Finding the Lost

One summer, when I was in middle school (actually, it was called junior high in my day—that’s how old I am), my dad took me camping—just me, not my two brothers or my sister or mom, just me. I felt pretty special, to be honest. We had a great time that summer.

It was also one of those summers when the seventeen-year locusts were out. We got to the campground and rolled down the window to pay the entrance fee and heard a roar that sounded like the thunder of a massive waterfall or a jet engine before take-off. It was the locusts, singing the song they kept buried for seventeen years. We got used to it, after all, the white noise you no longer notice. What we didn’t get used to was the short life span of the creatures and how they would drop from the trees when their songs were done. It was like a slow rainfall on the canvas roof of our tent, thumping like an irregular heartbeat as we tried to sleep. We also had to keep watch during mealtime, lest there be added protein dropping onto our plates or into our bowls.

The upside to this insect precipitation was that the fish were ready to jump at anything tossed into the lake. We barely had time to drop a hook into the water before a fish was ready to be pulled in. We caught more fish that week than we had ever done so before or since. We had to keep watch on the limits to make sure we weren’t going over the line. The fish were just begging to be found.

Jesus had been hearing the white noise of complaint buzzing over him for some time now. “He is seen in the company of the wrong people!” “He is just way too friendly with those folks.” Buzz, buzz, buzz. Dropping hints from behind hands and raised eyebrows like dead bugs from trees.

So, Jesus tells a story. A couple of stories. Well, three, but we’ll leave the last one for another time. He gathers the crowd and the eavesdroppers to whom he is really talking. And he says, “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, leaves them . . .” Now we aren’t told who is in the crowd. There are probably not any farmers or shepherds. But even those who are there know what the right answer is. None of us! Let’s talk about acceptable losses. Let’s discuss depreciation. Jesus, you may know woodworking and messiah-ing, but you’re not a rancher. That would be crazy: leaving ninety-nine sheep unprotected to go off looking for one wanderer.

Just crazy. And let’s talk about this woman and her lost coin. She sweeps the house—good idea—and when she finds the coin, she throws a party for all her friends and neighbors, which is going to cost more than the coin was worth. She would have come out ahead just holding on to the nine coins. Oh, sure, we can convince ourselves that this isn’t just a coin, but a dowry, or a special headdress that somehow signaled her worth to the whole world, and without it would have been like smiling with a missing tooth. That may be true, but it isn’t really clear in the text. The word is drachma, a significant coin, to be sure. It may represent a tenth of her life savings or even her whole family’s life savings or generations of family, perhaps.

But still, it seems excessive, this party-throwing response to the finding. The coin that rolled off the table into a hidden crevice, or the sheep that followed its nose into a gully or the edge of the wilderness—what makes them worth all the effort? That’s the question Jesus is posing to the crowd and mostly to the eavesdroppers who are complaining about his priorities.

Then, let’s talk about strategy. There is a lot of effort involved in this seeking. The shepherd risks life and limb to find this wandering sheep, putting at risk the ninety-nine who know better. The woman lights a light and sweeps the whole house, puts in overtime, extra effort to find this coin. And neither the coin nor the sheep have expressed any desire to be found, let’s be honest. We’re happy to fish when the fish practically are jumping into the boat, taking the measly bait we offer with little effort on our part. We’re good with that. We like the lost who find their own way back. In fact, a lot of our evangelism efforts are based on that premise – that they’ll find their own way back, or at least they’ll ask to be found.

Jesus seems to be suggesting a different approach, or a different understanding, or maybe a different relationship. Yeah, that’s it: a different relationship. Jesus sends us seeking. That’s why these stories qualify as hard words. We’re given work to do, effort to extend; and we are given an attitude in which we expend this energy. We’re seeking with joy. We’re seeking something precious, something essential. And then when we find those we are seeking, we celebrate. We don’t condemn and judge and point fingers and put them in time out until they measure up to our own personal standards. “We rejoice,” Jesus says.

It's not our text for this week, but it isn’t until the third story that the ninety-nine sheep left behind and the nine coins still sitting in their proper place get to speak. It’s in the voice of the older brother, who complains, who pouts, who declares that this found one isn’t worth the party we’re throwing here. It doesn’t reflect well on the eavesdroppers, on the righteous ones who don’t need a search party, who don’t step out of line. And then the shepherd who seeks and the woman who sweeps, and the father who searches the horizon every single day says, “You are always with me and everything I have is yours.”

Why should we throw a party for the found ones? Because we live in a party every single day. Because celebration is our modus operandi, our regular habit. We are the party people! So, of course, we throw a party. Otherwise, all our mumbling is insect white noise, buzzing away in the background, fit to be ignored. “Rejoice with me,” says the seeker, “for the lost have been found.”