What's On Your List?

Matthew 24:36-44

But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Son of Man.

For as in the days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so, too, will be the coming of the Son of Man.

Then two will be in the field; one will be taken, and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken, and one will be left. Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.

But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into.

Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect.

---

What’s on your list? That’s the question I asked and got asked most over the past few days. If your family is anything like mine, Thanksgiving weekend is when we trade Christmas lists and start imagining what we hope to unwrap. Maybe you do something similar. Or maybe you’re one of the brave ones who heads out into the crowds to score the deals on those lists.

I like going out not so much for the sales, but to soak in the spirit of the season. Lights are up, people are dressed up, bells are ringing outside while Christmas music blares inside. Santa waves between photos. And at this point, people look happy—not yet crushed by the unrealistic expectations we all put on this season.

There’s something energizing about it.

But then you show up to worship this morning… only to be shocked by what we just heard. We come to church in December expecting stories of hope from a pregnant Mary, the quiet faithfulness of Joseph, or the peace of a cooing baby Jesus.And instead — we get none of that.

What we always get on the first Sunday of Advent are these strange, end-of-the-world texts. This morning, Jesus compares his return to the days of Noah—people going about their lives, unaware, until the flood came suddenly. He says his coming will be just as unexpected.

Then it gets even more unsettling: two men working in a field, and one is taken. Two women working in a home, and one disappears. When I first read that this week, all I could picture was two pastors in the office; one taken, one left behind. I’ll let you decide which.

And finally, perhaps most troubling of all, Jesus compares his coming to a thief breaking into a house at an unknown hour and robbing it. A thief?! What is going on here? It’s strange, unsettling, and so out of step with our cultural Christmas expectations, where a certain man arrives right on time and leaves us piles of wonderful things.

What we get in this passage feels a lot less like Santa… and a lot more like this:

That’s hilarious and terrible, and I’m definitely not recommending you do that to your children. Though if you do… please send the video.

But the Grinch showing up at an unexpected moment to take things away isn’t all that different from the metaphor Jesus uses about himself in today’s passage. He says the day and hour of his return we cannot know; not even he knows. But when we least expect it, in a way we won’t anticipate, Jesus promises to return.

If we imagine ourselves as the homeowner in this metaphor, it sounds like bad news — because a thief breaking in means we’re about to lose something. But what if this sudden, unexpected loss isn’t a threat at all. Maybe we need someone to break in and take certain things away; not like the Grinch stealing presents, but like a holy thief who steals what we don’t need, what harms us, what we can’t let go of or get rid of on our own.

After all, some of the greatest gifts in life aren’t the things we receive… but the things we’re finally freed from.

Just ask Sir Anthony Hopkins.

The famous actor sat down with the New York Times for one of their installments of The Interview. The first question David Marchese asked him was: “Can you tell me about what happened on December 29th, 1975, at 11 o’clock?”

Hopkins responded:

I was drunk and driving my car here in California, blacked out, no clue where I was going, when I realized that I could have killed somebody — or myself, which I didn’t care about — and I realized that I was an alcoholic. I came to my senses and said to a friend at a party, “I need help.” It was 11 o'clock precisely — I looked at my watch — and this is the spooky part: some deep powerful thought or voice spoke to me from inside and said: “It’s all over. Now you can start living.” And suddenly the craving to drink was taken from me.

When asked later about that voice, Hopkins simply said, “It came from deep inside, and I don’t have any other theories except divinity — what I call God.”

Like a thief in the night, God broke into Anthony Hopkins’ life when he least expected it and took from him a desire he couldn't take from himself. What a gift.

And is that not a gift you want, maybe even one you desperately need?

Wouldn’t it be great for Jesus the holy thief to break into your life and take what you’ve never been able to let go of yourself? Not your Christmas presents, but the things that truly rob you: an addiction you can’t shake, the fear that grips you, the worry that wakes you at night.

What if Jesus stole away your self-doubt? Or absconded with your love of money and stuff? Or slipped off into the night with your anxiety, your despair, your perfectionism?

We make all these lists of things we want, and buy presents for each other thinking they’ll finally help us “start living.” If only we had the right clothes, the new bag, the latest tech — then we’d feel whole. But not one thing under the tree can actually do that.

Yet if Jesus takes even one of those burdens from us? Then we might sound a lot like Anthony Hopkins: Now I can start living.

This may sound like a new way of talking about what Jesus does for us, but it really isn’t. His entire life is an in-breaking into our world in ways no one expected: a poor peasant baby born in Palestine. And through his death and resurrection, he took from us what we could never take from ourselves, our sin, our shame, our separation, so that we could start living, here and now. It is a beautiful exchange.

Another Lutheran pastor once suggested that instead of making Christmas lists, we should make Advent lists, writing down the things we want Jesus the holy thief to take from our lives. Because the Gospel today tells us that Christ will come again. And if it’s anything like the last time, he’ll take away what we cannot remove on our own.

So what are you holding on to? Or maybe, what’s holding on to you, keeping you from living the life God wants for you?

Our culture loves to tell the lie that following Christ will give us more blessings, more stuff, more comfort. But the truth is often the opposite. Throughout the Gospels, he breaks into the lives of his disciples and takes things from them: safety, certainty, old identities, fears that defined them. And sometimes that taking is the very best gift.

In the welcome area, you’ll find small sheets of paper titled Advent Lists.

As you leave today — before you go back to checking off the gifts you’ll give — take a moment to write down the things you want Jesus to take from you this season. And as you write, consider this:

Are there things you can help lift from the lives of those around you: guilt, shame, pressure, loneliness?

When we ease those burdens for one another, we share in Christ’s liberating work. We help grace break-in to our lives so that we might live fully here and now.

Maybe the next time someone asks you, “What’s on your list?”

you’ll have a different answer.

Amen.

Toilet Paper, Payback, and Christ the King

Luke 23:33-43

When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by watching, but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.”

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.”

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

---

In fifth grade, my house was toilet papered. Waking up that morning, it looked like there had been a blizzard—but only at my house. And the worst part is it took a solid two hours to clean up.

We got word the perpetrators were coming back, so my brother made a plan. We hid in the bushes with the hose, firecrackers, and an air horn at the ready. As soon as the first roll hit the tree, we unleashed it all. It was some of the sweetest revenge I’d ever tasted.

But here’s the thing—I wanted more. Now I am not proud to admit this, but for the next two years, I was a serial toilet-paperer. I went TP-ing with my friends every chance I got. I don’t think to this day my parents know this. Finally, one fateful night a police officer stopped our fun and we dropped our rolls of toilet paper for good. He could have called our parents, ordered community service. But he just made us clean up the mess, giving us mercy we didn’t deserve.

If I asked you what the most deadly addiction is, you might say smoking, alcohol, fentanyl, or maybe Facebook. But no, it’s none of that. This addiction is far more common and not a substance or drug at all. The deadliest addiction is revenge. That’s the argument put forth by James Kimmel Jr., a professor at Yale. He says nearly every form of violence childhood bullying, domestic violence, police brutality, war—begins with someone convinced they’re a victim seeking justice.

And for the first time in human history, we have some scientific insight into how we can stop this deadly addiction. Revenge is that feeling, sometimes subtle, sometimes intense, to return the pain someone first gave you. Through scans and research, Kimmel and his team have found that a brain on revenge looks a lot like a brain addicted to drugs.Grievances of any kind—real or imagined, disrespect, betrayal, shame— they all light up the brain’s pain center.

Our brains don’t like that and so it quickly starts reaching for pleasure.

We could reach for anything after we’ve been wronged—a tub of ice cream, an intense workout, a few drinks—and those might help for a moment. But the uncomfortable truth is that we humans get the most satisfying pleasure from hurting the very person who hurt us. It’s not our best trait.

Neuroscientists have shown that when someone wrongs us and we even imagine retaliation, the brain’s reward centers wake up. The parts tied to craving and habit-building fire just like they do when addicts feel stressed or see something associated with getting a fix. Revenge isn’t just an idea; it’s an addictive action. Yet, unlike other addictions, revenge is addiction turned outward. Instead of harming ourselves to get a fix, we harm someone else. And like any addiction, the thrill is short-lived, the pain returns leaving one feeling even worse, and the craving only grows.

Perhaps you know how this feels. As a kid, it’s the punch you throw when the roughhousing gets too rough. In marriage, it’s the sentence you say that you know will cut deeper than any knife. As an adult, it’s the desire to slash the tires of the buffoon who cut off everyone in the school pickup line. We all know that impulse. It’s part of being human.

And it certainly isn’t limited to individuals. Right now, it feels like our whole nation is running on it. Childish name-calling, dangerous threats, the endless churn of angry rhetoric: vengeance seems to be the most animating force in public life. It shows up across the political spectrum, where the goal is clearly not about solving problems but more about scoring points or making “the other side” hurt.

I see it too in the Christian Nationalist movement, which grows out of a perceived assault on Christianity, by which they mean a very narrow version of Christianity defined as white, straight, and evangelical. The response is to attack back through laws and power in public life. We’ve built a society—a kind of kingdom—where hurt is expected to be met with greater hurt, and the loudest voices insist the only way to win is to strike back harder.

Christ the King Sunday, which began 100 years ago today, was created to celebrate a king and kingdom that operates in the opposite way. If there was ever someone innocent who endured great harm—someone who could have, maybe even should have, returned the pain—was it not Jesus Christ, the King of the Jews? The one crucified between criminals while the very people who once followed him stood by and watched?

Surely he had every right to act with vengeance, to call down the wrath of God, to save himself from that cross and rule like every other king tries to do. That’s exactly what the crowd urged him to do. Three times people said to Jesus, “Save yourself.” It’s what we humans know best.

But that’s not the kind of King Jesus is. His first words from the cross were not a declaration of innocence or a plea for pity, but a favor from his Father: “Forgive them.” It’s fascinating that Jesus speaks to God in this moment. He doesn’t say I forgive you to the ones nailing, flogging, and scoffing at him. That wouldn’t have made any sense.

They didn’t think they were doing anything wrong. In their minds, they were doing exactly what they should be doing: executing a sentence of execution for a man charged with treason.

And here’s the part that always stops me: Jesus isn’t only speaking about the people at the foot of the cross. His words reach beyond that moment.

It’s as if Jesus is saying, Father, please forgive them—because I already have. And the “them,” the object of that forgiveness, is me and you. Jesus came preaching and presenting a different way to be in the world, an alternate kingdom to reign over our lives—one of mercy, kindness, forgiveness—and we killed him for it.

And every time we long for revenge, every time we save ourselves, every time we reject mercy, we put him back on that cross, crucifying the voice that tells us there’s another way.

Yet just like he did then, he says to us again, “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they are doing.” God, in Jesus, meets our violence with grace; our anger with forgiveness; our revenge with reconciliation. Always and only.

The way of Jesus and his kingdom is what neuroscience now tells us is the best way to stop the dangerous, deadly pull of revenge: forgiveness. Research shows that even picturing yourself forgiving someone triggers something powerful: the brain’s pain center settles, the craving for revenge loosens, and the part of your mind that helps you think clearly and choose wisely lights back up.

Forgiveness is not saying what happened was okay or pretending the wound never happened.

It means letting God begin loosening revenge’s grip on your mind but more importantly on your heart. In other words, forgiveness acts like a kind of wonder drug. It eases the hurt, dead-ends the desire to strike back, and breaks the hold pain has on you.

And best of all, it’s free, always available, and you can take another dose whenever needed.

Try it this week. Call to mind one person who has hurt you and, in prayer, quietly just begin to imagine forgiving them. You don’t have to tell them. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just imagine it, and let Christ the King meet you there.

You can do this. We can do this. We don’t have to keep hurting each other. You don’t have to live with the pain someone else has inflicted on you. We can drop our rolls of toilet paper or whatever your retaliation is, once and for all, and stop the harm being done, big or small.

There is a way out of this addiction and we didn’t need scientific research to prove it.

Christ the King has been showing us how all along, giving us a mercy we don’t deserve.

Amen.