“Life as a leper is hardly life at all,” I remember thinking one especially cold day late last winter. I knew what I was talking about, too: I had been afflicted with leprosy – that dreadful, maiming sickness whose name is the equivalent of “rejection” – for a long time. In fact, it had been years since, driven from my home city of Samaria, I had wandered north. I was weak and down-hearted, and I journeyed long before I found any place to stop. It was, therefore, with great relief that I found a group of other lepers, who, though Jews, allowed me to stay with them.

Living with those nine Jewish lepers for years, I grew to know and, in some cases, to admire them. But they never let me forget that I, a Samaritan, was not their equal. Benjamin especially made sure I did not forget my station. “Always remember that the Jews were chosen, and not the Gentiles,” he would say, looking down over his long, bandaged nose at me and raising his left eyebrow. He used to repeat this mantra at random intervals, especially when what conversation we had amongst ourselves came to a pause and he had nothing better to say. No one ever told me what he meant by “chosen,” but it was certain that Jews were and Samaritans were not, if the hearty nods and assenting murmurs of the other lepers were an accurate indication.

Aaron Sandford is in his first year at Fairwood Bible Institute. A homeschool student, he graduated from high school in June of 2007. Aaron is the designer and the student editor of the Monadnock Beacon website for the school year of 2007-2008.

Of all my companions, Josiah was my favorite. He, too, maintained a slight air of superiority, but he was not as disdainful as the others. His condescension was of a more piteous nature. “But I suppose you can’t help it, being a Gentile,” was his favorite expression in our conversations. But I did not resent it; I knew that he was trying to be kind, and that was more than most of the others were doing. They thought it was kindness enough to acknowledge my existence.

Those two, along with Joab, Gibeon, Uriah, Hakkoz, Berechiah, Zadok, Jadon, and I, lived in a sheltered cave just outside a small village along the border between Samaria and Galilee. We lived a dreary life, sustaining ourselves with the charity of the numerous travelers journeying along the nearby highway and with the gifts of a few kind townsfolk. Our routine never changed, and the subjects for conversation were so few that I was reminded of the Jews’ being chosen more often than I might have wished. One evening, however, the very night in which I had been complaining to myself about my lowly state, a piece of information came to us that banished any scarcity of discussion.

It was Josiah who first brought news of Jesus into our little camp. “I have heard that there is a man who can heal leprosy!” he cried between gasps of breath, rushing up the hill from the village as quickly as his disease would allow. As Josiah told story after story of how this man had healed the sick and cast out demons, excitement quickly gripped us all. We began to jump, yell, and run in the most confused manner possible – all except Benjamin, that is.

Benjamin may have been a bit arrogant, but he was a natural leader with good sense. “Quiet!” he cried, suddenly, and everyone obeyed. When he was sure each had his attention fixed upon him, he spoke.

“There is no use rejoicing until we are sure that we will be healed,” he said. “That is, those of us who have been chosen.” He glanced at me and raised his eyebrow. Josiah started to say that I could not help it, being a Gentile, but a sharp glance from Benjamin silenced him. “We must all go together to find this man and see if his claim is legitimate. Where can we find him, Josiah?”

“I hear he will be in the village tomorrow.”

“Good. So will we.” A sharp nod of Benjamin’s head indicated that the meeting was adjourned, and the excitement about the camp quickly resumed, albeit at a less energetic level.

“Can you imagine being free from this sickness?” Josiah said to me, smiling broadly. “Just imagine the relief!” Suddenly his smile faded into an expression of sympathetic sadness. “I hope you won’t be too upset if Jesus doesn’t heal you. He is, after all, a Jew. I know that you can’t help it, being a Gentile, but that does not always change people’s perceptions.”

I replied that I could not help but have my hopes raised, but that I was grateful for his advice. In truth, however, I was a bit worried. How many times had the Jewish prejudice against us Samaritans made life hard for me! Would this be just another disappointment? I knew there was but one way to find out: I would go with my companions to see this Jesus on the morrow, and my question would be answered for good.

That night seemed to take so long. Despite being physically exhausted, my mind was so active that I hardly slept at all. For hours, I was plagued with doubts and worries about the coming day’s events. When day finally came, however, a renewed burst of excitement swept through me, and I felt that I could climb Mount Hermon if it only meant I could be healed.

Not long after sunrise, all ten of us lepers were walking steadily toward the village. The closer we got, the less excited and the more nervous I became. As the thought of my possible rejection became more real to me, my heart began to pound and a great lump formed in my throat. What if this Jewish healer hated Samaritans? Would he be willing to overlook my race and nationality just this once? Who was he, anyway?

My thoughts were interrupted by the faint buzz of a distant crowd. The noise grew louder and louder as we continued along the way, and then – there He was.

I could pick Jesus out of the crowd quite easily. He was walking at the head of the mob, and every eye was on Him. His tall stature and noble mien somehow marked Him as different from those around Him. Even from where I stood – which was a long way off – I thought could sense His kindness by the way He looked at the multitude around Him, the way He gestured softly with His hands, and even the way He walked.

Suddenly, Benjamin stopped and cried out, “Master, have mercy on us!” We all quickly joined in the cry; several of the others fell to their knees. Jesus continued to draw closer until He was close enough to speak to us without shouting. With a gentle uplifting of His hand, He silenced us.

“Go and show yourselves unto the priests.”

Those were the only words He spoke, but the depth, the clarity, the softness, the power – the very beauty of His voice took my breath away. As the crowd continued on its way, bearing Jesus with it, we lepers stood in silence in the street, awed by what we had just heard.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” I think it was Jadon who broke the silence. The rest of us started as if coming out of a daydream, and with shouts of excitement, we headed for the nearest synagogue, which was several miles away. We weren’t healed yet, but why would we be told to show ourselves to the priest if we were still leprous? It would be idiocy to enter the synagogue as we were, and we knew it. But Jesus knew it, too, I reasoned, and He must have had some reason for sending us as we were. Perhaps He would ride there ahead of us and heal us where He could touch us without shocking the Jewish crowd. Or maybe He had a friend there who specialized in healing leprosy. Whatever His reasons may have been, I decided that Jesus was not the sort who would play the cruel joke of asking lepers to run for miles without restoring their wellbeing.

It was at the very moment that I firmly resolved that Jesus truly did intend to heal me that I became conscious of a tingling sensation completely covering my skin. My heart began to beat more strongly, and I felt a newness of life and vigor that I had not known for years; in fact, I’m not sure I had ever felt quite so utterly well before, nor that I have since. Looking down at my arms, which should have been blotched and raw from the ravages of my illness, I beheld them pale and smooth. I was healed!

My heart was so overwhelmed with sheer joy that I could have written a psalm on the spot, had the thought occurred to me. Instead I exploded with that tearful laughter that one can only experience when he is relieved of a tremendous burden. And what a burden I had carried for those accursed years! The relief I felt could not be completely described with all the words in the Aramaic and Hebrew languages combined, and I will not attempt the impossible.

I should not go on without mentioning that my nine companions were all healed about the same time as I. Together we jumped and danced for joy, crying, laughing, shouting, and praising God for His incredible goodness. Finally we all collapsed into a joyous heap on the rocky path.

“Well, let’s go on to the priest,” declared Benjamin, wiping away a last stray tear of laughter.

I certainly was willing to go on to the priest, but something inside me seemed slightly hesitant to comply. Would it not be a bit – ungrateful, perhaps, to go without sharing our joy and thanks with the Man who was responsible for our elation?

“I think,” I said slowly, “that we should share our thanks with Jesus.” At this bold contradiction of our tacit commander’s suggestion, all eyes turned to Benjamin, who was eyeing me coldly.

“Bah!” he cried, “what would a Samaritan know of such things? We must go to the priest to be clean before we do anything else. Besides, what has Jesus done for us besides His duty? Elisha did not accept the thanks of Naaman; why should we offer it to this man? Perhaps you do not know the story—“

“He can’t help it, being a Gentile,” broke in Josiah in conciliatory tones. Benjamin glared at him.

“As I was saying, perhaps you do not know the story, but Naaman was also cured of leprosy. He was cured by Elisha, one of the greatest of Israel’s prophets. Surely this Jesus is no greater than Elisha!” A few applauded this statement, and the rest murmured their approval. It was clear that Benjamin had won his point, but I was not willing to brush aside my conviction.

“Very well, then,” I said. “I will go and thank Jesus myself. Whoever wishes may come with me.” I rose from my seat and returned in the direction we had come. Turning my head, I was saddened to find no one in pursuit; but the sadness did not last long. Simply turning my thoughts to Jesus and His kindness, His gentleness – and especially His willingness to heal a Samaritan – fully restored my happiness.

It took me longer to find Jesus the second time than the first. The multitude had largely scattered, and with it went the buzz that had so quickly alerted us to Jesus’ approach before. I spent several hours in fruitless searching, but finally I found Him in an olive garden on the outskirts of the village.

My heart leapt within me as I caught sight of my healer. At last I had found Him again! Disregarding any natural timidity, I ran to Jesus and threw myself at His feet, shouting praises at the top of my lungs. As He turned His kind face toward mine, and I looked into His penetrating brown eyes, I was so overcome with love and gratitude that I could barely speak. Through my tears, I half whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”

Jesus smiled. I will never forget that smile. It was the purest, kindest, most loving smile that I had ever seen. Yet, behind the smile, I thought I could detect a hint of sadness.

“Were not the ten cleansed? But where are the nine? Were there none to give glory to God, save this stranger?” The tone of Jesus’ voice as He spoke these words confirmed my suspicion: He was disappointed by the ingratitude of the others. There was a slight note of pain almost hidden among the beautiful deepness of His distinctively clear voice. But it did not last long. Jesus looked at me again and smiled, this time even more deeply than before.

“Arise,” He said, “thy faith hath made thee whole.”