Lost

I once sat with a man suffering from dementia. He said, over and over, “I’m lost.” He was at home, in a familiar space, surrounded by people and objects he knew. But his mind was fogged, his bearings gone. And all he could say to explain his despair and frustration was, “I’m lost.”

Haven’t we all felt that, in one way or another? Moments when we’re not sure who we are anymore? Times when the road that once seemed so clear fills with fog before our eyes. Seasons when the world feels overwhelming, and we can’t quite find our place.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells a story about a sheep that wanders off. The shepherd counts his flock—1, 2, 3…97, 98, 99. Ninety-nine. But there should be one hundred. The missing sheep is vulnerable, unable to find its own way home.

And then Jesus tells a story about a coin, dropped, misplaced, hidden in dust or in a dark corner. A coin that can’t call out to be found. It just lies where it fell, helpless and lost.

A sheep. A coin. Neither can find itself.

The shepherd doesn’t shrug and say, “Well, ninety-nine is good enough.” He leaves his flock behind and goes searching until he finds the one that is lost. The woman doesn’t sigh and say, “It’s only a coin.” She lights a lamp, sweeps every corner, refuses to give up until she has the lost coin back in her hand.

Jesus’s parables don’t always have a single meaning, but the meaning of the stories we heard this morning is clear, I think. God is the one who searches. God is the one who never gives up.

This is very good news to hear in those moments when you find yourself in a fog, whispering, “I’m lost.” God is already searching. Before you know the words to pray, before you can do anything to help yourself, God is already calling out to you, seeking you out. No one is too small, too insignificant, too far gone. Not the sheep. Not the coin. Not you.

Of course, it doesn’t always feel quite so simple.

You and I aren’t actually sheep, watched over day and night by a shepherd responsible for our well-being. We aren’t coins who are sure to stay safe if put carefully away. We’re human beings. We’re responsible for ourselves. And at times we’re the ones who lose ourselves.

Sometimes we build golden calves, giving our devotion to one or another of the idols that tempt us everywhere we go. Sometimes we betray one another. Sometimes we tie ourselves up in knots of anger and fear and forget that the people we disagree with are created in the image of God, beloved of God just as we are ourselves. We lose ourselves when we let our politics become our religion, when we see enemies instead of neighbors, when we insist on being right at the expense of love.

The passage after the one we read today contains another parable, one I’m sure you know. It’s the story of the prodigal son. The younger son who takes his inheritance and travels to a distant land, to a place where he loses himself and squanders all he has. When he finally comes to himself, he returns home, not daring to hope for any but the most grudging welcome. But as he approaches, his father runs to him and greets him with love and joy, with compassion and with celebration.

The father in the parable of the prodigal son doesn’t just welcome his son home. He throws a party. He calls in the neighbors. He insists that everyone rejoice. Just as the shepherd rejoiced for his wandering sheep and the woman for her misplaced coin.

That’s what God is like. God searches for us. God welcomes us home. God rejoices with us.

But there’s also a call to us in all this. A call to repent, as the prodigal son repented. But also a call to search for others, a call to forgive those who hurt us, a call to rejoice when they return.

There’s too little of all three in our world right now. Too little searching. Too little forgiveness. Too little rejoicing.

This has been a hard week. On all sides, fear and anger feed one another, and division grows. There are real injustices in the world, real wrongs that cry out to be made right. And God’s way in a time such as this is clear – even if it isn’t easy.

Not to add to the anger. Not to deepen the division. Not to delight in another’s downfall.

But to seek peace. And to share the joy of heaven whenever someone is found.

In a world that is so quick to escalate, so quick to strike back, so quick to write people off, this is the harder way. But it is the only way that leads to peace.

You may feel lost. Our nation may feel lost. Our world may feel lost. But the promise of the Gospel is that God is already searching. And God will not stop until every one of us is brought home.

This week, ask yourself: Who in my life seems lost? How might I join God in the searching? Where can I choose forgiveness over resentment, understanding over judgment, hope over despair?

The effort is worth it. Because when the lost are found, when the divided are reconciled, when peace replaces violence, there will at last be joy. The joy of God. The joy of heaven. The joy of a people learning, one slow step at time, to live in love.