Ten men cried out for mercy.
Ten were healed.
Only one came back.

And Jesus asks, “Were not ten made clean? Where are the other nine?”

It’s not just a question for that moment.
It’s a question for every generation — including ours.

Where are the others?
Where are the baptised who no longer pray?
Where are the families who never come to Mass?
Where are the ones who once knelt in faith and have drifted away?

Christ’s question still hangs in the air of every parish:
“Were not ten made clean? Where are the other nine?”

They received healing, but only one received holiness.
They wanted their health, not their Saviour.
They took the gift but forgot the Giver.

And that, my friends, is the difference between faith and convenience —
between being healed and being saved.

Notice what Jesus told them:

“Go, show yourselves to the priests.”

That line is so Catholic it almost sounds like a confession queue.

Because even in the Gospel, Christ is already pointing toward the Church He would found —
a priesthood through which mercy would flow.

In the Old Law, the priest could declare a leper clean.
In the New Law, the priest — by Christ’s power — absolves the sinner.
The leper’s cleansing foreshadows the confessional.
The mercy of Christ still flows through human hands.

That’s why the Church never separates Christ from His sacraments.
He still heals through them.
The “Go, show yourselves to the priests” of Luke’s Gospel
has become the “Go, and confess your sins” of our own time.

Leprosy in the Bible isn’t only about skin — it’s about separation.
It’s the outward picture of what sin does inwardly.

Leprosy isolates.
It eats away quietly.
It numbs.
And when sin takes hold, the soul loses its sensitivity too.

That’s why Confession isn’t a formality.
It’s the spiritual cleansing that restores communion —
with God, with the Church, with life.

The nine lepers received healing for the body.
But only the one who returned received salvation for the soul.
Because only he came back to adore.

And how did he come back?
Falling on his face at the feet of Jesus, praising God.

That is Eucharistic language.
He returns, he kneels, he gives thanks.
He becomes the first to live out the very meaning of the Mass — Eucharistia, thanksgiving.

Every Sunday, that same drama unfolds again.
Christ gives us healing, mercy, and grace.
And the question still comes:
“Who will return?”

The world goes home healed but unchanged.
The Church comes home saved because she returns in thanksgiving.
That’s why the Mass is not an optional extra.
It’s the place where gratitude becomes worship,
and healing becomes communion.

The first reading gives us another foreigner — Naaman the Syrian.
He, too, wanted healing — and he almost missed it.
He expected fireworks, spectacle, a show.
Instead, the prophet Elisha said, “Go and wash in the Jordan seven times.”

Too simple, Naaman thought. Too ordinary.

But God hides His power in the ordinary.
In water.
In oil.
In bread and wine.
In the small, obedient “yes” of faith.

When Naaman humbled himself and washed, he was cleansed.
When we humble ourselves before the sacraments, we are saved.

Naaman’s river is our baptismal font.
The leper’s thanksgiving is our Eucharist.
The priest’s word is still Christ’s command.

Grace always demands humility.

The Samaritan didn’t just say thank you — he turned back.
That’s conversion.
That’s metanoia — the turning of the whole heart toward God.

Gratitude is not just courtesy; it’s conversion in motion.
Because when you truly thank God, you recognise who He is.
You fall at His feet.
You surrender.

And Jesus says to him — the only one who returned —

“Your faith has saved you.”

Nine were cleansed; one was converted.
Nine rejoiced in their healing; one rejoiced in the Healer.

Our age has caught the disease of the nine.
We receive daily blessings — breath, family, food, peace —
and still find something to complain about.

We have turned thankfulness into entitlement.
We talk about rights and forget grace.
We want mercy without repentance,
faith without the Church,
Christ without His Cross.

We are not much different from the nine who walked away healed but ungrateful.
They kept their bodies clean but their souls empty.

At the heart of Catholic faith stands the Eucharist — the act of thanksgiving that saves. Every Mass is the Samaritan’s return.
We come back to the altar to fall at the feet of the same Jesus.

And what do we say?
“Lord, I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof.”
Those are the words of every healed sinner,
every returning leper,
every soul washed clean in confession and hungry for grace.

The Mass is the place where mercy and thanksgiving meet.
It is the Church saying, week after week:
“Lord, You have done great things for us — and still we return.”

A Catholic soul is a grateful soul.
Gratitude is not mood; it is mission.
It is the refusal to walk away after receiving mercy.

To be Catholic is to keep coming back:
back to the altar,
back to confession,
back to prayer,
back to the Cross.

Because every return is another step home.
And the whole Catholic life is one long homecoming —
from sin to grace, from isolation to communion, from death to life.

Tonight, Christ asks again:
“Where are the others?”

Let’s make sure we are not among the nine.
Let’s be the one who returns.
Let’s be the people who come back to Mass not out of habit, but out of love.
Let’s be the ones who bring our gratitude to the altar,
who see not just bread and wine, but the living Lord who heals our souls.

He’s here.
He’s still waiting.
And He still asks, softly but clearly: “Were not ten made clean? Where are the others?”

Let’s answer Him by our presence, our faith, and our thanksgiving.