Lost & Found

Everything In Between, Week Four

Rev. David Collins

March 30, 2025

Luke 15:1-7

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Megan and I have a new obsession.

We’ve gotten really into silent discos. They’re these events where everyone wears headphones and you can pick between a few different DJs, and then you just dance. It’s so fun. You feel like you’re all dancing together, even though everyone might be listening to different songs.

Plus, I get to control the volume, which is amazing, because I’m getting older and why does music have to be so loud? Also they start at 7pm, which is also perfect for me.

We love it. It’s a blast. We will go every time they have one.

In our scripture today, Jesus gets in trouble with the religious leaders for the way he parties. But not for looking silly, and staying out too late, and doing damage to his knees.

Jesus Dinner Parties

No, Jesus’ troubling parties were dinner parties. Big, sometimes awkward, rambling parties where people actually had to talk to each other. Where people from different backgrounds and beliefs and reputations all sat around the same table. Where the guest list was… flexible. And messy. And often offensive to the people who had very set ideas of who they would sit next to.

And that’s where we’re going today.

Because this Lent, we’ve been in a series called Everything In Between—looking at the opposites Jesus talked about, and the paradoxes he lived. Rest and growth. Faith and works.

And today, we’re sitting in the space between “lost” and “found.”

Not just as labels, but as lived experience. Because as nice and tidy as those categories might sound, real life is a lot messier. Sometimes you’re a little of both. Sometimes your community said you were lost when you were just overlooked. Sometimes you’re found but still not sure where you belong.

And in our passage today, Jesus tells a story that pokes at all of that.

And it starts with a dinner party.

Luke 15:1-7

1 Now all the tax-collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. 2 And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’

None of the Pharisees or scribes were against “sinners” repenting. If Jesus had been standing on the street corner shouting at people to clean up their act—telling them that God will love them once they get their lives together—they would have been right there with him. Handing out tracts. Maybe even inviting him to speak at the synagogue.

But that wasn’t what Jesus was doing.

Jesus wasn’t drawing a line in the sand and saying, “Once you step over this, once you change, once you believe like me, then you’ll belong.”

He was doing the opposite.

He was stepping over every line they had drawn. He was eating with the wrong people. Sitting at the wrong tables. Laughing in the wrong homes. He was telling them and more importantly showing them, that God loved them just as they were, and right where they were.

Before they repented. Before they changed. Before they even understood what he was about.

And the Pharisees couldn’t stand it. Not because they were against grace in theory. But because Jesus was giving it away too soon. Too freely. Too indiscriminately.

Jesus is excluded because of whom he included.

And that pattern repeats throughout the gospels. Again and again, Jesus is pushed out by the religious insiders not because he was too harsh—but because he was too kind. Too welcoming. Too gracious for their taste. And that’s what’s happening in Luke 15.

Now, traditionally, when we read the parable that comes next—the story of the lost sheep—we focus on the incredible love of God. The way God will stop at nothing to find us. How no distance is too far, no effort too great, no sheep too scraggly or smelly to be worth going after.

And that is absolutely true. That reading has comforted countless people over the years, including me, and it should continue to do so.

But it might not be precisely what Jesus was trying to teach in the moment.

Remember who he’s talking to.

This story isn’t told to a bunch of lost sheep hoping someone will find them. It’s told in response to a group of religious people who are upset that Jesus is spending too much time with the "wrong" crowd.

So when Jesus starts in on this story, he’s not really trying to offer comfort. He’s poking the bear a little. He’s using a story to provoke them. Maybe even to shame them. Not in a cruel way, but in a wake-up kind of way.

Because their refusal to see God at work outside of the neat lines they’ve drawn isn’t just hurting the people they exclude. It’s hurting them. It’s hardening their hearts. It’s making them miss out on the joy that Jesus keeps trying to point them toward.

This isn’t just about rescuing the lost. It’s about freeing the found, by showing them that they might be as found as they think they are.

3 So he told them this parable: 4 ‘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?

Now, we hear that and nod along. We think, Well, of course a good shepherd would do that. That’s what love does. That’s what God does.

But for the Pharisees and the scribes, this would have landed differently.

Because the Pharisees and scribes would not have seen themselves as shepherds. Not even a little bit. They looked down on shepherds. Thought of them as unclean and dangerous.

Even though they had great passages in their Bible about how God was like a shepherd…they still looked down on real life shepherds.

Shepherds couldn’t keep the religious rules and weren’t part of polite society. They were always working and so were too dirty and too busy to make it to the synagogue, too poor to offer sacrifices in the temple and too rough around the edges to be considered holy.

Even though shepherds were vital to the whole economy, even though without them there’d be no lambs for sacrifice, no wool for clothes, no meat for tables…they weren’t respected.

And that’s probably exactly why Jesus chose them as the hero of this story.

Shepherds->Migrant Farmworkers

This would be like if Jesus were invited to a prayer breakfast today, and when he stood up to speak to this group of clean-cut, serious Christians today, said “Which one of you, when you're out picking strawberries in the hot Florida sun for $6.50 an hour, doesn’t drop your bucket and walk the rows until you find the one that got away?”

Can you imagine their faces? They’d have those forced smiles that never quite make it to their eyes? Because they would immediately know what he was doing. And they wouldn’t like it.

Jesus tries to put them in the shoes of someone he knows they look down on. And then he says, “Imagine that person. That worker, that outsider, that nobody—you’re that guy. And you leave everything to go after the one who’s missing.”

He’s trying to provoke them.

To stop punching down, and instead to empathize down.

Not just about who God cares about, but on who gets to represent God in the first place.

He’s saying that the heart of God looks a whole lot more like a migrant farmworker than a Bible salesman.

And for people whose whole identity was wrapped up in being the faithful few, the set-apart, that had to sting. It was supposed to sting.

Does it sting you?

Now, you might be thinking, Of course it doesn’t! My beliefs about the value and worth of marginalized people are completely perfect. I’ve read the right books. I’ve reposted the right infographics.

But let me ask you this:

How much of your self-image is created by who you aren’t?

How much of your identity is built on being better than “those people”? Maybe not the same ones the Pharisees were judging—but someone.

Maybe you pride yourself on not being judgmental like them. Or not being backward like those folks. Or not being close-minded like that group over there.

This cuts both ways.

Our temptation is to build a sense of righteousness by contrast, no matter what group we identify with. It's not about where you land politically or theologically—it’s about whether your belonging depends on someone else being cast as “less than.”

And Jesus is here, telling this story, not just to comfort the lost but to confront the found.

Because when you’re only okay with grace being for people who’ve earned it, who’ve cleaned themselves up and think like you do…you’re missing the whole point, too.

So what is the point? What is Jesus trying to get through to them about?

And by extension…what is Jesus trying to get through to us about?

Let’s keep reading.

5 When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. 6 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.”

This is where Jesus takes the story in a direction the Pharisees weren’t expecting.

Not only does the shepherd find the lost sheep, but he doesn’t punish it. He doesn’t scold it. He doesn’t demand an apology or proof that it’ll never wander off again. He doesn’t put it on probation or drag it back to the flock and make it sit in the corner.

He picks it up.

He carries it.

He rejoices.

And then, he throws a party.

This is what Jesus wants them to see. What he wants us to see. That heaven throws a party not when someone becomes more acceptable—but when someone comes home.

The point isn’t just about finding the lost. It’s about the joy of restoration, of belonging.

Jesus is saying that joy is for you, too.

But only if you can learn to party like God does. And you guys….God likes to party. God’s parties are crazy…not because of what he serves but because of who God invites.

And you’re invited too!

But if your first question to an invitation to a party is “Who’s all gonna be there?” You might not have a very good time. You might end up with the group huddled in the corner, making snide remarks about the quality and volume of the music, and I say this with love and the full weight of a seminary education…we’re going to make fun of you. Honestly, I think Jesus will too.

Not because he doesn’t like you, but because he really does love you and wants you to loosen up.

Loosen Up

And maybe that’s especially important to say right now—because there are always going to be people who refuse to loosen up. People who show up to the party not to socialize, but to police who’s allowed in. People who would rather shut it all down than share the joy with certain people.

And we can’t and won’t stop the party to argue with them.

Because sometimes, even though we didn’t want to choose sides, others decisions force us to. When they say “It’s us or them” and we say, “Them” that’s not our party foul.

That’s the paradox of tolerance, right? We can’t afford to tolerate the intolerant, those voices that would silence or exclude others. Not when lives are on the line.

So no, we won’t argue with those who want to deport the guests. We’ll just turn the music up, and do our best to keep them from ruining the party. But it’s just as much of a party foul to pretend everything’s fine when something is deeply wrong.

When someone is suddenly missing from the table,
when someone’s safety or dignity is under threat—
you don’t just pass the dish closest to you and say, “Now tell me again about these peas”

Because something has shifted.
 Someone is missing.

And you should speak up.
 Maybe you stand up and push back.
Maybe you fight for the person who’s at risk. 
And maybe you win.

But if you don’t—if they’re still gone—
you don’t just take another bite and move on.

Maybe we can’t fix everything.
 Maybe we can’t make it right in real time.
 But we can refuse to look away.
 We can refuse to forget.

We can stay connected—to each other and to the ones who’ve been harmed.

Because the moment we stop noticing who’s not there,
the moment we stop caring who’s hurting…we’re not a community anymore.

We’re a performance.

And Jesus never called us to perform.

The kingdom he invites us into isn’t built on appearances or politeness. 
It’s built on presence. On love. On making space for everyone to be seen and fed and safe.

So maybe the call isn’t always to spring into action.
 Maybe sometimes it’s just to stop.
 To pay attention.
 To feel the absence.

And from there, we start asking: “What can we do?” Because there’s not just one faithful response.

What Can We Do?

Some of us will be called to get really involved. To organize, and speak out, and show up in ways that make a difference in public.

Others might focus close to home: checking in on someone, offering practical help, supporting those already doing the work.

Some of us might just need to bear witness for now—to not look away, to not shut down, to not pretend it’s all okay just because it’s not affecting us directly.

And for all of us, it means not letting our connection to each other unravel.
 Not letting our compassion grow numb. 
Not turning our dinner tables into little bubbles of comfort while people are in danger or pain.

We won’t all do the same thing.


But we can all refuse to do nothing.

Because as fun as silent discos are, they’re a terrible metaphor for our faith.

And I do love them and will go every chance I get. Every once in a while, we need that. We need something to turn the volume down on the noise in our heads, and just be fully present.

But when it comes to following Jesus, when it comes to loving our neighbors and staying connected to those who are hurting...silent disco faith doesn’t cut it.

We don’t get to each wear our own headphones, turn up our own music, and dance our way past what’s happening around us.


We don’t get to drown out pain with praise.


We don’t get to pretend that someone else’s struggle doesn’t belong at our table.

The kingdom of God isn’t a curated individual experience. 
It’s a shared one.

It’s not just about what you’re listening to. 
It’s about who’s still here, who’s missing, what we’re going to do about it, and what God is doing in the middle of all of it.

Remember this is a story about lost and found.

And not just the dramatic before-and-after kind. Not just about people who ran off and came crawling back.

It’s about the kind of found that happens when someone goes looking.
 The kind of lost that happens when someone gets left out.
 The kind of grace that says the party doesn’t start until everyone’s inside.

And then Jesus finishes with this line:

7 Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance.

Which…you’ve got to hear with a little wink, right?

Because come on...who are these ninety-nine righteous people who don’t need repentance?

Where are they? Who invited them?

It’s a joke. A gentle one. A pointed one. But a joke nonetheless.

Because deep down, Jesus knows. And we know. We’re all a little lost and a little found.

We’re all a little lost and a little found.

We’re the sheep that wandered off… and the sheep pretending like we never did.

We’re the ones carried home… and sometimes the ones side-eyeing the party.

And maybe—just maybe—the way we can tell if we’re found is when we start to see every face we meet and recognize the family resemblance.

When we stop asking, “Who deserves to be here?” and start saying, “I’m so glad you came.”

In the end, this story isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present. Being part of the joy.

Because every time someone finds their way home, God throws a party—and that includes you.

Especially you.

And yes, even them.