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The One
By Pastor Vinnie MacIsaac
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Imagine a story from Luke 17, told from the perspective of Jesus himself. Step into this sacred moment with your heart and mind open, engaging your holy, sanctified imagination. Let us walk together on this dusty road and witness the power of compassion, healing, and gratitude as we see through Jesus’ own eyes.
I am on my way to Jerusalem, walking along the dusty border between Samaria and Galilee. The land here is rugged, filled with rocks and dry shrubs clinging to cracked earth under the relentless sun. Villages are scattered across this barren landscape, each one like an oasis of life in a harsh, unforgiving world. As I enter one of these villages—a small, quiet place on the edge of the wilderness—I hear voices calling out.
At first, they are low and hesitant, as if they are unsure they even have the right to ask. But then, the cries grow louder, and the desperation in them strikes me deeply. “Are you the One? Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”
I turn toward the sound and see them—a group of ten men standing far off, beyond the village boundary. They are lepers. They stand apart, unable to come closer, bound by the weight of a disease that has stripped them of everything. The sight of them brings a deep ache to my heart. These men—these beloved souls, known to me from the beginning—have waited lifetimes to meet me here on this road. My Father and I have seen every person who would come to me, heavy-laden, burdened, and broken. They all matter to my Father. He loves each one so completely. These ten are a special joy to me today. No matter their pasts, I am here with the joy of healing every single one of them. Father, I know how you delight to see them healed; I do this for you!
Leprosy steals more than just the body. It eats away at the skin and nerves, twisting hands and feet. But it goes deeper, forcing a person to live apart, away from family, friends, and worship. With every scar, a leper loses more than health; they lose hope, connection, and life itself. Each of these men, created and loved by my Father, has been living in the shadows, isolated, watching life move on without them.
I look at them, and a surge of compassion fills me—not only for the suffering they’ve endured but for the beauty of each soul I know lies beneath the pain. I have known these men before the world was formed. I have watched over them from the beginning, waiting for this moment to meet them, to restore them fully. This is a moment my Father and I have prepared for since eternity. Father, I know you are just as excited as I am! And here they are, all ten of them, calling out to me with the last flicker of hope in their hearts, wondering if I could possibly be the One to change everything.
I take a step closer, meeting their eyes, and say, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” It’s a simple command, but they understand its meaning. Only a priest can declare them clean, allowing them to return to their homes and their lives. And though their bodies still bear the marks of disease as I speak, they believe—enough to turn and start walking, trusting that healing is already beginning.
I watch them as they walk away, these men who have been forced to the edges, taking slow, tentative steps down the road. And then, as they move, I see it. Their skin begins to change—scars melting away, sores vanishing, twisted hands straightening, strength returning to limbs. I see them pause, looking down at their hands, touching their faces in wonder. Then, in one glorious, unstoppable moment, they erupt with laughter. Real, joyful, full-bellied laughter—the kind that starts deep in the soul and rises up like a flood. I hear shouts of amazement, their voices calling to each other, words tumbling over each other in a rush of joy.
The sight fills me with a joy so fierce it’s almost overwhelming. I want to laugh with them, to leap and shout, my heart lifting with excitement as I watch my Father’s love pour out into their lives. My Father, Abba in Heaven, smiles down on this moment, His joy filling me, spilling over as I watch these souls—these children of His—discover the fullness of life once more.
As their voices ring out, I think of my Father’s unending goodness. Abba’s love knows no limits, no boundaries. His joy is in restoring, in mending broken lives, in giving life back where there was once only death. In these healings, I feel His love reaching out, not just to touch their bodies but to call their hearts into wholeness. I long for each of them to know this depth, to stay in this joy, to feel the fullness of the life my Father and I offer them.
Then, something else catches my attention. Among the ten, only one of them stops. He looks down at himself, his hands trembling, his eyes wide with wonder. And then, as if pulled by a force he can’t resist, he turns and starts running back to me. This man—a Samaritan, an outsider even among outcasts—runs, tears streaming down his face, laughter spilling from his lips, praising God with every breath.
It means even more that this man is a Samaritan. The Samaritans are a people set apart, often despised by their neighbors. Long ago, their ancestors were part of Israel, but generations of mixed marriages with foreigners and disputes over worship have left them isolated. While my people worship at the Temple in Jerusalem, the Samaritans worship on Mount Gerizim. To many in Israel, they are no longer seen as true children of Abraham, as if they have no part in the covenant promises. They are viewed as defiled, unworthy, their worship corrupt. And here is this Samaritan, this one deemed unworthy by so many, returning to give thanks, offering his whole heart to the God who has made him whole.
I watch him approach, and as he reaches me, he falls at my feet, overcome. His laughter mixes with gratitude, his words tumbling out in praise, his hands reaching toward me in a gesture of complete awe. I kneel beside him, my own heart so full it feels close to bursting. Here, in this man, is a gratitude that reaches beyond his healed body. He has found the heart of my Father, found the joy that comes from knowing you are known, loved, and cherished.
“Were not all ten cleansed?” I ask him softly, still catching my breath from the joy filling the air around us. “Where are the other nine?” The question is not for my sake but for his. I want him to see the beauty of his gratitude, to know that what he has received is a gift beyond anything he could touch. This Samaritan, this man of faith, has come back not only to be restored in body but to be restored in spirit.
I place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his newly healed skin, and say with a voice filled with love, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.” His eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I know he will carry this joy, this wholeness, with him for the rest of his days. He will go back to his family, his village, his people, not only as a healed man but as one who has encountered the heart of God.
As he walks away, his face radiant with joy, I feel my Father’s peace settle within me. This is why I have come—not only to heal bodies but to restore souls, to bring people into the fullness of my Father’s love. I want this for every soul, not just relief from pain but a life transformed by Abba’s unending love.
I watch him disappear over the hill, still praising, still laughing, and I think back to that question they asked as I entered this village: Are you the One?
They all could have come back but only one did.
