Just this week, the country experienced the murder of a young man, a public figure, on a university campus. He was shot by another young man. People were shocked. And people are angry. In June, a man dressed as a police officer killed a politician and her husband, and attempted to kill another politician and his wife the very same evening. In April of this year, a man set fire to the house of the Pennsylvania governor with his entire family still in the house, hoping to kill them all. In December of last year the CEO of a major health insurance provider was shot and killed by a young man attempting to make a political point. In July of last year, a gunman attempted to shoot the man who eventually became the president of these United States. There are more than enough acts of politically motivated violence that I cannot continue to list them all. These are just the big ones that made the news.
No one should die for their political views. These murders are shocking, and all these events are troubling.
What I find more troubling, however, is what I have seen in the aftermath of these murders or attempted murders. What people either say to me, or what they post on their social media.
What I find troubling is that people declare outrage at the death of one person, while barely batting an eye at the death of the other. They mourn the loss of one person, but shrug at the death of the other. They blame the opposing political party for the violence against the one they mourn. And yet, through their apathy, or in some cases, even through their words, declare that the person from the other party that was killed somehow “deserved what was coming to them.”
This blame game knows no bounds. And the apathy or callousness toward one death versus an eruption of emotion at another death rips open the veil of a great divide within our country regarding what is acceptable behavior, and what will be tolerated or not. And this great divide seems to be that people will tolerate violence against those with whom they disagree. But these same people will not, under any circumstances tolerate violence against those with whom they agree.
This is indeed troubling.
What I find most troubling, however, is that many of these comments that I have heard over the past few days, few weeks, few months, and even years, is that they all begin to sound the same. People who didn’t know anything about the young man murdered on Wednesday are suddenly distraught and completely beside themselves. People who didn’t know anything about the politician and her husband until after they were killed were suddenly outraged. People who knew nothing of the governor and his family before someone tried to burn them in their home suddenly grow bold with their statements of anger and vitriol. Rather than bucking the trend of angry comments and hatred, it almost seems as if people are regurgitating what the television talking heads have told them to be angry at, spreading hatred one conversation at a time, or one angry social media post at a time.
And the divide grows. And the gap of mistrust gets bigger. And the violence just goes on and on.
And everyone either thinks or says: it’s not us. It’s them.
The Gospel today gives us a parable of a sheep that has wandered astray and gotten lost. And the Good Shepherd leaves the 99 behind and goes off on a search, desperately trying to find this sheep that has disappeared from the fold. It’s a beautiful story, and every time we hear it, we are reminded that God loves everyone, and we need to be out in the world, telling people of the joy of knowing Jesus. Wouldn’t you want to be a follower of the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, the Son of God, and the Prince of Peace?
We never consider the option that we are not one of the 99 sheep. We never consider that in this parable, we might be the Lost Sheep.
Because it’s not us. It’s them.
This parable, we tell ourselves, is about “sinners” after all. It’s not about those of us who attend church regularly and count ourselves among “the righteous.”
Or is it?
Does this parable begin with the Good Shepherd out in the wilderness searching for a wild sheep to bring back to join the fold? Or does it begin with a sheep that was part of the flock somehow getting separated from the rest of the sheep?
This parable starts among the righteous, and moves into the wild open where the wandering sheep is finally found. So yes, we can definitely be that lost sheep.
What’s more interesting is the context in which Jesus tells these parables. At the beginning of the passage, the Pharisees and scribes were grumbling, saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” That is, they were grumbling, and saying, “He eats with them and not with us. And we are the righteous ones.” And in response, Jesus tells these grumbling, angry men this parable of a sheep that has strayed. A “sinner” that was lost from the herd.
But wait, there’s more. Immediately after this parable of the sheep, Jesus tells the story of a woman who lost ten silver coins, and tore her house apart looking for them. And when she finds the coins, she invites all her friends to celebrate. And Jesus tells us, “There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” Again we hear of a “sinner.” Again we hear of repentance. And all this, in response to those who were grumbling that Jesus was eating with the “sinners” and the tax collectors, rather than with them, “the righteous ones.”
But wait! There’s even more. Right after this parable of the lost coins, Jesus tells us a story about a Father who lost a Son. This Son, by asking his father for his inheritance before his father died, had basically said to his father: “I wish you were dead.” And despite this, his father gave him his inheritance, and this young man squandered it on “wild living.” For a while he lived “high on the hog,” until one day his money ran out, and he found himself living, quite literally, with the hogs. And he thinks to himself, “I have sinned against Heaven and my father, I will tell him that. Maybe he will let me be like his slaves; at least I will have food and shelter.” And then begins the long journey home, dejected, depressed, unhappy, and feeling guilty and worthless. But when his father sees him from far off and recognizes his son, he runs out to greet him, puts a robe on him, puts a ring on his finger, sandals on his feet, and tells the servants to kill the fatted lamb so that they can celebrate. Because this son that was lost is found again, and it is time to rejoice.
But then we hear of the older brother, who had been out working in the fields. This brother comes back home and sees everyone rejoicing over his brother that was lost, but now has been found.
And what does he do?
He gets mad. Angry.
And he tells his father that this is unfair. That his brother was a dirty, rotten “sinner” who had squandered everything that his father had given to him. And that he, the older brother, has been slaving away for all these years and his father never threw him a party. He is basically telling his father, “If you were going to throw anyone a party, it should have been me, not him.”
And the father tells him that everything that this older son had been working with for all these years was there for the taking, and he did nothing with it. He could have taken a young goat at any point and celebrated with his friends. He could have enjoyed the fruits of his inheritance, because everything he was working with and for at that point already belonged to him. In other words, “How is it unfair that you never took advantage of your inheritance? You could have been rejoicing this entire time. And now that your brother is back, are you so mad that you don’t want to join in the party? How is it him, and not you, that is the problem?”
The Lost Sheep. The Lost Coins. The Lost Son. All of these parables were told in response to the Pharisees and scribes grumbling that Jesus “should be eating with us and not with them.”
“There is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner that repents, than 99 righteous persons who need no repentance.”
But who is the “sinner” that has left the sheep fold? Who is the angry brother? Is it the Pharisees and the scribes? Or is it the tax collectors and those the others called “sinners?”
Our capacity for counting ourselves among the righteous while everyone else is in the category of the “sinners” is nothing new. Even two thousand years ago Jesus had to call out the scribes and Pharisees for looking with contempt, with hatred, and with judgement on the people that Jesus spent time with.
And this is the lesson that we need to learn in our own time and our own society. We call Jesus the Prince of Peace. And yet we are so quick to fall into factions that make the claim that “It’s not us, it’s them.” We bicker, we moan, we argue, asking Jesus why he is eating with them and not with us.
But words have consequences. Actions have consequences. Even failing to act when we see or hear evil has consequences. If we find ourselves taking our hatred and turning it into verbal vomit to win points and spew on other people instead of trying to create a conversation that seeks to find peace and common ground, then we have to realize that we are responsible for creating a culture in which this type of political violence can grow and fester. In 1 John 3:15, it says, “All who hate a brother or sister are murderers, and you know that murderers do not have eternal life abiding in them.” And John says this because words move other people to action. And hateful words will move people into hatred. And hatred will move people to violence.
It is so easy for us to go from being one of The 99 Righteous to being the Lost Sheep. It happens so quickly, because when we are angry, we forget who our brothers and sisters are. We believe that those who think like us, and pray like us, and vote like us are our brothers and sisters. And those who don’t are not. And then we like to think that when bad things happen, it’s because of them, and not us.
I very deliberately have been using the words, “Us” and “We,” because I include myself in this assessment. There are times when the apathy I feel toward certain situations surprises me. There are times when the anger I feel surprises me. And there are times when either the apathy or the anger spills out into words that I wish I hadn’t said.
Because words have consequences.
And spoken contempt, and spoken hatred are, in fact, violence. They are not physical violence, but they carry the same message, a message made clear in the first letter of John. If we speak contempt, and we speak hatred, then what we are really saying is: “I wish you were dead.”
If my words include judgement, contempt, and hatred, then I cannot claim to be surprised when others do the same. I cannot claim to be surprised when others are moved to violence. And I cannot claim to be surprised when people are murdered in their homes or in the streets.
I have to admit that sometimes it really is not them, but me. We all have to admit that sometimes it really is not them, but us. Our own words can contribute to the culture in which hatred and anger and violence are allowed to fester. And when we understand this, and when we change our ways, there will be, as Jesus says, much rejoicing among the angels in heaven over one sinner who has repented.
[This sermon was delivered at St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Wickenburg, AZ on September 19, 2025.]
