---

 

So He told them this parable:

“What man among you, if he has a hundred sheep and loses one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one which is lost, [searching] until he finds it?  And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing.  And when he gets home, he calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, because I have found my lost sheep!’

 I tell you, in the same way there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance.

 

Luke 15: 3-7

 

The one. 

 

I am the one. 

 

I am the lamb that runs off and gets tangled in the underbrush and needs a rescuer. 

 

In the story of the 99, I am the one.

 

So often we hear that parable or read that story and we believe that the Shepherd rescued the sheep one time and then the story ended. 

 

However, I know myself. I know my story. I know that I’ve run many more times than just once.

 

Shame wants to dwell in that. Anguish and despair thrive in that. Fear of being left out in the wilderness the next time that I run– it corrupts my peace. When is my last time? When will He give up on me?

 

It’s a beautiful parable. To the one, it reads of hope of restoration. To the ninety-nine, it reads of humility and grace.  But to me… oh, to me… it breeds fear.  To my broken and selfish heart, the story of a Shepherd who chases his lost sheep is one that leaves me with more questions than answers.  It so often leaves me in bewilderment and disagreement with His choices.  To me and my hurting heart, the story is a story riddled with uncertainty and risk.

 

God saw me run from the flock once.  He chased me.  Just like in the parable.

 

For seventeen years He routinely left His post and chased me.  He chased me until He caught me.

 

When He caught me, He threw me upon His broad and ready shoulders, celebrating every step, every moment, until I returned home.

 

He celebrated, I celebrated, the flock and the neighbors celebrated… everyone celebrated until I ran away again.

 

The next time I ran away, I ran right into the wolf’s den.  Into the caverns of death and despair, I surrendered my life in anguished shame.  When I was about to abandon my life, Abba abandoned the flock once more to bring me back home.

 

He rescued me once more, from the jaws of death, ever celebrating my arrival back home.

 

Salvation once should have awoken my lamb’s heart to glory.  Salvation twice should have solidified it.  Yet I still ran away.  Three, four, five times I have been the one that runs away.

 

Three, four, five times still I have run, and three, four, five times still I have been rescued.

 

When does my Shepherd grow weary of the chase and abandon the lamb that refuses their own salvation?

 

When does He give up?

 

I draw from my own experiences to try and anticipate the Lord’s response.

 

When I consider how often my heart turns and runs, when I dwell on how often the Lord must chase me down and shepherd me back into hope, my mind remembers the times where I have had to do the shepherding over something.

 

My mind remembers the chase and my mind remembers how my heart eventually gave up.

 

It seems that no matter how hard I try, I’m always reminded of one specific instance where I gave up in my personal shepherding.

 

One of my best friends owns a huge seventy-acre farm not far from where I live.  We first bonded deeply  over working the grounds together.  She invited me to come stay out on the farm for a few weeks, and a few weeks turned into a few months.  Together we worked and laughed and had communion over that black soil.

 

I had grown up on and around ranches in the heart of Texas, so I loved the toilsome labor that was reminiscent of some of the sweetest memories of childhood.

 

Now, as our lives grow busier and busier, I go out to the farm less and less to work the ground.  Our get-togethers now consist of hot tea and even hotter fires as we gather around the warmth of the hearth in her living room.  We work together less but the beauty of the sisterhood that was born on that farm and through that labor remains.

 

Now, whenever she leaves town for vacation, I go out to the farm to take care of it while she is away.  It is less enjoyable to work without the comfort of her conversation and communion, but there is still a sweetness to the nostalgia I rest in while I’m there.

 

Managing the farm is normally a pleasant experience, but not this past time.

 

On the farm, there are cows and goats and horses and cats and dogs and chickens.  All the animals are sweet and friendly and love affection.  I love to give the animals affection— all but those bloody chickens.

 

I don’t mind chickens.  They are soft and sweet and they are kind animals once they’ve been acclimated to human touch.  I can enjoy chickens, but not these chickens.

 

These chickens were of a different breed.  I have never seen mentally unwell poultry, but I imagine that these would fit the bill if there was one to fit.  They were determined to escape the confines of their safe enclosure to traverse new lands.

 

During the day, I would let them out into the lower pasture to roam and scavenge, and at night, I would call them up to feed them and close them in a small yard with a warm, covered coop.

 

A handful of these chickens though refused to make the yard their home.  Protected by an electric fence, they were safe from any predators that might sneak in during the dark of the night.  They had food and water and other amenities available to them, but still, some of those chickens were unsatisfied.

 

They would run headfirst into the electric fence, bulldozing into until they squeezed under it and escaped its confines, and they would roam freely in the unprotected lands just outside of their home.

 

They thought that they were free, but they were only free to be attacked and devoured.  Their home was in the coop where they were safe and warm and protected.  We didn’t install the fence to keep them in; we installed it to keep other things out.

 

Yet these chickens were determined to escape.  One particular cream-colored chicken would run and hide in the underbrush where I couldn’t reach it.  All day, I would chase it trying to return it to safety, but all day it would run.

 

When I would finally capture her and return the hen to her home, not ten minutes would pass before I would see her out roaming the cow pen.  Catching her once again, my patience would grow thin.  All day one day, I chased that chicken.  I chased her and reinforced the fence line and prayed that she would be content with the beautiful life that I had arranged for her.

 

But all day, she ran away from me.

 

At the end of my chores, after a long day and a long battle with the strong will of this deranged chicken, I gave up.

 

After chasing her one too many times, I simply stopped.

 

I left her out in the cold winter’s night, susceptible to coyotes and hawks and other things that would seek to steal, kill, or destroy her, all because I grew tired of the chase.

 

Therein lies my fear in the parable.  When will God grow tired of the chase?

 

On one hand, a farmer fights to protect his resources.  A shepherd is responsible for managing the living wealth that is a man’s cattle.  But on the other hand, everything is replaceable.

 

My mind argues that our Great Shepherd will give up on us because we’re replaceable.

 

But we are not lambs.

 

We are not cattle.  We are not something that the Lord sees as an expendable resource.  We are human creations.  We are His children.  We are His beloved.

 

Giving up on us isn’t an option, because, just like any parent would argue, it’s not an option to give up on your children.  There is no local supply store where a replacement for you, your heart, or your spirit can be found.

 

There is only ever one of you.  In the history of the world, there will only ever be one of you.  When Jesus speaks of the one, He’s speaking of you.

 

He chases the one because it is the only one.

 

I am the only me.  If I am lost, I cannot be replaced.

 

Jesus always refers to us as special, valuable, worthy children— sons and daughters, sisters and brothers of the Covenant.  We are referred to as the bride of Christ, the beloved of the Lord.  He never says that we’re replaceable.  He never says that He will stop in His chase.  And He will never stop pursuing us because He will always believe that we are worth it.

 

So, brothers, sisters, let this be a story of pursuit and favor.  Let this be a testament to the never-ending, never-changing, love of the Lord for us.  Every time you are lost to the wilderness of the world, to the Lord, it is as if it’s the first time that you’ve ever been lost.

 

He won’t grow weary.  He won’t wear out.  He won’t stop pursuing the one.

 

So read the story again; there is no shame in it.

 

There is no shame: only rejoicing.

 

It is not a story of obligation, but one of celebration.

 

So, whether this is your fourth time coming home or your four-hundredth, know that you will be carried home by your Shepherd, because you are the only you there is.