It’s the least we can do …

A pastor stood at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and watched as a man in tears lay a wreath at the base of the memorial. The pastor put his hand on the man’s shoulder, and the man said, “Twenty-five years ago he stepped into the line of fire for me, the least I can do is say, ‘Thanks.'”

When it comes to genuine gratitude, the least of all responses we can have would be to say, “Thanks!”

Perhaps that’s why Jesus asked a healed leper a specific question. First, the context:

“As Jesus continued on toward Jerusalem, he reached the border between Galilee and Samaria. As he entered a village there, ten men with leprosy stood at a distance, crying out, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’ He looked at them and said, ‘Go show yourselves to the priests.’ And as they went, they were cleansed of their leprosy,” Luke 17:11-14.

And now the question Jesus asked:

“One of them, when he saw that he was healed, came back to Jesus, shouting, ‘Praise God!’ He fell to the ground at Jesus’ feet, thanking him for what he had done. This man was a Samaritan. Jesus asked, ‘Didn’t I heal ten men? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give glory to God except this foreigner?’ And Jesus said to the man, ‘Stand up and go. Your faith has healed you,'” Luke 17:15-19.

Jesus wasn’t fishing for attention, but took note that an appropriate and deserved heartfelt expression of gratitude for receiving grace and compassion beyond human limitations (healing form leprosy) was missing from nine of the 10 men.

Only one man was so marked by gratitude that he had to express his thankfulness to the Lord.

A truly grateful heart cannot be stifled, it must express itself! Much like the heart of the farmer in this story from “Record of Christian Word, Volume 23” by Alexander McConnell, William Revell Moody, and Arthur Percy Fitt:

When Dr. Broadus was a boy in a little town he was converted to Christ. He had been attending some meetings, and he went to one of his playmates, Sandy Jones, a red-haired awkward chap, the next day and said to him: “I wish you would be a Christian. Won’t you?”

And Sandy said, “Well, I don’t know, perhaps I will.” And sure enough, after a little while, one night in the little church, Sandy Jones accepted God. Straightway he stalked across that little meeting house, held out his hand and said, “I thank you, John, I thank you, John.”

Dr. Broadus went out from that little town and became a great scholar, a great exegete, a great theological president. Every summer when he went home to that little town, and he hardly missed a season, I am told, this awkward, red-haired old farmer, in his plain clothes with red sand on his boots, would come up, stick out his great bony hand and say: “Howdy, John. Thank you, John, thank you, John. I never forget, John.”

When Dr. Broadus died, his family around him, he said: “I rather think the sound sweetest to my ears in Heaven, next to the welcome of Him Whom having not seen I have loved and tried to serve, will be the welcome of Sandy Jones, as he will thrust out his great hand and say: “Howdy, John. Thank you, John.”

You cannot stifle a genuinely grateful heart.

Scotty