Ten men are standing at a distance. They have to. They are lepers.
Nobody wants them nearby. They cannot simply stroll into town, visit the family, pop into the synagogue and carry on as normal.
Then Jesus appears.
And ten voices start shouting: “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!”
Not: “Jesus, we have been reasonably good.”
Not: “Jesus, after careful consideration we think we qualify.”
Just: Have pity on us.
And Jesus says: “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”
So off they go. Still lepers.
That is the first extraordinary thing.
They start walking before anything has happened.
One looks at another.
“Any improvement?” “No.” “Same here.” Still they walk.
Then somewhere along the road somebody looks at his hand.
Stops. Looks again. The skin is clean.
He grabs the man beside him. “Look.”
And now everyone is looking.
Hands. Arms. Faces.
Ten men who woke up that morning as lepers are suddenly well.
You would think the next part would be obvious.
Apparently not.
Nine keep going. One turns round.
Human nature has not changed much in two thousand years.
When we need something from God, we can become remarkably prayerful remarkably quickly.
“Lord, please.”
“Lord, help.”
“Lord, if You get me through this…”
Then God gets us through it.
And suddenly there are emails to answer and things to do.
The Samaritan stops.
He turns back.
He runs towards Jesus praising God at the top of his voice, falls flat at His feet and thanks Him.
And Jesus looks around.
“Were not ten cleansed? Where are the other nine?”
Presumably already reorganising their diaries now that the emergency has passed.
But the Samaritan has understood something the others have missed.
His skin has been healed.
But that is not the greatest thing which has happened to him.
He has met the One who healed it.
And Saint Paul, writing to Titus, gives us the words for what has just happened.
“When the kindness and generous love of God our Saviour appeared… He saved us, not because of righteous deeds we had done, but because of His mercy.”
That leper could have said every word of it.
I did not cure myself. I did not deserve this.
Mercy found me on the road.
And once you know that, you cannot quite carry on walking in the same direction.
So he turns back. And Jesus says: “Your faith has saved you.”
All ten have clean skin. Only one hears that.
Centuries later, another man is riding along a road.
Martin. A Roman soldier. Not yet baptised. Still learning the Catholic faith.
Cold day. At the roadside is a beggar with hardly anything to wear.
Martin could have kept going. Most people probably did. He stops.
Looks at the man. Looks at his cloak. Cuts it in two.
Half for Martin. Half for the beggar.
That night, according to the ancient account, Martin sees Christ wearing the piece of cloak.
And Christ says: “Martin, still a catechumen, has clothed Me.”
Now put the two roads together.
On one road, a leper receives mercy and suddenly recognises Christ.
On another, Martin gives mercy and discovers that Christ was standing in front of him all along.
That is what grace does.
First Christ finds us.
Then, if we let Him change us, we start finding Christ everywhere.
In the person who needs forgiveness. In the person who needs patience.
In the lonely one. In the poor one. In the person we would rather walk past.
The nine lepers received a miracle and carried on. The Samaritan turned back.
Martin stopped. And perhaps holiness begins with those two movements:
turn back when Christ has been merciful to you;
stop when Christ is asking mercy from you.
Because sooner or later we discover that it was Christ at both ends of the road.
