In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Just a few weeks ago, Hilary and I had the chance to visit the island of Spinalonga, just off the coast of Crete. It’s a hauntingly beautiful place, but one filled with deep sadness. Until the mid-1900s, it was a leper colony—a place of exile and exclusion, where those suffering from leprosy were sent away from their families and communities.

Walking through its narrow streets and crumbling houses, I was struck by how those people had been hidden from the world—yet they still built a community there, prayed together, and clung to hope. It brought to life today’s Gospel in a very human way.

It is perhaps fitting that today’s Gospel begins “On the way to Jerusalem.”
For Jerusalem—so often the setting of conflict and division—is also, in God’s purposes, the place of healing, reconciliation, and peace.

And how moving that, as we hear this story of Jesus healing ten lepers—foreigners and outcasts among the outcasts—our world today hears news of a long-awaited peace deal between Israel and Palestine. After generations of wounds, walls, and weary hearts, there comes a moment when words of peace are spoken again. It may be fragile, imperfect, and uncertain—but it is peace, and for that, we must give thanks.

In the Gospel, ten men cry out for mercy, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”
They stand at a distance—as people with leprosy were forced to do. They are isolated, cut off, unseen. And yet Jesus sees them. He sees beyond the disease, beyond the label, beyond the border of separation.

He says simply, “Go, show yourselves to the priests,” and as they go, they are cleansed.
Healing comes in motion, in the act of trust, in obedience to his word. But only one turns back. Only one returns, glorifying God and falling at Jesus’ feet.
And, Luke tells us, “He was a Samaritan.”

It is the outsider who becomes the model of true faith and gratitude.

The story mirrors that of Naaman, the great Syrian commander in our first reading from 2 Kings. Naaman, too, was a foreigner. He came from the other side of Israel’s border—one of “them,” not “us.” Yet when the little captive girl, a servant in his household, spoke of the prophet in Israel who could heal him, Naaman set out in hope. He came bearing gifts and pride, but was told to wash in the muddy waters of the Jordan.

At first, he resisted—he wanted something grand, something fitting for his dignity. But when he humbled himself and obeyed, his flesh was restored “like the flesh of a young boy.” And he confessed, “Now I know that there is no God in all the earth but in Israel.”

Naaman’s story and the Samaritan’s story are two sides of the same coin.
Both are healed by grace; both come to know that God’s mercy crosses boundaries.
And both teach Israel—and us—that salvation is not a possession to be guarded, but a gift to be shared.

In light of the peace now being spoken of in the land once shared by Naaman and the Samaritan, this is a word for our time.
Peace begins where the unclean are welcomed, where the foreigner is honoured, where gratitude replaces pride, and where enemies learn again to kneel together in awe before the God who heals.

It is not an easy peace.
Like Naaman’s washing, it may seem humbling.
Like the Samaritan’s return, it requires courage—to turn back, to give thanks, to acknowledge that healing has come from beyond our own tribe or nation.

But true peace always begins there—in humility and gratitude.
It begins when we realise, with Naaman and with the Samaritan, that God has acted, and we did not deserve it.

St Paul, in his letter to Timothy, writes:

“Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead… the word of God is not chained.”
He reminds his young companion that even in hardship, even in prison, the Gospel continues to bring freedom. “If we endure,” he says, “we shall also reign with him.”

The peace of Christ—the healing he brings—is not simply the end of conflict; it is the birth of a new humanity.
Paul’s call to endurance is a reminder to us all: peace on earth, like holiness of life, demands perseverance.
Treaties may be signed in a moment, but reconciliation takes a lifetime.
To build peace, we must endure misunderstanding, extend forgiveness, and choose hope again and again.

In Jesus’ encounter with the ten lepers, the deepest healing is not just physical.
Nine received the cleansing of their skin; one received the healing of his soul.
“Your faith has made you well,” Jesus says—literally, “Your faith has saved you.”
The Samaritan’s gratitude becomes the doorway to salvation.

Gratitude, then, is not a polite response to blessing—it is the spiritual posture of a redeemed people.
To give thanks is to recognise that all good things come from God.
To give thanks is to see, in the fragile beginnings of peace, the fingerprints of divine mercy.

So today, as we watch a tentative peace unfold between Israel and Palestine, our calling as followers of Christ is threefold:

1. To give thanks.
   Like the Samaritan, we return to Jesus and fall at his feet, glorifying God for any sign of healing, however small.
   We thank him for those who have risked their lives for peace, and for every heart that dares to forgive.
2. To remain humble.
   Like Naaman, we must learn to lay down pride, to listen, to accept the healing that comes through unexpected means—perhaps even through the words of those we once called enemies.
3. To endure in hope.
   Like Paul, we hold fast to the faith that the Word of God is not chained—that the resurrection power of Christ can bring life even out of centuries of death and division.

And perhaps, when we see a Samaritan bowing at the feet of a Jewish healer; when we see an Assyrian commander washing in Israel’s river; when we see Jew and Palestinian, Israeli and Arab, standing side by side in prayer—we glimpse the Kingdom of God breaking through.

May we, too, return to give thanks.
May we, too, be healed by mercy.
And may the peace of Christ—who broke down every wall of hostility—make us whole again.

Amen.