Today’s Gospel gives us one of those short but piercing encounters in which Jesus reveals both the generosity of God and the frailty of the human heart. Ten people approach him, desperate, excluded, and suffering. They stand at a distance because that’s what society has forced them to do. Their disease has not only damaged their bodies but has robbed them of their place in the community, their work, and even their worship. They cry out for mercy, and Jesus responds — not with conditions, not with a lecture, but with healing and restoration.
What follows, however, exposes something uncomfortable. Only one of those ten, seeing what has been done for him, turns back. Only one allows gratitude to interrupt the rush of life. The others, though healed, simply move on. Their lives are restored, but their hearts remain closed. The single one who returns is the outsider — the one most people would have dismissed. And yet he is the one who recognises grace for what it is.
This small episode lays bare something very human. We are often quick to ask God for help, but slow to thank Him when it comes. In the moment of need, prayer comes easily. In the moment of relief, we often forget that we were ever desperate. Gratitude slips quietly out of sight, replaced by busyness, comfort, or pride.
But this Gospel isn’t simply about manners — it’s about relationship. Gratitude is not a polite gesture; it is the doorway into communion. The nine received healing, but only the one who returned received something deeper — a renewed friendship with God. Healing changes circumstances; thanksgiving changes hearts. When we give thanks, we are not merely acknowledging what God has done; we are allowing ourselves to see who God is — and to see who we are before Him.
This is why gratitude sits at the very centre of our faith. The Eucharist itself means “thanksgiving.” Every time we come to Mass, we do exactly what that one man did — we turn back, we kneel before the Lord, and we give thanks for the mercy we have received. Even if our week has been chaotic, even if our lives are not how we would wish them to be, we return again and again to this altar to say, “Thank you.”
And this thanksgiving has power. Gratitude draws us out of ourselves; it breaks the illusion of self-sufficiency. It reminds us that everything — even breath itself — is gift. When we live with grateful hearts, we become more patient, more generous, more free. Gratitude is not naïve optimism; it is clear-eyed faith. It looks honestly at the world, with all its pain and complexity, and still finds reason to bless God.
So perhaps today we might ask ourselves: where do I see the quiet miracles in my own life? Who or what have I taken for granted? Have I thanked God for the things I once prayed for so desperately?
Let us not be like those who walked away with their health but missed the chance for friendship. Let us be like the one who turned back — who recognised that mercy deserves more than a passing nod, that healing calls for a heart that remembers.
In every act of thanksgiving, no matter how small, we draw closer to Christ, who restores not only our bodies but our souls, not only our fortunes but our hearts. May we learn to live each day with that same grateful awareness, and find in it the faith that truly makes us whole.