They really didn’t understand it. But, of course, they really had no means to. How could they possibly know that it was contagious only after long periods of very close contact? The only thing they knew about it was what it looked like and what it did to a person in the advanced stages. That they knew well. They understood how it maimed and disfigured. And that was enough for fear to take over.

I’m talking about the disease of leprosy. In a world and a time in which the disease has all but been eradicated except in small pockets, we perhaps cannot appreciate the fear that accompanied this word in the ancient world of Jesus. It was a red flag word. It brought about the same responses as the word Plague did in the 1200s, or Small Pox in the 1700s, or Aids in the 1900s. It frightened them. They felt largely helpless against it, as indeed they were.

What happens when fear takes over is people do not act, they react. And reactions to leprosy were both swift and cruel. In times not far removed form our own people would be put to death by heir own family. It seems incredible to us today, but on the edge of every large city in the ancient world huge pits were dug, and in those pits lived the lepers of the community.

And if, by some remote possibility, they did escape this hovel and venture out into the streets, they would be quickly greeted with shouts of “leper,” accompanied by stones to make them keep their distance. In Jesus day a leper by law could not get within fifty yards of a clean person. So this was the heart of the matter. Not only did these wretched poor people have to endure the trials of an incurable affliction, they also were isolated from society and kept from the community of faith. The horror of disease, a lifestyle of loneliness, isolation and hopelessness--where could they find hope? The only friend a leper had was God himself. In this life they were doomed. It was walking death.

This, then, is the background of the leper we meet this morning. What can we learn from this man’s tragic story?

I

First we can learn of the loneliness of leprosy. His personal life remains a mystery to us. His name we know not. His years of suffering and pain are not mentioned. What we do know is that the leper comes to Jesus alone. There is no one else mentioned in this text, just Christ and the leper. Mark’s gospel simply shares with us a brief happening in the life of Jesus of Nazareth. “And behold a leper came to him and kneeling before him said: If you will you can make me clean. And Christ, stretching forth his hand, touched him saying: I will--be clean. And immediately, we are told, his leprosy was cleansed and he walked away whole.

Perhaps the shortness of this gospel story obscures its deeper meaning. At first glance we might think that what Mark is telling us is that God has the power to heal. And certainly that is true. But, it seems to me, there is something more to this story. Something connected with the leper’s life before he was healed. Something which for years the leper could not see, and something which perhaps he never dreamed of even in his wildest imagination.

That is, that in all of his loneliness and despair, while his flesh was rotting away, long before his healing took place, God had not forgotten him. Indeed, he was at work in his life leading him toward that destiny that was to be uniquely his. It seems incredible that we can say that, because as we look back over the leper’s life this morning, it is hard for our minds to fathom how God could be at work in that situation.

We of course can accept the final victory. We can accept the fact that God has the power to heal. But can we accept the fact, in many ways more important, that quietly and mysteriously God was there all along--leading, sustaining, guiding this poor wretch to an appointment with history, God with him and by him even when this poor man thought that his life was over with? He perhaps had even given up praying. It seems to me that if Mark is telling us anything this morning, it is that God is not just with us in the final victory of life. God is at work all the way through, there by his side even when God may have been the furthest thought from his mind.

I suspect that we are very much like this leper. When we are in the midst of crisis, when we are hurting, it is very hard for us to see that God is at work in our life. Perhaps there are times in our life when we genuinely feel that we shall never smile again. Perhaps there are times in our life when we think that our present situation will be our lot in life till then end. Perhaps there are times when we travel through life all alone. But just like our friend the leper, while he was at the lowest possible point, God is at work in our lives too. Jesus once was with Nicodemus on the top of the Mount of Olives. He told him, “Do you hear the wind blowing? You don’t know where it comes from and you don’t know where it is going. Nicodemus. The spirit of God is like that. Sometimes it’s like a gentle breeze and other times a mighty hurricane. But it is always there.

II

The second thing we can learn from this man’s tragic story is that our suffering moves God’s hand. Moves his heart. “Filled with compassion” are the words Mark uses. God does not sit idly by when we are in pain. Jesus reached out and touched the man, saying, “I am willing; be clean.”

There is a story about a New York City policeman investigating a case. Dialing the phone on one day of the investigation, he somehow knew before he had even finished that he’d made a mistake. The phone rang once, twice – then someone picked it up. “You’ve got the wrong number!” a husky male voice snapped before the line went dead. Mystified, the policeman hit redial. “I said you got the wrong number!” came the voice. Once more the phone clicked down. “How could he possibly know I had the wrong number?” the policeman asked himself. A cop is trained to be curious and concerned. So he dialed a third time. “Hey, c’mon,” the voice said. “Is this you again?” “Yea, it’s me. I was wondering how you knew I had the wrong number before I even said anything.” “You figure it out!” The phone slammed down. He sat there for a while, the receiver hanging loosely in his fingers. He called the man back. “Did you figure it out yet?” the man asked. “The only thing I can think of is nobody ever calls you.” “You got it!” The phone went dead for the fourth time. Chuckling, the officer dialed the man back. “What do you want now?” asked the man. “I thought I’d call – just to say hello.” “Hello? Why?” “Well, if nobody ever calls you, I thought maybe I should.”

There may be no body else in this world that is moved with compassion enough to reach out to you. It happens. People fall between the cracks and get left behind, even in the church. There are lepers all around us who live isolated lives. And sometimes the only one we have to rely on is God himself, God who dials our number and says, I thought I’d call – just to say hello. God, who brings joy to the sorrowful, peace to the troubled and healing to the lepers. God, who embraces the lonely in the shadow of his wings, who fills the empty, and who guides those who are without hope.

First we can learn of the loneliness of leprosy. The second thing we can learn from this man’s tragic story is that our suffering moves God. Filled with compassion our Lord reached out and touched the leper.

III

The final thing we can learn from this man’s story is that our Lord is willing to heal. Even in the depths of physical misery and death there is spiritual healing. Our tragedies can be His triumphs. The leper came asking to be healed, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” Which really isn’t a question. It is, rather, a statement of faith. “If you are willing,” he said. He did not say if you are able. It’s recognition that Jesus has the ability, the power of God to heal. And it changed his life.

Let me share a story about Michael Wayne Hunter who was put on death row in California in 1983, in San Quentin Prison. After his third year on death row something happened. One day he was getting ready to spend time exercising when the guard said, "You're going to miss Mother Teresa. She's coming today to see you guys." Yea, sure, he said, "one more of those designs they have on us." A little later he heard more commotion about it and thought it might be true, that Mother Teresa was actually coming to see them.

Another guard said, "Don't go into your cells and lock up. Mother Teresa stayed to see you guys." So Michael jogged up to the front in gym shorts and a tattered basketball shirt with the arms ripped out, and on the other side of the security screen was this tiny woman who looked 100 years old.

Yes, it was Mother Teresa.

This hardened prisoner wrote about his experience, he said, "You have to understand that, basically, I'm a dead man. I don't have to observe any sort of social convention; and as a result, I can break all the rules, say what I want. But one look at this Nobel Prize winner, this woman so many people view as a living saint, and I was speechless."

Michael said an incredible vitality and warmth came from her wizened, piercing eyes. She smiled at him, blessed a religious medal, and put it in his hands. This murderer who wouldn't have walked voluntarily down the hall to see the Warden, the Governor, the President, or the Pope, stood before this woman, and all he could say was, "Thank you, Mother Teresa."

Now listen to what happens: At one point Mother Teresa turned and pointed her hand at the sergeant, "What you do to these men," she told him, "you do to God." The sergeant almost faded away in surprise and wonder. He couldn’t believe Mother Teresa just said that to him.

That day was a turning point in the life of Michael Wayne Hunter. This San Quentin Death Row prisoner was cleansed by that experience. Life changed. Suddenly there was meaning to it. So drastic was the change a new trial was set and the death penalty was not sought. The verdict was guilty on two counts of first-degree murder but a new sentence was given: Life. Life, without the possibility of parole. Prosecution did not seek the death penalty because Mr. Hunter was now a model prisoner and an award-winning writer. He is one other thing: A testimony that Christ still is willing to heal, still willing to touch the untouchable, and to make us whole. Amen.