There are moments in Scripture so brief, so quiet, so easily passed over, that we almost miss the entire weight of Heaven behind them. Luke 17 records one of those moments—an encounter tucked into a journey, a miracle overshadowed by a greater truth, a healing overshadowed by a deeper kind of wholeness.
Jesus is on His way to Jerusalem. He is walking the long road toward the cross. His face is set toward what awaits Him there. The crowds press, the disciples follow, and every step carries purpose. Yet on this journey—between Samaria and Galilee, in a region people preferred to avoid—ten voices cry out from a distance. Ten men, standing far off, separated by law and shame and disease, call out with the only prayer they still have left:
“Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”
It’s striking that they know His name. It’s striking they know His authority. It’s striking they know enough to call Him “Master.” Their theology is not the problem. Their belief is not lacking. They believe He can do something. They believe He sees them. They believe He is not like other teachers who shrink away from uncleanness.
Belief is not their issue.
Jesus sees them—really sees them—and He simply says,
“Go, show yourselves to the priests.”
He gives no explanation.
He offers no ceremony.
He performs no gesture.
He asks them to walk away still unhealed, still disfigured, still rejected. And yet, in a remarkable act of obedience, they go. They head toward the priests, toward the very people who would certify their cleansing, even though nothing appears changed. And as they go, the miracle happens.
“As they went, they were cleansed.”
Ten men obey.
Ten are healed.
Ten receive the mercy they asked for.
If the story ended there, it would already be extraordinary. Ten lepers healed in a single breath of divine compassion. Ten broken bodies restored. Ten stories rewritten in an instant.
But the heart of this passage is not the healing.
The heart is what happens next.
One man—only one—when he sees that he has been healed, stops walking toward the priests. He turns around. He goes back to Jesus. He returns the way he came. He retraces steps of pain now filled with joy. He lifts his voice in praise. And when he reaches Jesus, he falls at His feet in gratitude. Luke tells us he was a Samaritan—someone doubly excluded, doubly despised—yet the one whose heart is awakened first.
Then Jesus asks three of the most piercing questions in Scripture:
“Were not ten cleansed?”
“Where are the nine?”
“Was no one found to return and give glory to God except this foreigner?”
And then He gives the one who returned something deeper than healing:
“Arise, go your way; your faith has made you well.”
(Luke 17:19)
Not your belief.
Not your obedience.
Not your desperation.
Not your miracle.
Your faith.
The implication is staggering:
Nine received healing, but only one received wholeness.
Nine obeyed, but only one returned.
Nine believed Jesus could help, but only one came back because his heart had been captured.
This is the hinge of the sermon:
Belief received a blessing.
Faith returned to the Blesser.
Belief accepts a gift.
Faith gives gratitude.
Belief walks away with something from Jesus.
Faith walks back to give something to Jesus.
In this passage, belief and faith are not the same thing.
In fact, Jesus Himself refuses to treat them as the same thing.
Ten believed.
One had faith.
Ten obeyed.
One worshiped.
Ten walked toward the priests.
One walked toward Christ.
This is the central distinction of the Christian life—the dividing line between those who know about Jesus and those who walk with Him… between those who receive from Him and those who give Him their hearts… between those who want His blessings and those who want His presence.
And into this moment of contrast comes Jesus’ final statement:
“Your faith has made you well.”
The word He uses includes the idea of salvation—of wholeness, restoration, return, and relationship. The nine received the healing of their skin. The one received the healing of his soul.
Because faith does not merely act on what Jesus can do.
Faith wants Jesus Himself.
Belief accepts facts.
Faith gives affection.
Belief acknowledges truth.
Faith forms relationship.
Belief sees Jesus’ power.
Faith seeks Jesus’ heart.
That is why your title is so fitting:
Faith Wants Your Heart.
And if we are honest, this question Jesus asked long ago still searches us today:
Where are the nine?
Where are those who received grace but did not return?
Where are those who experienced mercy but did not give worship?
Where are those who know Jesus’ name but never bring Him their gratitude?
Where are those who want healing but not surrender, help but not devotion, blessings but not relationship?
It is possible—dangerously possible—to receive something from Jesus without giving Him your heart. It is possible to follow instructions without forming intimacy. It is possible to obey a command without entering communion. It is possible to walk away healed yet remain strangers to the One who healed you.
The nine were not rebellious.
They were not hostile.
They were not unbelieving.
They simply did not return.
Their bodies were changed.
Their hearts were not.
Jesus wanted more for them than cleansing.
He wanted connection.
He wanted relationship.
He wanted gratitude that flows from love.
He wanted their hearts.
And this is where the sermon now expands into the second story—the woman who touched Jesus’ garment. Because she reveals the same truth from the opposite direction.
The leper returned to Jesus after receiving healing.
The woman reached for Jesus before receiving healing.
The leper shows us faith that comes back.
The woman shows us faith that presses forward.
Both speak the same message:
Faith does not stop at belief.
Faith wants a Person.
Faith wants Jesus.
Faith wants His heart—and offers Him yours.
This is the foundation on which the rest of the sermon will stand.
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If the story of the ten lepers shows us that faith returns to Jesus, the story of the woman with the issue of blood shows us that faith reaches for Jesus. One comes back in gratitude; the other presses forward in desperation. One worships after he is healed; the other moves toward Him before she is healed.
Together, they reveal the full shape of biblical faith:
Faith wants Jesus—coming or going, before or after the miracle, in need or in gratitude.
Where belief can remain still, faith moves.
Where belief observes, faith presses.
Where belief evaluates, faith risks.
Where belief feels something, faith does something.
And Jesus responds to this movement every time.
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THE WOMAN WHO REFUSED TO STAY IN THE CROWD
The Gospel writers tell us about a woman who had been hemorrhaging for twelve long years. Twelve years of pain. Twelve years of weakness. Twelve years of isolation. Twelve years of doctors. Twelve years of disappointment. Twelve years of uncleanness.
If anyone had the right to believe quietly and stay hidden, it was her.
She had spent everything trying to get well.
She had grown worse instead of better.
By the law, she had to remain separate.
By custom, she had to remain silent.
By experience, she had learned not to hope too loudly.
But then she hears about Jesus.
And something awakens inside her—a fragile, trembling, but unmistakable conviction. Perhaps she had heard that He touched lepers. Perhaps she had heard that He lifted the fallen. Perhaps someone told her, “He sees people like you.” Whatever she heard, it was enough to turn belief into motion.
The Scripture tells us:
“She came behind Him in the crowd and touched His garment. For she said to herself, ‘If I only touch His clothes, I will be made well.’”
(Mark 5:27–28)
Notice that.
She moves through a crowd.
She presses through public shame.
She chooses to reach.
She acts on what she believes.
Faith is not passive.
Faith never stays where it started.
Faith moves toward Jesus even when everything in you says, “Stay back.”
And then comes the moment that reveals the very heartbeat of God:
“Immediately her flow of blood was dried up… and Jesus, knowing that power had gone out from Him, turned around and said, ‘Who touched Me?’”
(Mark 5:29–30)
It is one of the most astonishing questions in Scripture.
The disciples are baffled.
“Master, You see the people crowding against You, and You ask, ‘Who touched Me?’”
There were dozens touching Him.
Hundreds brushing against Him.
A sea of bodies pressing Him.
But only one touched Him with faith.
Only one touched Him with intent.
Only one touched Him with dependence.
Only one touched Him with trust.
Only one drew on His heart.
Everyone touched Him.
Only one reached Him.
This is where the message begins to deepen:
Proximity is not the same as faith.
Being near Jesus is not the same as belonging to Jesus.
Being in the crowd is not the same as touching Christ.
Many stood next to Him.
Only one took hold of Him.
Many saw Him.
Only one sought Him.
Many brushed past Him.
Only one believed He was her only hope.
And Jesus felt the difference.
He felt faith.
The crowd touched His body.
She touched His heart.
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THE SHAME THAT TURNS INTO WORSHIP
When Jesus insists on knowing who touched Him, the woman does something breathtaking. Scripture says:
“She came forward trembling… and fell down before Him.”
The leper fell at Jesus’ feet in gratitude.
This woman falls at His feet in surrender.
Both stories meet here:
At the feet of Jesus—belonging, returning, reaching, surrendering.
She tells Him the whole truth.
The whole story.
The whole journey.
The whole shame.
And Jesus gives her something no one else had given her for twelve years:
He gives her identity.
He calls her “Daughter.”
Not “woman.”
Not “clean.”
Not “healed.”
Not “restored.”
But Daughter.
This is the gospel inside the miracle.
This is the relationship inside the healing.
This is the heart of Jesus for those whose faith moves toward Him.
He does not simply fix what is broken.
He embraces who is broken.
He does not simply restore her body.
He restores her belonging.
He does not simply end her suffering.
He ends her isolation.
This is faith’s true reward—not the miracle, but the relationship.
Which is why Jesus says to her the same words He will later say to the grateful leper:
“Your faith has made you well.”
Faith—not belief.
Faith—not theology.
Faith—not nearness to the crowd.
Faith—not proximity to power.
Faith—the decision to move toward Him.
Faith—the courage to reach for Him.
Faith—the humility to fall before Him.
Faith—the longing to be near His heart.
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WHAT BOTH STORIES REVEAL
Side by side, the ten lepers and the bleeding woman preach the same message from two directions:
Faith reaches out.
Faith returns.
Faith acts before the miracle.
Faith responds after the miracle.
Faith presses through crowds.
Faith turns back from the priests.
Faith touches Jesus in desperation.
Faith touches Jesus in gratitude.
Faith wants healing.
Faith wants relationship.
But above all:
Faith wants His heart—and gives Him yours.
Belief may acknowledge who Jesus is.
Faith takes hold of Him.
Belief may admire His power.
Faith seeks His presence.
Belief may obey His instructions.
Faith enters His fellowship.
Belief may walk away with something.
Faith walks back to give something.
And Jesus makes the difference unmistakably clear:
The nine lepers were healed.
The woman was healed.
But only two people in these stories received something deeper than healing.
Only two received wholeness, identity, and relationship.
Only two heard Jesus say:
“Your faith has made you well.”
Not because they got something from Him…
…but because they gave something to Him.
They gave Him their hearts.
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THE HEART OF JESUS IS DRAWN TO FAITH THAT REACHES AND RETURNS
This is where the message begins to speak with authority into our own modern experience. Because if we look closely, the crowd is still here.
Crowds still admire Jesus.
Crowds still listen to Jesus.
Crowds still gather around Jesus.
Crowds still believe in Jesus.
But Jesus is not changed by crowds.
He is moved by faith.
He feels the difference between those who stand near Him and those who trust Him.
He feels the difference between those who say His name and those who cling to His mercy.
He feels the difference between those who are around Him and those who come to Him.
He feels the difference between brushing against Him and reaching for Him.
He knows when a heart is turning toward Him.
He knows when a heart is coming back to Him.
He knows when a heart is falling at His feet.
He knows when a heart wants Him—not just His gifts, not just His help—but Him.
And He calls that faith.
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THE POINT WHERE BELIEF BECOMES FAITH
Belief becomes faith the moment it becomes movement.
Belief becomes faith the moment it becomes attachment.
Belief becomes faith the moment it becomes relationship.
Belief becomes faith the moment it says:
“I don’t just want what Jesus can do for me—I want Jesus.”
That is what the grateful leper discovered.
That is what the woman discovered.
And that is what Jesus is calling us to rediscover:
Faith wants your heart because Jesus wants your heart.
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If the first two movements of this message help us see what faith looks like—faith reaching, faith returning—then the third brings us into the very reason why this kind of faith matters. Because Jesus is not collecting miracles. He is not distributing spiritual experiences. He is not simply answering prayers or remedying crises or meeting needs.
Jesus is gathering hearts.
This is the mystery at the center of the gospel:
The One who flung galaxies with His word and commands angels with His voice does not ask us first for our strength or our accomplishments or our religious performance.
He asks for what the leper gave.
He asks for what the woman offered.
He asks for what belief cannot produce.
He asks for your heart.
And this is where the sermon turns inward—where the stories stop functioning like windows and begin acting like mirrors. Because these two people in Scripture are not simply characters in ancient narratives. They are portraits of us. They show us the difference between a life that brushes up against Jesus and a life that belongs to Him.
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THE NINE WHO RECEIVED A MIRACLE AND WALKED AWAY
Picture the nine lepers walking quickly toward the priests. The law required confirmation. Their families waited. Their communities waited. Their future waited. It makes sense that they continued on; they were obeying Jesus’ instruction. They were doing exactly what He told them to do.
But the tragedy of the nine is not disobedience—it is incompleteness.
They received the blessing
but not the relationship.
They received the restoration
but not the Redeemer.
They received the miracle
but missed the Miracle Worker.
They received new lives
but didn’t offer theirs in return.
They were healed on the outside
but unchanged on the inside.
The nine remind us that it is possible to experience God’s goodness
and never develop a heart for God Himself.
It is possible to be the recipient of grace
without becoming a worshiper of the One who gives it.
It is possible to walk through religious obedience—
to walk toward the priests—
without ever walking toward Jesus.
And it is possible, frighteningly possible, to be blessed by God
and remain spiritually distant from God.
This is why the question Jesus asks carries so much holy weight:
“Where are the nine?”
Where is the worship that corresponds to the miracle?
Where is the gratitude that corresponds to the mercy?
Where is the return that corresponds to the blessing?
Where are the hearts that should have followed the healing?
This question is not condemnation; it is invitation.
It is the voice of a Savior who wants more for us than circumstantial help.
It is the call of a God who wants relationship, not transaction.
“Where are the nine?” is not just a question—
it is a longing.
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THE WOMAN WHO RISKED EVERYTHING TO REACH FOR JESUS
Now hold that picture beside the woman who pressed through the crowd. She was not obeying a command. She was not performing a ritual. She had no instruction except the whisper of trust inside her heart.
Her faith was movement toward Jesus before the miracle.
The leper’s faith was movement toward Jesus after the miracle.
One risked reaching out.
The other risked turning back.
One had to push through people.
The other had to walk away from people.
But both reveal the same eternal truth:
Faith moves wherever Jesus is.
Faith wants His heart above all else.
Her touch was not accidental.
It was intentional.
It was personal.
It was relational.
Everyone else touched Jesus that day with their bodies;
she touched Him with her faith.
Everyone else pressed Him with proximity;
she pressed Him with trust.
Everyone else was near Jesus;
she drew near to Jesus.
And He felt the difference.
The miracle was not in the hem of His garment.
The miracle was in the heart that reached for Him.
Her faith pulled on His compassion.
Her faith connected with His identity.
Her faith opened the channel for power to flow.
Her faith made her more than a healed woman—
it made her a daughter.
This is what makes her story so powerful:
Faith did not just change her circumstance.
It changed her relationship.
She came trembling.
She left beloved.
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FAITH AS RELATIONAL LOYALTY, NOT INTELLECTUAL BELIEF
Paul uses a phrase over and over in his letters that many scholars agree is the central heartbeat of biblical faith: pistis Christou—often translated “faith in Christ,” but equally valid as “the faithfulness of Christ.”
Paul’s point is this:
Faith is not mentally accepting that Jesus exists.
Faith is entrusting your life to the One who has proven Himself faithful.
Faith is not a theological position;
it is relational allegiance.
Faith is not information;
it is attachment.
Faith is not “I believe in something about Him”;
it is “I belong to Him.”
The grateful leper belonged.
The woman belonged.
They responded to grace not by understanding it fully but by attaching themselves to the Giver of grace.
In biblical terms, this is the difference between belief and faith:
Belief acknowledges Jesus.
Faith clings to Him.
Belief accepts the truth.
Faith entrusts the self.
Belief says, “I know He is Lord.”
Faith says, “I live because He is Lord.”
Belief walks away healed.
Faith falls at His feet.
Belief stands in the crowd.
Faith reaches through it.
Belief keeps its distance.
Faith closes the distance.
Belief receives answers.
Faith returns with worship.
Belief is content with cleansing.
Faith longs for communion.
This is the difference your sermon is proclaiming:
Faith wants your heart because Jesus wants your heart.
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THE QUESTION JESUS STILL ASKS
The question echoing from that ancient road between Samaria and Galilee still rings through sanctuaries, hearts, and lives today:
“Where are the nine?”
Jesus is not angry.
He is not disappointed.
He is not impatient.
He is yearning.
Where are the ones who will not walk away after receiving their blessing?
Where are the ones who will return to give thanks?
Where are the ones who desire the Giver more than the gift?
Where are the ones who will fall at His feet and say, “I want You”?
Where are the ones who will offer Him not just their needs but their hearts?
This question is Jesus searching the landscape of our lives:
He healed us. Did we return?
He carried us. Did we worship?
He forgave us. Did we cling to Him?
He restored us. Did we serve Him?
He answered us. Did we surrender to Him?
Where are the nine?
Or are we the one?
And in the woman’s story, another question emerges:
Who touched Me?
Who reached with expectation?
Who pressed through the noise?
Who trusted enough to act?
Who refused to stay in the crowd?
Who touched Me with a heart that believes I am enough?
This question is Jesus searching not for hands but for hearts.
Not for proximity but for attachment.
Not for observers but for followers.
Not for information but for intimacy.
“Who touched Me?”
“Where are the nine?”
These two questions frame your entire sermon because they frame the entire Christian life.
One question invites your reach.
The other invites your return.
Both ask for your heart.
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THE INVITATION
Here is the gospel truth that ties both stories together:
Jesus is not moved by belief alone.
Jesus is moved by faith that wants Him.
He will heal ten.
But He will call one “whole.”
He will walk through crowds.
But He will stop for the one who touches Him with trust.
He will bless many.
But He will transform those who return to Him in love.
He is generous to the world.
But He gives Himself to those who give Him their hearts.
This is why faith matters.
This is why faith is not belief.
This is why faith is movement, allegiance, attachment, relationship.
This is why faith wants your heart.
Because Jesus does.
He has always wanted your heart—not your performance, not your fear, not your perfection, not your appearance, not your credentials.
Just your heart.
That’s what the leper found when he turned back.
That’s what the woman found when she pressed through.
That’s what you will find when you take even one trembling step toward Him.
The heart that reaches for Jesus
and the heart that returns to Jesus
is the heart He calls
faithful.
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APPEAL
There comes a moment in every life when Jesus stops and asks the question that reveals everything:
“Where are the nine?”
and
“Who touched Me?”
Two questions that are really one:
“Where is the heart that wants Me?”
The nine received mercy but did not return.
The crowd pressed around Him but did not reach.
The world is still full of people who believe in Jesus—
but do not belong to Him.
People who want His gifts
but not His presence.
People who want His blessing
but not His heart.
People who brush against Him
but never cling to Him.
And into that world, Jesus still looks for the one:
The one who will turn back.
The one who will press through.
The one who will fall at His feet.
The one who will give thanks.
The one who wants more than healing—
the one who wants Him.
Maybe today you find yourself somewhere in these stories.
Maybe you’ve received something from God—
a healing, a rescue, a blessing, a breakthrough—
but you never returned with your heart.
Maybe you’ve stood close to Jesus for a long time—
in the crowd, around the edges, near His people—
but you’ve never reached out in personal faith.
Maybe your life has been a long road of disappointment, like the woman’s,
or a sudden moment of mercy, like the leper’s.
But today Jesus is calling you to something deeper:
Not simply to believe in Him,
but to trust Him.
Not simply to obey Him,
but to love Him.
Not simply to receive from Him,
but to return to Him.
Not simply to brush against Him,
but to touch His heart.
And here is the good news:
The same Jesus who felt the woman’s trembling touch,
the same Jesus who welcomed the leper’s grateful return,
is here now—
searching, calling, inviting, yearning.
And He wants your heart.
If you have been one of the nine, you can come back.
If you have been lost in the crowd, you can press through.
If you have been afraid to reach, He is waiting.
If you have held back your heart, He is ready to receive it.
Today the Savior of the world has room for one more heart at His feet.
Let that heart be yours.
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CLOSING PRAYER
Father in heaven,
You who see every heart and hear every cry,
we come before You because we have seen ourselves in these stories.
We confess that too often we have been among the nine—
quick to receive, slow to return.
Too often we have been part of the crowd—
near Jesus, but not surrendered to Jesus.
Today we bring You our hearts.
Not just our beliefs, not just our needs,
but our hearts—
our gratitude, our trust, our longing, our weakness.
Make us like the one who turned back with praise.
Make us like the woman who reached out with faith.
Teach us to fall at Your feet with love that cannot stay silent.
Teach us to move toward You with trust that cannot stay still.
Lord Jesus, take our hearts.
Shape them, cleanse them, claim them, and fill them.
And let our lives be the evidence that faith has found a home in us.
In Your holy name we pray,
Amen
