In the land where Jesus lived, there are two famous bodies of water: the Sea of Galilee, and the Dead Sea. Both are fed by the same source: the Jordan River. But these two bodies of water could not be more different.
The Sea of Galilee is a freshwater sea, vibrant and teeming with life. The Jordan River flows into it from the north, then flows out of it from the south, carrying with it silt and minerals and all manner of things, keeping the water in the Sea of Galilee fresh and moving, creating a rich environment where many different kinds of plant and animal life can thrive. Fish dwell in it. Plants grow around it. Communities gather along its shores.
The Dead Sea, on the other hand, is just that—dead. Still and lifeless. The fresh waters of the Jordan River also flow into the Dead Sea from the north, but they do not flow out. Without an outlet, the water can only evaporate, leaving behind a dense collection of silt and salt and minerals that have made its waters unable to sustain any kind of life. No fish swim in it. No plants grow in or around it. Nothing can live in its heavy, salty water.
One sea receives and gives water. What flows in also flows out. The other receives water, but never gives. Everything flows in, but nothing flows out. And that is the difference between life and death.
If you’ve been reading Richard Rohr’s daily meditations this week, you’ve read some wonderful reflections about money and wealth. And there was one in particular that struck me. It contrasted the more egalitarian Native American values around money and wealth with the value of personal accumulation held by the settler colonists. Quoting Ronald Wright, author of Stolen Continents: “To obtain respect in the Native world, people had to redistribute wealth; for esteem in the white world, they had to hoard it. To a Cherokee, sufficient was enough; to a white, more was everything.”
To put a finer point on it, we hear this perspective on the Cherokees from Senator Henry Daws after touring Indian Territory in 1887: “The head chief told us that there was not a family in the whole nation that had not a home of its own. There is not a pauper in that nation, and the nation does not owe a dollar. It built its own capitol … and built its schools and hospitals. Yet the defect of the system was apparent. They have got as far as they can go, because they hold their land in common…. There is no selfishness, which is at the bottom of civilization. Till these people will consent to give up their lands, and divide them among their citizens so that each can own the land he cultivates, they will not make much progress.”
It is difficult to overstate how anti-Christ that perspective is. We know from our Holy Scriptures that hoarding wealth when others go without is always against God’s will. We also know that the earliest Christians lived as these Native Americans did – holding everything in common, sharing so that everyone had enough. And yet the nebulous concept of “American Progress,” so melded with the mirage that it was grounded in Christian ideals, turned the political and economic system of this country into one big Dead Sea, masquerading as the Sea of Galilee.
In a city where we walk past hungry people on our way out of Trader Joe’s with our bags full of groceries, where the unhoused sleep in front of gilded hotels owned by billionaires, we see on full display that receiving without giving is indeed a matter of life and death.
As we begin our annual season of stewardship, when we are asked to consider the ways in which we give based on what we’ve received, it’s helpful to think about what Jesus has to say about all this.
When the 10 lepers cried out to Jesus for healing, they received slightly anomalous instructions. Jesus hears their cries, and he tells them to go to the priests. On the way, they are made clean, restored from the horrific condition that has plagued them for God knows how long. Jesus doesn’t heal them right on the spot and then direct them to the priests. The gospel says, “As they went, they were made clean.” The sending comes first, followed by the healing.
We can imagine that these 10 were thrilled when they got to the priests and found themselves healed. But one man turns back to shout his thanks. Jesus clearly singles out this Samaritan as worthy of praise—which is notable, since Samaritans were the enemies of Israel.
Ten were healed, but only one was grateful. Ten received, but only one returned to give.
And notice what Jesus pronounces for this man. He is healed of his leprosy, but in returning to give thanks, Jesus proclaims: “your faith has made you well.” This Samaritan received restoration and wholeness not just in body but in spirit — restoration and wholeness that come not from receiving, but from giving. From acknowledging all he’s received, then making a point of returning to give thanks for it. His generosity makes him spiritually alive.
And so when Jesus asks, “Where are the others?” we’re meant to sneer at those ungrateful nine who didn’t even bother to stop and say thank you. But perhaps Jesus’ question wasn’t asked harshly. After all, he was the one who told them to go.
Perhaps there is some sadness in his question.
Where are the nine? Jesus asks, because they’re missing out. They’re missing out on this expression of spontaneous joy from a foreigner. This person, detested by the community, has something to teach them. The nine are so quick to hightail it to the priests that they miss the fact that healing is happening right there on the road, out in the open in front of God and everybody else. They’re missing out on the wholeness that comes from giving.
We, like them, often love to receive but forget to return our gratitude and in so doing miss out on the best part — on the fullness of Spirit that envelops us when what flows into our lives is also allowed to flow out.
We might take account of all good gifts we have been given—but so often, our wallets and our hearts stay closed, because we believe that is the only way our hands will stay full.
But as Jesus reminds us: You don’t grow by what you keep—you grow by what you give.
Generosity, as the Samaritan leper exemplifies, is a spiritual practice and posture. We call this season stewardship and not annual giving because it’s not about the dollars and cents — it’s about our purpose and intention. It’s about making sure we don’t become spiritually dead by holding too tightly onto all of our stuff. Stewardship is far more than a transaction—it is a declaration of trust, a posture of gratitude, and an act of worship. It aligns our hearts with God’s purposes and opens our hands to participate in God’s Kingdom work. When we give, we are not losing something. Like the waters of the Sea of Galilee, we gain life when what flows in can flow out to give life to others.
In this city where beauty, complexity, and need coexist, your generosity empowers this community to be a beacon of justice, welcome, and sacred imagination. Giving is how we sustain the radical hospitality of our liturgy, the prophetic edge of our outreach, and the quiet, daily acts of care that bind us together. So let us give boldly, not because we must, but because it is part of our spiritual life—trusting that what we offer will be multiplied by God’s grace to heal, to build, and to give life far beyond what we can see. Amen.
