Sermon based on Luke 12:49-56
There’s a moment in some conversations when someone says the thing no one wants to say.
It’s the awkward truth that hangs in the air like smoke after a candle is blown out.
And everyone knows, you can’t unhear it.
That’s what today’s passage feels like.
Jesus says:
“I came to cast fire upon the earth. How I wish that it was already ablaze! … Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, I have come instead to bring division.”
This is not the kind of verse we frame in cursive embroidery or put on a coffee mug.
It’s not the sweet lullaby Jesus we sing about at Christmas.
It’s the Jesus who leans across the table, looks you in the eye, and says something you can’t shake.
And I’ll be honest… part of me wants to flip the page.
I want to find something safer. Gentler. Something about lilies of the field and birds of the air.
But Luke doesn’t give us that option here. And maybe that’s the point.
The first word that hits us is “fire.”
For many of us, fire feels like danger. Destruction. We think of forest fires, of homes lost, of landscapes turned to ash.
And yet in Scripture, fire is never just one thing.
It’s the pillar that leads Israel through the wilderness.
It’s the burning bush that refuses to be consumed.
It’s the flame on the heads of the disciples at Pentecost.
Yes, fire can destroy… but it also refines, purifies, transforms.
John the Baptist had already said this about Jesus in Luke 3:16: “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”
And it’s not a fire of punishment for punishment’s sake, but a fire that burns away what cannot stay. A fire that clears the ground so new life can grow.
We forget that in certain ecosystems, fire is essential.
Some seeds will never open unless heat cracks them first.
The flames prepare the soil for something new.
That’s the kind of fire Jesus longs to kindle.
Not a fire to scorch the earth in rage, but to burn away what keeps God’s kingdom from flourishing.
Oppression. Greed. Idolatry. Exploitation.
The illusions we build for our own comfort that keep others in chains.
When Jesus says, “how I wish it were already ablaze,” it’s the longing of someone who sees the suffering of the world and is desperate for the healing to begin.
That’s why this fire, as fierce as it sounds, is actually good news, at least if you hear it from the underside of history.
Mary’s song in Luke 1 has already told us the shape of God’s reign:
“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.”
That’s not polite poetry. That’s a revolution.
Zechariah’s prophecy in Luke 1:79 promised that God’s salvation would “guide our feet into the way of peace”, but that peace wasn’t the quiet of an unjust status quo.
It was the deep, risky peace that comes when wrongs are set right.
So when Jesus talks about fire, he’s talking about that same kingdom Mary and Zechariah foresaw, a kingdom that can’t coexist with injustice, and therefore, a kingdom that will inevitably be disruptive.
If you’re comfortable in the world as it is, that fire will feel threatening.
If you’re crushed by the way things are, that fire is hope.
And then Jesus talks about his baptism.
This isn’t the baptism in the Jordan with a dove and a voice descending from heaven.
This is the baptism still to come, the cross.
He calls it a baptism because it will immerse him completely.
Not in water, but in rejection, suffering, death.
And Luke lets us hear the strain in his voice:
“How I am distressed until it’s completed!”
The Greek translation of Jesus’ words here paints a picture of being pressed in on from all sides.
Hemmed in. Surrounded.
We don’t often think about Jesus feeling that way, but here he’s showing us the weight of what’s ahead. He knows what it will cost him. And still, he moves toward it.
And in this baptism, he’s not just doing something for us, he’s showing us the shape of the life we’re baptized into.
Our baptism is joy, yes, but not because it promises an easy life. It’s joy because we’ve been claimed by God in a way that even pain and death cannot undo.
Then comes the part that makes us squirm: “I came not to bring peace, but division.”
How do we reconcile this with the angel’s song at Christmas, “Peace on earth, goodwill to all”?
Here’s the thing: The opposite of peace in this passage isn’t war, it’s division.
And that division isn’t about petty arguments or Facebook comment threads.
It’s the division that happens when someone’s allegiance shifts to God’s kingdom, and others around them are still loyal to the kingdoms of this world.
In the first-century world of Luke’s audience, following Jesus could literally divide families.
It could mean rejection from your synagogue. It could mean losing your safety under the Roman peace, the Pax Romana, because you now followed someone Rome had crucified.
That’s not just theoretical. That’s real loss.
Luke’s readers knew this from experience.
Some had been cut off from family. Others from their livelihoods.
And while we may not face that same cost in the modern Western church, many of us know what it feels like to have our faith put us at odds with people we love.
Maybe your convictions about justice, mercy, or truth don’t align with your family’s expectations. Maybe your understanding of the gospel makes you feel like a stranger in your own community.
The division Jesus speaks of isn’t the goal, but it’s often the consequence of living in alignment with God’s kingdom.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
Sometimes what we call “peace” is just avoidance.
It’s the so called “peace” of never bringing up that one subject at the family table.
The “peace” of looking the other way when a coworker is treated unfairly.
The “peace” of churches deciding that unity is more important than confronting abuse or injustice.
Jesus refuses that kind of peace. The peace he offers comes through truth, not the denial of it.
And truth, when it challenges entrenched power or cherished illusions, often divides.
Then Jesus turns to the crowd and says:
“You know how to interpret conditions on earth and in the sky. How is it that you don’t know how to interpret the present time?”
It’s a jab at our selective vision.
We can see clouds and predict rain.
We can feel a warm wind and know the heat is coming.
But when it comes to recognizing the signs of God’s kingdom breaking in, we miss it.
Why?
Because it’s not what we expect.
Because we’ve grown comfortable in the systems that God’s kingdom will upend.
Because we prefer peace-as-complacency to peace-as-transformation.
That’s the uncomfortable part of this text. It forces us to ask: What am I pretending not to see?
What injustices do I look past because they don’t touch me?
Where do I cling to unity when what’s needed is truth-telling?
Or where do I cut people off when what’s needed is the hard work of reconciliation?
Because division, like fire, is not inherently good or bad.
It depends on its source.
Division that comes from pride, ego, or control is toxic.
Division that comes from God’s refining fire, the kind that calls us deeper into justice, mercy, humility, is life-giving, even if it hurts.
I can’t help but notice Jesus’ honesty about his own stress here.
And I wonder if some of us need permission to name our own.
We live in a world that often feels like it’s on fire, politically, socially, environmentally.
And in that kind of heat, stress can make us impatient. Reactive. Even apocalyptic in our own way, wishing destruction on the people we see as the cause of our pain.
But Jesus’ fire is different.
It’s not fueled by resentment.
It’s fueled by love so fierce it refuses to let injustice stand.
And his baptism, the suffering he will endure, is not to protect his own comfort, but to stand in solidarity with a hurting world.
Luke shaped his telling of Jesus’ story with the needs of his community in mind.
We, too, have to take this passage and ask: What does it mean for us, here, now?
What signs in our “present time” reveal the need for God’s refining fire?
- The way wealth shields some from consequences while others pay the full cost.
- The fear that keeps us from acting on behalf of the vulnerable.
- The subtle and not-so-subtle hierarchies we cling to in our communities and churches.
If those are the clouds on the horizon, we know what kind of storm is coming.
Maybe that’s why Jesus’ words are so urgent.
Because we don’t have forever to get ready.
The time to turn toward God’s kingdom is now.
The poet Mary Oliver wrote, “Be ignited, or be gone.”
It’s blunt, and it could have been a line in today’s gospel.
Jesus is not offering us a cozy hearth fire to keep our personal lives warm.
He’s offering us a wildfire that will burn away what doesn’t belong in God’s kingdom.
And here’s the risk:
We can resist that fire.
We can try to control it, contain it, keep it safe.
But when we do, we lose the very life it’s meant to bring.
The good news is that Jesus has already walked this road.
He’s already undergone his baptism.
He’s already faced the fire.
And he leads us not with a sword in hand, but with scars on his body.
Not by avoiding division at all costs, but by loving people enough to tell the truth.
So we follow him, not because it’s easy, not because it will keep everyone happy, but because his way leads to life.
So here’s where we end this reflection, with the question Jesus might ask if he were standing here:
You know how to interpret the weather.
But do you know how to interpret your life right now?
What is God trying to burn away?
What is God trying to make new?
And will you let the match be struck?
Amen.
By: Rev. Dave Wasson
Dove Sermons 
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