The Rev. Allan Sandlin, associate rectorI have to tell you, this morning’s gospel lesson (Matthew 25: 1-13) is not my favorite parable. Not by a long shot.
On Monday morning, when it occurred to me that I might be preaching this week, I went on-line to see what the gospel lesson would be for today.
I moaned to myself…
Oh, no. Not THAT one.
I called the rector.
Bill, can’t one of the seminarians preach this week?
You see the problem, don’t you? First of all, there are these 5 bridesmaids
who are unwilling to share their oil with their friends who are running low. Didn’t their parents teach them anything about sharing with others?
They have extra jugs of oil. You’d think they could’ve each spared just a little?
But that’s not the worst of it.
The groom comes late to the party— which is interesting because in my experience if someone’s late to the wedding, it’s usually the bride— anyway, the groom arrives late and then waltzes into the feast with the 5 oil-rich friends of the bride and shuts the door.
When the other 5 arrive, now late themselves because they had to try to find a 7-11 that was still open so they could buy some more oil…when they arrive and plead with him to open that door…what does he say?
"Truly I tell you, I do not know you."
I hate that he said that.
The groom sounds like very disagreeable person, and this parable does not fit my concept of the Kingdom of Heaven at all.
So is it any wonder I just couldn’t get terribly excited about this text?
Especially not this week.
You see, by Wednesday, I was completely exhausted from watching election returns and I was just beginning to focus on the long to-do list for diocesan council next week.
In a pinch, on almost any other parable, I could have resurrected an old sermon. But I’ve managed to avoid preaching on this text for the past few years
and was not eager to wrestle with this challenging parable.
That’s what happens when you belong to a church that uses the lectionary—it’s the luck of the draw. So, changing to a more palatable gospel was not an option.
Let’s see what we’ve got.
It’s clear that this parable is an allegory— that is, the characters and events are symbols for something else.
When Matthew wrote this parable down, he expected that his congregation would be able to unlock the code on the spot.
They would recognize that the bridesmaids represented the church and the bridegroom was, of course, Jesus.
All the bridesmaids have lamps and oil but only the wise ones are prepared for the delayed arrival of the bridegroom.
The folks in Matthew’s church would have immediately said aha when they heard that the bridegroom was coming late—that signified to them that the return of Christ had been delayed, longer than they expected.
That much is relatively plain and easy to decipher. Here’s the thing. I don’t believe Jesus told this Kingdom of Heaven parable to frighten us into acting right or compel us to do more and work harder.
I don’t believe that Jesus is hanging back, delaying his arrival, waiting to see who has stayed up all night, watching for his return, eager to slam the door to the Kingdom in their faces.
And Jesus most certainly didn’t intend for us to be fretting over who’s going to get admitted into heaven and who will find themselves pounding on the gates, begging to be let in.
No. I have a hunch it has something to do with that oil. And it’s not about who has oil and who doesn’t. You might have a cupboard full of oil in your kitchen at home, but did you remember to bring some of it with you to get you through the night?
When you left the house, headed for the election-night party, did you remember to bring along enough oil to keep your lamp lit in case a snowstorm came up and delayed your return home?
It’s not about who possesses the resources and who doesn’t.
So why is this oil important?
What is Jesus trying to tell us?
Anna Florence Carter tells the story of a seminary professor who gave a lecture to her students entitled “the spiritual life of the preacher.”Before she began her lecture,She set an old-fashioned oil-lampon the table in front of her.The kind with real oil and a wick.
She talked about how the job of the pastor is to be a light for others—echoing what Jesus talks about in the Sermon on the Mount.
In the 5th chapter of Matthew’s gospel, Jesus said:
"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lamp stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, left your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven." (Matthew 5.14-16)
Then the teacher lit the wick and the class watched the lamp burn as she talked. It gave off a beautiful glow.
But the lamp only had a small amount of oil in it and so very quickly the oil disappeared and the flame went out.
What happens when the oil runs out? she asked her students. “Well then your light goes out and you have nothing to give. A pastor with no oil, a Christian with no oil, can’t be the light of the world for anybody, no matter how much they want to be.” (Anne Florence Carter, Lectionary Homiletics, Proper 27, Year A)
I think this is one of the greatest spiritual dangers that clergy face. We work hard (for all kinds of reasons including some that are not so good—
like wanting to keep the congregation happy, wanting to be liked, wanting to make sure we keep our jobs…) but we also work hard because we hope we are doing God’s will, we hope that a flicker of Christ’s light shines through us, visible enough for you to see.
But we don’t always keep our oil lamps filled.
Sometimes we run dangerously low on fuel and if we seem distracted or unfocussed or just plain tuckered out, you could probably take a look at the gas gauge and see that we’re running low.
All of us—you, me, Deborah and Bill—would do well to remember the announcement we hear every time the airplane is taxiing down the runway.
You know, the one where the voice reminds you that in case of an emergency
you should put the oxygen mask on yourself first before helping someone else with theirs?
It’s easy to forget that rule. Maybe you forget it, too, from time to time.
It won’t happen as often if you’ll figure out what it is that fills your lamp
and restores your soul.
I don’t know where you go to fill your lamp.I hope you know where that place is
and that you visit that place regularly.
The church can certainly be one place.
The Eucharist, the prayers, the hymns, the silence and the mystery,
the community…I hope you are fed and fuelled by some of these.
For some of you, I suspect that reaching out to others, taking communion to our homebound members, making sandwiches to feed the hungry, visiting the sick, praying for those who are suffering… these things in themselves can help fill your lamp.
Sometimes I wonder if we don’t need to say no from time to time in order to keep our lamps in good working order.
If you find yourself serving on too many committees, with too much on your plate, and the associate rector calls and asks you to do one more thing,
even if it’s something you love doing, something you’re really good at, something that’s really important…sometimes you might need to say no.
(But not this week, please, and definitely not when a member of the vestry calls you and invites you to make a financial pledge to the church…)
But seriously, if you don’t learn where your boundaries are, your oil just might run out before you even know that you’re running low…You know, I think this is one of those stories Jesus tells us when he needs to get our attention. Sometimes he has to speak quite forcefully or tell us stories that make us snap to attention in order to make sure we are listening.
As challenging as this story is to our ears,he’s not trying to scare us into cleaning up our acts.
He’s encouraging us to fill our lamps in order to be ready when the bridegroom comes and the feast begins.
Fill your lamp so that you can be part of the procession that lights the way in the darkness and prepares the way for the coming of Christ.
Amen.
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