A Year Held in His Hands| A New Year Sermon
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Sometimes when you read Luke 12, it feels like sitting at the edge of your seat. Jesus is teaching, but it’s not a soft bedtime story type. It’s urgent, sharp, almost pressing like He’s warning us about things we don’t want to miss. He speaks about hypocrisy, about fear, about greed, about watchfulness. It’s like He’s pulling back the curtain on life—“don’t get distracted,” He seems to say, “don’t miss what matters most.”
When I first sat down with Luke 12, I thought oh boy, this is going to be heavy. But the more I read, the more it felt like a father’s loving warnings. Yes, strong words. But words that protect. Like when your mom tells you not to run into the road—not because she’s trying to spoil your fun, but because she loves you enough to warn you of danger.
Let’s walk through this chapter slowly, story by story, with a little coffee in hand, and maybe a notebook nearby. There’s a lot here.
The scene opens with crowds pressing around Jesus. Thousands, it says, so many that they’re trampling one another. I imagine the sound of sandals scraping, voices buzzing, children crying. And in the middle of that chaos, Jesus leans to His disciples and says: “Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees, which is hypocrisy.”
Leaven, like yeast, spreads. You can’t keep it contained. Hypocrisy works like that. One person fakes righteousness, another copies, and soon the whole thing looks religious but hollow.
Jesus says, don’t live like that. Because secrets don’t stay hidden. “Nothing is covered up that will not be revealed.” This feels both comforting and terrifying. Comforting, because God sees the truth when people misunderstand us. Terrifying, because He also sees when we pretend.
I remember once, when I was a teenager, trying to look spiritual in a youth group prayer circle. I spoke extra long, using “holy” words I didn’t even use in real life. Afterward, somebody complimented me. And instead of feeling good, I felt this heavy shame, because I knew it wasn’t real. That’s what Jesus is warning about. Hypocrisy is like rot—it eats you from the inside.
Then Jesus shifts: “Don’t fear those who kill the body, and after that have nothing more they can do.” That’s blunt, isn’t it? He’s saying: don’t let fear of people run your life. Instead, fear the One who has eternal authority.
But then comes tenderness. He says, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one is forgotten by God. Even the hairs of your head are numbered.”
What a strange combination—fear and love. Respect God’s power, yes, but also trust His care. He knows every sparrow, every strand of your hair. I remember sweeping hair off the barber shop floor once, strands everywhere, and thinking: God knows the count of every single one of these. That’s wild.
And then there’s this part about confessing Jesus before men. He says, if you acknowledge Me before others, I’ll acknowledge you before the angels of God. But if you deny Me—well, He warns that too. That’s not small talk, that’s eternal talk.
When I read this, I think about those moments when I shrink back. When coworkers gossip and I laugh along. Or when I could mention my faith, but I don’t want to be awkward. Jesus is telling me gently but firmly: don’t be ashamed. Stand with Me.
And then He reassures them: when you’re dragged before authorities, don’t panic about what to say. The Holy Spirit will teach you. That’s beautiful, because many of us worry about words. But God says, trust Me, I’ll fill your mouth.
Ah, one of the most famous stories. Someone in the crowd interrupts: “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.” Isn’t that just so human? Jesus is speaking about eternity, and this guy wants legal help about family property.
Jesus refuses to be the mediator there. Instead, He warns: “Beware of covetousness, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”
Then He tells the parable. A rich man has land that produces so much crop, he doesn’t know where to store it. He decides, “I’ll tear down my barns, build bigger ones, store all my grain, and then I’ll relax—eat, drink, be merry.” But that night God says, “Fool! This night your soul is required of you.”
It’s a chilling story. Not because wealth is evil, but because false security is deadly. The man thought barns could guarantee his future. But barns don’t protect your soul.
I think of my grandmother’s kitchen cupboard. She saved everything—plastic bags, rubber bands, old jars. She grew up during hard times, so saving made sense. But she also always reminded me: “You can’t take it with you when you go.” And she was right.
Jesus sums it up: the one who lays up treasure for himself but is not rich toward God—that’s the real poverty.
After that heavy parable, Jesus turns to His disciples and says: don’t worry. About food. About clothes. Life is more than that.
He points to the ravens—they don’t sow or reap, yet God feeds them. He points to lilies—they don’t toil or spin, yet they’re dressed more beautifully than Solomon.
I love that Jesus used everyday visuals. Imagine Him pointing to birds flying overhead, flowers blooming nearby. That’s teaching with pictures.
But the heart of it: worry can’t add a single hour to your life. We know this, yet how much time do we waste on anxious spirals? I do. Thinking about bills, deadlines, health scares. Jesus says: your Father knows what you need. Seek His kingdom first, and these things will be added.
And then this gentle line: “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Isn’t that stunning? God isn’t reluctant. He’s not stingy. He delights to give.
And then comes the radical call: sell your possessions, give to the needy, make purses that don’t wear out. Because where your treasure is, your heart will be. That’s convicting.
When I cleaned out my closet last year, I realized how much I cling to “stuff.” Shirts I never wear. Gadgets gathering dust. Jesus is asking: do you trust treasure here, or treasure with Me?
Now comes the watchfulness theme. Jesus tells them to stay dressed for action, lamps burning, waiting for the master to return from a wedding. Blessed are those servants who are awake, ready, when He comes.
He flips the picture—says the master will actually dress Himself to serve them. That’s so upside down. God Himself serving His people.
But He also warns: if the servant gets lazy, thinking “the master is delayed,” and begins beating others, eating, drinking, getting drunk, the master will come unexpectedly, and judgment will fall.
Then Peter asks, is this for us or for everyone? Jesus replies with another parable about faithful and unfaithful stewards. The principle: to whom much is given, much will be required.
That hits home. Because many of us have access to Bibles, teaching, resources. That’s a gift, but also responsibility. What will we do with what we know?
This section surprises people. Jesus says: “I came to cast fire on the earth.” And: “Do you think I came to give peace? No, but division.” Families divided—father against son, mother against daughter.
Wait, isn’t Jesus the Prince of Peace? Yes. But His peace is not cheap compromise. Following Him cuts deep. Some will receive, some reject. And often, division happens even in households.
Maybe you’ve felt that—family tension because of faith. I remember a friend whose parents thought she joined a cult because she started following Jesus. It was painful. But she clung to Christ.
Jesus isn’t saying He loves division. He’s just warning—it will happen. Truth has a cost.
Finally, Jesus points to the crowds: you know how to read the sky—red in the evening, storm coming, etc. But why can’t you read the times?
He’s basically saying: you’re good at weather forecasts but blind to spiritual reality. And He urges reconciliation quickly—settle with your accuser before judgment. Don’t delay.
It’s a final nudge: don’t procrastinate spiritual matters. Don’t say, “I’ll repent later, I’ll get serious tomorrow.” Now is the time.
Luke 12 feels like a heart check. Jesus asks:
Are you living honestly, not in hypocrisy?
Are you fearing God more than people?
Are you treasuring eternal riches, not barns?
Are you worrying, or trusting God’s care?
Are you watchful, ready for His return?
Are you willing to face division for His name?
Are you discerning the times, settling things with God now?
I can’t read this chapter without squirming a little. It pokes at my comfort zones. But maybe that’s good. Maybe Jesus wants to unsettle me so I don’t drift into spiritual sleep.
And yet, woven through it all is grace. Sparrows loved. Lilies clothed. A Father delighted to give His kingdom. That’s the hope that steadies me.
Luke 12 isn’t just ancient warnings—it’s a mirror. It makes me ask: where’s my treasure, who do I fear, am I ready? But it also whispers reassurance: God knows, God cares, God gives.
So maybe the takeaway is simple: live honest, live free from fear, live generous, live ready. And above all—live close to the Father who delights to give us the kingdom.
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