Brothers and sisters,
Today’s Gospel paints such a vivid picture. You can almost see it in your mind’s eye: ten figures standing off at a distance, their faces covered, voices hoarse from shouting, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” They were lepers—outcasts, untouchables. They had been driven out of their towns, cut off from their families, and told to keep their distance from everyone, even from the temple. They couldn’t embrace their children, couldn’t join in a meal, couldn’t even walk down the street without shouting “Unclean!” just to warn others away.
And then one day, Jesus passes by. Word must have spread that this rabbi had power, that He could do what no one else could. So they take their chance and cry out, and what does Jesus do? He doesn’t touch them or say, “Be healed.” He simply says, “Go show yourselves to the priests.” That’s it. And you have to picture the scene—ten lepers looking at one another, still covered in sores, still limping, still contagious, and Jesus says, “Go.” They could have said, “Go where? We’re not healed yet!” But they didn’t. They went. And as they went, Luke says, they were cleansed. The healing came not when they were standing still, but when they were walking in faith.
That’s worth pausing on, isn’t it? Sometimes God doesn’t fix everything on the spot. Sometimes He asks us to take a step of trust first—to walk even while we still carry the wounds, to obey before we see the results. How often do we say, “Lord, show me the outcome, and then I’ll follow”? But the Gospel turns it around: follow first, and you’ll see the miracle along the way.
Now, what happens next is the heart of the story. Ten were healed—but only one comes back. Only one. He runs to Jesus, praising God in a loud voice, throws himself at His feet, and thanks Him. And here’s the twist: the one who returns isn’t even a Jew—he’s a Samaritan, an outsider among outsiders. The other nine, presumably Jewish lepers, do what the Law commands—they go to the priests to verify their healing. But the Samaritan goes back to the true Priest, the one in whom all the sacrifices and rituals find their meaning.
And Jesus asks that haunting question: “Were not ten cleansed? Where are the other nine?” You can almost hear the ache in His voice. It’s not anger—it’s sadness. He gave them all new life, but only one recognized the giver. Nine received the blessing; only one returned with a heart of thanksgiving.
It’s easy to shake our heads at those nine, but if we’re honest, we’ve all been there. We pray hard in a time of crisis—“Lord, help me through this surgery, help my child, help me find a job”—and when things get better, we move on. We mean to say thank you, but life gets busy. The leprosy fades, the crisis passes, and gratitude slips quietly out the back door.
But gratitude, my friends, is not just good manners—it’s the heartbeat of faith. It’s what keeps our relationship with God alive and personal. Without gratitude, faith becomes dry, mechanical, something we do rather than something we live. Gratitude keeps our eyes open to grace. It keeps us humble. It keeps us joyful. It keeps us at the feet of Jesus, where the real healing happens.
Notice what Jesus tells the Samaritan at the end: “Stand up and go; your faith has saved you.” The others were healed, but this one was saved. There’s a difference between being cured and being converted. Ten got their skin back; one got his soul back. Gratitude was the bridge that took him from healing to salvation.
You see, thanksgiving is the final step of every miracle. It’s the moment when the gift turns into relationship. That’s why the very center of our worship—the Eucharist—literally means “thanksgiving.” Every Mass is our chance to be that one leper who turns back, who kneels before Christ and says, “Thank You, Lord. You’ve given me life.”
I think about that every time I elevate the Host and the Chalice. The same Jesus who healed the lepers is standing before us—body, blood, soul, and divinity—and how easy it is to take Him for granted! The Mass becomes routine, the prayers familiar, and we forget that this is the living God giving Himself to us. The Samaritan didn’t care what anyone thought—he praised God in a loud voice and threw himself at Jesus’ feet. Imagine if we had even a fraction of that gratitude every time we came to church.
There’s a story of a man who went to a mission parish in Africa. The people there had almost nothing—many had to walk miles to attend Mass. But when the collection basket came around, they sang and danced as they gave their few coins. He asked one woman afterward, “How can you give away what little you have?” She smiled and said, “Because everything I have is a gift. How could I not say thank you?” That’s the heart of it. Gratitude transforms giving into joy.
And sometimes gratitude shows up in unexpected ways. I once heard someone joke that gratitude is like muscle memory—it gets stronger the more you use it. You don’t start by thanking God for the big miracles; you start with the small ones. “Thank You, Lord, for this morning. Thank You for my coffee. Thank You for not letting me strangle my coworker.” (Yes, even that can be grace!) The point is: once we start looking for blessings, we see them everywhere.
So maybe this week, we can take a page from that Samaritan’s book. Let’s practice turning back. When something good happens—big or small—stop and say, “Thank You, Lord.” When something difficult happens, still say, “Thank You, Lord,” not because we enjoy suffering, but because we trust that He’s still with us in it. Gratitude isn’t pretending everything is perfect; it’s remembering that God is present even when it’s not.
And finally, let’s ask ourselves: Where am I in this story? Am I among the nine who move on after receiving grace, or am I that one who turns back to give thanks? Jesus doesn’t need our gratitude for His sake—He wants it for ours. Because gratitude draws us closer to Him, opens our hearts to joy, and reminds us who the true Giver is.
So, brothers and sisters, may we walk in faith like those ten lepers, trusting even before we see. And may we live in gratitude like that one Samaritan, always turning back to say, “Thank You.” Because when we do, Jesus will look at us, just as He looked at him, and say, “Stand up and go; your faith has saved you.”
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