It seems an obvious observation to note that our
methods and means of communication have quickly
and permanently changed in recent years. I will offer
one example. In my first preaching class in seminary,
which doesn’t feel like too many years ago, we were
urged by our professor to never use the term “Biblical
text” in a sermon. Now, why not? Because “text”
signified something static, boring, lifeless. Texts
belonged in museums and classrooms. They were
to be studied as artifacts. And the word “text” was
particularly poisonous, in the eyes of my professor, to
young people in the pews.
How things have changed. Now even my five-yearold son knows that a text is not lifeless or static.
Yesterday, when he wanted to play with a neighbor, I
suggested that he simply walk next door and ring the
doorbell. Knock on the door and ask. The response:
“But Dad, can’t you just text them?”
Texts are in constant motion around us, through
us, between us. Some of you, no doubt, are writing,
sending, and receiving texts as I speak. You know
who you are, and so do I. The verb form of this noun
has come to stay. “Just text them, Dad.” A favorite
New Yorker cartoon: The scene is the hospital
nursery, and a newborn is holding a phone above his
head, thumbs furiously typing. The bubble above his
head reads, “OMG! I just got born!” i
Just text them. Now perhaps I am overly optimistic
about this interest in texts that move, but I think it
represents a real opportunity for the Church. You
see, for centuries, people of faith have been insisting
that Holy Scripture does not just lay idle while we
read and interpret it for our lives. Biblical stories do
not simply say something, they do something. With
apologies to my preaching professor, the Bible texts
us, absorbing us into its narrative and opening new
worlds of possibility. And so, our current series is all
about allowing the parables of Jesus to text us with
some new message of faith. These stories—these
parables—do not describe the world; they create a
new one, upside-down, and invite us to live within it.
This week’s story begins with controversy, and as
usual, Jesus is in the center of it. At issue this week
are his eating habits, specifically those with whom he
chooses to share the table. The picture in my mind is
the middle school cafeteria. Jesus is that child always
inviting the wrong people to sit next to him. Ignoring
the great truth of adolescence—that you are judged
by the company you keep—Jesus is spending time
with precisely the wrong people if he wants to be
recognized as an upright, religious, pure authority
figure. Not only is he welcoming them to his table; he
is eating with them. Sinners.
In response to the outrage of the Pharisees and
scribes, Jesus tells a parable. More precisely, he tells
a set of three parables that relate to one another.
They are all stories of the lost and found. Lost sheep,
lost coin, lost son. This morning, we read the first two
of these parables, and I’m wondering, as you heard
them, where you placed yourself in the world within
these stories.
Perhaps this morning you were that one lost sheep:
afraid, tired, alone, desperately hoping the shepherd
might rescue you from danger, desperately hoping
he might drape you over his shoulders. Perhaps
this morning you are lost. I have suggested before
that the moment with the children is, each week,
the most anxiety-producing moment in the worship
service for any pastor. An example from my former
congregation. This was our text for the day, and I
had a brilliant idea. I divided the group of children
into sheep and shepherds. And then the sheep were
invited to wander, to “get lost” somewhere within the
sanctuary while the shepherds counted. Finally, after
they had counted, the shepherds were released to
go find the lost sheep. They did a beautiful job, and it
all went fine until several moments later when I was
reading the scripture for the morning. It was then
that a voice cried out from under one of the pews,
“I’m still lost!” I can’t say how gently, but this lost
sheep was rescued swiftly by his parents, and I’ve
never tried that exercise in worship again. “I’m still
lost.” Sometimes we’re lost. We feel like lost sheep
in a world where isolation, distance, and fear seem
to be the norm. Where division and faction keep us
separated. Sometimes we need to be found, and we
all know the relief of that feeling.
But perhaps this morning you were not the lost
sheep. Perhaps you took the perspective of the other
ninety-nine, the ones left behind in danger while
their foolish owner searches for the one renegade.
Why is there more rejoicing over that one lost sheep
than over the others who stayed right where they
belonged, who did what they were supposed to do?
It’s a good question, one that stands at the heart of
the third parable in this series, the story of a waiting
father, a lost son, and a frustrated older brother.
But these two short scenarios seem to have
something different in mind. Notice how Jesus begins:
“Which one of you, having one hundred sheep...”
What if the invitation is to imagine ourselves not
as the sheep—wayward or obedient—but as the
shepherd? As Barbara Brown Taylor suggests, there
is the possibility that these “are not parables about
lost sheep and lost coins at all, but parables about
good shepherds and diligent sweepers.” ii Maybe we
are meant to be the ones who are searching.
If so, the actions Jesus describes seem laughable.
Leave ninety-nine sheep in search of one who is
missing? One interpreter notes that the shepherd
who does that “will have, at the end of the day, one
sheep. Sheep are not among the animal kingdom’s
brightest creatures. Sheep stray.” iii
Rip all of the carpet off the floor of your home, move
all the heavy appliances out in the yard, move all of
the furniture out on the porch, in search of a nickel?
Now, which one of you would not do that?
Well, of course, the answer is that none of us would
do that. We are practical. We have common sense.
The actions are impractical. They lack common
sense. But this is a parable. The world is upside
down, and you have just been texted. It is impractical,
unless that one lost sheep is more than a dumb
animal. It is nonsensical, unless that one coin missing
is not just another piece of metal.
These are not stories about lost car keys or a pair
of socks, or even a missing phone; these are the
weighty things of life: faith, hope, love, friendship,
vocation, community, sense of purpose. These
are stories of the joy we feel when they show up
again, under some long-avoided pile of painful past
experiences or behind a barrier we constructed years
ago for self-protection. All those places that we don’t
want to look or couldn’t bring ourselves to explore.
And yet, when we muster the courage to search, we
find them.
It is foolish to search for a lost sheep. It is foolish
to turn the house inside out in search of one coin.
Unless that sheep, that coin, matters most. These
stories urge us to search for what matters most, even
when that searching seems foolish when measured
against the values of the world.
In a culture obsessed with accumulation, ninetynine beats one every time. Unless that one, in
the upside-down world of God’s kingdom, is the
most important one. We live in a time of so many
competing priorities, so much pressure to do it all
now. And then we come to this hour of worship. We
have that abundance of questions, uncertainties,
and struggles. Cares swirling about us like text
messages darting through our minds. Ninety-nine
problem sheep to keep track of all the time. Who has
the energy to seek out that one that went missing?
Can I get everything done before the deadline? How
will we ever afford the exponentially rising costs of
living? What will the test results show? Why must
relationships be so hard? Is there more to my life
than the daily routine? What does the future hold
for me, my family, the church, the world? Somehow,
we know that this is the place where we will find
what matters most. Somehow we sense that what
has been missing is what we most need to find.
And that’s why. That’s why we leave everything else
behind in search of that one sheep, that one coin
buried under the couch cushions.
The message of the parable is: keep looking. The
journey matters as much as the destination. Keep
searching. There will be detours and dead-ends
and frustrations of every kind. Keep seeking. You
will be blessed by the presence of fellow travelers,
wise mentors, trusted friends. Keep looking. Keep
searching. Keep seeking. For what you are after
is more precious and valuable than anything that
passes for success in this world. Keep looking.
There is one more twist in these stories of the lost
and found. Yes, we are called to search, but we are
not the only ones searching. Yes, we are called to
seek, but we are also sought. Even as we look for
meaning, purpose, and the presence of God, we are
being offered these gifts. So when your searching
seems pointless, text this truth: The God who created
you still calls you by name.
Listen to this and be joyful: You are valuable in the
eyes of God. You matter. The One you seek is always
already seeking you. And you too can be found.
Amen.