More Alike than Different: Naaman's Story is Ours

On this July 4, as we celebrate freedom in our own country, the story of Naaman – a foreigner, an oppressor, a military commander – reminds us that at the heart of it, we are all human. We all have the same needs, the same desires, the same hopes. And, more importantly, we are all loved by God.

A Meditation from 2 Kings 5

At its heart, the story of Naaman is the story of all of us.

He is a powerful man – renowned, respected, victorious in battle. A commander in the army of Aram, a man who moves in royal circles, whose reputation precedes him. But beneath the armor, Naaman is human. And like every human being, he is vulnerable. He is sick. And his illness threatens not only his health, but his standing, his future, and the self he has carefully constructed.

Leprosy has invaded his life in a way his enemies could not. It has exposed what power cannot protect. No title or decoration can cure it. No victory can shield him from it.

And so, when a young servant girl – a kidnapped Israelite, a nobody in the eyes of the world – mentions a prophet in her homeland who might help, Naaman listens. Perhaps he listens out of desperation. Perhaps out of a flicker of hope. Perhaps because he has tried everything else, and nothing has worked. For whatever reason, to his credit, he listens to her. He doesn't dismiss her insight or scoff at the suggestion that healing might come from a foreign land and an unfamiliar prophet. He follows the thread of grace offered by a voice the world would ignore.

What follows is a lesson in humility and transformation.

Naaman arrives in Israel bearing wealth and letters of introduction. He expects fanfare, ceremony—something fitting his status. Instead, the prophet Elisha doesn’t even come to the door. He sends a messenger. “Go, wash in the Jordan seven times.”

It is an insult to Naaman’s pride. He storms off. “Are not the rivers of Damascus better than all the waters of Israel?” he asks.

But again, it is the lowly—the servants—who guide him. “If the prophet had asked you to do something difficult,” they say, “wouldn’t you have done it? Why not try the simple thing?”

So Naaman, stripped of pride, steps into the muddy Jordan. He immerses himself. Once. Twice. Again. Seven times. And when he comes up, his skin is restored—like the flesh of a young boy.

But something deeper has been healed, too.

Naaman returns not only with clean skin but with a changed heart. He declares, “Now I know that there is no God in all the earth except in Israel.” He takes soil from the land—holy ground—to build an altar back home. He carries not just a souvenir, but a new allegiance, a new awareness of where healing truly comes from.

Even Jesus mentions Naaman centuries later. In a moment that angers his listeners, Jesus reminds them that while there were many lepers in Israel during Elisha’s time, only Naaman, the foreigner, was healed. (Luke 4:27)

The point is not to shame Israel, but to reveal something more expansive: God’s mercy isn’t limited by borders. God’s grace reaches beyond the expected, the inside, the known. It surprises. It heals the outsider. It welcomes the foreigner.

And Naaman is not alone in this pattern. Jesus also mentions the widow of Zarephath—another foreigner, another outsider—who received God’s provision during a famine when many in Israel went without. She, too, listened to a prophet, made room for him in her home, and discovered that her meager supply of flour and oil would not run out.

Two stories. Two outsiders. Two miracles. Both cared for by prophets, both lifted up by Jesus.

What do we learn?

We learn that those who seem unlike us are, in fact, just like us. The foreigner. The outsider. The one with different customs, languages, rituals. At their core, they want what we all want – to be well, to be safe, to have enough, to care for their children, to live with dignity. Naaman wasn’t seeking conquest. He was seeking healing. And he found it through humility, through listening, through letting go of power and embracing vulnerability.

There is something timeless about this story. Something painfully relevant.

For as long as humans have lived in fear or uncertainty, politicians have sought someone to blame. A scapegoat to deflect blame from their own failures. Nero blamed Christians for the burning of Rome. As the reason for Germany's economic decline after World War I, Hitler blamed Jews, gay people, minorities, the disabled, and others, who did not fit his twisted idea of an Aryan super-race. In every generation, someone tries to stir up fear against the outsider – to say, “They are the reason for our problems. Get rid of them and our problems will be solved.”

But the story of Naaman reminds us that outsiders are not our enemies. They are fellow travelers, fellow sufferers, fellow seekers, equally loved by God. And in God’s economy, they are not just recipients of grace, they are sometimes the ones who lead us to it.

Naaman’s healing didn’t just come through Elisha. It began with the voice of an enslaved girl. It was urged on by the voices of humble servants. And it was fulfilled not through power, but through humility.

We might ask: Where do we stand in this story?

Are we Naaman, needing healing, but stubbornly clinging to our own pride?

Are we the servant girl, holding a quiet truth that might bless someone if only we speak it?

Are we the servants who help others reconsider, even when they are angry or afraid?

Or are we bystanders: content in our comfort, unwilling to believe that God might be working through unexpected people in unfamiliar places?

Jesus stood on level ground. He praised the poor, the hungry, the grieving. And He pointed us toward a kingdom where the last are first and the outsiders are welcomed in. Naaman’s story lives in that same space.

And maybe the greatest healing of all is the one that happens when we finally see: we are all loved by God. We are more alike than different. And grace is not a reward for status—it’s a gift for those who will receive it.

Closing Prayer

God of every nation and every heart,
You speak through the voices we are slow to hear.
You heal through simple instruction and muddy rivers.

Strip us of pride and self-deception,
That we may come to You in our need—
not as the powerful, but as the human.

Teach us to welcome those we’ve called outsiders,
To see in them Your image,
To follow the grace that flows beyond borders.

And let us be healers, too—
Listening. Learning. Loving.
In Your name. Amen.