It’s funny how easily we can tune things out. I fly often, and when the attendants go through the safety speech, hardly anyone listens. We’ve heard it all before, and it doesn’t feel relevant—we don’t expect the plane to crash.
Sometimes the church sounds that way to the world. The message is familiar but disconnected from real life. People think they’ve already heard it and assume nothing new could possibly be said.
But in Luke 15 Jesus takes something everyone thought they understood—sin and salvation—and gives it urgency again. He tells three stories about lost things: a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son. Each story is really about God. Each shows His heart in a different light.
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The Shepherd Who Searches
Jesus begins with a shepherd who notices one sheep missing. Ninety-nine are safe, yet he leaves them to find the one that wandered off. That’s the gospel in miniature: God moving first, God searching, God refusing to write anyone off.
The sheep doesn’t find the shepherd—the shepherd finds the sheep. That’s what grace looks like.
The older I get, the more I see how easily people slip beneath the surface while we’re standing right there. We assume they’re “just splashing.” We don’t recognize the struggle until it’s too late. Jesus says: Don’t wait for them to call out. Go after them.
Heaven celebrates when one is rescued. If that’s heaven’s priority, shouldn’t it be ours?
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The Woman Who Refuses to Give Up
Next comes a woman who loses a single coin. She lights a lamp, sweeps the floor, and searches until she finds it. That word—until—is the heartbeat of God.
The coin still belonged to her even while it was lost. That’s how God sees every person outside His grace. Still His. Still of value. Worth searching for.
When she finds it, she calls her neighbors: “Come rejoice with me!” Evangelism isn’t about guilt trips; it’s about joy. If heaven throws a party for one, we can certainly celebrate with a smile instead of a sigh.
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The Father Who Runs
Then Jesus tells the most familiar story of all. A younger son demands his inheritance, leaves home, and wastes it. When the money runs out, so do his friends. Hungry and humiliated, he remembers the warmth of his father’s house and decides to go home—not expecting grace, just bread.
But the father sees him while he’s still a long way off and runs. That’s the image Jesus wants burned into our minds: God running toward the undeserving.
The robe, the ring, the feast—those aren’t rewards for good behavior; they’re announcements of restored relationship. The father doesn’t even let the son finish his speech. He just embraces him.
That’s the kind of love that changes people. Not rules. Not lectures. Love that runs.
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Why Jesus Told These Stories
The opening verses tell us why Jesus said all this. The religious leaders complained that He spent too much time with sinners. So He answered their criticism with parables that turned their complaint into a compliment.
He was saying, “If you want to understand Me, you must see how far My Father’s heart stretches.”
Lost sheep matter. Lost coins matter. Lost sons and daughters matter.
That’s why He came: “to seek and to save that which was lost.”
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A Modern Parable
Years ago, a small village sat along a rocky coastline where shipwrecks often happened. Volunteers built a tiny rescue hut and kept watch, rowing out whenever a distress call came. Lives were saved, and the station became famous.
As membership grew, they built a larger building—comfortable, well-furnished, warm. After a while, fewer volunteers were trained, and rescues dwindled. When a storm wrecked another ship, survivors were brought in, wet and muddy, and the members didn’t like the mess. They decided to move the rescue operation farther down the coast.
Over time, the original station became just a club. Today tourists still visit, but shipwrecks still happen—and most of the drowning people never make it to shore.
That’s what happens when churches forget their mission. We trade rescue boats for comfort chairs.
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The Heart of the Matter
A heart for the lost begins with remembering how God came after us. None of us were found by accident. Someone prayed. Someone invited. Someone cared enough to look beyond the surface.
If we lose that spirit, we lose the reason the church exists. The goal isn’t to build safe circles—it’s to create open doors.
Our world doesn’t need louder arguments; it needs warmer hearts. People aren’t projects; they’re stories waiting to be reclaimed by grace.
When Jesus said we are the “salt of the earth,” He meant to bring flavor and preservation to a world decaying from within. Salt only works when it touches what’s spoiled. So does love.
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An Example
Not long ago I received a recording from a man who had spent fifteen years in prison for murder. After his release he wandered into one of our services.
He said, “Pastor, when you told us that God forgives the past—no matter what we’ve done—I came forward. A pastor laid hands on me, and for the first time in seventeen years I feel no guilt. I feel accepted. I feel clean.”
That’s what church is meant to be. A rescue station. A place where chains fall off and new songs begin.
If God can do that for him, He can do that for your friend, your neighbor, your child.
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Closing Appeal
Maybe you’ve grown tired, busy, or disappointed. Maybe you once had that burning concern for souls and somewhere along the way the flame dimmed. Let Jesus rekindle it.
Let’s be the shepherd who searches, the woman who won’t quit, the father who runs. Let’s leave the safety of the ninety-nine to reach the one still missing.
When we do, heaven rejoices—and so will we.
