Introduction
Luke 15 is one of the most beloved sections of Luke’s Gospel, a chapter often called the “lost and found” chapter. It opens with two short parables, the lost sheep and the lost coin, and crescendos into the longer, more familiar story of the prodigal son. Taken together, these parables are a symphony of grace, each variation declaring God’s relentless pursuit of the lost and God’s uncontainable joy when the lost are found.
Yet these stories are not simply about God’s love for “those people out there” (the sinners, the outsiders, the unreligious). They are also aimed at insiders, at the religiously observant, at those of us who imagine we know the shape of righteousness and the boundaries of belonging. Jesus tells these parables precisely because the Pharisees and scribes are scandalized by the company he keeps. They mutter, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” In other words, Jesus is crossing lines, erasing boundaries, and disrupting the religious categories that keep the righteous separate from the sinful.
And it is to them, the religious, the insiders, that Jesus tells these stories. Which means that if we are honest, he’s telling them to us, the Church.
Narrative context
Luke emphasizes again and again that Jesus’ ministry draws together a startling array of people: tax collectors and sinners, fishermen and widows, Pharisees and synagogue leaders, Roman centurions and outcasts. Meals in particular become sites of both fellowship and conflict. To share a table in the ancient world was to signal belonging, intimacy, and solidarity. So when Jesus eats with sinners, he is not just offering them kindness, he is declaring that they are included in God’s kingdom. No wonder the some of the religious leaders object.
This chapter follows a string of escalating conflicts in Luke. In chapter 14, Jesus has been teaching about humility, discipleship, and the radical demands of following him. He has warned against self-promotion and self-exaltation and urged his followers to invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind to their banquets. Against that backdrop, Luke 15 is not a sweet aside but a pointed response to grumbling religious leaders. Jesus is showing what God’s mission looks like in practice: the lost are sought, the estranged are restored, and heaven itself rejoices when reconciliation happens.
The sweetness and the sting of grace
At first glance, these parables sound like pure comfort. Who doesn’t want to be the lost sheep tenderly carried on the shepherd’s shoulders, or the coin swept up in joy after an anxious search? Preachers can easily lean into that imagery, reassuring congregations that no one is ever too far gone for God’s love.
And that message is true, profoundly so. Many in our pews need exactly that assurance. For those who carry shame, who wonder if they are beyond redemption, who fear they are irreparably lost, these parables are like water in the desert. They declare that God will not rest until the lost are found, until the estranged are embraced, until the sinner is restored.
But if we stop there, we risk sentimentalizing the parables. We risk hearing only the sweetness of the hymn without the sharpness of its truth. Amazing Grace is perhaps the most recognized hymn in the English-speaking world. Its tune is beautiful, its words familiar:
Amazing grace! how sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
was blind, but now I see.
Because it is sung at funerals, in movies, and across so many contexts, its edges have worn smooth. We may sing the words but forget what they mean. “That saved a wretch like me” is not an abstract phrase, it is a confession. It is an acknowledgment that I am not merely imperfect but broken, not merely flawed but sinful, not merely once lost but repeatedly so.
And that is the sting of these parables. They are not only for the lost sheep out there somewhere. They are also for the ninety-nine who imagine themselves secure. They are for the Pharisees and scribes who think they know who belongs and who doesn’t. They are for us, who are tempted to imagine that grace is something we once needed, long ago, but no longer.
The challenge of confession
The truth is that we resist naming ourselves as sinners. We may acknowledge in general terms that “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” We may recite words of confession on Sunday mornings. But in practice, admitting our specific wrongs feels threatening.
We see this in public life all the time. A politician issues a “non-apology” that says, “I’m sorry if anyone was offended,” without actually admitting fault. A celebrity insists, “It wasn’t my intention to hurt anyone,” sidestepping accountability. Even in our daily lives, when we lose our temper, we are quick to make excuses: “I was just tired,” or “You were pushing my buttons.” Rarely do we simply say, “I was wrong, and I am sorry.”
Part of the problem is cultural. From childhood, many of us are taught to avoid blame at all costs. New drivers are told never to admit fault in an accident. In workplaces, to admit a mistake can feel like jeopardizing one’s career. And so we carry that defensiveness into our relationships, our communities, even our churches. We become practiced at protecting our image rather than confessing the truth.
But another part of the problem is spiritual. To admit our sin feels like exposing ourselves to judgment, punishment, or rejection. We fear that if we are honest about our failings, others will withdraw love or maybe even God will. Ironically, that fear covers our eyes to the very heart of the gospel. God already knows our faults and has already met them with grace.
Repentance as freedom
Jesus’ parables invite us to imagine repentance not as humiliation but as freedom. To repent is to be found. To confess is to be carried home. To admit fault is to open the door to reconciliation. Far from being a cause for shame, repentance is the very thing that unleashes joy in heaven.
Embrace that image. “There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” God rejoices not when we maintain an image of perfection, but when we risk honesty. God throws a party not when we hide our sins, but when we confess them and turn toward restoration.
In Lutheran language, this is the gift of justification by grace. We are freed from the need to defend ourselves, because God has already declared us beloved. We are freed from the fear of exposure, because Christ has already forgiven our sins. That freedom opens the possibility of genuine change. We can admit our wrongs, not to wallow in guilt, but to repair what has been broken. We can apologize without excuses, seek amends when possible, and grow in love for our neighbors.
Preaching Possibilities
Concrete practices
We preachers may wish to offer concrete illustrations of what this looks like. It can be as simple as apologizing honestly when we snap at a friend or family member: “I’m sorry I took my frustration out on you. That was wrong.” It can be as serious as seeking to repair harm we’ve done in relationships, workplaces, or communities. In recovery communities, this is captured in the practice of making amends, not as a one-time event but as an ongoing posture of accountability.
The key is that repentance is not about groveling or self-deprecation. It is about restoring relationships. Sin isolates. Repentance reconnects. Sin builds walls. Repentance opens doors. And every time that happens, Jesus says, heaven rejoices.
Grace for the insiders
In preaching this text, there is a particular challenge and opportunity. Our congregations are filled with people who already know the language of grace. Many have sung Amazing Grace hundreds of times. But like the religious leaders, we risk forgetting that the parables are also for us. We are not the righteous ninety-nine who need no repentance. We are sinners in need of redeeming, still, again, always.
Naming that truth does not diminish us. It deepens us. It frees us to live honestly with ourselves and with others. It opens the way to relationships marked by authenticity rather than pretense. And it roots us more firmly in the grace of God, which never grows old, never wears thin, never loses its power to save.
Joy in heaven
In the end, these parables invite us to imagine the heart of God not as a stern judge keeping score, but as a shepherd who risks the wilderness for one sheep, a woman who scours her house for one coin, a parent who runs down the road to embrace a wayward child. God’s joy is not in our perfection but in our return. God’s delight is not in our flawless image but in our honest repentance.
And so the hymn rings true after all: Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! That grace is not a relic of the past but a daily reality. Again and again, we are lost and again and again, we are found. And every time, the angels rejoice.
Micah Krey 
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