Sermon based on Luke 12:32-40
Do not be afraid, little flock…
That’s how Jesus introduces this new teaching, with a word of encouragement.
Do not be afraid.
And maybe you’ve heard a phrase like that so often that it no longer registers. Maybe it feels like a spiritual slogan, more “Hang in there” than holy ground. But in this passage, Jesus isn’t offering comfort as an afterthought. He’s starting there because everything that follows depends on us hearing those words: Do not be afraid.
Because what comes next is not light fare.
Jesus tells his audience to sell their possessions.
Give their stuff away.
Stay ready.
They are told to keep their lamps lit.
Be alert like servants waiting up for their master—or like a homeowner watching for a thief.
A thief!
What a curveball. Jesus goes from “Fear not, little flock,” to “I’m coming like a thief in the night.” Just when you think you’ve pinned him down as gentle shepherd, he reappears as divine burglar. Slipping through metaphors, shapeshifting from one identity to another—Master, Servant, Shepherd, Thief.
The question is not just “Who is Jesus here?”
It’s also “Who are we?”
Are we sheep? Servants? Householders? Treasure-hoarders? Accomplices in a holy heist?
I think the answer to all those questions is yes.
Let’s start at the beginning, because the beginning is a blessing.
“Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”
Not sell you the kingdom.
Not rent you the kingdom with conditions and hidden fees.
Not loan you the kingdom for good behavior.
Give.
That line alone could be a sermon. It is a sentence that holds grace and promise, tenderness and joy. God is not a stingy cosmic landlord. God is not running a spiritual meritocracy. God is not waiting for you to earn your place.
It is God’s good pleasure to give.
But give what, exactly?
The kingdom.
And that word, kingdom, is a loaded word. When we talk about the Kingdom of God, we aren’t talking about a castle in the clouds, but a way of being. A whole new order for life. A reality where peace replaces fear, generosity eclipses greed, and community outshines competition. A world that runs not on dominance but on love. A world turned upside-down, or maybe finally turned right-side-up.
So why the fear?
Why does Jesus need to say “Do not be afraid” in the first place?
Because fear is always the first barrier. It’s what keeps us clutching our stuff. It’s what keeps us from opening the door. It’s what keeps us from seeing Jesus when he shows up dressed as the poor, the hungry, the stranger.
And fear is sneaky. It doesn’t just show up as panic or anxiety. Sometimes it looks like obsession with productivity. Sometimes it sounds like a voice in your head that says, “You better earn your keep.” Sometimes it disguises itself as wisdom: “Don’t be too generous—you might need that someday.”
Fear also has a way of distorting vocation—our true calling.
We end up building walls instead of relationships.
We protect our assets instead of sharing them.
We hoard time, treasure, and attention because we think there’s not enough to go around.
But Jesus exposes the lie:
There is enough.
God is enough.
The kingdom is already yours.
Jesus tells the crowd,
“Sell your possessions and give to those in need.”
“Make wallets that don’t wear out.”
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
This isn’t just about charity.
It’s about orientation. The orientation of our lives.
Jesus is telling us that money isn’t neutral. Our treasure shapes our hearts. And wherever we keep putting our money, our time, our energy—our hearts will follow.
If we pour ourselves into accumulation, our hearts will live in anxiety.
If we pour ourselves into generosity, our hearts will find rest.
And it’s not about checking a box. It’s not “Give to charity and God will be pleased.” It’s more elemental than that. It’s about discovering that in giving, we become more human. We align ourselves with God’s dream for the world. We begin to give as God has given, like Christ has given, like the Holy Spirit has given, and in doing so, we become more of what God dreams for us.
In Luke’s Gospel, giving to those in need isn’t just a moral obligation. It’s a spiritual practice. A holy defiance. A declaration that says, “I won’t let fear decide the value of my life.” It’s a refusal to let the logic of scarcity run the show. It’s solidarity—not from a safe distance, but shoulder to shoulder with those the world tries to forget.
Jesus isn’t interested in a transactional world. He’s not asking the rich to throw scraps to the poor. He’s calling all of us to dismantle the very systems that keep some at the bottom. And that begins when we ask not just what we’re giving—but what we’re clinging to.
Then Jesus pivots next to a set of strange instructions.
“Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit.”
“Be like servants waiting for their master.”
“Stay ready. Stay awake.”
It’s less about punctuality and more about posture.
Jesus isn’t telling us to sit by the window like kids waiting for Santa. He’s saying: live alert. Keep your heart open. Stay dressed in compassion. Keep your lamp fueled with kindness.
Because the moment you don’t expect him?
That’s the moment he arrives.
Maybe not in clouds and glory.
Maybe not in lightning and trumpets.
But, maybe he shows up in the neighbor who knocks at your door late at night.
Maybe he’s the nurse who sits at the bedside of the dying patient.
Maybe he’s the one who annoys you in the church pew—the one you keep avoiding.
Maybe he’s the Holy Thief who breaks through your defenses and says, “You don’t need to live like this anymore.”
This readiness isn’t passive. It’s participatory. It’s not “wait and see,” it’s “live as if.”
Live as if the kingdom is already here.
Live as if grace has the last word.
Live as if Christ could be hidden in the person right in front of you.
Now for the image we’d rather skip.
The thief.
“If the owner of the house had known when the thief was coming…”
It’s not warm or comforting. It’s unnerving.
But maybe it should be.
Maybe we need a Jesus who can shake us up.
A Jesus who breaks in, not to take, but to liberate.
There’s a tradition, going back centuries, of describing Jesus as a holy thief. A burglar who sneaks past our security systems to steal what we should have let go of a long time ago: our illusions of control, our idols of certainty, our justifications for apathy.
He doesn’t take our stuff.
He takes our false priorities.
Maybe the Holy Thief doesn’t just steal our fear. Maybe he steals our carefully constructed identities—the ones we build through titles, achievements, and image management. Maybe he sneaks into our certainty and replaces it with curiosity. Maybe he dismantles our theological scaffolding and leaves behind wonder. And maybe that’s what salvation looks like—not being protected from disruption, but being freed by it. The thief doesn’t leave with valuables. He leaves with the lies we thought were keeping us safe.
Writer Alyce McKenzie calls Jesus, “a burglar who returns to steal our false priorities and overturn our unjust structures.” Because if he doesn’t? We’ll keep clinging to treasures that can’t last, building walls to keep the world at bay, numbing ourselves to injustice, and forgetting who we are.
But when Jesus breaks in—when he startles us awake—something holy happens. We remember.
We remember who we are.
We remember what matters.
We remember that we are not owners but stewards, not survivors but servants, not prisoners of fear but heirs of the kingdom.
So what does all this mean?
What does readiness look like in a world like ours?
It doesn’t mean paranoia.
It doesn’t mean predicting the end of the world.
It doesn’t mean selling everything and living in a hut.
It means trust. It means living in faith.
It means letting go of fear and grabbing hold of grace.
It means taking Sabbath seriously.
It means giving something away—not because it earns you points, but because it sets your heart free.
It means living as though Jesus might show up in the break room, at the food bank, in the child who needs your patience, or the elder who needs your presence.
It means staying alert—not out of fear, but out of anticipation.
Like a servant with a lamp in the window.
Like a sheep who trusts the shepherd.
Like a conspirator in a holy heist, helping the Thief overturn the world as it is.
There is no tidy bow for this passage.
Jesus ends with: “The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”
No timeline. No formula. No GPS tracker on the divine.
Just a call to readiness. To wakefulness.
And here’s the mystery:
When the master returns, he does the unthinkable.
He serves the servants.
He puts on the apron and sets the table. He tends the tired. He feeds the faithful. It is not just a reversal of roles. It’s a revelation of God’s heart.
That’s what this strange, shifting passage is really about.
A God who gives freely.
A Savior who steals fear.
A Master who becomes servant.
A Thief who leaves behind grace.
So light your lamp.
Wake your heart.
And live like the kingdom is already yours.
Because it is.
So what about you?
Where’s your treasure?
What fears are holding you back from generosity, from presence, from love?
What would it look like to live this week with your lamp lit and your hands open—not clenched in fear, but extended in grace?
What would it take for you… to be ready?
Amen.
By: Rev. Dave Wasson
Dove Sermons 
Leave a comment