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.

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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.

The Art of Empathy

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Luke 3:7-16

John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, ‘You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our ancestor”; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.’

And the crowds asked him, ‘What then should we do?’ In reply he said to them, ‘Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.’ Even tax-collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, ‘Teacher, what should we do?’ He said to them, ‘Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.’ Soldiers also asked him, ‘And we, what should we do?’ He said to them, ‘Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.’

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, ‘I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.

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This weekend, I introduced my son Clive, who is not yet two, to one of my favorite holiday classics: The Grinch - the Dr. Seuss version. Clive was unimpressed. He couldn’t care less about the green antihero but loved the singing from all the Whos down in Whoville. He lasted about twenty minutes before toddling off to find some mischief of his own. But even in those twenty minutes, I couldn’t help but think: John the baptist and the grinch sure do have a whole lot in common.

Hear me out: both live out in the wilderness, far from everyone else. Both have bizarre diets - one eats locust and honey, the other chows down on trash and glass. Both shout strange things at the townspeople. Both are hairy, at least the Jim Carey version. But most importantly, and oddly enough, both the Grinch and John the Baptist have something to teach us about empathy.

Much like the grinch, John the Baptist wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Crowds came out to him near the Jordan river for baptism. And just like walking into a family holiday gathering, John greets them with name calling and chastisement. Maybe you can relate.

You children of snakes, John says, you think my baptism or being children of Abraham will save you?” he asks. “No, live a life worthy of repentance.” In other words, the messiah is coming and your judgement is not based on who your ancestors are or where you come from, but on how you live your life.

And so the crowds ask him, “What then should we do?” John replies: “If you’ve got two coats, give one away. If you’ve got food, share it.” Then the tax collectors—despised, likely wealthy—ask, “What about us? What should we do?” John says, “Don’t take more than you’re supposed to. Be fair.” Finally, the soldiers ask the same thing, “And what about us, what should we do?” John answers, “Be content with what you have. Don’t threaten. Don’t bully.”

Share. Be fair. Don’t bully. In other words: Have a heart, you grinches! See the pain of your neighbors. And then try—try a little—to make it better. Or at least, don’t make it worse. Give, not just have, some empathy.

This Advent, as we wait for the messiah, we’ve been asking the same question the crowds asked John: What should we do? How should we live? John’s advice is as good now as it was then. Have some empathy. And if there’s one thing we desperately need, it’s that.

A couple of weeks ago at the Racial Justice reading circle, Franci Kissel mentioned an article first published in the Detroit free press entitled, Civility Failed, so let’s try empathy. Nancy Kaffer, the author, says, “I don't think anyone likes how America feels these days… we all know that times are hard, but we don’t agree on why, who’s to blame, or what’s to be done. We cast our fellow Americans in absurd extremes, assuming the worst possible motivations.” Civility would be nice, but if we are accusing each other of horrible things, does it matter whether we are doing it nicely? What we really need, if we are going to get along and see each other as fully human as ourselves, is empathy.

The good news, says both Kaffer and David Brooks, is that empathy can be learned. The bad news is that you have to want to learn it. Most of the time, we don’t. We build and rely on defenses instead. Some of us avoid connection altogether, retreating into work or shallow interactions to protect ourselves. Others feel unworthy of love, carrying scars from neglect that undermine relationships and self-esteem. Some overreact, seeing threats where there are none and escalate conflicts. Still others rely on passive aggression, avoiding direct communication and manipulating through guilt, which erodes trust. These defenses, while once protective, now block us from truly knowing and being known by others.

If we want connection, if we are going to see others as the child of God they are, we need empathy. But empathy isn’t just having a bigger heart like the grinch. It’s not a gush of feeling that washes over you while watching a tearjerker movie. By this definition, empathy feels simple, natural even: I feel for you. But that’s not quite right. Empathy is work. David Brooks describes it as three deliberate acts.

First is mirroring. This is recognizing and reflecting someone’s emotions. A person good at mirroring is quick to experience and express the emotion someone else is feeling. My friend Kyle is great at this: when I laugh, he laughs; when I’m tired, he yawns; I’m angry and suddenly his voice takes on an edge. Mirroring helps us understand what someone is feeling because we experience it in our body too, at least a little bit.

Next is mentalizing. Once you know what someone is feeling, you try to understand why they feel the way they do. We do this by reaching back into our own experiences and relate their feelings to a time when we felt similar. You remember what it was like starting a new job, losing a loved one, or getting devastating news. It won’t be exactly the same, but it gives you some insight into their struggles.

Finally, caring. Empathy isn’t just feeling someone’s pain; it’s stepping in to help. Con artists, Brooks points out, are very good at reading people’s emotions, but we don’t call them empathetic; they take advantage of the emotion rather than offer support. Children are good at reading emotions, but not good at knowing what to do. I stubbed my toe the other day and Clive went and did the same thing. While sweet now we were both crying.

Truly caring is not only knowing how someone feels, but understanding what they need; not what you would need. When I am anxious, Katelyn doesn’t care for me with what she wants, a hug; she gives me what I want, which is space. That’s caring.

Some folks are naturally good at this. But empathy is a skill that can be learned, improved upon, just like a sport or running. It takes practice. Small things, like reading more or acting classes, anything that gets us focused on others and not ourselves, helps. Sometimes it just takes enduring the hardships of life so that you can relate to others better.

Yet, we all have received empathy. Someone has mirrored your emotions, understood your struggles, and stepped in to help when you needed it most. That kind of love changes us.

And isn’t that exactly what God does for us in Jesus? The incarnation, the very act of Christmas, is the most radical act of empathy the world has ever seen and that we’ve ever received. God doesn't stay distant, shaking God’s head at our mess and pain. Instead, God steps into our skin, literally mirroring our humanity. God feels hunger, exhaustion, grief, and rejection. In Jesus, God knows what it is to long for connection only to be met with our defenses. But God doesn’t stop there. God doesn’t just feel what we feel; God acts.

Knowing exactly what we need, God bridges the gap with a grace so powerful that it takes away our sin, breaks through every defense we put up, and restores the connection we so desperately need. Jesus hung on the cross, removed our sin, and each new day pours out grace to draw us back into relationship. That is empathy in its truest, boldest form.

So, this Christmas, I hope your heart grows like the Grinch’s—three sizes bigger and ready to love. But don’t stop there. Empathy isn’t just about a bigger heart; it’s about action. It’s about seeing someone’s pain, understanding their story, and stepping in to help.

It’s what God has done for you in Jesus, and it’s exactly what your neighbor needs from you now more than ever. This Christmas, give the gift of empathy. It might be the best gift they receive.

Amen.