(Luke 17: 11-19) ( Pentecost 18)
13 October 2019 © Neil Millar
In recent years, I’ve heard and become interested in the concept of ‘liminal space’ and the associated notion of ‘liminality’. A liminal space is a transitional or in-between place, an in-between time. Corridors, staircases, ruins, alleyways, bridges and crossroads are examples of in-between places. Dawn and dusk are examples of in-between times, as are spring and autumn. And there are others — the breakdown of a relationship or death of a loved one, the time between noticing a symptom and getting the diagnosis, the time of treatment, a time of travel.
Liminal spaces have a degree of strangeness about them, and when we’re in them we can feel… well, ‘edgy’ — tense and unsettled, disoriented, not quite ourselves, neither here nor there. We may also notice a sense of excitement and anticipation, a surge of adrenalin, as if on the verge of something. (The word liminal comes from the Latin, ‘limen’, meaning threshold.)
In many stories and in the spiritual life, these liminal experiences can be places and times of profound encounter and change. Think of Moses at the burning bush; of Elijah in his cave; of Jesus at his baptism and in the garden, and the disciples on the Mount of Transfiguration.
The encounter we’ve just heard about happened in a liminal space. Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem, travelling between Samaria and Galilee (11). In other words, in a liminal space, a kind of ‘no-man’s land’ between rival religious cultures. As well as that, he was entering a village (neither in nor out), another liminal space. Not surprisingly, this is where he met a band of lepers who, ‘stood a distance away’ andshouted: ‘Jesus! Master! Take pity on us!’ I say not surprisingly, because people like this (the ritually unclean) were consigned by Law to the margins of society – more liminality. Here, they eked out a living, banding together for support. They’ve obviously heard of his reputation as a healer and, they’re hoping that he will do something for them.
Now, I don’t know what it was like to hear his response, but I imagine it could’ve been disappointing. In Luke 5, there’s another story about a leper being healed. On that occasion, Jesus touched the man and he was cleansed immediately (5.13). These lepers may’ve been hoping for something similar, but this time there’s no touch, and no sign of change. On the other hand, the command to show themselves to the priests was promising. Was there more going on here than meets the eye?? Is this an implied promise?? Well, whatever they felt, all ten of them responded. They went… and, ‘as they went, they were made clean’ (14).
As they went… As they went… Tell me, what would’ve happened if they hadn’t gone. If they’d said instead, ‘Well, what’s the point of that, Jesus? Priests needs evidence. Why go if nothing’s changed? Why go if we’re going to be disappointed.’ They could’ve said that, but they didn’t. They went… and as they went, they were made clean. There’s something important here, isn’t there? A connection between commitment and fulfilment, between obedience and blessing.
On the back of your service sheet, you’ll see a quote. It’s from the journal of Scottish mountaineer WH Murray. It’s part of his reflection on what enabled his (seemingly impossible) Himalayan Expedition (1951) — on the power of commitment. ‘…but when I said that nothing had been done, I erred in one important matter. We had definitely committed ourselves and were halfway out of our ruts. We had put down our passage money—booked a sailing to Bombay. This may sound too simple, but is great in consequence. Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.’
‘The moment one definitely commits… then providence moves too…’. That seems to capture something of what happens in our story. The lepers commit — step into it — and God acts too… along the way. It’s a co-creative venture, and it happens a lot in the biblical story. I’ve experienced it in my life, and I imagine you have too. ‘The moment one definitely commits… then providence moves too.’
As I reflect on this, I’m mindful our decision to enter into a co-operative relationship with Benedictus Church, and of their decision to relocate with us – last night they said farewell to Holy Covenant, where they’ve been meeting for almost 8 years. Next Saturday they’ll meet here for the first time. We hope this change will enrich both communities; will enhance the mission of this site, but we don’t know exactly what will unfold. There are risks. For both of us. But, having discerned as best we can that God is ‘in’ this, we’re stepping out. In faith. That’s crucial, we’re committing. And, I wonder, what manner of ‘unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance’ will unfold as a result?? Time will tell!!
Anyway, back to the story, for there’s another detail that strikes me as important, and it’s to do with practising gratitude.
So, we know there were ten lepers and that all ten were healed. We also heard that one of them, when he saw he was clean, returned to give thanks, and that he was a Samaritan. Jesus inquired about the others, but they’re nowhere to be seen. They got it half right, it seems; acting in obedience. And, they missed something – they failed to give thanks.
But what is it about gratitude that makes it so important? Does God need our appreciation; get put out if we don’t show it? That doesn’t sound right, does it? It makes God out to be needy and grace conditional and that’s not consistent with scripture. No, I wondering if it’s more to do with our need to recognise,than God’s need for recognition. ‘Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?’ Jesus asked. And then said, ‘Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well’.
These words, to someone as marginalised as a Samaritan leper, testify strongly to the fact that God’s grace shows no bounds. That’s good news – no one is beyond the pale. They also suggest that full release comes as we acknowledge mercies received. All ten lepers are cleansed (on the outside), but one of them receives something more, and that’s to do with giving thanks, and what it means for us. It’s not just about expressing gratitude, it’s also about acknowledging where you’ve come from, and how things have changed. Nine are healed but it seems they just left that part of their lives behind – like they’ve escape it. By returning to give thanks for his blessing, this tenth leper was owning and integrating his past, and that’s a deeper dimension of healing. He’s acknowledged the leper within, if you like. He returned gratefully to the place of mercy; tarried a little longer in the liminal space between his past and the future. In the process, he remembers (connects with) his former brokenness and shame, and with the source of mercy – Jesus. This doesn’t diminish or delay him. On the contrary, it brings greater release. ‘Go, your faith has made you well – saved you’, Jesus says.
This, I suggest, is why the practice of gratitude is so affirmed here. Because of the vital part it plays in reconciling our past and releasing us into and for the future. True healing comes as we own the whole of our lives, including past difficulty. This isn’t always easy, but the promise of this story is that Jesus receives it all – our shame and failure, our excludedness and brokenness. And, having received us, sends us out, strengthened for life. ‘Go, your faith has made you well’. And, may it be so, for each of us, as we too return, again and again, giving thanks and praise for mercies received. Amen.