The Gift of Awe and the Awe of Giving

Luke 17:11-19

Our gospel lesson today picks up right where we left off last week, when Jesus told his apostles that even the smallest amount of faith is enough, because, as one of you so succinctly summarized the sermon, faith is not a noun; it’s a verb. This moment marks a turning point in Luke’s gospel. Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem, toward the Temple, the seat of power, and ultimately, the cross. And on the way, he passes through the borderlands between Galilee and Samaria. It’s a deliberate choice. Most Jewish travelers of Jesus’ day would have gone the long way around, a lengthier, twistier route east of the Jordan, just to avoid setting foot in Samaria.

For centuries, Samaritans had been viewed as outsiders, descendants of those who intermarried with foreign settlers in the northern kingdom of Israel. They had their own Scriptures, their own priests, their own temple, and, in the eyes of many, their own kind of impurity. But Jesus has never been one to honor the boundaries that divide us. And today, once again, he crosses every social, religious, and physical barrier, entering a region that most would avoid, and drawing near to those whom society has cast aside—lepers, Samaritans, the unclean, the forgotten.

And what happens in that unlikely meeting is nothing short of awe-inspiring. For it’s there, in the borderlands, that awe leads to gratitude, gratitude gives birth to faith, and faith opens the way to wholeness. Hear the words from Luke’s gospel, the 17th chapter verses 11 through 19. The Greek is translated into English this way. Listen for God’s word for you this morning.

On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten men with a skin disease approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’s feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean? So where are the other nine? Did none of them return to give glory to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

We knew just how close we could get to the gate without being chased off, close enough to catch someone’s attention, maybe even their pity. There wasn’t much more we could do. With open sores, you’re unclean. You can’t work. You can’t live with your family. You can’t even enter the city. You’re cast aside, forgotten, except by those who share your suffering. That’s where we were when we saw him.

From a distance, you could tell something was different. You couldn’t miss the crowd that followed him, the hum of expectation that seemed to travel ahead of him like wind before a storm. Even from far away, I knew it was Jesus. The stories about the healing rabbi had spread across Galilee, even out here in the borderlands. We’d heard how he once touched a leper near Capernaum, how he spoke a word and a man was made clean. So when he came near, we cried out together: “Jesus! Master! Have mercy on us!”

He stopped. He looked at us. And then he said, simply, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” That was it. No touch. No balm. No ritual. Just go. I didn’t even know where to go. For my friends, it was clear—they would go to Jerusalem. But for me, a Samaritan, our holy mountain is Gerizim, not Zion. Still, I walked with them, uncertain, wondering what might happen.

After a while, our conversation turned from hope to doubt. What if nothing had changed? What if we showed up and were turned away again—rejected, humiliated, condemned? But as we walked, one of us noticed. A hand that had been white and raw was suddenly pink and smooth. Another rubbed his face and gasped. We looked at one another, and the truth dawned. We were clean. We shouted, we laughed, we cried, we hugged each other. They took off running toward Jerusalem, eager to be declared clean, to return home, to hold their families again.

But I stopped. I stood still on that dusty road, in awe of what had just happened. As I looked at my hands, I realized this wasn’t just a cure. It was a gift. And somehow, I knew that it had come from God. And if God’s power had moved through this man Jesus, then surely, God was with him. Before I knew what I was doing, I was running—back toward the village, back through the gate that once shut me out, shouting, “Praise God! Praise God!” I fell at his feet, tears streaming, and all I could say was, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” And he looked at me, right into me, and said, “Get up. Go. Your faith has saved you.”

Sometimes awe does that to us. It stops us in our tracks. It turns us around. It opens our eyes to what God has already done and moves us toward gratitude—a gratitude that becomes faith, a faith that makes us whole. That’s the kind of awe the prophet Samuel spoke of when he said, “Only stand in awe of the Lord and serve faithfully with all your heart, for consider what great things God has done for you.”

I commend our Stewardship Committee for this bold choice of scripture. And I’m glad they weren’t scared off by the translation of the Hebrew word yirah as “fear.” In Hebrew, this word isn’t about being frightened; it’s about being awestruck. The prophet Samuel reminds the people gathered then and now of all the great things God has done for God’s beloved people: the blessings of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; the liberation from bondage in Egypt; the raising up of leaders to guide and protect them in the promised land. He’s calling them and us to remember God’s work in our lives and to look upon these things with awe and wonder. Because awe is the soil of faithfulness.

When I look back on my own life, I’m filled with that same awe—not just because I somehow made it through the questionable decisions of my twenties relatively unscathed—but because, at every step, doors have opened, opportunities have appeared, generosity has shown up when things were dire, and people have come into my life at just the right time. All of this has led me here this morning. And when I look back on all of it, I can only say I am in awe. And I am filled with gratitude for all that God has done.

I hope you can look back on your own life in the same way—recognizing those moments when God was active and present in your life, recognizing those times and places where the Spirit was at work in the ministry and mission of this church, looking back with awe on all the blessings that brought you here today, and in awe of the life and legacy of this congregation.

In gratitude, let us all take a moment to bask in that awe, breathing in with the awe of all we’ve been given, and breathing out thanksgiving for all God has done. Breathe in awe. Breathe out thanksgiving. Breathe in awe. Breathe out thanksgiving. And let’s all give thanks together with a big “thank you!”

A member of our congregation shared a story with me recently from his time serving with our Good Neighbor mission team. Their group was out helping folks in need—doing yard work, small repairs, simple acts of kindness around town. He confessed, there were days when it was discouraging—when no one would come to the door, no one would say hello or even offer a word of thanks. But then he told me about one particular woman. When the team arrived at her home, she came out into the yard and insisted on praying for them. She didn’t just thank them—she praised God in awe for the work that was being done, for the kindness of strangers she didn’t know but whose faith she shared.

He was awestruck by the gift he had received from her—the gift of gratitude that opened into praise. She was in awe of his generosity. And both of them saw God in it all and gave thanks. Because that’s what awe does. It changes us. It draws us together in wonder at what God is doing in and through us. And it reminds us that every act of generosity, every offering of time or talent or treasure, is a prayer of thanksgiving—a moment when awe becomes gratitude, and gratitude becomes faith made visible.

Medieval theologian and Christian mystic Meister Eckhart once wrote, “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is ‘Thank you,’ it will be enough.” And one of my favorite living theologians, Anne Lamott, says she has only two favorite prayers: “In the morning: Help me, help me, help me. In the evening: Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Maybe that’s what faith really looks like—a life that moves from Help me to Thank you, from need to awe, from awe to gratitude, from gratitude to giving. As we begin this season of stewardship—New Beginnings: Serving in Faith—we’re invited to do the same. To look back with awe at all that God has done, to give thanks for the grace that has carried us, and to offer our gifts—our time, our talents, our treasure—as acts of worship and faith. Because every act of giving, no matter how small, is a way of saying what that healed Samaritan once said: “Thank you. Praise God. My faith has made me whole.”