Three images tumble across this passage like waves—master, servant, thief. They do not line up neatly, and that is the point. Jesus is pressing on our imaginations until we feel the jolt of a world where he returns unexpectedly, overturns the order of things, and sets a table for the weary. Into that swirl of pictures he speaks one anchoring word: “Do not be afraid any longer, little flock, for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.”
If fear were our guide, we would shut the doors, draw the blinds, and hope the night passes quietly. But fear has been discipling our culture long enough. Violence on our screens before breakfast. Scams, grudges, and the slow corrosion of trust. When the headlines numb us, resignation starts to look reasonable. Why keep the lamps burning when the dark keeps creeping back?
Because the Lord describes himself—shockingly—as the one who comes like a thief. Not to steal what is good, but to break in and take back what never belonged in his house: cruelty, despair, the habits that bruise others and harden our hearts. He means to rob us of our hopelessness. And that, brothers and sisters, is hope with an edge. Hope that does not float above the world, but slips under the door, picks the locks of our cynicism, and frees us to love again.
So he tells of servants who stay awake, belts tightened, lamps trimmed. He tells of a steward who keeps feeding the household at the right time. This is not anxiety; it is readiness shaped by mercy. Readiness looks like prayer that refuses to quit. It looks like almsgiving that loosens our grip on possessions so our hands are free for people. It looks like stewards—moms and mechanics, caregivers and cashiers—giving the “food allowance” right on time: attention for a lonely neighbor, advocacy for the overlooked, a meal shared without keeping score. In a world stocked with reasons to check out, these are acts of watchfulness.
And then comes the turn: the master who returns does the unthinkable. He ties on an apron and serves. The highest becomes the lowest for the joy of his friends. Judgment is real—our choices matter, and neglect carries consequences—but the horizon is set by a feast, not a firing squad. He comes to set things in order, and that order looks like a table where the hungry are filled and the exhausted are finally at rest.
Where is your treasure? Not the numbers in an account, but the quiet directions of your heart. If treasure is lodged in comfort, we will sleep through his knock. If treasure is hidden in the kingdom—justice, mercy, and steadfast love—our hearts will stay close to the door, listening.
This week, practice a thief-resistant hope. Choose one daily prayer after sunset—just five minutes of lamp-light with the Lord. Choose one concrete mercy before noon—one person to “feed” with time, help, or generosity. Small? Yes. But small is how lamps burn through long nights.
He is coming—quiet as a footfall, sure as dawn. Not to frighten his friends, but to serve them. Stay awake with hope, and let him steal from you everything that keeps you from his table.