Parable of the Lost Coin/Lost Sheep
Lita Brusick Johnson

Sermon from May 20, 2006

Luke 15:1-10:  Now the tax collectors and "sinners" were all gathering around to hear him. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, "This man welcomes sinners and eats with them."   Then Jesus told them this parable: "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the 99 in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.' I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over 99 righteous persons who do not need to repent.  "Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.' In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.

Grace and peace to you, beloved of God! 

When I was six my parents took my sisters and me to New York City. Now, this was a really big deal, because we lived in a small Connecticut town, where nobody liked or trusted anything related to the Big Apple.  But my folks decided that we needed to see the Statue of Liberty, so they endured a harrowing, marriage-testing drive into the city, arrived in the middle of the morning rush hour, and then had to walk about a mile to catch the tour boat around Manhattan. 

I had never been in a city before.  The sidewalks were packed with people moving in two streams, going uptown or downtown.  In the midst of the press of people, I looked down.  Having only seen grass and pavement before, I became fascinated with the grates we were walking on, through which you could see water and trash below – you could even see cigarettes floating along under our feet.   

As we approached an intersection, the walk light was starting to flash.  I glanced sideways and saw my father’s grey pants and blue suit jacket picking up speed to make the light, and so I did too.  Once through the intersection, I scampered ahead to where the grates began again, looking below with fascination.  When we reached the end of the next very long city block, the light was red.  I reached up and grabbed my father’s hand, but my shock equaled his when I looked up just as he looked down.  For the man whose hand I had grabbed wasn’t my father, though the jacket was identical. 

I snatched my hand out of his – and he crossed the street.  But my family was nowhere to be seen.  Then I remembered what my parents had said in the car:  if you get separated from us, stay put.  So I did.  I stood rooted right in the middle of the sidewalk at the edge of the crosswalk, as the flow of commuters parted like the Red Sea around me.  The light turned red, then green, then red again.  I waited . . . and realized what it meant to be lost.     

Finally, I saw a blue jacket flash through the crowd, way down the block where I had come from . . . my father loping through the crowd, looking left and right, a hunter’s intense look on his face.  He looked ahead and our eyes locked.  He darted between people, swooped me up, held me so close I could hardly breathe.  “Why did you leave us?” he kept asking as we hustled back.  (My explanation about the intriguing gutter and floating cigarettes didn’t seem to cut it.)  After we went through that first intersection again, I could finally see my mother, frantically wringing her hands, peering back and forth, and my sisters, standing preternaturally quiet with eyes as big as saucers.  When they saw me, all three pointed, shrieked, and ran together toward us.  Amidst tears, hugs, and scolds, I learned what had happened: my little sister had tripped and everybody – but me -- stopped.      

Well that was that’s the story from my perspective.  My parents, now 84, remember that morning 50 years ago as one of the more harrowing experiences of their life.  But I knew they would find me, because they loved me. 

What wonderful images Jesus paints of God in these parables . . . God who searches with frantic thoroughness . . . not satisfied with 9/10 of a sack of coins or 99/100 of a flock . . . God, whose very nature is love.  These are concrete, earthy examples to which each of us can relate.  Indeed, when I read Luke’s gospel, the face of the shepherd, leaving the flock to find the stray sheep, is my dad’s intent seeking face, and the seeking woman has my mom’s face – and theirs is the look of joy when the lost sheep is found. 

We’ve heard it so often that its radical meaning sometimes escapes us:  God is love.  After watching countless children’s sermons, I think kids know that there are two answers that will always get them points or pats on the head:  Jesus saves . . . and God is love.   But think about it!  What an awesome assertion!  Did any of you see the remake of the Flash Gordon movie some years ago . . . where the hero encounters Ming the Merciless, the universe’s evil emperor, who leans forward from his throne and says with gleeful menace, “Did you really think the universe was benign?”  Not just benign . . . we claim a God who creates, redeems, and sustains the cosmos, a God whose very nature is self-emptying love – whose love is not passive, who wills and works for reconciliation.  This is radical stuff! 

For this is a God who not only acts, but calls us to rejoice when the lost are found, when reconciliation happens, when those who have turned away from God turn back and allow themselves to be embraced by God’s love.   In both stories, the shepherd or the housewife, having found what was lost, call the neighbors and say “rejoice with me.”  And then, in both vignettes, the great multitude in heaven rejoices over the one sinner who repents – turns back to God.” 

In these stories, we find ourselves being both that which is lovingly sought by God . . . and, by God’s invitation and design, we are called to be seekers as well – part of the rejoicing community that Christ has chosen to be his reconciling body in the world.  For 90 percent  . . . or 99 percent isn’t enough for this loving God.  The community is incomplete when one whom God loves goes missing – and the community both seeks those who are lost and rejoices when God’s love creates reconciliation. 

When I was preparing this homily, I e-mailed my colleagues, asking if they had any stories that relate to these two parables.  Our Africa staff person immediately stopped by to talk about our amazing companions in the Northwest Diocese of Tanzania, who are like shepherds seeking lost sheep – in this instance, children whose parents have died of AIDS and who are struggling to feed and care for little brothers and sisters on their own.  The church doesn’t wait for them to walk through the door – but relentlessly sends out its staff to seek them out in villages and remote rural areas, bringing the comfort of the church, embodying God’s love, and providing the protection and help they need to survive and even thrive . . . and then, together in community, they rejoice at the little successes that bring life out of death. 

And how about you?  Do you see yourself or those you know in these parables?  Was there a time when you were lost?  Was there a person who embodied the love of God that found you?  Or is there someone in your congregation or community who doggedly seeks out with the love of God children at risk . . . or battered women . . . or elderly or disabled people . . . or those who have run afoul of the law . . . or those who have absented themselves from our fellowship?

We are part of a local community and a global family of seekers who themselves once were found, a great cloud of witnesses, who live out God’s intent that no person be left behind.  Like the hosts of heaven, they rejoice when the coin or the sheep is found.  Their prayers surround us in this grace-filled seeking.     

And I mean that literally.  The church in Ethiopia is exploding with new members, and its young people are at the forefront of reaching out to those who have not heard the Good News.  I visited Ethiopia several years ago, when a serious drought threatened the lives of a million people, meeting with church leaders about how our church could best partner with them in the midst of famine and the HIV-AIDS crisis.  At the end of the last, long conversation, I asked them:  “If you could share one thing, what would say to us in the ELCA?”   They looked at each other . . . as if to check whether they should be direct.  Finally, one said, “We are praying for you each and every day.”  Silence.  I then asked, “Would you share the content of your prayer?”  Silence.  I waited it out.  Finally, the conversational dam burst, and they shared their distress about the growing percentage of  “white hairs” in our congregations.  They expressed their concern for our young people who were opting out of the community of the saints in Christ.  They wondered whether those young people might “have so many of the things of the world in their ears that they couldn’t hear God’s call.”  In the midst of famine and AIDS and growing pains of that growing church, they were praying for God’s love to find the lost sheep of our church – and they wait, along with the angels of heaven, to rejoice when that happens. 

Lost and found . . . seekers, pray-ers, and rejoicers.  That’s who we are . . .  that’s what we do.  But in the end, it’s not about us.  It’s about God, who even more urgently and relentlessly seeks out those who are lost than did my father did on those New York sidewalks 50 years ago.  And what joy there is for us and for others when we look up from whatever gutter has claimed our attention – and see the look of love directed toward us, love that changes lives, love that changes the world, and love that is the source of rejoicing throughout the cosmos.  God grant us such joy in being found – and enabling  God’s love find others.  Amen