Lost. And Found.

The chartered bus was waiting at the curb. Nathanael jumped out of the car and ran toward the bus, suddenly stopping half-way between. “Where’s my wallet?” he asked, half speaking to himself and half pleading with mom and dad to find the answer. “I had it in my pocket in the car and now it’s gone.”

“You have to have your wallet, Nathanael,” I replied, “It has your driver’s license and you need I.D.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered, tearing the back seat of our car apart, searching for the wallet.

Maureen and I jumped into the fray. The clock was ticking. The bus was supposed to be loaded and on the road in five minutes. The Highland Singers were on their way to Orlando to take the stage at DisneyWorld in a national choral competition; Nathanael was slated for a solo competition there, too. Aw-ugh-man-oh-man, where was the wallet? “Are you sure you had it in your pocket?” “Yes, mom, I’m positive,” Nathanael rolled his eyes. The tension—the desperation— was palpable.

“I found it!” Maureen shouted, “It was wedged in between the door and the back seat.” Nathanael grabbed the wallet and ran. The lost had been found. All was well. In a moment, everyone’s attitude was changed. Hope restored. Life resumed. And, oh yes, he ran back and gave us a hug.

We’ve all experienced the frustration of losing something—something really important. Everyone who wears contact lenses can testify to that (just ask me). But there are even more traumatic losses than a contact lens or a wallet. Or even a house. Or even a loved one.

When you lose hope and a sense of better days tomorrow, you lose everything. Life has no prospect of contentment or joy left, when there is no hope. When a dream is lost—and no new dream comes to life to take its place … when the anticipation of something wonderful is taken away and there is no hope of receiving it back … when the shadows close in and all seems to be lost … well, that’s when we surrender to despair and resign ourselves to a desperate end.

And that, at its core, is the story of the crucifixion and burial of Christ. A sense of overwhelming loss, with a capital “L”—and no reasonable, imaginable, or explainable hope of finding Him again. No more bright moments on the hillside overlooking Galilee, listening to the unmistakable Voice describe the lilies of the field. No more astonishing miracles of healing and calming the storm. No more breathtaking gifts of forgiveness. No more stories that disclose the heart of a God we were learning to call, “Father,” and no more of the unforgettable teaching like the Sermon on the Mount. Gone. All gone. He’s gone. Never coming back. Hopeless. Lost.

On that first Easter Sunday, though, the Lost was found—He was found, alive. And with Him, all of the hopes and dreams and truth He inspired. Healing. Forgiveness. Understanding. God’s favor. Life. They all came back with Him. We couldn’t imagine how or why, all we knew was that He is. He is alive.

That’s worth celebrating. The same enemy that sought to rob Jesus of His life—and to rob of us of the life He brings—is hard at work stealing and deceiving and discouraging today. That adversary is forever seeking to deny the reality and power of the Resurrected Lord. Satan wants us to grovel in the loss; he wants us never to find.

But, this Easter, once more, the Madison Park Church will proclaim the truth of Jesus being found, alive. Whatever your trouble, whatever you have lost and believe is locked in a tomb, whatever grave you think has claimed your dream, whatever despair you have called home, we are here to bring you good news: “He is risen.” Jesus has triumphed—and with Him, we can, too. Jesus B lost, for a few days, anyway. And then, Jesus B found. His story can be our story. Lost. And found.

Bring a friend. Invite a row-full. Fill up those empty seats in our Main Auditorium. This Sunday. Easter. March 23. At 9:00am and 10:45am: two services, just alike. With a 53-piece orchestra. Music made in Heaven. The preached Word. The sweet fellowship of the Holy Spirit. And the celebration of life and hope found. For everyone who will hear.

You can live without your wallet. And your contact lens. And your coat. And even treasured relationships. But, you cannot live without hope and the life it brings. That’s the Easter story. Our first Easter at Madison Park. Don’t miss it. See you then.