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The Rev. Richard Floyd Ridgefield-Crystal Lake Presbyterian Church November 6, 2005 Ordinary 32 (A) Matthew 25:1-13 There’s no disaster quite like a wedding disaster. People bring such ridiculously high expectations to their weddings that if anything goes wrong—and it will— it becomes a world-class catastrophe. When I’m talking with people about their weddings I always tell them: only three things have to happen. You say I do, you say I do, I say they did, and it’s done. Everything else is wonderful but irrelevant. It doesn’t really matter, so relax and enjoy it. Of course nobody ever listens to me when I say that. And when the inevitable snags and snafus threaten to derail the wedding and derange the bride and groom, I get a front row seat. I’ve seen groomsmen pass out from locking their knees for too long. The best man has forgotten the rings. The groom has nearly drawn blood trying to force the ring on the bride’s finger. During the vows people say the wrong words— though thankfully never the wrong names— or they say the vows to me rather than to each other. People are nervous and sweating and crying or hung-over from the party the night before. I’ve had weddings in the scorching heat, in a drizzling rain, blown around by wind, harassed by mosquitoes, and I’ve even sunk in the mud while giving the blessing. I guess the worst disaster that can happen is when either the bride or the groom— and it’s usually the groom—is late. And not just a little late, but a lot late. Nothing throws a wedding into chaos quite like that. That’s what happens in this story from Matthew. The groom is late and it messes everything up. I think Jesus must not have been a big fan of weddings, because he tells lots of stories about weddings, and something’s always going terribly wrong. In this story, half of the bridesmaids mess up. They’re waiting for the groom, and it’s their job to light the way. But they forget to bring extra oil for their lamps. So when the groom is late, they start running out of oil, and they run off to the local 24-hour oil store to buy more. And when they come back, the party’s in full swing and the doors are locked and the groom says he doesn’t know who they are and won’t let them in. Of course this isn’t just a story about a wedding disaster. It has a point, but the point’s not quite as clear as it first seems. Even Matthew seems to mess it up. In verse 13 Matthew says the moral of the story is: keep awake. But that’s not really it. All ten of the bridesmaids fell asleep, the foolish and the wise. No one stayed awake. No, the moral of the story is more like: be prepared. Make sure you have extra oil so you can keep your lamp burning. I guess anyone can make their lamp burn for a little while. But when the going gets tough, who can keep the light on for the long haul? The five “wise” bridesmaids had enough oil to make it through the night. It’s worth wondering about that oil. What is it? What’s the fuel that keeps our lamps burning through the night? It seems pretty clear what Matthew thought the oil was. For Matthew, it’s living the life of the kingdom, living the life you find in the Sermon on the Mount: loving our neighbors, even our enemies; being peacemakers, and merciful, and pure in heart; forgiving seventy times seven times; storing up treasures in heaven; doing to others as we would have them do to us. For Matthew, we keep our lamps burning by filling them with deeds of compassion and mercy. Of course we all know that. We may not do it, not all the time, but we know it. We know our faith shows itself in how we treat other people. We know we’re supposed to reach out to the lost and the lonely, the broken and the breaking, the tired and the aching. We know that. And without denying any of that, I think the oil may also stand for something else. This parable can seem harsh, stark, and joyless, full of judgment. That’s what the life of faith looks like for some people: a hard slog through a swamp or a dull march through a dreary desert. But remember: this parable’s about a wedding. I’ve been to one or two stark and joyless weddings, but usually, weddings are happier affairs. The life of faith here is not imagined as drudgery, but as celebration, as a wedding feast. The ten bridesmaids, all ten of them, wise and foolish, it’s there job to bring joy to the celebration. That’s all the bridesmaids do. They don’t really have any other super-essential tasks. Even if they all fall down or fail to show up the wedding can go on. But it won’t be as beautiful. It won’t be as joyful. That’s there job, to help the whole wedding be more joyful. So what if that’s the oil? Joy. And what if that’s what those five bridesmaids ran out of? Maybe they didn’t have enough joy to keep celebrating through the night. This gives us a different spin on the parable. Presbyterians are usually pretty good about good deeds. We usually take living out our faith in the world pretty seriously. And we know that means showing compassion for people in need. We’re pretty good about that. What maybe we’re not so good at is living our faith with joy. They don’t call Presbyterians the “frozen chosen” for nothing. We tend to take our faith very seriously, which is good, but sometimes it seems like a kind of duty or drudgery. And there’s this whole party going on all around is, and we’re sitting with our arms folded and our brows furrowed, being seriously faithful, no doubt, but not especially joyful. My wife Emily grew up in Methodist churches in the South. At one of those churches the music director would lead the hymns from the front of the church. He would wave his arms around frantically and jump up and down and sweat and between just about every verse he’d shout out, “Where’s our joy?” [thick southern accent]. Maybe that’s the question this parable asks us. Where’s our joy? We know we’re supposed to work hard at our faith. We know we mess it up, too. We’re broken and other people are broken and our world’s broken and desperately in need of healing. But it’s desperately in need of joy, too. As best as I can figure, the way to joy is gratitude. You slow down, you stop and look and listen and breathe. And you start giving thanks, for every breath you take. You give thanks for the earth beneath your feet and the sun above your head. You give thanks for the rain and the snow and the grass and the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees and the moon up above and a thing called love. You give thanks for the people in your life. You give thanks for their smile, their laugh, their touch, their tears. And even when they’re gone, you give thanks for everything they were to you and for all the memories you hold on to. You just give thanks, over and over again, every day in every way, and soon you find your heart is filled with joy, a deep joy that nothing can take away from you, a deep joy that keeps your lamp burning brightly. Like the wedding feast in the parable, here’s another joyful feast. Only everyone is invited and the groom’s always here and the door’s never locked. Come to this table with gratitude. Come, forgiven, loved, and freed. Come, and you will find here more than enough joy to keep your lamp burning all through the night. |