Mercy Now!

Text: St. Luke 17:11-19
Theme: “Mercy Now”
The Twenty-Eighth Sunday In Ordinary Time
The Twentieth Sunday After Pentecost
October 10, 2010
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
The Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

+In the Name of Jesus+

Ask a group of Christians what their favorite Bible passage might be and, invariably, someone will mention the 23rd Psalm: “The Lord’s my shepherd, I Shall Not Want.” This beautiful piece of Hebrew poetry, penned by the great King David, has been set to music, sung, and performed in countless ways for literally thousands of years.

“The Lord’s My Shepherd, I’ll Not Want”, in the version of a hymn, was my grandma’s favorite. She loved to sing it from The Lutheran Hymnal of 1941. It was good old #436, and it was sung in the common meter to a tune called “Belmont” (whatever that means). It goes like this: (play verse on piano). That’s the only melody I knew for the 23rd Psalm – that is, until I was introduced to the Presbyterian version of the same hymn, set to a tune called “Crimond”, that goes like this: (play verse on piano). I first heard that tune in 1990 when I was twenty nine years old, and there’s a story behind it that I’ll get to in a bit.

Today’s Gospel reading – Luke 17:11-19 -- is the traditional Gospel for Thanksgiving Day. But here we are on the 28th Sunday in Ordinary time, a little over six weeks away from Thanksgiving Day. What’s up with that? I don’t know; it just says so on the Presbyterian calendar, so it must be right!

At any rate, all by itself, this day – and not Thanksgiving Day – is unique in its own right. It is the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the new millennium. Ten seems to be the number today. It even shows up in our reading, for there are ten lepers.

Lepers were people who had a horrible disease of the skin that caused awful sores to break out over the body. Today called “Hansen’s Disease”, it is named for a Norwegian doctor, Gerhard Hansen, who first discovered the bacterium that caused leprosy in 1873. A multi-pharmaceutical treatment basically takes care of it nowadays. But that wasn’t the case when Jesus lived. There was no curative regimen of prescription or over-the-counter medication, ointments, or what have you. Therefore, according to Jewish law, lepers were required to live “outside the camp” – as the law reads in Leviticus. If, somehow, they were cured of their disease (which was highly unlikely), the law said that they had to show themselves to the priests and then go through an elaborate ritual before they could be pronounced cleansed and return to their homes inside the camp.

We pick up with Jesus on His way to Jerusalem. He stops by a little border town between Samaria and Galilee. No Shell or Valero station there, but it might have been a good spot for one. It was a something of a dangerous place, however, because Samaritans had no dealings with the Jewish folk. And the Jews thought Samaritans to be inferior half-breeds. There was a saying at the time that went like this: “The only good Samaritan was a dead Samaritan.” Racial tension was a reality of life. But racism or not, the ten lepers approached Jesus. Their worries had nothing to do with race. And now I quote Luke: “Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’”

It was on account of their disease and the laws that surrounded it that they kept their distance. Others kept their distance from the lepers for the very same reasons.

This is the point, shifting gears, where I wish to tell you about where I first ran into the Presbyterian version of “The Lord’s My Shepherd.” I heard it on CNN in April of 1990. In the early afternoon, the cable network interrupted the regularly scheduled programming to televise a funeral. It was held at the largest Presbyterian Church I’d ever seen: Second Presbyterian Church in Indianapolis, Indiana. It was April 11th, Wednesday of Holy Week. Over fifteen hundred people attended the service, standing room only, which included Elton John, Michael Jackson, football’s Howie Long, Phil Donahue, and then First Lady Barbara Bush.

They gathered to remember the life of a nineteen year old young man by the name of Ryan White. He died from complications brought on by the Human Immuno-deficiency Virus/ Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome – otherwise known as H.I.V./A.I.D.S. He was infected through tainted blood from a transfusion. He needed transfusions to treat his hemophilia. Once diagnosed with H.I.V./A.I.D.S., he was given six months to live, but, beating the odds, he lived for four more years. And what a four years it was!

He didn’t want to go to Disneyworld, he simply wanted to go to school; his doctor’s said he could go to school for he posed no risk of infecting his fellow students. Nevertheless, the principal of Western Middle School in Rushville, Indiana, along with the local school board, caved in to the pressure from other students and parents and banned young Ryan from attending. He was to be, in a manner of speaking, kept “outside the camp.”

But young Ryan, feeling much better at the time, simply wanted a little mercy – in his case, mercy was the opportunity to go to school. A tense legal battle ensued, but later that year the local ruling was overturned and Ryan was allowed to go back to school. For a year, he hung in there at the same educational institution that had banned him. During that time, he and his family received death threats and a bullet was fired through a window in Ryan’s home. Man’s inhumanity to man just marches on, doesn’t it? After the year was over, they moved to Cicero, Indiana – only five minutes from where I lived at the time.

In August of 1987, a nervous Ryan began his first day at Hamilton Heights High School. He was greeted by the principal and fifteen smiling students who were unafraid to shake his hand. He was going to school; he was no longer “outside the camp”, no longer kept at a distance; he had received mercy and taught a country in the process. Less than three years later, at his funeral, some of the same friends who greeted him at school joined the congregation assembled and sang #170: “The Lord’s My Shepherd, I’ll Not Want.” Every time I hear that melody, I think of Ryan White. I think of how he was kept “outside the camp” and banned from school. I think of how he was treated – mostly by folks who were motivated by fear more than anything else. He never asked to be a hemophiliac. He never asked to be transfused with tainted blood. He never asked for celebrity status. He just wanted to go to school.

The ten lepers just wanted to be cleansed. This was the mercy that was unique to them: cleansing. So often, this story of the lepers is put to use by people like me – the preachers of the world -- to suggest that you might be more grateful for the blessings God has given you. In other words, be like that one cleansed leper who came back to praise Jesus and not like those nasty, ungrateful other nine. I’m not saying that gratitude isn’t important, but I can no more make you grateful than I can make my brown eyes blue.

Perhaps there are some with us today that aren’t necessarily feeling all that grateful. I remember hearing once about a worship service where the minister began with “Let us all stand up, turn to one another, and give each other a happy hug in the name of Jesus.” But, sitting in the back pew alone, was a woman who had learned in the past week that her husband of over twenty five years was given only a month to live. Do you think she was in the mood for happy-clappy-huggy gratitude? It has been said that gratitude is the least felt of all emotions, and that may be true. It’s quite possible that there are others here who are looking for something entirely different than a choreographed hug – like a little mercy for example, like some mercy now.

There stood those ten lepers – “outside the camp”, keeping their distance, and shouting out to Jesus. Was it fair that they had leprosy? No. And, unlike many in the world today, they didn’t ask for fairness. They asked for mercy.

Focus on the mercy, I say. Follow the mercy. See what the mercy does. And I suggest that you not overlook what is so often forgotten in this story: the very human side. Meditate on it, and use your imagination. Think of the family members and loved ones of those lepers. Those lepers would never receive a hug from grandpa or grandma, from a father, a mother, a sister, a brother, a daughter, a son, or a grandchild. There would be no kisses, no shoulders to cry on, no family dinners, and no chance to celebrate special occasions. No one could fix their boo-boos; no one could hold their hands. They were “outside the camp”; they always had to keep their distance. Part of us screams out: “That’s not fair.” No, it’s not, but they didn’t ask for fairness.

A song by Mary Gauthier captures the very human side to this story, our text. It goes like this:

My father could use a little mercy now.
The fruits of his labor fall and rot slowly on the ground.
His work is almost over, and it won’t be long that he won’t be around.
I love my father, he could use some mercy now.

My brother could use a little mercy now.
He’s a stranger to freedom; he’s shackled to his fear and his doubt.
The pain that he lives in it’s almost more than living will allow.
I love my brother, he could use some mercy now.

Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now.
I know we don’t deserve it, but we need it anyhow.
We hang in the balance and dangle between hell and hallowed ground.
And every single one of us could use some mercy now.

Let me paraphrase the ten lepers: “Master Jesus, every single one of us could use some mercy now.” Jesus, seeing them, abruptly says: “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” He speaks as if the cleansing, the mercy is a done deal. He then orders them to follow the law. They go, and, on their way, they are cleansed. Yes, it is a done deal. By all means, go, go quickly; run as fast as you can. Do what the priests tell you; hurry up; soon, you’ll be able to hug your loved ones again, kiss them, celebrate with them, start living life again.

But one of them, a Samaritan we are told, does not do that. In fact, he initially seems to disobey the law and even the command of Jesus. He turns back. He falls at Jesus’ feet, which is one of the Biblical postures for worshipping God, and he thanked Him. With lips both cleansed and quivering, he says thanks. This is what the abrupt mercy did for that leper. It not only cleansed him; it prompted thanksgiving.

Jesus acts surprised. He says: “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then, likely with a smile on His face, He says to the cleansed Samaritan: “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

It all happened as Jesus was on His way to Jerusalem. Once there, He would break the bread and share the cup in giving us all He had: His body and blood. Mercy now! He was crucified to pay for everything that kept the world – with you and me in it – at a distance from God, outside God’s camp. Mercy now! He was raised to newness of life only to share it with His brothers and sisters, God’s children! Mercy now!

What does the mercy prompt you to do?

It prompts me to share. Sometimes you can hold on to things by giving them away. With God’s mercy, there’s always more. Try to spot the little mercies that come your way this coming week. I noticed yet more mercy this past week. I called my daughter Caroline on her birthday. (She is now the same age that Ryan White was when he died.) I want you to know that Caroline has “Pervasive Developmental Disorder” which comes under the heading – or umbrella, as its called – of Autism. Autistic children and young adults occupy a different thought world, a world that strikes more typical people as awkward. But every now and again, if you take the time, you may find yourself in that world for at least a little bit.

Caroline says: “Dad, know what Christopher Robin said to Winnie the Pooh? It’s my favorite part.” “No, Caroline, tell me! What is it?”

Promise me you’ll always remember that
You’re braver than you believe,
And stronger than you seem,
And smarter than you think.

“That’s my favorite part, Father,” she said.

Thank you, dear Lord Jesus, for Caroline, for her nineteen years, and for all the people here today, all of you today, who are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” Why? It is because of mercy – now.

Amen.