Jesus is walking the borderlands—the space between Samaria and Galilee—when ten men appear. They do not approach. They cannot. They stand at a distance, bodies marked, voices raised, shouting the only prayer they have left:
“Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”
The village is unnamed, but it does not need a name. It may have been Nazareth—home ground for Jesus—which could explain why these outcasts already know who He is.
Jesus does not touch them. He does not speak a word of healing. Instead, He gives them a command:
“Go. Show yourselves to the priests.”
It sounds almost dismissive—until we remember the Law. Leviticus 14 lays out, in exhausting detail, how a leper is restored. Step one: present yourself to a priest. Leprosy was never just skin-deep; it was spiritual, social, and moral. There were no doctors for this disease—only priests. Only sacrifices. Only atonement. Healing required obedience before evidence.
And they go.
Ten broken men walking away from the only hope they can see, trusting that something will happen along the road. Somewhere between obedience and arrival, their skin clears. Bones strengthen. Nerves awaken. They are healed mid-step.
But only one stops.
One turns around.
Turning back is more than gratitude—it is repentance. It is a change of direction, a reorientation of the heart. This man does not just receive healing; he recognizes its source. He runs back, shouting praise, and collapses at Jesus’ feet. A Samaritan. An outsider twice over. And there, in the dust, he gives glory—not to God in the abstract, but to God standing in front of him.
Did he understand who Jesus truly was? We are not told. But his posture speaks louder than theology.
Jesus notices the absence.
“Were there not ten?”
Where are the others?
Then He speaks words heavier than healing:
“Your faith has saved you. Go your way.”
The other nine were not faithless. They called Jesus “Master.” They obeyed His instruction. They trusted the Law, but they chose the system—the priests, the sacrifices, the long road back to normal life. They trusted in the written law, not the word of God in the flesh. This was not sin. It was familiar. It was safe. But it was slow.
Leviticus demands birds and blood and days of waiting. Inspections. Rituals. Time.
The Samaritan chooses something else. He chooses presence over process. Praise over protocol. He bypasses the system not out of rebellion, but because he has found its fulfillment-God in the flesh, the word come down out of heaven, the bread of life. His faith, repentance, obedience, and worship accomplish in a moment what the Law would take weeks to complete.
This is not an attack on the Law—it is a revelation of its purpose. The Law was training wheels. A guide. A shadow. As Paul would later say, it was elementary. But the goal was never the steps. The goal was always the heart.
All ten were cleansed.
Only one was saved.
All ten obeyed.
Only one returned.
And only one was told, “Go your way.”
The others went the way they had always known. The Samaritan went a new way. He took a risk. He trusted not a system, but a Savior. And in doing so, he stepped not just back into society—but into life.
Luke 17:11-119
created and written by Kim Blenkhorn
Edited using ChatGBT
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