The Joy of Being Found
Longtime Razorback and Arkansas State fans know that last weekend’s game at War Memorial was historic. The final score may not have surprised anyone, but what mattered most was that the two teams finally met on the field. After years of resistance from fans and coaches, the powers that be at last decided it was time to let these beloved Arkansas institutions face off.
As you might imagine, this matchup drew a crowd—the largest in Little Rock for a Razorback game in more than a decade, with 54,000 fans on hand to call the Hogs, and I was one of them. It was a lot of fun to watch—even if a little painful at times—but the most memorable part for me wasn’t the moving C-130 flyover during the national anthem, Arkansas’ 53-yard touchdown run on the game’s second play, or even A-State’s impressive 98-yard kickoff return to keep things alive. What I’ll remember most is the guy sitting next to me.
As my son and I were settling into our seats before kickoff, we noticed a vacant spot next to us. The bleachers were getting crowded, and just as I was considering sliding over to take the spot, its occupant arrived. Then the strangest thing happened. We stared at each other for what seemed like minutes—though it was probably only a few seconds—each of us clearly grasping to place the other. The sense of recognition was extremely uncanny. He got it first: “Hey, we met yesterday, didn’t we?” And then I remembered. The day before, I had been helping my wife at Christ Church. I had walked into a room, looking for something, and run into this guy—a local artist renting space in the church. We’d introduced ourselves, and he even helped me look, though we never did find what I was after. And yet, the very next day, in the middle of this impossibly large crowd, we found each other.
It was honestly a little unsettling—I mean, what are the odds? And I think we both felt it. For the rest of the game we kept a light conversation going, half-suspecting that maybe the universe had something important for us to talk about. I can’t say we ever landed on anything profound, but he did invite me to one of his art showings in Argenta. Maybe I should go?
I share this story with you this morning because I think it captures a key theme from the passage we just heard from Luke. On the surface, the parables of the lost sheep and the lost coin are about God’s almost illogical passion for the least, the lost, and the lonely. After all, what responsible shepherd would leave the flock vulnerable just to recover one who wandered off? And who would spend all night searching for a single coin, worth so little in the market? The very absurdity of it drives home the point: God delights in recovering what is lost. It is God’s priority—and it is nothing less than the heart of the Christian story.
For context, remember that it’s the grumbling of the Pharisees and scribes that prompts these parables. They are scandalized that Jesus welcomes tax collectors and sinners—the outcasts of their day. To them, it seems like a waste of time to associate with people of so little worth. Tax collectors prey on those who already have little; surely they deserve to be cast out. But Jesus makes it clear: no one is ever lost to God—no matter what they have done or how objectionable they may seem to society. Their restoration to the community, to the body, is something to be sought and celebrated.
I don’t know if you caught it, but there’s a lot of partying going on in these parables. After the shepherd finds his sheep and the woman finds her coin, they call together friends and neighbors to celebrate. And in our own way, we all know what that feels like, right? When we lose something dear and then recover it, the relief is palpable. And even more so, when we—or someone we love—has been lost, whether literally or figuratively, being welcomed back with open arms is pure joy. That is surely something worth throwing a party for. In the words of the familiar hymn. That’s grace, and it’s nothing less than amazing.
And here is the good news: just as God will stop at nothing to find us, God longs for us to find one another. God delights in those moments of recognition that become connection, and in connections that become transformation.
I see this happening every Sunday at St. Peter’s, by the way. Some of you—no need to name names—have a real gift for noticing those who long to be seen, and then gently drawing them into the flock. Sometimes it’s as simple as inviting them to a SPARC event, a Boomer’s concert, or to help out at the food pantry. Handing them a warm cup of coffee or one of Claire’s donuts works too. Southerners, I’ll admit, are especially good at this—we love to play the “who do you know” game, finding connections that keep a conversation moving. Sunday worship can be powerful, even transformative—and yes, sometimes even the sermon can haven an impact—but more often it’s these smaller, personal connections that draw people back. What we carry with us is the memory of being recognized, welcomed, and made to feel we belong.
In a stadium of more than fifty thousand people, to be seated next to someone I had met only the day before seemed impossible—and it made the moment of recognition all the more powerful. But the truth is, every day God places us beside one another. Not strangers, but siblings. Not acquaintances, but family. And when we begin to see each other as God sees us—cherished, found, beloved—we won’t just nod politely. We’ll want to celebrate. We’ll want to rejoice. We’ll want to throw a party too.