Joshua 24:1–3a, 14–25 Psalm 78:1–7 1 Thess 4:9–18 Matthew 25:1–13
From time to time you will hear me mention that I was brought up in a very conservative Baptist church. It was where I came to faith and went through the waters of baptism, AND, there were many sermons about avoiding the fiery furnaces of hell, making sure we had our ticket to heaven, and making sure we wouldn’t be left behind when the rapture came. Faith carried a great deal of fear. Had I believed properly? Was I sufficiently sorry? Would I be ready? Was my name written in the book? It took decades of exploring, learning and relearning—and encountering Jesus—to consider that there might be more than I understood as a child.
At theological college, I regularly had those “aha” moments. One came when I discovered how recently the teaching about the rapture I had grown up with had developed, in the grand scheme of Christian history. That sent me back to the Bible. Back to verses that had reinforced that teaching. What might I have missed while I was so busy being frightened? And this story of ten tired bridesmaids, waiting all night for an incredibly tardy groom, was one I needed to revisit. I had spent so long counting oil flasks and worrying about whether I had enough, and somewhere in that anxiety, I lost sight of the bridegroom.
Jesus begins, “The kingdom of heaven will be like this.” There is certainly a warning here. Jesus calls us to readiness, and the closed door is uncomfortable. I don’t want to pretend it isn’t there. But I also want to notice where my attention goes—and what my fear prevents me from seeing.
At midnight, a cry goes up: “Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.” And five of the ten women leap to their feet and head off in the opposite direction, towards the all-night oil shop. They need oil. The others have told them to buy some. But I want to call after them: “Wait! He’s here. The person you’ve been waiting for is here.”
And I have a question that opens another possibility: What would have happened if they had stayed? What if they had gone directly to the groom and said, “Our lamps are going out. We have nothing left”? What if they didn’t allow their lack to prevent them from going?
The parable tells us what happened when they arrived late. It doesn’t tell us what would have happened if they had arrived empty-handed, honest, aware of what they had and didn’t have, but there anyway. And that asks something of us.
We can find it desperately hard to let people see what we lack. We keep trying to look as though we have enough. And perhaps we bring that instinct into our faith.
We will come when we are stronger. When we have sorted ourselves out. When we have something worth offering. Yet Christ always invites us to come now. Come together.
And Joshua gives us a picture of answering God together: “As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord,” he says. And here, we belong to a household of faith. And as for me and this household, we too will serve the lord, and we do that together. When your prayer falters, others pray beside you. When you struggle to believe the words of the liturgy or sing the words of a hymn, the congregation, your brothers and sisters around you, carry you. I will believe for you until you can believe for yourself. And when my faith falters, will you do the same for me.
Each time we gather, we come to this table with open hands, ready to receive. We bring our lives as they are, including everything unfinished and uncertain, and receive the gift of Christ. There is nothing we need to bring, but God will also receive everything we do bring. There is room for it all.
I know how easily I hear this parable as another warning that I am not enough. But reading it alongside the life of Jesus, I find myself asking whether my fear is sending me in the wrong direction. Away from the one I have been waiting to meet. What if I stay? What if I let him see what I lack?
And that is the invitation for you this morning: Come to the bridegroom with empty hands, or with full hands; with all you have and with all you lack.
After communion, there will be an opportunity to return to the rail for anointing with oil – a refuelling of your own oil supplies – and prayer. If you are weary, burdened, or feel your own light growing faint, please come. You need explain nothing. come to the source of light and the wellspring of oil. Come and be refilled, and let Revd Gill and me, and this whole household of faith, hold you in prayer. Amen.
