“Thanksgiving”
October 12, 2025
Rev. Rebecca Migliore
Let’s set the scene. We are in a borderland, a place between Samaria and Galilee. A place outside of the expected, a place where boundaries are fluid, a “liminal” space (as Rev. Dr. Karen Hybertsen used to tell us). These liminal places are often dangerous, but also places of possible growth. Think Israel in the wilderness for 40 years—learning to be a people, God’s people; think Jesus in the wilderness for 40 days—learning about what it is that God was asking him to do, discussing, even quarrelling with the Satan about how to do it.
So, borderland. And 10 people show up on the horizon—and stay a fair distance away. They are what the Bible calls “lepros” which we now think is not leprosy as we know it. But obviously they have a skin disease that marks them as unclean—the community has sent them out, thrown them out, and they are not to approach anyone. They are to live in the shadows, to scrounge for food as wild animals would do. They are supposed to disappear.
But when Jesus appears, they dare to come a little closer, close enough to yell “Jesus” (they know his name--have the stories of Jesus reached even into this wild place, even to these shunned people?); “Jesus, Master” (they recognize his power, they acknowledge their belief in him); “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” (They didn’t ask for healing. Did they only half believe it was possible? But they wanted whatever it was that Jesus could give—mercy, grace, a relationship, a recognition of them as human beings worthy of love.)
And Jesus hears them, sees them, has mercy on them. And tells them to go and show themselves to the priests (the first step in being reintegrated into society). And they go—they go before anything has happened to their skin. They go in the belief that Jesus has healed them. They rush to show themselves to the proper authorities. And in their going, they are made clean! Nine disappear over the hills. One, turns back, and comes to Jesus, praising God in a loud voice. He throws himself at Jesus’ feet (does he kiss his feet as well? Does he try to wipe Jesus’ feet with his hair wet with his tears?). And then the zinger! “And he was a Samaritan.”
We remember the other shocking story of a Samaritan (told only in this gospel)—what we call the parable of the “Good Samaritan.” We remember that Samaritans were considered “unclean,” “heretical,” even “the enemy.” They had once been Jews but had been those who were left behind when the exile happened (so they were not high society, not important enough to take to Babylon). They had intermarried with the Gentiles around them. They had begun to worship God under other names, in other places. They were “outsiders.”
This person, this Samaritan, wouldn’t let me alone this week. Yes, this story is about Thanksgiving—that’s the title of my sermon. But the more I concentrated on this main character, whose name we will never know, the more I began to see that this is not a story of just ultimate joy, although we can only imagine that that must have been one of the feelings this man had. This is not just a story of unadulterated thanksgiving. This is a real story—a story that has unfinished business, a story that contains both outpouring of the heart, and yet maybe some fear about the future as well.
Muse with me for a few minutes about this one, the one who turned back, the one who praised God with a loud voice, the one who desperately wanted to touch Jesus, even if only Jesus’ feet. The one who heard Jesus say, “Get up, go on your way, your faith has made you well.”
What was life like for this person? We don’t know whether he was married, had children. We only know he was a Samaritan (and how Jesus knew that we are not told.) He was from “the other side.” He would not have ordinarily been hanging around with Jews—because Jews and Samaritans didn’t like each other, they thought the other was unclean/uppity or heathen/exclusionary or “not like us.” But then the unthinkable happened. He had gotten the dreaded skin disease. He had been told to go away, or maybe had fled to protect his family. He was isolated, alone. And yet, in the borderland, he had found a community.
In the borderland, he met others like him, other outcasts, other outsiders, others with the same disease. And even though they were Jews and he was a Samaritan, that didn’t matter. They traveled together. They ate together. They heard whispers about Jesus together. They were friends. They had the same hopes, the same dreams—to one day be healed, be made clean, be able to return to life as it used to be.
And then that glorious day. The kin[g]dom of God came near in the person of Jesus. “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” they shouted together. And Jesus gave them his words—“Go, and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean. How did our Samaritan feel? Elation at first. I’m clean. I’m free. I can go back home. But then there was this realization. I can’t go with my friends, they are going to Jewish priests. I’m not welcome there.
Yes, I can go to a Samaritan priest. But as much as I’m so happy at what has happened, it has also changed everything. I will no longer be welcome to be in my former friend’s presence. Maybe we were only friends because of circumstance. Will I ever know? Will I be able to go back to my family, my old friends? Will they be able to understand what I’ve been through? Will they accept me, even if my skin is clear? Will there always be this gap between them and me? Is it wrong to mourn the loss of the community of the outcasts?
Amid this confusion, amid this turmoil of emotions, amid this swirl of feelings and thoughts, his feet slow. One thing he knows. One thing is certain. To God be the glory. Thank you, God. Thank you. And he finds his feet running to the one who has showed mercy, the one who has touched him with his words and his kindness, the one who he has called Master, the one who he wonders might be “the Lord.”
Two ideas for us to chew on in the coming days. First, Matthew Boulton from SALT project has an interesting suggestion about these Samaritan stories. The Good Samaritan and the Thankful Samaritan are concrete examples of the greatest commandment—Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and soul, and mind, and strength, (this story) and love your neighbor as yourself (Good Samaritan). How extraordinary that Luke would choose to portray how we are to live a faithful life with two stories of outsiders, and outsiders that would have been seen as true others, even as adversaries. Do we have eyes to see what those who we term adversaries/others can teach us?
And second, what might this story have to say to us as church? When God’s grace and mercy comes to us, do we go running (like the nine) to prove to the masses that it has happened? Is doing things decently and in order our first priority? Was Jesus’ command “Go and show yourselves to the priests” a dual invitation? For those who need it, go back to the familiarity of the non-liminal, the non-borderland, even go back to the way it was. But, if you dare, if you choose, stay here with me. Stay in the place where impossible things happen. Stay in the space where enemies become friends because all boundaries are blown away by the wilderness, all social constructions are swept away. Because in the wilderness, we get down to the bedrock of life. In the borderland all the conventions of society can seem so pretentious, so pointless, so silly.
If I were a puritan in my religious beliefs, I might even say that if we all see that we are sinners (our disease) that we might let all those other definitions go and live like we were in a borderland. But I’m not a puritan, and so I can only say that what we take into the wilderness, if we choose to go or if we are forced to go, if that we are human, we are flawed, we are God’s good creation, but we no longer live in Eden. We live in a world where our bodies sometimes break down. We live in a world where greed and oppression and hate seem to have the upper hand. We live in a world that constantly offers us temptations to run away from the very heart of our faith, the very incarnation of grace and mercy and love.
I have a sneaking suspicion that the kin[g]dom of God is often found (maybe only found) in the borderland, in the wilderness.
Certainly that is where we are dis-connected from all the noise of life. Certainly that is where we might learn to lean on each other, and put our trust in God. Certainly that might be where we discover our similarities and learn from our differences. No wonder wilderness times are baked into our faith story—40 days and 40 nights of rain on the ark; 40 years of wandering the wilderness; 40 days of Jesus in the borderland after baptism; even 40 days from Easter morning to Ascension (when Jesus exited into the clouds).
Might we in the church be called to living in that liminal space, in that borderland, in that wilderness. Might we be called to an eyes- wide-open heart of Thanksgiving. Might we be expected to create a community that welcomes all—because being flawed humans is our basic identity—all the rest is not important in God’s sight. Because in the wilderness we take on a new identity—beloved children of God. And for that we turn our lives around, for that we lift up thanks, for that we stop along the way to help the wounded, no matter who they are.
Thank you, Jesus. We will follow wherever you lead. Amen.