Preached on the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19C), September 14, 2025, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.
Stained glass window at St. Jacob’s Lutheran Church in Anna, Ohio
“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?”
Jesus advises the shepherd to just… leave the ninety-nine — to leave them in the wilderness. “They’ll be fine,” he seems to say.
(Will we? Will we really be fine, out here, in the wilderness, while our shepherd runs off to find whoever that was who got lost?)
I realize I’m making an assumption at this moment that most all of us identify with the ninety-nine sheep who are not lost. And maybe you object: “I’m plenty lost,” you might be thinking. If so, that’s fair. In fact, I think we’re all encouraged to identify with anyone in this miniature parable, and tomorrow, we can identify with somebody else.
Some days you’re the one lost sheep (which means the shepherd is out looking for you). Other days you’re the shepherd trying to hold the flock together (which means you have to make some very hard choices, triaging the needs of people in your care). And then there are your days as one of the ninety-nine: you’re still where you were last year, or last decade, out here in the wilderness, with dozens of others. If you are one of the ninety-nine, what do you need, out here? I have some ideas.
A certain member of our parish likes to do a light, affectionate shoulder bump with me when we see each other on Sundays. We’re both typically distracted by many things, but this parishioner chooses the better part, coming over for an affectionate little bump with another one of the ninety-nine sheep — with me.
Hello, you.
This is definitely something we need out here in the wilderness, with the shepherd having gone off who knows where.
The wilderness: it’s not only a terrible, deathly landscape with little water, spiky succulents, and venomous snakes. Of course it is that: The wilderness holds up well as a metaphor for our world right now, news cycle after dreadful news cycle. But the wilderness is not only that.
The wilderness is also where God’s people became God’s people. Our faith descends from desert nomads who wandered around the Sinai peninsula for two generations, often at least feeling like they were sheep without a shepherd. They wandered so long that no one who escaped bondage in Egypt was still alive when God’s people arrived at Canaan. It was rough out there, but the wilderness was formative: it taught God’s people what they must do, and what they must not do. It taught them who they were. The wilderness was a crucible for God’s people.
We melt precious metals in a crucible, refining the metal while it’s in liquid form, burning away all impurities. I’m backing into a mixed metaphor, so bear with me, but the wilderness gives God’s people a crucible experience. The wilderness gives God’s people a crucible experience. They are in the hot seat; They are under fire; they are confronted and even overwhelmed with stinging nettles, punishing heat, hunger and thirst, war with neighboring tribes, the bite of desert beasts. How will they come out of that, in the end? Who will they be, after all that?
When we are beset on all sides by hardships and disappointments, by painful disillusionment, by heartbreaking loss and bewildering change, how will we, finally, turn out? Who will we be? The crucible is devastating. But it is formative!
When the Israelites were in their wilderness crucible, it got bad enough that they wished they could go back to Egypt, where they had no freedom or dignity, but at least they had hot food. If we could go back a decade or two, or three, when the world made more sense (at least to people with lots of privileges), maybe most of us would jump into that time machine. But like the Israelites, we can’t. We have to trudge on.
And our shepherd leaves us here in this mess, going off on her absurd search for the one who is lost!
But we are not left on our own with nothing. Good shepherds wouldn’t do that. My friend Arienne Davison, the priest at St. Paul’s in Bremerton, says it this way: Arienne says that when Jesus tells this mini parable, his first audience would have understood that the ninety-nine sheep had the Torah to shepherd them while their actual shepherd was away. The Torah: the fundamental teachings of their scriptures. The Law, as Christian Protestants, echoing St. Paul, often like to call it. If we’re out here without a shepherd, we still have our shepherd’s holy book. We have our traditions, our stories that tell us who we are, our rituals and routines, our ethics, our consciences.
So we know, out here in this wilderness, that we must care for the widow and the orphan — “widow and orphan” is biblical shorthand for vulnerable folks in our group, vulnerable because they’re young, or old, or otherwise in need of skilled, intentional support and protection. We know that we must visit our sick and those among us who are dying. We know that we must attend to the remains of our dead. We know this because the bible tells us so.
And we know that we must be good neighbors to all who bump shoulders with us out here, even those with whom we strenuously disagree. That includes those who claim the label “Christian” but badly misread the Gospel, and twist it into a tool of oppression. We don’t have to like those folks, but out here in the wilderness, we know — whether our shepherd is here with us or not — we know that we have ethical obligations even to them.
But we know some good, reassuring things too, as we circle around one another on this hillside while our shepherd runs off to God knows where in search of… who was it again? Well anyway, it was someone important to the shepherd. We know some good, reassuring things too.
We know that children are here, and also on the way. I scooped one of them up the other week, and I blissed out because that individual is so uniquely who he is, so particularly wondrous and hilarious and delightful. We know that newcomers are here — new sheep. Our shepherd knows that we know that it is not only our duty but also our delight to bring them into our community with attention, gratitude, and affection. So while our shepherd is away, she knows we’ll care for them.
And we know our assignment. Being among the ninety-nine isn’t only about survival, about the flock taking care of itself and respecting its neighbors as a way to simply stay alive, to remain a healthy flock. It is about that, but we aren’t just here to be here. We have a mission.
This week I’m talking to the vestry about a proposal that St. Paul’s join Sound Alliance, a community-organizing nonprofit that helps faith communities but also other businesses and organizations — among them, the Plumbers and Pipefitters union, Local 26 — learn the basics of advocacy and action. Think of it as our flock hooking up with other flocks, out here in this wilderness, to take action for peace and justice in this harsh landscape.
So. Inventory: We have the Torah, and the Gospels. We have our traditions, rituals, and routines. We have delightful (and also sometimes challenging) children, and we have elders full of years, full of insights, full of love. We have our sick friends, and the remains of our departed friends. And we have a mission, a purpose that draws our attention beyond this desert hillside to notice other flocks, other herds, other villages. (And yes, other enemies, too.)
But we also, finally, have each other. Off goes the shepherd, off to find — sorry, who was it again? — oh right, it’s your lonely friend who’s isolating in their condo, and you’re the shepherd right at this particular moment. (A little over twelve years ago, the shepherd left the flock to come after me.) Anyway, off goes the shepherd, we know not where, but we have each other.
I can’t tell you how important that little shoulder bump is to me. I’m out here in this wilderness, and it’s scary. It’s awful. Things are blowing up everywhere. If the shepherd in the story is Jesus, well, I love Jesus and I know Jesus loves me, for the bible tells me so, but honestly I don’t always sense that Jesus is right next to me. I find him in the broken bread — I really do! — but to be precise, Jesus the shepherd returns to our flock when you and I share that broken bread, together.
So as scary and awful as things are, I’ll be okay.
I have you.