The Risk of Stopping Too Soon
Simone Riva - The story of the lepers healed by Jesus confronts us with the urgent need to investigate the origin of the gift of our own being and of the gifts we have received.
“Were not ten cleansed? Where are the other nine?” (Luke 17:17). This is the weighty question Jesus poses, as reported by the evangelist Luke, when he sees that only one of the ten lepers who were healed has returned to thank him. All were afflicted with the same disease, and all received the same grace of healing. They are not healed “on condition”; Christ does not ask for prior guarantees but performs an act that leaves each of them with the need to respond in their own way.
And so it happens. Only one realizes what has truly happened to him and returns to give thanks. He does not stop before reaching the end but goes all the way, to the point of looking into the face of the source of his healing. Only one realizes that he has been healed—and not by his own doing—thus finding a reason to praise God.
“Where are the other nine?” We can imagine them, all caught up in the consequences of their healing, rushing to do the things that had been prevented by the curse of leprosy: finally returning home, embracing their wives and children, kissing them, letting themselves be caressed, and then rushing to their friends to celebrate. All of it is understandable, beautiful, and normal.
Meanwhile, the phrase with which they had asked to be healed had become a memory: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” Their need had been met, so they no longer felt the urgency to ask for mercy. Christ leaves them to their attempt at a life that is not moved by the urgency of its origin.
One can try to live like this—caught up in the desire to realize one's ambitions and plans, without having to reckon with the impulse, which at least once burst forth in the heart, to meet One who has mercy on us. In short, we can live while neglecting our humanity.
Among those ten, however, there is someone who chooses another path. After their request for help, he is walking along with the others. Suddenly, he realizes that something has happened to him; he feels strange, and so do they. They look at each other and see what they never hoped to see: they are healed. Illness and need had brought them all before the same presence, but now their paths have diverged in an instant.
And he, the Samaritan—the stranger, the one who had no right to hope for salvation for himself—returns praising God in a loud voice and falls at Jesus’ feet to thank him. He wants to see again the man whom they had all asked for mercy. He has received a delicate, fragile gift, and the only way to avoid taking possession of it is to return to its origin.
He arrives and sees Jesus waiting for them all, even though only he has returned. It is a dynamic that is repeated throughout history, partly because God has not changed his method: he lets everyone make their own attempt in life. Those of us who have received a special gift cannot help but compare ourselves to that Samaritan. Have we abandoned its origin? Have we appropriated it? Have we stopped just short? Do we believe we can rely on the consequences? Do we think we can find salvation in our own doing and scheming, as if everything started with us? Or are we there, at the feet of Christ, in whatever circumstances we find ourselves?
What a challenge! This is a challenge because we know very well that "Being healed is not enough. Receiving the gifts we desire is not enough to fill our hearts. What matters is not the gift, but who gives it to us. If we do not recognize the infinite nature of our need, we will not be able to recognize what truly corresponds to our hearts" (Julián Carrón, Northern Europe Assembly, January 9, 2018).
