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.