A Leper’s Story

Sermon planned for Sunday, October 10th, 2010

I was a sinner, but now I am thankful. I once lived in a garbage dump, but I have been made clean. I once was sick, but Jesus healed me. I was stuck in the prison of exile, but my faith in him has saved me. I was a leper, but now I am thankful.

I never thought it would be me, scouring for leftover bits of trash – maybe a half-loaf of bread, maybe a good piece of mutton; not one spoiled by the hot sun. I used to be somebody. Now my own body has made me a nobody. I earned a living by working hard with my hands; shaping rocks with hammer and chisel. I miss the days when my sweat, mixed with powdered rock, would make me look like a street bum, covered in filth. Now I am a street bum covered in filth.

It began with a blemish on my right leg; and then another, just above it. I didn’t feel sick. The problem was – I didn’t feel at all. My skin was as numb as the lack of feeling in my heart. I tried to conceal my leprous condition, but soon it was obvious. My neighbours cast me out. They put me out of my community. I could no longer worship on the mountain. I was unclean and God only likes things that are clean – so they say. They set me off into no-man’s land. The space in-between. That’s where people like me belong. People throw you into the cracks of society. That’s where no-man’s land is – in the middle of two great peoples.

I’ve lived in this no-man’s land for two years now – and it’s like hell; maybe that’s why they call it ‘the unclean place’. My home is a garbage dump. It’s where outcasts like me find a place to lie down – where other folks won’t stare at us or point. This ‘in-between’ is literally a place in the middle; a plot of land between Samaria and the land of Galilee. This garbage dump is a crack in the earth, full of darkness, where Judah and Samaria place their outcasts – and that’s what I am. I am a leper – I am an outcast.

It’s almost always dark here, in this place. Maybe the numbing leprosy has moved into my eyesight. Maybe my eyes are just too numb to see the colors around me. Everything exists, if it does at all, merely in shades of grey. There is no brightness. No promise-bearing rainbows. I’m alone here, even though I’m surrounded by people like me – outcasts. Our loneliness is fixed because of our hunger. We are hungry for food, thirsty for water, and starved for contact. In this landscape of scarcity – we are constantly at each other’s throats. I may have nine men as neighbours, but I am alone. There is no community here.

This in-between crack-in-the-ground garbage dump was a place where Samaritans and Jews were dumped off. We were the outcasts of our people; as such, we were all put together, assuming that our sickness was enough common ground for us to get along. But they were Jews, and I was a Samaritan – that doesn’t change even if you’re sick. Was this God’s cruel joke, to make Jews and Samaritans share a home in a garbage dump?

Read Luke 17:11-19

And it happened that on the way to Jerusalem he also passed through the middle of Samaria and Galilee.

And as he was coming into a certain village, he met ten men with leprosy, who stood at a distance.

And they raised their voices saying, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”

And seeing them, he said to them, “go and show yourselves to the priests.”

And it happened that as they went they were cleansed.

But one of them, seeing that he was healed, returned, praising God with a loud voice.

And he fell prostrate by Jesus’ feet, thanking him. And he was a Samaritan. And Jesus answered saying, “Were there not ten made clean? But where are the other nine? Has none of them been found returning to give praise to God except this foreigner?

And he said to him, “Get up and go; your faith has saved you.”

Nobody every visits this crack in the earth. Who would want to visit this place between places, this no-man’s land? Who wants to be around people that have slid into the slime of brokenness? Isn’t easier to walk on the level paths where there are bright colors, cool breezes, juicy grapes and sweet-smelling flatbread? Where life is simple and clean? No… nobody comes to say hello to the ten lepers of no-man’s land. No one except Jesus.

I remember the first time I saw his face. His face was relaxed, but focused. He was on his way somewhere – the only place a Jew like him always wants to go – to Jerusalem. But why walk on this path. There was a better path to the village and towards Jerusalem. Why take the path that goes to this crack in the ground? Did he know? Was he aware that we were outcasts? Could he have known that we all needed to see him?

He was a Jew – I could tell. But there was something about him. He didn’t give me that awkward feeling I had when I was with my neighbours. He didn’t look like he’d call me a second-class human being like they did. As he came closer, he looked at us and began walking straight for us. He veered off the road, his feet trampling on the garbage. As he closed in, we stepped back, putting some distance between him and us. He motioned his hand, inviting us to relax. His eyes spoke a word of calmness to us. He wasn’t here to judge us. He wasn’t here to point and laugh. He talked to us. He asked us about our lives – where we were from, where our families were. He wanted to know what we ate in this place.

In the darkness and loneliness of that life, this conversation with a travelling Jew meant more to me than my days hammering rocks back home, and better than finding a fresh loaf of bread. In our shared words, I recognized that this man had more to give than merely his time. I knew, somehow, that all I ever needed or wanted would come from this man. I wasn’t the only one. As I looked over to my nine comrades – my Jewish neighbours, exiled as I was from their people – I saw tears in their eyes. We knew that this man would change our lives forever.

“Jesus, master, have mercy on us!” These words came to our lips. It was as if an age old Spirit had come upon us, and filled us with a deep joy and these words of longing. Have mercy on me… a leper… a Samaritan. He was looking right at me. I knew it – he was going to send me away. I was not one of his people. I was a Samaritan. But looking right at me he said, “go and show yourselves to the priests.”

Go and show yourself to the priests? Didn’t he know? I couldn’t go and show myself to a priest. Jews didn’t let Samaritans anywhere close to their places of worship – never mind their most holy temple. And yet, as I joined my neighbours, who were leaving for Jerusalem, I suddenly felt. I felt… for the first time in over two years I could feel. I stopped. I quickly uncovered my legs and pulled up my sleeves. My sores were gone. My legs were clean – smooth and… and no more leprosy. I was clean.

This Jewish man walked into our crack of darkness – into this no-man’s land, and he brought with him comfort, radiant colors, words of care and kindness, and cleansing from this numbing disease. I knew there was something different about him the minute I saw him. He fed me with words, with eyes gazing in love, with an outstretched arm – not to point, but to embrace. This Jewish Rabbi had done so much more than cleanse my skin – he healed me. He made me whole. As I looked up from my joyful daze, I noted that my nine Jewish neighbours were long gone. Not that it mattered. The temple wouldn’t take me in – I wasn’t a leper anymore, but I was still unclean, filthy still, a no-good Samaritan.

But I couldn’t just stay here – I had just met the man that turned my entire life upside down. He came to find me in the deepest pit, and he healed me. And so I ran back to the garbage dump. He wasn’t there. But I knew he was on his way to the nearby village, and so I ran. I ran for the first time in years. I could feel every pebble underneath my feet. I took off my padded sandals – I didn’t need the extra padding anymore. I could buy regular shoes again. I could work again and earn money again. I could see my family again. These beautiful thoughts brought a rush of tears to my eyes.

With blurred vision, I saw him going up the hill into town. I called out, “Jesus, praise God! I am healed. Hallelujah, praise the Lord!” He turned around and looked at me, a big smile across his face. He was with a few other men and some women and children – they were following him. For the first time in years, I didn’t care if others saw me. I didn’t hide my face, or run away. Instead, I ran straight towards him – this man, this Jew, who brought light into our darkness, joy into our loneliness, and words of care and comfort into our quiet exile.

As I reached him, I did the only thing I could think of; I fell down at his feet. “Thank you, sir! Thank you, Jesus! You know that I’m a Samaritan. You know that the priests won’t see me. And so, I come to you! I show myself to you! What do you see? Do you see a sick man? Do you see an unclean leper? What do you see?”

Jesus smiled. “Are you the only one who returns? Where are the other nine? No, son, I don’t see a leper. I see a foreigner. But you have been brought close. Get up and go to your homeland, because your faith has saved you! You are no longer a leper. You are no longer unclean. You are no longer caught in that no-man’s land. You are my beloved!”

I was a sinner, but now I am thankful. I once lived in a garbage dump, but I have been made clean. I once was sick, but Jesus healed me. I was stuck in the prison of exile, but my faith in him has saved me. I was a leper, but now I am thankful.