Advent Lists - Matthew 24:36-44

It’s a tradition in our house that when the Christmas tree goes up, the kids have to get their Christmas lists ready for Santa the next day. This is because our elf on the shelf shows up the following morning, reportedly to whisk those lists off to the North Pole. As we were putting the tree up this weekend, we fondly remembered the year when that tradition got way out of hand. Our youngest was about eight, and she invited a friend over so they could work on their lists together. Their only instructions were these: “By the end of the playdate, please have one piece of paper ready for the elf.”

They went upstairs and were quiet for hours—always a suspicious sign. I assumed they were carefully writing and rewriting, trying to narrow down the perfect handful of items to ask for. When I finally went to check on them, they looked absolutely delighted with themselves.

“We each have one piece of paper,” they said. And they did. It’s just that each piece consisted of about nine sheets taped together end-to-end. They had to stand on the bed to show me the full length of their handiwork. Santa, we realized, might need a legal team more than elves that year.

That memory shows at least two things that are ramping up into full gear all around us—nostalgia and consumerism. Black Friday sales and holiday décor are everywhere, beckoning us to run full speed to Christmas. This is the weekend for working through the leftovers from Thursday while asking Alexa to play holiday classics. Our calendars start filling up with concerts, office parties, cookie exchanges, and Amazon reminders about “one-day-only” deals. All of it conspires to sweep us along in a cheery frenzy. But then, when we come to church today, we hear a very different tune. As if the holiday soundtrack has come to a screeching halt, we find Jesus in an apocalyptic mood (Will Willimon, A Sermon for Every Sunday, 2018).

I admit that I went down some interesting rabbit holes researching Matthew 24 while eating leftover mashed potatoes. Those looking for signs of the rapture often point to today’s Gospel: “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.” This is the stuff that launched the Left Behind franchise—but it’s a misreading of apocalyptic texts.

If you want to get technical, the Greek here suggests that the ones “taken” are taken away—removed as in shackles—while the ones “left” are left in place, forgiven. In other words, you actually want to be left behind. And besides that, this is likely an obscure reference to the book of Enoch, which tells of Noah’s family as the righteous remnant in Genesis while everyone else got carried away in the flood. One could do a deeper dive into Matthew addressing Enochian Judaism here, but we’ll save that for another day and simply note that Jesus is very clear on at least one thing: whatever judgements we want to wield about who is righteous, and who is not, those are best left to God to make.

All of which leaves us with the provocative image of the thief in the night. “Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” For all our careful dismantling of bad rapture theology, it’s still hard to shake the unsettling picture of someone breaking into our home in the middle of the night. Jesus is talking about his second coming here—though, according to the text, even he doesn’t know when that will be. What he emphasizes is not the timing but the nature of his arrival: surprising, unexpected, profoundly disruptive.

An intruder in the middle of the night? No thank you, we think—there’s nothing comforting about that. And yet, if we sit with the image a little longer than is comfortable, something new starts to take shape. This is not just an intruder. This is not just a thief. This is a holy thief. And holy thieves are not after the material possessions we have lying around the house. Holy thieves come to steal things that are far more important.

In all honesty, many of us could use a holy thief this time of year. Advent begins not when our schedules are empty and serene, but when our souls are cluttered with anxiety, obligations, overwhelm, and the wrong-headed notion that we can hold everything together on our own. A holy thief slips through the smallest crack in the door, and removes what we don’t have the strength to let go of ourselves.

Jesus as a holy thief comes for whatever we’ve placed between ourselves and God: the burdens we carry, the false idols we prop up, the stress and hypocrisies of our daily life, our addictions, our sense of unworthiness, our fears, even our despair. In the words of Nadia Bolz-Weber, “Maybe it’s good news that Jesus plans to break in and jack with our stuff” (Holy Thief, 2019).

What if we were handed a sheet of paper—not for a Christmas list, but for an Advent list of things we want Jesus to take away? Whether one sheet would suffice, or whether you’d need nine taped together end-to-end, naming what we’re ready for a holy thief to abscond with is powerful. Instead of lists of what we hope to get, Advent invites us to make lists of what we want Christ to take. What needs to be stolen from your life so you can live more awake? What needs to be cleared away so that you have more room for what matters most—hope, joy, simplicity, love, courage, whatever belongs on your “left behind” list?

This Advent, may Jesus break into your life like a holy thief. May his holy thievery wake you from sleep, clear your clutter, and ready your heart, so that when Christ comes again, he will find you watching, waiting, and wide awake with hope.