Mercy always costs somebody something. Sometimes it costs time. Sometimes pride. Sometimes the ache of being taken for granted. The ten lepers cry out, and the plea is familiar to our lips at the start of every mass, in a slightly different translation: Lord, have mercy. Their illness has pushed them to the edges—forced to live apart, forced to warn others away. They are not simply unwell; they are unwelcome.
When Jesus hears their cry, he does not walk away. He moves them toward restoration. He points them back to the priests so that the community must receive them again. Mercy does more than soothe a wound; it stitches people back into belonging. And that is costly work. It is easier to keep our distance than to bind up what is broken between us.
And only one man turns around. He sees that he has been healed and returns, noisy with praise, dropping to the ground at Jesus’ feet. Luke notes that he is a Samaritan—an outsider among outsiders. He is the one who understands what has truly happened. Yes, his skin has cleared, his body restored, but the deeper gift is that he has stood inside the Kingdom of God for a moment, right where mercy is happening. He chooses to remain there with the merciful one rather than sprint back to the crowd that had kept him outside the gate.
The others do what many of us would do: hurry to reclaim a seat at the table that once rejected them. They seek the safety of fitting in. Yet the Kingdom is not identified by who approves of us; it appears wherever mercy is given and received. That is why the Samaritan circles back. He recognizes that the true center is not in the city but at the feet of Jesus. He alone hears the final blessing because he stays with the giver, not just the gift: “Stand up and go; your faith has saved you.”
There is another cost to notice—the cost borne by Jesus. He knows nine will not return. He knows love will be met with silence. Still he heals. He gives without securing a thank-you, because that is what divine mercy is: a love that spends itself even when there is no guarantee of gratitude. If we wait for perfect gratitude before we forgive, feed, befriend, or listen, we will never begin.
A friend once told me about offering his lunch to a man on the street who declined it because it was not what he wanted. My friend felt the sting of ingratitude. He also felt a nudge to ask what the man did want and then to go get it. That small pivot—from hurt pride to practical kindness—looked foolish to some. But in truth, it looked like the Kingdom.
We pray for mercy every week. The Kyrie is not a slogan; it is a charter. If we want to live under the rule of that Kingdom, we cannot ration mercy to the polite, the grateful, or the deserving. We will meet eye rolls, closed doors, even rejection. Offer it anyway. Stand near the ones the world keeps at arm’s length. Keep building a community where the excluded are named brother and sister. Mercy will cost you. It will also place you, like the Samaritan, at the feet of the King.