This was a problem, because a lost ticket meant no entry, even if I promised the gatekeeper I’d had it just a moment before. That’s life in the wider culture: no ticket, no entry. You lose something valuable, and you’re out of luck.

But when the church operates that way—when relationships are treated as disposable—something essential is lost.

Life in Christian community guarantees loss. Something will break. Trust. Expectations. My illusion of control. Every member of the church should be honest and just say: I will disappoint you one day. Pretending otherwise sets us up for a deeper fracture.

The better way is to recognize loss and strive through it—because on the other side, God creates newness.

Jesus gives us a picture: a woman loses a coin, lights a lamp, and tears her house apart until she finds it (Luke 15:1–10). She spends more in time and effort than the coin is worth, and then throws a party to celebrate.

It’s absurd. And that’s the point.

Human culture says: some losses are acceptable. Some people can be written off. God says: no. Not one coin. Not one person.

Think about it: you’re not the lost coin today. You’re one of the nine still jangling in the purse, watching the householder upend the furniture, fling open cupboards, and turn everything inside out to recover the missing one.

God’s ridiculous love isn’t just about me—it’s about us. What’s lost in the community of the church isn’t just my trust, my voice, my future—it’s ours.

So the real question isn’t, How am I hurt? but, How are we hurt? How are we lost?

The Gospels return again and again to God’s reckless hospitality. Every seat matters at the banquet table. Every outsider is drawn in—especially the ones we’d rather avoid:

• It’s just the addict.
• It’s just the blowhard.
• It’s just the elected official.

But Jesus insists: them too. God drags the whole messy cast of characters to the same table, and then calls it family.

That kind of foolishness got Jesus killed. As New Testament scholar Norman Perrin once put it, the tragedy was that Jesus’ vision demanded the sacrifice of principles people thought essential for their faith—and many weren’t prepared to give those up for a transformed life.

So, what’s the work of the church in 2025? To act like our ridiculous God. To risk looking foolish. To sweep the house until what’s missing is found.

Trust is restored not by clinging to safety but by asking hard, shared questions:

• What have we lost?
• Who are we willing to seek out?
• How far are we willing to go to bring everyone back to the table?

The church’s task is not to protect our furniture but to prepare the feast. Jesus’ table stretches far beyond the chancel rail, into our neighborhoods, workplaces, and private fears about the future. It’s set wherever we dare to act like God acts: making space, again and again, for one more place.

Once I realized my ticket to the Alhambra was missing, I left Grant and my sister and her husband, and retraced my steps. I must have looked like a fool staring down at the wet ground instead of the massive walls and buildings. But then I saw something: a bent piece of paper in a mud puddle by the side of the walkway. I picked up the ticket, mud-smeared and creased, and made my way back from the mud and muck to the splendor of Spain.

The question isn’t whether loss will happen—it will. The question is whether we’ll trust God enough to sweep the floor, move the furniture, dig through the mud, and rejoice when the lost is found.

“The tragedy was that Jesus’ vision demanded the sacrifice of principles people thought essential for their faith—and many weren’t prepared to give those up for a transformed life.”

Norman Perrin