The last time I was in Grand Central Station, I found myself in the middle of the evening rush hour crowd. Fortunately, I was exiting while everybody else was entering. I was on my way up the escalator and out of the building when over the loudspeaker came the ominous announcement about a 6 year-old girl named Bridgett, who had somehow become separated from her parents.
According to the announcer, Bridgett was last seen wearing a bright red dress and carrying a white stuffed animal. She had blond hair and brown eyes. Anyone seeing her should immediately report her whereabouts to the lost and found office near 42nd Street.
"Poor Bridgett", I thought to myself. I mean, I know how frightening the city can be for me, and I’m a grown man who is nearly 6 feet tall. I can only imagine how frightening it could be for a little kid who is merely 6 years old.
I couldn’t help but wonder . . . what happened to Bridgett? Had she fallen down somewhere, out of sight and out of earshot? Had she walked out on to the busy rush hour traffic on 5th Avenue and been hit by a careless cabbie? Had she been lured away by some predator with the promise of eating a piece of candy or meeting a puppy named "Princess"?
Heaven help her. I looked up at the makeshift heavens painted on the grand ceiling of Grand Central and said a quick prayer for young Bridgett. When I reached the top of the escalator I looked back on the flock of folks that was milling about – thousands and thousands of commuters and tourists and students in each of whom had presumably heard the very same announcement that I had heard, but none of whom seemed to care one bit that little Bridgett was lost.
From what I could tell, they were much more interested in making a train, or meeting a friend, or eating a knish, or reading the newspaper, or riding the escalator, than in finding a lost child of God.
How could that be? How could that be? How could we allow ourselves to become so preoccupied with the mundane and the inane of everyday life that we have literally lost sight of our future? How could we allow schedules to become more important than school kids? How could we allow second graders to become second thoughts?
All of which led me to the unsettling conclusion that Bridgett was probably not the only one in the crowd at Grand Central Station who was lost that day. How many of that throng were lost like little Bridget, only they didn’t even know it? And of those lost souls how many secretly wished that someone would make a public announcement asking for help on their behalf? How many of them would have appreciated knowing that a rescue party was searching for them, doing everything in their power to lead them back home, safe and sound, where awaited them warm cookies, cold milk, and a great big hug from mom or dad.
Handel was right, wasn’t he? As your choir has sung over and over again, all we like sheep have gone astray. All we like children have wandered away from our Heavenly Parent. All we like Bridgett are lost.
Not that this is a new phenomenon or anything. This sort of stuff has been going on for years, centuries, millennia even. You heard in this morning’s scripture lesson from Exodus, that some 1,200 years before Christ was even born, Moses encountered this very same problem.
No sooner had the poor guy gone up the mountain to receive the 10 commandments from God, than his own people, the Hebrews, under the leadership of his own brother, Aaron, were busy making a calf out of gold and worshiping it like an idol. If that’s not lost, I don’t know what is.
Like Bridgett’s parents, God’s heart aches deeply for children lost, more than you’ll ever know. Likewise, God’s heart rejoices greatly over lost children who get found, again more than you’ll ever know.
Which, it seems to me, is precisely the message found in our Gospel lesson this morning.
Once upon a time, so goes the story, in the Gospel according to Luke, there was a shepherd. And this shepherd had a flock, according to the Scripture. And the flock had 100 sheep in it. So far, so good.
But, according to the Scripture, one of them strayed. One of them was unaccounted for. One of them was AWOL.
No surprise there. If you know anything about sheep, you know that they have a terrible tendency to stray. A nibble on a clump of grass over here, and another nibble on another clump over there, and then another nibble on another clump way over there and the next thing you know they’re out of sight, wandering around the mean streets of New York all by their lonesome.
And just like small children, when sheep stray, they can quickly and quietly get into big trouble. They are easy prey for wolves and the like.
A point captured beautifully on canvas by Alfred Soord, who painted a picture titled, “The Lost Sheep.”
It shows a sheep caught in a tangle of thorn bushes on a steep, almost vertical slope, unable to free itself. It also shows birds of prey circling overheard, readying themselves for the kill.
Thank God the shepherd is nearby, leaning perilously down the slope, trying desperately to reach and rescue the stray sheep. Just in the nick of time, he extends his nail scarred hand to save the life of the lost one.
Now, I’m just a kid from the suburbs of Long Island, but, frankly, I am shocked that a good shepherd would go to all that trouble to save one bad sheep. It was, after all, the sheep’s fault that he was in that mess in the first place, was it not?
I mean, he didn’t get into that kind of trouble by following closely his shepherd and listening to and obeying his shepherd’s every word and command, did he? No, to find himself in that situation, that sheep had to have been too independent or ignorant for his own good.
In fact, unless I miss my guess entirely, this is not the first time that the shepherd has saved this sheep’s tail. This sheep has been in trouble before, don’t you think? Probably has a rap sheet as long as Lindsey Lohan. And still the good shepherd risks life and limb to save him, again.
Why? Why would a shepherd waste his time and effort on this one wayward sheep, when he’s got a whole flock of 99 good and righteous ones to be responsible for?
Why would a shepherd jeopardize the safety and security of 99 well behaved, God-fearing, Bible-toting, Jesus-loving congregationalists in order to track down 1 trouble-causing Methodist sheep?
Why would a shepherd be so bound and determined, to the point of obsession, to find and reclaim one lost sheep, when he’s got 99 others to worry about? What’s one sheep?
Well, that one lost sheep, as misbehaved as he was, happened to be very valuable to the shepherd of the 1st century. You see, with that one sheep, that shepherd is a shepherd of a flock of 100. Which means he is regarded by colleague and community alike as secure and successful in his life’s work. Without that one sheep, his flock is only 99. Might as well be 39.
In other words, that one lost sheep, to the shepherd of 100, is actually more important to him than 5 lost sheep would be to another shepherd who had only 75 sheep in his flock.
That, my friends, is the power of one. To the shepherd that one sheep represented the power of one to make the difference between mediocrity and success. To the shepherd, that one sheep represented the power of one to make the difference between chaos and security. To the shepherd, that one sheep represented the power of one to make the difference between a bad day of work and a good night’s rest.
The power of one.
The power given not only to lost sheep, but to lost children, as well, girl or boy.
Years ago, there was a very troubled young boy named John, who attended a religious revival service in his hometown, all by his lonesome. As was the custom at revivals back then, John went up to the altar rail following the service, got down on his knees, and waited for one of the good and righteous worship leaders to come and pray with him.
He waited and waited and waited at the altar, but no one came.
The reason no one came was because this boy’s reputation as a problem child had preceded him all the way from the back alley of the city to the front altar of the church. Alone and angry, John finally got up off his knees, turned his back on the altar, (and all that it represented), and stormed out of that revival, vowing to never go back to that or any church again. Tragically, he kept that vow. From that time until he was shot dead on Lincoln Avenue in Chicago, John Dillinger never went back to church.
That too, my friends, is the power of one.
The power of one to make the difference between a lifetime of evil and good; to make the difference between a lifetime of violence and peace; to make the difference between a lifetime of hate and hope, to make the difference between estrangement and healing. The power of one Sunday School teacher or pastor or Home Project volunteer, or Honduras Mission Trip worker, to make a difference in the life of one of God’s sheep. The power of one.
You are such a one. You have such a power.
It was a cold and snowy night in January. Despite the nasty weather, the floor of the hospital where Nurse Sue Kidd worked was relatively quiet. She stopped by Room 712 to check on a new patient, Mr. Williams.
Mr. Williams had been admitted to the hospital with a heart attack, and he had seemed restless and anxious all evening. He perked up though, when the door to his room opened, but then looked disappointed when he saw that it was Nurse Kidd who had walked in.
But as Sue discovered later on, it wasn’t who had walked in that disappointed him as much as it was who had not walked in. As she checked his chart and on his condition, Mr. Williams asked, with tears in his eyes and a tremble in his voice, if the nurse would please call his daughter, Janie, and tell her of his heart attack.
He explained that Janie was the only family he had left and he was now anxious that she know of his condition. Sue promised to call immediately. On her way out of the room, Mr. Williams asked for a piece of paper and a pencil, which Sue provided.
Fortunately, Sue was able to reach Mr. Williams’ daughter right away. When she told Janie the news, Sue was startled by the woman’s reaction.
"No!" Janie screamed. In a panic, she asked, "He’s not dying, is he?"
The reason she was so upset was this: Janie and her father hadn’t communicated in more than a year. An argument over a boyfriend had led them to stop talking to each other. In fact, Janie’s last words to her father had been, "I hate you!"
All this time, she had wanted forgiveness from her father - but somehow couldn’t, or wouldn’t bring herself to ask him for it. Because of that, Janie had lost a whole year with him. Now, she might lose a whole lifetime.
The despondent daughter hung up, and immediately got in her car and headed for the hospital. The faithful nurse hung up as well, and immediately got down on her knees, with her hands pointed towards heaven.
Sue’s prayer went something like this: "God, please allow Mr. Williams and his daughter to reconcile! Somehow."
After her prayer, the nurse returned to Mr. Williams’ room. She found him unconscious, suffering from another heart attack. Sue’s code 99 alerted the staff, and within seconds, doctors and nurses filled the room to work on Mr. Williams. Sue performed CPR on his breathless form while she sent up a second prayer to God that Mr. Williams wouldn’t die before he found peace with his daughter.
But no amount of medical attention would re-start his heart. Mr. Williams was pronounced dead before Janie had a chance to arrive. So much for Sue’s prayers.
A little later that evening, in the hallway of the hospital, Sue saw Mr. Williams’ doctor talking with a young woman, whose face had written on it shock and grief.
It was Janie. Sue introduced herself, and ushered Janie into the family waiting room and tried to comfort her. "I never hated him, you know. Actually, I loved him very much," the young woman said, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than her father’s nurse.
Although Sue thought it unwise, Janie insisted on seeing her dead dad. As she leaned over his body and cried, Sue turned away to give them their privacy. When she did that, she happened to see a piece of paper on Mr. Williams’ nightstand. Sue went over and picked it up, glanced at the name on top, and handed it to Janie.
The young woman read it: "My dearest Janie, I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too. Daddy."
Where grief and shock had contorted Janie’s features and twisted her heart, there was now only peace. Her eyes seemed to say to Sue, "Rejoice with me, for I have found that which was lost."
Sue quietly slipped out of the room to make another very important phone call – this time to her own father.
I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I went back in time, back to the day and back to the place where Jesus was crucified. I read the sign that was mounted over Jesus’ dying bleeding, suffering body. It said, "The King of the Jews".
For some reason, I walked behind the cross, behind Jesus’ body, behind the sign, and found what I’ve been looking for my whole life. The back of the sign read in very small letters: "My dearest Kenneth, I forgive you. I know that you love me. I love you too. Jesus".
I looked down in humble gratitude, overwhelmed by God’s grace. But when I looked back at the sign on the back of the cross, it had changed. It still said, "I forgive you. I know that you love me. I love you too. Jesus".
But what had changed was the name. My name was gone. It had been replaced by another name – yours!
