Spend Thanksgiving At Jesus' Feet

Luke 17:11-19

11 Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. 12 As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance 13 and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!”

14 When he saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed.

15 One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. 16 He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan.

17 Jesus asked, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? 18 Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” 19 Then he said to him, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.”

Spend Thanksgiving At Jesus’ Feet

As Jesus made his way to Jerusalem, he encountered a group that would have looked more at home at a Halloween party than a Thanksgiving dinner. Ten men with leprosy—a variety of skin diseases that left its victims disfigured, discoloured, and disavowed by society. Their flesh was dying, flaking off, covered in sores. It spread slowly, but it marked you immediately as someone to avoid.

It’s hard to imagine what was the worst part of these lepers’ fates. Certainly, there was physical pain and discomfort. But the psychological trauma had to be at least as painful. According to the law, anyone who contracted leprosy was not only “unclean” themselves—they made anyone who touched them unclean, too.[1] That meant society really had no place for you—at least, not inside the city gates. It meant quarantine indefinitely, with no visiting hours and no known cure. Your only source of human interaction was calling out to anyone who came close: “Unclean! Unclean!” A warning to them, and a constant reminder to yourself: as long as you bore those marks, you were stuck on the outside, with no hope of return.

This gruesome group of ten lepers had little left in life to be thankful for. They hardly had a life at all.

I don’t tell you all of this to try to stir up your pity, to make you realize how much better you have it—because I can tell you what the worst part their fate was. Something deeper than the open wounds covering their skin. Something more shameful than being cut off from their families. Something that you and I have, too.

It may not show up on your medical exam, but you can still see the damage sin causes in every part of your life. It may spread slowly, but it kills everything it touches.

Sin causes separation. You may not be quarantined away from your family, but you still know which faces will be missing at Thanksgiving dinner—especially after what’s happened between you. You know the words that were spoken—or not spoken—that have replaced warmth with walls of ice.

Sin leaves a mark. No matter how many blemishes may be on your skin, is your track record as a friend, a son, daughter, parent, employee… spotless? Or are there scars from your past that never seem to fade away?

Sin brings shame. What are the parts of you you’d rather keep under wraps, never to see the light of day? Are you afraid of what your loved ones would think, if they saw what you really are?

Try as we might, our “condition” is not something we can keep hidden. Sooner or later, the spots start to show, and everyone can see what we are: sinners. Not that anyone should be surprised—it’s the same “disease” that our parents had, and the same one we all pass on to the next generation. By our very nature, we can’t stop sinning.

That’s exactly what the Old Testament laws of “clean” and “unclean” were meant to show. Like leprosy, like a disease that clings to our skin and keeps people away, our sin contaminates us and everything we touch; it makes us impure and unclean. It creates an impossible separation between us and our perfect, pure, holy God. Because the kingdom of heaven has no place for sin—“clean” and “unclean” cannot mix. And anyone who still bears sin’s shameful marks will be stuck outside, separated from God’s presence, forever.

Ten men, banished by the marks they bore, see someone coming near. Ordinarily, they would call out a warning: “Unclean! Unclean!” But not this time. They had heard who was coming. This was Jesus. They knew their uncleanness would be no secret to him. And more importantly, they knew that he could do something about it.

And so, not daring to get any closer, they joined their voices in a single prayer: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”[2]

They didn’t know: Jesus was already on his way to do just that. Right in verse eleven, it tells us: “on his way to Jerusalem.” On his way to the cross. God, the Eternal Life himself, descended into a world of death and dying, to take all the ugly impurities of sinful mankind on himself, and to die with them once and for all, to tear down the dividing wall between God and sinners. Yes, Jesus would have mercy—on the whole world.

That would come in just a few weeks. But today, these ten men stand in front of him.

Jesus sees them. He sees all the shame, the uncleanness, the leprosy that marked them as separated from society. But he doesn’t recoil in disgust, or look away and pick up his pace. Instead, he tells them to do something no leper would ever do, unless they were healed: “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed.[3] Dead flesh, restored to life. Pure. Clean.

Jesus sees you. He sees all the shame, the uncleanness, the leprosy of sin that marked you as separated from a holy God. But he doesn’t recoil or look away. Instead, he comes straight to you. He pours holy water on your head to wash you clean, and replaces the marks of sin with the sign of the cross on your head and your heart, to mark you as a child of God. He shows you the wounds in his hands and his side, and he gives you his own body and blood to assure you that your dead flesh has been restored to life with him. That his sacrifice has made you pure and clean in God’s sight.

“One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan.”[4]

Ten men call out to Jesus for mercy. Ten men were washed clean of their leprosy. Nine men were apparently content to leave it at that. But one man—the least likely, a Samaritan—had the faith to understand the incredible, undeserved generosity he had been shown. And he couldn’t keep himself away from the one who was responsible—the one who made him clean.

Just moments ago, this man would have been ashamed to be seen by anyone, in his miserable, leprous state. But now, there is no shame at all in his loud, unfiltered response to the miracle that he had received. Instead of calling out “Unclean!” to whoever happened to come near, he shouts “Praise God!” to whoever his voice could reach. Newly restored hope propels him until he no longer stands at a distance, but falls right at Jesus’ feet in thanks.

Jesus has washed us clean of our guilt and given us new life in him. There is nothing left to keep us separated from our God, because the holy, precious blood of his Son marks us as holy and precious in his sight. But that doesn’t mean it ends there! We don’t just wander off until we need Jesus for something else; we run back to give thanks at Jesus’ feet, over and over again.

Not because Jesus has a fragile ego and needs to know he’s appreciated. Our thanksgiving is not a condition for the healing he gives—he still healed all ten men, even if only one returned. Jesus wants you to come back and thank him… because he wants to give you more!

It’s like when Grandma sends her grandkids a birthday card and a twenty-dollar bill, and she asks if they got it—because, of course, they forgot to write a thank you card or give her a call. So the parents get on them—“Did you call Grandma yet?” But ultimately, what’s the point of that call? It’s not to convince nice, old Grandma to send more money next time. It’s because she also wants to tell them she loves them.

Jesus has so much more to give you. When you go to him in prayer not just before surgery, but after the surgery goes well, he gets to tell you that he has also removed the cancer of sin from your soul. When you thank him for the family gathered around the dinner table, he gets to tell you that you have been adopted into God’s family, and he has prepared a feast for you in heaven.

Every day, he works miracles around us. Through doctors and surgeons, he heals far more than just ten lepers. Through farmers, he feeds not just 5,000, but billions of people day after day. And most miraculous of all, through his Word and sacraments, he washes away countless sins, and turns our shame into joy.

We can always thank God for his answers to our prayers. But we also have so much to be thankful for, even when we don’t get what we pray for. I don’t mean you need to “fake it till you make it,” to trick yourself into being happy by forcing an “attitude of gratitude.” Jesus gives you promises that are true no matter the circumstances.

Thank God that, when the teachers are on strike—or you’re on strike—and your daily routine is thrown out the window for who knows how long, your God still promises, “I know the plans I have for you,…plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”[5]

Thank God that, when healing seems less realistic of an outcome every day, nothing can change the fact that “By his wounds you are healed.”[6]

Thank God that, whether you can afford a five-course dinner, or you’re struggling to make the leftovers last another day, you can still pray with full confidence before every meal, “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his mercy endures forever.”[7]

So come back. Come back to the one who came to give you life and make you clean. Come back to the one who not only braved the barrier between you, but removed it forever. Come back in thanksgiving to your loving Saviour’s feet—because he has more love to give you. Amen.

[1] Leviticus 13:45-46

[2] Luke 17:13

[3] Luke 17:14

[4] Luke 17:15-16

[5] Jeremiah 29:11

[6] 1 Peter 2:24

[7] Psalm 136:1

Can You Muster Mustard-Seed-Size Faith?

Luke 17:1-10

1 Jesus said to his disciples: “Things that cause people to stumble are bound to come, but woe to anyone through whom they come. 2 It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble. 3 So watch yourselves.

“If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them. 4 Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.”

5 The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!”

6 He replied, “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it will obey you.

7 “Suppose one of you has a servant plowing or looking after the sheep. Will he say to the servant when he comes in from the field, ‘Come along now and sit down to eat’? 8 Won’t he rather say, ‘Prepare my supper, get yourself ready and wait on me while I eat and drink; after that you may eat and drink’? 9 Will he thank the servant because he did what he was told to do? 10 So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.’”

Can You Muster Mustard-Seed-Size Faith?

Do you know how big a mustard seed is? Microsoft’s Copilot tells me it’s “approximately 1 to 2 millimeters.” You would need 100 to 150 mustard seeds lined up to make an inch. We’re talking tiny.

Do you know what’s smaller than a mustard seed? My faith. At least, that’s how I felt after Sunday School one Spring Day some 30 odd years ago. We were reading this Gospel text from Luke 17 and my Sunday School teacher was explaining the line, “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it will obey you.”[1] My teacher asked us, “If you could do anything in the world – think of the craziest thing – what would it be? If you have strong enough faith, you can do it.”

I would guess that I was somewhere between 8-12 years old at the time. So, when my Sunday School teacher asked me what I’d do if I could do anything in the world, the first thing I thought was, “I’d fly!” So, I tried.

Thankfully, it wasn’t from the roof of my house. I just closed my eyes, and prayed really hard, “Lord, let me fly.” I clenched my fists and pushed off the ground, and… nothing. And do you know what I thought next? “I don’t have strong enough faith. My faith must be even smaller than a mustard seed. I’m not a very good Christian.”

Fast forward to 2025, confronted with the same Bible passage, I feel eerily similar, but for a slightly different reason. Jesus just told us a parable about what a servant should say after a hard day of work: “So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.’”[2]

I get the first part; I’m certainly unworthy. That’s not hard to admit. But I’m not sure I could say the second part, i.e. that I’ve only done my duty. Could you? Have you – done your duty?

Jesus just laid out what a Christian’s duty is. There are two things Christians are supposed to do when it comes to sin – prevent it and address it.

Jesus said to his disciples: “Things that cause people to stumble are bound to come, but woe to anyone through whom they come. It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble.”[3] You have a duty, i.e. a sacred responsibility to do everything within your power not to cause anyone else to sin. But we lay that snare in each other’s lives so very often.

It can start with a word. And then, all of a sudden, what could have been – should have been – a constructive conversation between two Christians erupts into a shouting match full of finger pointing and unfair or outright false accusations. One person oversteps; the other overreacts. The more it’s punctured and bruised, the more pride swells on both sides. That’s what Jesus is talking about. Hurt feelings are bound to happen in life, but woe to that Christian who brings the hurt, intentionally or otherwise.

It can start with a look. You thought it was going to be a chill night in front of the TV, but your entertainment selection proved to be more salacious than you anticipated. You just wanted to look nice, e.g. try out the new outfit that’s been burning a hole in your closet. You didn’t know the thoughts it would spur (or maybe you did and didn’t care), and before you know it, you’ve caused more than one heart to burn with lust. Again, lust is bound to happen – especially in the world we live in – but woe to that Christian who causes it.

And this is important! Jesus says that it would be better for you to have a millstone tied around your neck and for you to be thrown into the heart of the sea than to make your fellow Christian angry. And that’s not hyperbole. Jesus is dead serious, because sin is deadly serious, which is why he also expects us to address it.

“If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them. Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.”[4]

If a fellow Christian sins against you, it’s your duty to confront them – and not in anger either, not playing the victim or martyr, but as he says so often elsewhere in Scripture: with great patience and careful instruction,[5] with gentleness and respect,[6] being completely humble and gentle, bearing with one another in love.[7]

Does that sound like how you respond when someone sins against you? Do you calmly and gently approach them about it? Or do you angrily approach other people and talk behind their back? Do you wash your hands of them and want nothing more to do with them? That’s not a Christian’s duty. It’s the opposite of what God wants from you.

Or when – by some miracle – you do address sin in a brother or sister, and – by some other miracle – they do repent, do you always forgive? Or do you indulge your guilt trip complex and lord it over them? Do you hold onto grudges and refuse to let go?

It's little wonder the disciples responded the way they did: “Increase our faith!”[8] It’s the same way I felt in Sunday School so many years ago. It’s the same way I feel today when I think about how often and how badly I fail to do my duty as a Christian. It’s the necessary response in a Christian’s heart, and the reason Jesus speaks these words to us – so that we don’t deny our wrongdoing; so that we don’t develop a self-righteous spirit; so that we don’t put confidence in ourselves but learn to rest it in him.  

That was my problem in Sunday School. I thought that if my faith were strong enough – if I was strong enough in my faith – then I could do anything, even fly. But that’s not what faith is. Faith isn’t a muscle you flex. It’s reminder of how small you are, but how big your God is.

“Suppose one of you has a servant plowing or looking after the sheep. Will he say to the servant when he comes in from the field, ‘Come along now and sit down to eat’? Won’t he rather say, ‘Prepare my supper, get yourself ready and wait on me while I eat and drink; after that you may eat and drink’?”[9]

That’s the way the world works. That’s not the way your God works. What did Jesus do on the night before he died? While his disciples reclined to eat the Passover meal, Jesus was the one who got himself ready to wait on them. He took off his outer clothes, wrapped himself in a towel and washed their feet. Peter said it was inappropriate. Jesus reminded him that this was why he had come. As he had said elsewhere: “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”[10]

That’s what Jesus came to do for you. He came to serve you. He came to give his life for you on the cross as the sacrifice for your sin – to take your penalty in his body and die the death that you deserve so that you can live in the peace of knowing his selfless, forgiving love. A love that wasn’t limited to a one-time gift, 2,000 years ago on a hill outside of Jerusalem, but one that he continues to show you today.

Because Jesus does these other things too. He rebukes you when you sin. Which doesn’t sound pleasant at first. He points out your faults and failures, but not to humiliate you, not to run you down, but to make you aware of your error, so that you can see how he has made it right, so that you can understand your need for forgiveness and salvation, and find it in Jesus.

Jesus does what’s so hard for you and I to do. He forgives everyone who sins against him. He forgives you. And he does it in ways that are intentionally hard for you to deny. He has a pastor pour water on your head and pronounce God’s adoption and blessing over you. He has a pastor and a vicar and lay leaders within the congregation, put his own body and blood into your hands so that you can taste his forgiving love with your own lips. He puts fellow Christians in your life to serve as his mouthpiece and proclaim his promise of salvation to sinners like you – people who don’t deserve his love but receive it by grace through faith in Jesus.

That’s what I had gotten wrong in Sunday School so many years ago. I thought I had to be the strong one. I thought that moving mulberry trees was up to me and my ability. Faith is a complete denial of self. It’s an acceptance that we are smaller-than-a-mustard-seed-Christians, who put their faith in a God who is great, who does the impossible for us – who sent his Son in love to forgive us, to wash our sins away, and to give us new opportunities every day, not to earn his love but to live in it, to see the world as he does.

That’s the only way you will ever be able to avoid causing someone else to sin, when you see them the way that Jesus does – as souls dearly bought by his own blood. Then we’d do anything, including sacrificing our own comforts and privileges and rights, if it means serving someone else’s eternal, spiritual good.

That’s the only way we can ever rebuke someone else’s sin, without sitting on our own high horse, when we see ourselves the way that Jesus does – as sinners saved by grace. Who better, then, to be the ones to tell other sinners where they can find grace too? That’s why God forgives you – because he loves you and wants to live with you forever in heaven, but also so that you can forgive each other too.

That’s the only way we can ever say, “We have only done our duty,” when we acknowledge how humble our service is to the God who gives us Jesus. We are unworthy. The other way to say that is, he is gracious. Lord, increase our faith that we may serve you by loving each other. Amen.

[1] Luke 17:6

[2] Luke 17:10

[3] Luke 17:1,2

[4] Luke 17:3,4

[5] 2 Timothy 4:2

[6] 1 Peter 3:15

[7] Ephesians 4:2

[8] Luke 17:5

[9] Luke 17:7,8

[10] Mark 10:45

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