If you have ever had the joy of teaching Bible stories to

children, there’s a good chance you know this one. I can

still remember the Sunday school felt-board version of

this story, the drama as the scene gradually unfolded.

Ten cutout lepers (the unclean, the outcast, living in

isolation) see their chance as Jesus walks past. So there

in the middle of nowhere, they cry out for mercy. Jesus

hears their cry, sees them, and gives them what they

ask. “Go show yourselves to the priests…” The ones who

could confirm their healing and welcome them back to

the community. On the way, as they go, they are made

clean. They are cured, healed. Nine keep on walking.

One stops in his tracks, runs back to Jesus, falls to his

knees in praise, gives thanks.

And I remember the lesson. The hero. The moral of

the story. This one healed man did the right thing. He

said thank you. We too should thank God for the many

blessings in our lives. And we should thank others as

well, beginning with our parents. It’s the polite thing to do.

Now, there is nothing wrong with this tidy message on

proper manners, but I do want to suggest this morning

that there is more to this encounter than simply a

display of proper etiquette, that the text itself points us

to something deeper. Return to the response of Jesus to

the leper.

Why are you the only one who came back? Get up, go

again, your faith has made you well.

The reaction is mystifying to my mind for at least two

reasons. First, the other nine did not return to Jesus

because they were doing as Jesus directed them.

Should they be called out for following instructions?

Come on, Jesus!

Beyond that though, what does Jesus mean about the

tenth leper being made well?

Didn’t that already happen? Wasn’t his healing the

reason for his outburst of praise and thanks? The

order feels off.

To see Jesus’ meaning, we need to understand his

language. Hang with me here. It’s going to get a little nerdy.

In verse 15, when the man discovers that he is cured,

the gospel writer Luke uses the Greek verb for physical

healing. He is cured of his leprosy. Just the word we

would expect. But in verse 19, Jesus changes the

meaning when he shifts the verb. Now unfortunately, our

translation uses the anemic “made well,” but that’s not

really right. What Jesus says in the original Greek is “you

have been sozo-ed.” Sozo means “to be saved” in the

divine sense. In the Peter, standing before the crowds

at Pentecost, “Everyone who calls upon the name of

the Lord shall be sozo-ed.” Saved. Delivered. Rescued.

Freed. Liberated.

Yes, ten lepers are healed. Jesus cures the disease of

ten men. But one of them is saved. And I believe the

encounter leaves us with an important question. What

was distinctive about this one Samaritan leper? What

sets him apart? The answer, I believe, is gratitude. It

is his gratitude that saves him. Friends, there is a truth

here that moves far beyond basic manners. We are

all receivers of a gift we did not earn and could never

deserve. That gift is grace.

And if you believe it, if you believe that you have

received the unearned gift of grace, the question you

will spend the rest of your life answering is this: how will

I respond? Theologian Karl Barth was fond of saying

that the basic human response to God is not fear and

trembling, not guilt and dread, but thanksgiving. Barth

wrote, “What else can we say to what God gives but to

stammer praise?” Grace evokes gratitude.

And this Commitment Sunday, I want to tell you that

gratitude is the only reason to give. That only gratitude

will rescue you, save you, from a life centered on

acquisition, protective posturing, harmful hoarding, and

miserable miserliness. Gratitude is freedom.

My friend Margaret Curtis recently sent me a reflection

she wrote for her newspaper out in Arizona. Margaret

describes Sunday mornings decades ago when she had

the unenviable responsibility of getting four preschoolage children ready for Sunday school and church. One

week, just as they were about to walk out the door, she

realized she was missing Michael, the youngest. The

other siblings turned the house upside down looking for

their brother. They called the neighbors, but no one had

seen him. Finally, Margaret decided to get in the car and

drive around in hopes of spotting her young son walking

the streets. It was then that Margaret found Michael in

the place she least expected him, asleep in the back

seat of the car. Margaret remembers how another son

complained about going to church that day. Afterall,

they were already late. Finally, the brother asked, “What

do we need God for, anyway?” His older sister thought

for a second and then answered, “So that we will have

someone to thank for finding Mike.” Margaret says no

one objected to that answer.

The message of the Samaritan leper who returned

to Jesus is this: true gratitude, gratitude that has the

power to save us, connects the dots between a gift

and its giver.

I’ve been reflecting this week on the role of faith

communities, really of faith itself, in this era of

accelerated unraveling. Fear is ascendant. The tensions

between us are raw and real. What is the mission and

message of the Church for such a time as this? It’s a

question that congregations like ours need to consider

with sober seriousness these days.

Here’s one thought drawn from our text and our

tradition. At the heart of the Reformed Tradition is an

acknowledgment, an awareness, that humankind, on

the individual and collective level, is fundamentally

broken. A mess. We are desperately in need of

salvation. Repair. Healing.

And what’s more: we cannot save ourselves. Since

we are part of the problem, we cannot on our own be

the solution. Like the ten lepers, we must ask God for

mercy. I am concerned about a sometimes subtle but

still significant shift that has taken place in our selfunderstanding. As institutions have lost influence, and

cynical nihilism has taken hold, we tend to neglect

moral formation as a universal human need. Instead,

we posture and point fingers. We pretend. We say

and perhaps even believe things like: People like me

are basically good. My tribe, my people, my party is

basically right. And it’s all those other people who need

to be fixed…or, perhaps even better, vanquished. In

such a context, faith becomes not humble gratitude

for undeserved grace, but a weapon wielded against

perceived enemies with a different politicized identity.

If you think I’m being too extreme, let me suggest that

a brief survey of sermons preached in many settings

this fall would confirm the appeal of these messages.

And even in this blessed place, I occasionally receive

requests for sermons that call out people on the “other

side” for their failures.

I am convinced that these messages would only

deepen our divide. I am persuaded that they will not

save us. That in place of the breach, we need a shared

identity, a common story. And for people of Christian

faith, it is the story of grace. It is the identity of grateful

receivers. Gratitude saves us from self-righteousness

and resentment. Gratitude changes us, and it unleashes

a holy imagination.

This Tuesday, November 19th, is the 186th anniversary

of the founding of Second Presbyterian Church in 1838.

In the grand sweep of Second’s rich history, I’m still a

newcomer here on my 2,361st day. But, with the eyes

of my heart, with holy imagination, I have a vision of

what the next chapter of our life together can be. A

vision grounded in gratitude for our deep roots and

of expectation that precisely the faithful leadership

we have to offer is more important now than at any

time in our history. That what we do together matters

now. To live into this vision, it’s going to take all of us

contributing to the work that God has called each of us

to do, and to pursue it together.

So, in advance, let me say thank you three times.

Thank you for who you are. In a time when too

many congregations succumb to the temptations of

tribalism and only reflect the same deep rifts that we

experience in every other part of our common life, you

are trying to be something different. A community of

faith defined by grace that makes us gracious. I do

not want to make this sound easy. It is not natural. To

seek repair in a time defined by bitter discord is in

fact a kind of miracle. I’m not exaggerating when I say

that many churches are coming apart or alternatively

acquiescing to purely political fault lines. And so,

yes, I am grateful for the boldness of your witness to

Christ’s call and your commitment to the steady work

of building relationships.

Second, thank you for what you do. If you do not see the

impact of what is happening here, rest assured that I do,

and it gives me both courage and inspiration. Because

of Second Church, real neighbors are having their real

needs met every single day. Because of your witness in

our city, partnerships are forming that will bring hope out

of despair and fresh new possibilities for transformation.

Because of your compassion and care, the grieving will

find comfort here, the lonely will find friendship, faith will

be fortified, the lost will be welcomed home, and the gifts

of prayer and song will breathe life into troubled souls.

Thank you for what you do.

Finally, thank you for the future that you imagine. At

this baptismal font and on these chancel stairs, the

story of our future is being written. In the work of our

counseling center, preschool, food pantry, ministries

of outreach and care. In the bold steps we will take

today following worship to proclaim our commitment

to emerging generations of faithful leaders, now in their

teens, twenties, and thirties. It matters that we dream.

In a time when many churches struggle to survive, your

commitment is making it possible for us to imagine. It

matters. I hear every single week in my work how much

it matters to our city and state. How much it matters to

our nation and the world God calls us to love.

Last Sunday, I said that every aspect of Second’s

ministry has seen steady growth since 2020, and that is

true. But it is also true that we are not finished yet. Far

from it. The vision of our ministry is strong as we enter

2025. But our ability to realize that vision is entirely

dependent on our commitment.

As for me and my family, we choose to tithe. We will

commit a tenth of our income to support the mission

we believe has a transformative impact on the lives of

our sons, our city, and our souls. And we are aware that

this decision makes us unusual. Even in a time when

so many are gifted with unimaginable abundance,

statistics would tell us that fewer give generously. We

are determined that our lived priorities reflect our deeply

held values. We are committed to being stewards of the

gifts we have been given.

So, why give? The answer is simple but not easy. The

only reason to give is because you have received. The

only reason to give is because you are grateful. The

tenth leper had it right. Jesus had it right. Allowing your

life to be defined by gratitude will save you. So, this

morning, give not because you must; give because you

are grateful. And you have someone to thank. Amen.