Being Lost

'All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them."

So he told them this parable: "Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, `Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.' Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.

"Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, `Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.' Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."'

--Luke 15: 1-10

I lose things.  Like, a lot. I’ve lost my high school ring – which was miraculously found in another state six months later – my father’s college ring from the Citadel – which was never found, sadly – and a lot of other accessories, besides just rings, whose stories could fill up the rest of this sermon time. While I was serving at a church in South Carolina I lost my sunglasses, and our wonderful parish administrator, who was a devout Roman Catholic taught me a short, simple prayer to Saint Anthony of Padua, the patron saint of lost items:

Dear Saint Anthony, please look around.
Something is lost and cannot be found.

I never found that particular pair of sunglasses, but if and when you do find the thing you’ve lost, you’re supposed to show your gratitude by praying:

Dear Saint Anthony, thanks for coming around.

What I had lost has now been found.

Maybe you called on Saint Anthony when you were little, or maybe you did last week. Assuming you did find the thing you were looking for, do you remember how overjoyed you were to find it? 

Saint Anthony of Padua, patron saint of lost items.

The entire 15th chapter of the Gospel of Luke is made up of three parables about lost things – lost sheep, lost coin, and lost child, which is the parable of the prodigal son that we don’t hear this week because we actually heard it way back on the Fourth Sunday in Lent. Each of these parables follows the same pattern: a sheep is lost from the fold, and the shepherd goes to find it and rejoices when it is returned; a woman turns her house upside down to find a coin that is equivalent to a whole day’s wages, and when she finds it she throws a party to celebrate; and of course, in the parable of the prodigal, a son squanders his inheritance and comes home in shame, only to have his father meet him and have a great celebration with wine and beef and fancy robes. Something is lost, someone searches for the something, and joy abounds when the something is found.

Jesus’ use of parables was common among rabbis of his day, as most of us know. They were meant to teach an important lesson about God and about ourselves, and they invited the hearer to identify who is whom in the story. It’s not too hard to figure out, then, that in these parables God is pretty clearly the shepherd searching for the sheep and the woman searching for the coin.  The sheep and the coin, therefore, are you. They’re me. They’re every person whom God loves. To some that might sound a bit like low-hanging fruit, but it’s true, and it’s important to remember. Our shame often gets in the way and whispers to us in the voice of the Enemy “Maybe everyone else, but not you. Not after what you’ve done, the life you’ve led, and the decisions you’ve made. God couldn’t possibly love you that much, to seek you out, to throw you a party. Anybody but you.” I’ve been guilty of hearing that voice. Maybe you have, too. So it matters, it really matters, that we can hear Jesus tell us today, through these stories, that yes indeed, God loves you and is searching for you, like a shepherd searching for a lost sheep, like a woman searching for that lost coin, and when God finds you, God’s enthusiasm abounds so much that there is a party in heaven, just for you!

Wow! That is some good news, indeed, ain’t it? Yet even when they hear this kind of good news, the religious authorities and elites still grumble. Grumblers gonna grumble, I guess, no matter what good news they hear. The parables, then, are a plea to them to remember that rejoicing is the proper response to God’s abundant love, not grumbling.  

This brings up an interesting point about these parables and this exchange between Jesus and the authorities. The chapter starts by pointing out that the tax collectors and other notorious sinners have come to Jesus, and rather than turning them away, he has welcomed them and shared table fellowship with them. They seem to get it. The sinners understand Jesus and the parables, they get that they have been lost and are now found and their hearts have been strangely warmed in such a way that they can accept God’s grace and Jesus’ love. But the authorities? They don’t see that they are also lost. All they can do is grumble about this unorthodox – we’ve never done that before – behavior from Jesus, and so they grumble. These so-called righteous folks are blinded by what they think they’re supposed to do, how they have been taught to believe and act. Now they’re spiritually lost, and even when Jesus is standing in front of them, they still think they’re the shepherd and the woman in the stories, not the sheep and the coin. 

That’s how we get lost, when we start believing that we’ve got it figured out, that we are the righteous ones. This is when the Gospel ceases to be enough for us, when the grace of God and love of Jesus are just ideas that are nice but not really significant to our lives; we need more. I’d propose, to paraphrase David Lose, the Sr. Pastor of Mt. Olivet Lutheran Church in Minneapolis:  “might the parents who want their children to succeed so much that they wrap their whole lives around sports games and recitals be lost; might the career-minded individual who has made moving up the ladder the only priority be lost; might folks who work jobs they hate just to give their families things be lost; might the earnest Christian who is constantly grumbling about the affairs of their neighbor be lost?"

To truly be lost is to act as if the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the grace and love of God aren’t enough; that we need to make some sort of meaningful contribution to society that others can validate, otherwise we don’t really matter. To be lost is to forget that we are children of a God who passionately searches for us, who is active in history and in the world today, who never gives up on us, even if we give up on ourselves, each other, and God. You are loved, my sisters and brothers, so very much! You are of more value than a sheep or coin or any other object. And God is seeking you out, to love you and remind you of that love everyday, but it is only when we can admit to our own lostness that we can truly be found. It is in acknowledging, not so much to God or others, but to ourselves, that we don’t have it all figured out, that we are frail and vulnerable and in need of love, that we can let God in to welcome us back to the place we’ve always been, where God celebrates the precious possession that is us.  

Counting the Cost of Following Jesus

 'Now large crowds were traveling with Jesus; and he turned and said to them, "Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple. For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, `This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.' Or what king, going out to wage war against another king, will not sit down first and consider whether he is able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against him with twenty thousand? If he cannot, then, while the other is still far away, he sends a delegation and asks for the terms of peace. So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."'

--Luke 14: 25-33

Do y’all remember when you could pump your gas first and pay afterwards? Nowadays you can’t do that, you have to pre-pay. Well, when I was 16 years old, driving my father’s truck, I stopped for gas, and without thinking about it, pumped $10 or so – remember when that actually got you a decent amount of gas?! – and then proceeded to go pay. The only problem was I didn’t have my wallet. I’d left it at school. Sixteen year old Joe panicked, and I got in the truck and drove away. Now, the next day I came back, wallet in-hand, and paid what I owed, but because I hadn’t thought it through, because I hadn’t counted the cost of pumping the gas, I made what very well could’ve been a pretty serious mistake. Folks like me are why you now have to pay before you pump. You're welcome.

Have you ever done something like that? Ever made a decision without thinking it through or realizing that you have no idea what you got yourself into? That’s why it’s important to count the cost, to discern and think things through before we commit to them.

Have you applied that logic to being a Christian? Have you ever considered the importance of discerning, thinking through, and counting the cost of what it means to make such a commitment? That is the lesson at the heart of Jesus’ teaching in the Gospel this week. We find him surrounded by a large crowd on the road to Jerusalem. They all think he’s on the road to overthrowing Rome and establishing a new empire, but he’s actually on the road to the cross and a shameful death. The motif running throughout Luke’s Gospel is Jesus subverting expectations, and this lesson, which scholars often call The Cost of Discipleship, is no different.

Right out of the gate he comes at us with 'Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children....cannot be my disciple....whoever does not take up their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.' He continues with two parables: Which of you, he asks, intending to build a tower doesn’t first sit down and estimate the cost? Or what king, intending to go to war, doesn’t first sit down and map out a strategy? Nobody would, right? You would be sure to count the cost before you make those kinds of commitments. The same, therefore, is true for being a disciple. There is a cost. And while the Greek word translated as ‘hate’ – which is ‘misei’ – more accurately means ‘disfavor’ or ‘disregard,’ the point is still the same. Following Jesus means showing no preferential treatment toward anyone or anything other than the Kingdom of God. Even if that means being willing to let go and give up everything and everyone that a person holds dear. That is the cost of Christian discipleship. That is the cost of following Jesus, and if you’re gonna do it, he’s saying to the crowd, if you’re gonna go to Jerusalem, you better think about that before you commit. It’s not hard to picture folks, at that point, turning away and going home.

Crowds growing angry with Jesus.

At the time Luke’s Gospel was written, the cost of following Jesus was very high. Often it resulted in the loss of family or the loss of life itself; after all, just look at the apostles, 11 of whom were martyred, and poor John was exiled and died in a cave. It didn’t work out so well for them in the end, but they followed anyway, because they were willing to count the cost. Nowadays, it’s a little different. We don’t have to be afraid to publicly gather for worship or be afraid of being put to death for going in the street and proclaiming that Jesus is Lord. A lot has changed. Being a Christian is easier than it was then, and one could argue it has turned into a convenience, churches into clubs where we gather with our friends whenever it is convenient and hear messages that make us feel good about ourselves. Where is the cost?

The earliest resources we have that describe the rite for baptism point out that when a child or adult was baptized – not a baby, mind you – that they were dunked three times and on the third time their head was held under the water until their breath was about to give out, and at the last moment the deacon released them, and they jumped up out of the water, gasping for air – the first breath of a new life in Christ. Maybe that seems extreme to us today, but the point remains that the earliest Christians understood the cost of discipleship being that they would have to be willing to let old things die – the habits and relationships that had come to define who they were – in order that Christ, and Christ alone, was what defined them and gave their life meaning. Today, we might ask ourselves, in response to this Scripture and in light of the example of our forebears in the faith: What is the cost of our discipleship? Are we willing to let old things die? And are we willing to take a chance on following Jesus, even if it means that we will fail. Because to the world the cross is still a symbol of shame, humiliation, and failure. Are we willing to accept and count such a cost?

William Barclay, in his commentary on Luke's Gospel, tells the story of a professor that he once knew in Scotland. Someone once said to the professor that they had met a young man who was a student of that professor. To which the professor replied, “He may have sat in on my class, but he wasn’t a student of mine.” There’s a difference between sitting in class for a lecture and being a student, there’s a difference between sitting in a pew for a sermon and being a disciple. There is effort involved, there is a cost to be counted before we make such a commitment. There is the risk – and sometimes even the certainty – of disappointment and failure, of families, friends, and neighbors treating us with mockery and shame, just as people in Jesus’ time treated those who were crucified. I have even seen it in people who have come to the faith in our time and have lost loved ones because of it. After all, to turn our backs on the world and proclaim that our worth is measured by our belonging to Jesus Christ, and that to lose everything by following him means that we will gain everything, is just plain nuts. But if we are willing to let the former standards we held and ways we’ve been go, and see in Jesus a new life and a new way of being, if we understand and the count cost, then we can count ourselves among his disciples and can change the world, even if to the world, it looks like we failed.

I’d like to give the last word to Saint Theresa of Calcutta – Mother Teresa. She offered a prayer once that the musician Ben Folds eventually covered in a song called Do It Anyway. Her prayer, I believe, helps encapsulate what the cost of discipleship means for a modern church:

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. 

Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. 

Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. 

Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you. 

Be honest and sincere anyway.

What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight. 

Create anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous. 

Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, will often be forgotten. 

Do good anyway.

Give the best you have, and it will never be enough. 

Give your best anyway.

In the final analysis, it is between you and God. 

It was never between you and them anyway.