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.
