Trimmed and Burning

Shannon J. Kershner
Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 78:1–7
Matthew 25:1–13

“Watch therefore,” Jesus says at the end of the parable, “for you know neither the day nor the hour.” When all is said and done—when we have scared ourselves silly with the now-or-never urgency of faith and the once-and-always finality of judgment—we need to take a deep breath and let it out with a laugh. Because what we are watching for is a party.

Robert Farrar Capon

I want to let you know up front that I wrestled with making the stewardship update right before we read this Matthew text. Now, my hesitancy had nothing to do with the update. Rather, it had everything to do with this parable from Matthew. No one shares, and the fact that no one shares makes it a rather awkward follow up to my encouragement for all of us to share our resources for the work of this church.

Nevertheless, we have this story. A story about ten bridesmaids called together to light the way for the wedding feast. But even though all ten were summoned, they were not all alike. We learn that five of them were considered foolish and five were considered wise. What made the difference? Those called foolish chose to leave any extra oil at home, assuming what they already had in their lamps was enough. And those who were called wise seemed to have planned ahead by bringing extra oil with them, just in case there was a delay, which was, of course, exactly what happened. The bridegroom took a whole lot longer to arrive than any of the ten bridesmaids had anticipated. So everyone fell asleep until his presence was finally announced.

At that point, all ten bridesmaids trimmed their lamps and burned them at full force in order to light his way. But tragically the lamps of the five foolish ones immediately ran out of oil. So they turned to their wise sisters and told them to share with them. And how did the five wise ones respond? Did they say “Why, of course. All that we have is a gift from God. We will return to God a portion of our blessings by sharing our oil with you.” I wish! That would have made an excellent follow-up for our annual appeal update.

But that was not how the wise bridesmaids replied. Rather, they told their foolish sisters that they could not share with them. The five who ran out needed to go to the dealers to acquire their own extra oil. The foolish ones took that advice and went to run their errand; the bridegroom arrived; the wise ones and the bridegroom entered the party; the foolish ones returned to find the door shut in their face; and the bridegroom refused to open it again, because he claimed he did not know them after all.

Like I said earlier, I am disturbed by this parable, because no one shares, and that is bizarre for a Jesus story. People always share in a Jesus story. Sharing is what we are called to do, except, it seems, in this particular case. But surely Jesus is not telling a parable that subscribes to the myth of scarcity. Surely Jesus is not telling us to hoard as much as we can get and pretend that no one else in the world might need it too. Because if that is what Jesus is saying, then the kingdom of heaven is really no different than the empires of earth, where we store up whatever we can, as much as we can, all for our own survival (Anna Carter Florence, a sermon preached at Village Presbyterian Church, Prairie Village, Kansas). But that particular proclamation of scarcity and hoarding simply does not fit with any of the other pictures of God’s reign in scripture. It does not fit with Jesus’ other parables. So perhaps the parable is not primarily about sharing. Something else must be going on.

Now, we might notice the parable says nothing about what the bridesmaids could have left at home. As far as we know, the foolish bridesmaids had gallons of oil sitting at home while the wise ones were down to their very last flask as backup. It is a detail Jesus leaves to our imagination. That lack of clarity hints that this parable is solely focused on what the bridesmaids brought with them in anticipation of the wedding party, and, as it turns out, what they did or did not bring with them in anticipation of a possible delay.

So what if this parable is not about hoarding or stockpiling; what if it’s not even about sharing or not sharing? Rather, what if it is about what we bring with us to use? Might it be that this parable has something to do with the oil we carry? The oil we take with us as we go out into the world, waiting for the wedding party to begin, knowing there might be a long delay ahead? If that is the case, then we are talking about a very different kind of oil than the commodity we buy or sell. What does this oil, the oil that the wise bridesmaids seem to be unable to give away or share, represent?

Here’s an illustration that might help us explore that question: Apparently these days at Columbia Seminary, an oil lamp is brought into the introductory preaching and worship class. It is used during the “spiritual life of a preacher” lecture. The lamp is put near the podium and lit. As the teacher and students watch the light burn, the teacher speaks of how part of one’s call as both Christian and pastor is to be the light of the world. Everyone nods. That is not a big surprise. But just as she makes that statement, the lamp goes out. The professor, of course, rigged it before the class began by putting just a little bit of oil in the base.

When the students notice the light is out and call it to her attention, the teacher stops her lecture and asks this question: “What happens when the oil runs out?” Someone inevitably answers that the light goes out. “Exactly,” the teacher responds. “Your light goes out and you have nothing left to give. The truth is that a pastor with no oil, a Christian with no oil, cannot be the light of the world for anybody, no matter how much they want to be.” Then they all have a discussion about how daily prayer, Bible study, and communal worship are crucial for a Christian’s oil supply (Anna Carter Florence sermon at Village Presbyterian Church). It’s a simple illustration, but it always makes an impact.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about that simple illustration, because I believe many of us, myself included, feel low on oil these days. Some of us, myself included, might feel a little like a foolish bridesmaid, running around with barely any oil to sustain us for the long haul, hoping we have enough to last, but discovering too late we don’t. It doesn’t matter how many times we ask someone to share their oil with us, it won’t work. Our lights stay dim, if they stay lit at all, for the kind of oil Jesus was talking about, the kind of oil we need to keep God’s light shining in and through us, is a kind of oil that cannot be given to us by anyone else. It cannot be borrowed or taken.

Like the seminary students talk about in that preaching class, that oil comes only with the regular, ongoing, disciplined work of spiritual preparation—the work of prayer, of study, of song, of giving, of offering hospitality, of worship; the work of daily tending to our awareness of God’s presence in our lives; the work of daily strengthening our baptismal vision—the work we can be tempted to let slip away in the face of the constant tyranny of the now. There is always something else, someone else, demanding our attention. And then, once that supply dwindles from our inattention, our lamps end up empty, and our own light flickers out, unable to light the way for us or anyone else.

I don’t think we are in this low-oil condition simply because we stay way too busy to pay adequate attention to our spiritual lives. Undoubtedly that is a big part of the story for some of us, particularly those in the sandwich generation, whose kids and parents need attention and care. And it is true that overworking and being overscheduled can definitely lead to low oil reserves. I know that for a fact. But I also believe other external factors are draining our oil supply.

Let’s be honest: regardless of whom you voted for in the last election, it has been a crazy year, hasn’t it? We cannot underestimate the effect that our current cultural climate has on us, a climate that is absolutely full of pain and violence. (Now note, I am going to purposefully use kid-friendly language due to any little ears present, so adults, fill in the blanks for yourselves.) It has only been one week since the horrible event in that Texas Baptist church. And it’s been just six weeks since Las Vegas, and thus far I have not seen any substantial movement beyond thoughts and prayers.

But the fear and anxiety created by such horror are not the only emotional forces draining us dry. We are also surrounded by all the stories that have surfaced with #metoo, as well as all the stories told by the very brave people finally able to give voice to their trauma from experiencing sexual assault, misconduct, and harassment. These stories are everywhere right now—headlines, Facebook posts, Twitter updates, Instagram. Wherever we look, we are reminded that many people have been deeply wounded by that kind of trauma, undoubtedly some of you here today. And just as the parents of Newtown weep every time another mass event unfolds, many people who have experienced that kind of trauma also feel that pain with each story about another politician or celebrity or executive who abused his power, and they also feel that trauma with each “why didn’t she say something earlier” question.

Now, please hear me clearly: this storytelling is deeply courageous and necessary. Perhaps the groundswell will finally force us, as a culture, to take it seriously and decide to stop tolerating it anymore. I’m skeptical that will happen, but I’d love to be proven wrong. Regardless, though, we need to be honest about the emotional and spiritual cost of all that is going on, for this climate will wear us down and weigh us down. Fear and anxiety will take as much attention as we give.

If at the same time that we are paying a lot of attention to the violence and trauma all around we also stop paying much attention to the light we carry within us, to doing the spiritual work of replenishing the oil needed to keep that light sustained, with only a few more news cycles we will find ourselves completely dried out, empty, with nothing left to give, at the exact moment we need to be shining and lighting the way both for ourselves and others.

We may read this parable differently in a different year, but today Jesus’ odd parable is asking us some questions. It is asking us to figure out what fills us up spiritually and keeps us from running dry. It is asking us to pay purposeful attention to the ways in which we are or are not regularly opening ourselves up for God’s refueling and refilling presence. It is asking us if we are doing what we need to be doing so we are ready to shine brightly and unceasingly for what could be a long, long time until the bridegroom returns and the wedding party begins.

After all, the parable says that all the bridesmaids assumed they were ready for the party and all the bridesmaids slept when the waiting got too long. But the difference between the wise and the foolish was that the wise ones were the only ones who were ready not just for the arrival but also for the delay. They had done the work of careful, thoughtful, disciplined preparation so their oil would not run out and so they’d have what it took, for as long as it took, until all was finally made well and the party began.

We received word this week that one of our members entered God’s Church Triumphant. His name was Sammie Turner. On Friday, I received an email from someone who cared for Mr. Turner. She wanted us to know of his death and she also wanted me to know of the spiritual life to which he carefully tended, the oil, if you will, that sustained his lamp, his light. Here is what she said: “Although Mr. Turner was bedridden and unable to attend church services in person, he would ask me to read a Fourth Church sermon that he received in the mail each Saturday. He would also ask me to write a check from his bank account to pay his tithes once a month. I soon began to look forward to our reading the sermon together each week. Once I was done reading it, he would bless me with it to keep. He would also ask me to put a couple of sermons in an envelope, along with words of encouragement, so he could mail them to people who were incarcerated. I will miss him greatly and I thank God for entrusting me with his kind and delicate heart.” I share that with you because Mr. Turner sure sounds like he lived as a wise bridesmaid. He made sure to tend to his oil reserves, no matter what. Perhaps a part of his legacy could be his example to us today.

One more thing: let’s talk for a moment about the shut door and the “no” of the bridegroom’s response when the foolish ones ask him to open it. We do not know the tone of Jesus’ voice for the bridegroom. One way we can hear it is “Truly I tell you, I do not know you.” But I am not convinced that is his tone. Rather, given all our reflection on this parable, I hear Jesus saying, “Truly I tell you, I do not know you” (Marci Auld Glass, “Oil Crisis,” a 2008 sermon). In his yearning I hear Jesus acknowledging a truth we also know. When we have not tended to our oil supply, when we have gotten so caught up in the anxiety, the fear, the violence, the exhaustion of our world that we have stopped spending regular time in prayer, in scripture, in worship, or in service, then we do not know Jesus as well as we do when we are prepared and ready both for the party and for the delay. I wonder if Jesus’ statement is more a statement of a sad fact rather than a statement of a forever-closed door.

Friends, let us tend to our oil supplies in these days. Let us remind each other how important that is. Let us do what we can to make sure we are able to light the way for as long as it takes until the party begins. In the words of the spiritual, “Keep your lamps trimmed and burning. Keep your lamps trimmed and burning. Keep your lamps trimmed and burning. The time is drawing nigh. Children, don’t get weary. Children, don’t get weary. Children, don’t get weary. The time is drawing nigh.” Amen.