

III. Faith That Returns

The Samaritan turns back. His feet retrace the path of grace.

Jesus had told them to go to the priests.

The nine do what they were told.

The one returns.

But this is not disobedience. By returning, he fulfills what the command was always meant to do:

to bring the cleansed back into the presence of God.

And now he stands before the true Temple—not of stone or marble,

but of flesh and blood.

Not in Jerusalem, but on the road.

Not behind a curtain, but face to face.

He now stands before the true Great High Priest—

the One who will offer not the blood of goats or bulls,

but His own blood for the cleansing of the world.

The same Lord who spoke healing into his body

will soon pour out His life to heal the nations.

The same Word that made him clean will be lifted up upon the cross

to make the world clean.

That is what you have come here for, too.

You have come to stand before that same Temple,

to kneel before that same Great High Priest.

Here He meets you with His own body and blood,

the once-for-all sacrifice that makes you clean.

And now—through that same mercy—He has made you part of the Temple He is building.

As St. Peter writes, “You also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house” (1 Peter 2:5).

Christ is the cornerstone, but you are part of the walls.

He dwells in you by His Spirit, and together you are the dwelling place of God.

The Samaritan stood before the Temple that saves;

you stand within it.

You are not waiting for a building to rise again on the Temple Mount.

The temple already stands—where Christ is present with His Word and His gifts,

and where His forgiven people live as His body on earth.

And when you return here, you are walking the same road as that Samaritan,

returning to the Giver of mercy.

Faith that sees mercy cannot help but return.

It does not drift away once the crisis is over.

It keeps turning back—again and again—to the One who gave everything.

IV. Faith That Glorifies God

Luke tells us, “He glorified God with a loud voice.”

He cannot keep quiet.

The voice that once cried out for mercy now cries out in thanksgiving.

Chrysostom once said that his tongue became the altar on which he laid his offering.

That is what happens when gratitude takes over.

It becomes confession. It becomes proclamation.

It gives glory where glory is due.

The other nine were thankful, too—but for the wrong reason.

They thanked God for the gift.

The Samaritan thanked God in the Giver.

And that is the difference between ordinary gratitude and saving faith.

Cultural thanksgiving praises abundance.

Faithful thanksgiving praises mercy.

Faith that sees mercy does not stay silent.

It speaks—not to draw attention to itself, but to magnify the Giver of all good things.

Faith glorifies the crucified Christ because it knows that all good gifts flow from His cross.

V. Faith That Falls Before Christ

Then comes the heart of the story.

“He fell on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving Him thanks.”

The same man who once cried from a distance now draws near.

The posture looks the same—low to the ground—but it means something new.

This is not the kneeling of desperation; it is the kneeling of delight.

He kneels not to get mercy but to praise mercy incarnate.

The body does what faith feels—it bows in gratitude.

Gratitude always draws near.

Sin creates distance. Thanksgiving closes it.

When you kneel here at the altar, you are doing what he did.

You are not beggars hoping for scraps.

You are forgiven people receiving your Lord.

The posture is humble, but the heart is full.

The altar rail is your Samaritan moment—the place where you kneel before Christ and say, “Thank You.”

For here, the crucified and risen Lord stoops again to meet you.

The same body once pierced for your sin is placed into your hands.

The same blood once poured out for your cleansing touches your lips.

And just as surely as He healed those ten on the road, He heals you here.

The Eucharist—the thanksgiving of the Church—is the living echo of His cross.

Leo the Great once warned:

“Thanksgiving without humility becomes its own idolatry.”

The nine stood tall, proud to be clean.

The one bowed low, astonished to be loved.

True gratitude does not demand more blessing.

It rejoices in the Blesser.

And here is the miracle hidden in that posture:

The sinner kneels, and the Savior stoops.

He does not stay standing above you; He bends down to you.

He is the High Priest who sympathizes with your weakness,

who knows your frailty, and who meets you there with mercy.

From that meeting, mercy is exchanged for thanksgiving,

and thanksgiving becomes the life you live.

Gratitude that kneels before Christ rises to serve the neighbor.

Faith that adores becomes faith that acts.

Having received mercy, you now reflect mercy.

VI. Faith That Is Saved

Finally Jesus says, “Rise and go your way; your faith has saved you.”

Not, “Your faith has healed you,” but “Your faith has saved you.”

The Greek word sōzō means salvation—wholeness, restoration, redemption.

He came for cleansing and found communion.

He came for health and found holiness.

He came as an outcast and found a home in Christ.

Faith always finds more than it asks for.

And faith that sees mercy sees more than the moment.

It looks beyond the visible—beyond sickness and struggle, beyond life and death—and beholds the mercy that endures forever.

Faith is not blind optimism. It does not deny the scars that remain.

But it knows what those scars mean, because it has seen the scarred hands of its Savior.

Faith begins with a cry for mercy and ends with a song of praise.

It begins at a distance and ends at the feet of Jesus.

It begins with need and ends in joy.

VII. The Contrast and the Call

Nine received the gift but missed the Giver.

They had religion, but not repentance.

Gratitude, but not faith.

They stand for a world that thanks God for abundance

while serving the idol of Mammon.

It is the thanksgiving of full barns and empty hearts.

But the one who returned—he is the Church in miniature.

Once unclean, now restored.

Once distant, now near.

Once silent, now singing.

He shows what faith looks like when it has seen mercy:

it returns, it worships, it gives thanks, and it lives changed.

VIII. The Life of Faith Today

You, too, have been cleansed—not by Levitical washing, but by the water and Word of Baptism.

You, too, have cried out for mercy and been answered.

And every time you gather here, you retrace the Samaritan’s steps—returning to the Giver.

You kneel not in desperation but in delight,

because you know what He has already done for you.

Here, at the true Temple, the true High Priest meets you again,

and you go forth renewed.

The world will soon have its own thanksgiving.

It will thank God for abundance and then hurry out to get more.

Leo the Great’s warning still stands:

“Thanksgiving without humility becomes its own idolatry.”

But you know the Giver.

Your thanksgiving is not a day; it is a life.

You give thanks not only when the harvest is full

but even when the fields are bare,

because the Giver remains the same.

The Eucharist—the Church’s thanksgiving—is the living answer to this text.

Here, faith sees mercy and returns to the Giver again and again.

IX. Conclusion

The same Lord who spoke to that Samaritan speaks to you now:

“Rise and go your way; your faith has saved you.”

You have knelt at His feet.

You have received His mercy.

Now He sends you into the world as a living witness of that mercy—

to glorify God with a loud voice,

to walk in thanksgiving,

and to return again, every time, to the Giver of every good gift.

In the Name of Jesus. Amen.