Author: Ryan Hoffer

Lord willing, this May, I will celebrate ten years of sobriety. The beginning was tough. I was in outpatient rehab for 18 months while also participating in support groups and submitting to weekly drug tests. There was work to be done, habits to be undone, and accountability to be established. It was a process—often tedious—but something happened along the way. My heart started to follow my body into those rooms as I continued to comply with the process. A miracle was rendered in me—I was made well.

Was it instantaneous? No. Does that make it any less miraculous? Again, no. I guess you could call it a slow miracle.

In Luke 17, we see another slow miracle (albeit much faster than mine!). Jesus tells the ten lepers to go and present themselves to the priests, at which point they will presumably be cleansed. Note that He does not heal them and then tell them to go. On the contrary, they depart in faith, hoping that by the time they reach the priests, they will be cleansed. They have “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). Verse 14 tells us, “As they went, they were cleansed.”

We don’t know how long it took; any guess would be purely speculative. But we do know that it happened along the way.

What is Jesus doing in you along the way? Has He asked you to go out in obedience, giving you everything needed for faith—except the results themselves? Are you in the middle of a slow miracle?

The Christian philosopher and father of existential thought, Søren Kierkegaard, said something fascinating that, at face value, seems false. In his book Concluding Unscientific Postscript, he makes the statement, “Christianity is subjective.” Now, typically, a statement like this would raise all sorts of red flags. After all, we know that truth is absolute, and we believe Christianity to be objectively true. But the tongue-in-cheek philosopher has often been misunderstood.

What he is not saying is that there is no objective truth or that Christianity might not be true. Quite the contrary! What he means is that the truth of Christianity is worked out in the particularity of the subject. Thus, following Christ is not a matter of impersonal maxims or rote memorization—it is personal devotion worked out in one’s own experience. This is the subjectivity he speaks of.

By now, you’re probably thinking, “You’ve lost me, Ryan.” Hang in there. I noticed something this week in my reading of Luke 17 about the manner in which Jesus heals the lepers. In Luke 5, He heals one leper immediately by touching him. In Luke 17, He heals ten men gradually, without even making contact! As I read these contrasting accounts, a thought struck me: Why doesn’t Jesus heal the same maladies in the same manner?

But the answer goes back to Kierkegaard’s observation. It is because Jesus is deeply personal. He works faith through the relative experiences of our lives. This is the subjective truth of Christian practice. It is why physical touch works for one man while a spoken word works for others. It is also why, out of ten men healed in the same manner, only one returns in gratitude.

Jesus wants a personal relationship with you. Even in the way He performs miracles, He demonstrates this. Ask Him today to work in the experiences of your own life, that you may know Him and be known by Him.

The title Master (Greek epistates) is unique to the phraseology of Luke. He is the only New Testament writer to use this specific Greek word and frequently substitutes it where others use Rabbi—possibly an indication that he was writing for a Gentile audience. The word was used in the Greco-Roman world to denote someone who is “set over” others, such as a supervisor, owner, or magistrate.

Of interest is the fact that in every New Testament occurrence—except for one—it is always the disciples who address Jesus with this title:

• Luke 5:5 – But Simon responded, saying, “Master…”
• Luke 8:24 – They went to Jesus and woke Him up, saying, “Master, Master…”
• Luke 8:45 – Peter said, “Master, the crowds are pressing in…”
• Luke 9:33 – Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here.”
• Luke 9:49 – Answering, John said, “Master…”

In the story of the ten lepers, we see the title used again:

“And as He entered a village, He was met by ten lepers, who stood at a distance and lifted up their voices, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us’” (Luke 17:12-13).

These lepers, unlike the privileged twelve, are not speaking from a teacher-disciple relationship. Nevertheless, they bestow upon Jesus the title Master. In doing so, they acknowledge His authority—authority great enough that they implore Him to heal them, believing even disease to be subordinate to His command. As a result, they are healed.

We also serve the Master. Remember today that He is “set over” all things in your life—work, health, friends, family, finances, trials, blessings, and everything in between—and thank Him for His mastery.

Leprosy has a well-documented history in the writings of the ancients. Of course, the Old Testament offers a thorough discourse on the purification laws of the Israelites (see Leviticus 13 and 14), but many other sources also record descriptions of the severity of the disease. The historian Josephus, recalling the history of the Jews, states, “And for the lepers, [Moses] suffered them not to come into the city at all, nor to live with any others, as if they were in effect dead persons.” The church father Gregory of Nyssa refers to those infected as a “terrible… spectacle of men who are living corpses.” The celebrated Greek physician Aretaeus describes how leprous family members would be exiled to the desert or mountains in the hope that they would soon perish. Therefore, leprosy was essentially a death sentence.

Jesus, however, is able to break the sentence of death and alienation—both in a physical and spiritual sense. It is, in fact, for this very reason that He came. He alone performed miracles that none but the Son of God could do, proving His Lordship, as is the case with the ten lepers He healed in Luke 17. When John the Baptist was imprisoned, he inquired of Jesus, “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?” (Matthew 11:3). Jesus’ reply to this question has always struck me. He chooses not to answer in a straightforward manner but rather to appeal to the effects of His work—which is, perhaps, a more enduring affirmation to counter persistent doubt. He says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have the good news preached to them” (Mt. 11:4-5).

This week, as you reflect on the story of the ten lepers, know that Jesus is “the one who is to come” and has demonstrated this by His miraculous power—both then and now.

En route to Jerusalem, Jesus encounters ten lepers on the passage “between Samaria and Galilee” (v. 11). They maintain their distance—as required by Mosaic law—and entreat the Savior to have pity on them. The law literally required diseased persons outside the camp to cry out, “Unclean, unclean,” as a warning to those approaching, lest they come into contact and become defiled. The text says that they “lifted up their voices,” or, as the NLT puts it, “they cried out.” The verb is not to be overlooked, for after they are cleansed, the grateful leper returns to Jesus and again cries out, this time “praising God with a loud voice” (Lk 17:15). Thus, there is a parallel structure to the story—crying out in the beginning and crying out in the end—albeit from very different affections.

But isn’t that always the case? When we cry out, our Lord hears and has compassion on us. This idea is presented repeatedly throughout Scripture, most notably (and personally) in the Psalms. Psalm 30 says:

O LORD my God, I cried to you for help,
and you restored my health… (v. 2, NLT);

…that I might sing praises to you and not be silent.
O LORD my God, I will give you thanks forever! (v. 12, NLT)

God has the power to transform our deepest sorrows into profound joy—if only we would cry out to Him. But let there be a corresponding cry as well, an expression of praise. Whichever side of the crying out you’re on, know this: You can take comfort in the fact that He hears you, or you can take joy in the fact that He heard you.

As a recovering alcoholic, 9.5 years sober, it is imperative that I remember the condition that brought about my sobriety. In those last miserable days, when my wretchedness reached a fever pitch, God, even in tribulation, was doing for me what I couldn’t do for myself. That is, He was imparting to me a perspective that could only be reached through desperation and, in doing so, casting off every objection that my spirit would otherwise give to such a surrender.

To use a common recovery expression, this is “the gift of desperation.” It is a gift, on the one hand, because it is benevolent, securing for us our welfare, and on the other because it must come from outside ourselves. A gift is given by another. We cannot give ourselves awareness—for unawareness is, by its very nature, ignorant of itself. Nor can our perspective be altered without the external application of some force.

No, this gift is given from without, by God, who knows the remedy for our condition and the measures that must be taken to arrive at it. He does this daily in the subjectivity of our own affairs and once and for all in the Incarnation.

This is the Gospel: that God, through Christ, has done for us what we could not do for ourselves. And, what’s more, He is continually doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves—breaking chains, restoring relationships, healing infirmities, quieting anxiety, and providing things both material and immaterial.

Ask God today to do for you what you cannot do for yourself, and thank Him that He has already done it in eternity.

A common theme among the heresies of the early centuries was the limitation of Christ’s humanity. Ironically, many false teachers accepted the divinity of Christ but denied His humanity (a fact that seems to only strengthen the argument for the former). Some groups claimed that Christ was an apparition or that He merely inhabited a human body but wasn’t Himself human.

One of these groups was the Docetists, from the Greek word dokein, meaning “to seem or appear.” Docetist groups believed that physical matter was evil and, therefore, practiced extreme self-denial to rise to a higher spiritual truth. According to their warped view of the created order, Jesus could not have had a physical body because that would impugn His divinity. The apostle John seems to be aware of these false teachings, as he goes to great lengths to stress the physical nature of Jesus throughout his writings, saying things such as:

“That which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands” (1 John 1:1).

One of these false teachers, Cerinthus, was a contemporary of John and promoted Docetist views during the first century. We know from second-century writings that these pagan philosophies were so influential that they established their own schools and began leading people astray. Early church writers have even stated that John wrote the fourth Gospel in refutation of Cerinthus’ views.

This may seem trivial or irrelevant to us today, but the truth is that we can put the matter to rest because the early church worked hard to combat these heresies and establish the orthodox position on Christ’s humanity. They did so by examining the Scriptures and refuting the claims of popular pagan philosophies that were entering the church. These assertions were then formulated into creeds that reaffirmed the truths of Scripture.

When we know the Word of God, we can sift through popular misconceptions about who Jesus is—whether regarding His humanity or divinity. As 1 John 4:2 states:

“By this you know the Spirit of God: every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God.”

This week, as we celebrate the incarnation, thank God that He came in the flesh and that we have attestation to this very fact.

An often-neglected portion of Scripture is the names and numbers contained within. There are tallies of persons and tribes, inventories, and measurements. But let us consider the details, lest we mistake the divine for drudgery. For the Gospel itself begins with such a list! The apostle Matthew starts:

“The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham was the father of Isaac, and Isaac the father of Jacob…”

God, in His wisdom, saw fit to begin the Gospel with a retelling of the people through whom the Savior would come. And, in touching on this, He bids us to revisit history. These are figures and events—stories of actual people who encountered God—whose experiences are told in the pages of the Old Testament. This would have been especially important to the Jewish audience of Matthew’s writing, who were keenly aware of their ancestry.

But Matthew’s list does more than represent the Jewish heritage of Jesus; it recapitulates all of history in the person of Jesus. For Matthew, to begin the story of Jesus is to start with Abraham and lead up to the “fullness of time,” as the apostle Paul puts it. In that sense, this genealogy can be heard saying something like, “Jesus not only entered history, but all of history worked toward His entrance.” His incarnation is so pivotal that it split time and became the standard by which we measure the calendar year in B.C. and A.D. (Anno Domini).

This is especially important today, as we celebrate the birth of our Savior. Let us rejoice with a reading of the genealogy in Matthew 1:1–16, thanking Him that the Word of God became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14).

One of my favorite verses in all of Scripture is found in Luke 1:38, where the mother of our Lord receives the news that she will bear the Son of God: “And Mary said, ‘Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.’” The phrase “let it be” is noteworthy—so much so that the great theologian Paul McCartney memorialized it in song! Mary’s response reveals the sublime resignation of her will to that of the Lord’s.

This posture stands in stark contrast to others in the same story. For example, Zechariah, upon hearing from the angel Gabriel that his wife would bear John, the prophesied herald of the Lord, remarked, “How will I know?” (again with the popular songs!). These two responses—Mary’s and Zechariah’s—reveal very different attitudes: one of acceptance and one of doubt.

To further emphasize these differing attitudes, consider the identity of these two figures. Zechariah was a priest and undoubtedly knew the Scriptures the angel was referring to. Mary, on the other hand, was a young girl, untrained in the law and prophets. Yet in Mary, we see a submission that we would do well to emulate when the Lord employs us in His will.

As you seek the Lord today, what is your response? How will I know? or Let it be?

A few years ago, when my son was in first grade, I faced the age-old parenting dilemma: What do we do about Santa Claus? Using a little creative thinking, I decided I could have my cake and eat it too by teaching him about St. Nicholas, the fourth-century church figure who was indeed a historical person. Nicholas was the bishop of Myra (in modern-day Turkey) and is remembered in church history as a generous almsgiver and a staunch defender of orthodoxy.

In the early 300s A.D., a church leader in Alexandria named Arius began teaching that Jesus had not always existed but was a created being and of a different essence than the Father. This false view of Christ’s nature began to sweep the Mediterranean world, deceiving a great number of Christians. When Emperor Constantine rose to power, the heresy had spread so widely that he called an assembly of church leaders to reach a consensus on the matter. This meeting, known as the Council of Nicaea in 325 A.D., is widely recognized for 1) being the first “ecumenical” (representing the whole) council and 2) establishing the orthodox Christological position.

Lists of attendees show that St. Nicholas participated in the meeting, where—over the course of several months—the 200+ bishops debated the Arian controversy using the Scriptures. A medieval legend (which likely lacks historical accuracy) recounts Nicholas becoming so provoked upon hearing Arius argue that he crossed the room and slapped him, for which he was subsequently deposed by Constantine. When the council concluded in July of 325 A.D., Arius’ view was condemned, and one of the most famous creeds in all of Christian history was drafted: the Nicene Creed, which is still read in many churches today.

In this document, it is stated that Jesus is:

the Son of God, begotten from the Father, only-begotten, that is, from the substance of the Father, God from God, light from light, true God from true God, begotten not made, of one substance with the Father, through Whom all things came into being, things in heaven and things on earth, Who because of us men and because of our salvation came down, and became incarnate and became man, and suffered, and rose again on the third day, and ascended to the heavens, and will come to judge the living and the dead.

While creeds are man-made statements, this creed reflects the doctrine of the nature of Jesus as set forth in the Scriptures. As a participant in the Council of Nicaea and a defender of the orthodox position on Christ’s nature, we can appreciate Nicholas’s contribution to the treasury of thought on Christian belief and practice.

(*Needless to say, after my son disseminated this new knowledge about Santa Claus to his classmates, I received an email from his teacher.)