by Sharon Marr
(Based on Matt 25:1-13; 1 Thess 4:13-18; Wisdom of Solomon 6:12-16)
We hear that word Ready in our Gospel reading today, and if we are honest, it doesn’t always stir holy anticipation; sometimes it just stirs a bit of mild cardiac arrest. We immediately think of everything left undone.
I have to confess, looking with our ministry team right now, we are all collectively staring at the calendar with a bit of a twitch in our eyes. We wonder about our own readiness, especially as we realise that Advent is just around the corner — which means the annual panic over candles, where have we put baby Jesus? And finding enough folk for the rosters is about to begin.
We think of a clock ticking. Today, as we reflect on the parable of the bridesmaids, we probably all worry about the oil in our own flasks. We worry about the darkness of the night. We worry about the door being shut — or worse, arriving at the heavenly banquet only to realise, and this one was my mother’s fears, we arrive and are standing in the queue … behind Mother Teresa her ilk, and wonder if will we make the cut?
But let us look closer at what Scripture is actually whispering to us today.
Take our reading from the Wisdom of Solomon. Now, this book is found in ‘the Apocrypha’, those fourteen or so books tacked onto the end of some Bibles like an ecclesiastical appendix. Scholars tell us they are valuable for historical or spiritual reading, but not quite “inspired scripture” — let’s think of them as a holy bonus. Yet, this particular bonus tells us something profound: it says that wisdom is simply a “sincere desire for instruction”. It’s a love that shows up in the quiet keeping of God’s ways.
For you who have sat in this church for decades — and let’s face it, you’ve survived enough changes, disputes, building projects and hymnbook transitions to earn a medal — readiness is not a frantic, last-minute scramble. It is the steady, gentle habit of a lifetime. It is the rhythm of your prayers. It is the way you have loved your neighbours. It is the simple, beautiful truth that you are still here, still listening, still desiring to be taught by God.
You see, the oil in our lamp isn’t something we have to go out and buy in a panic at midnight because we saw the latest terrifying end-times suggestion from Nostradamus on Facebook. The oil is the grace we have been storing up day after day, sacrament after sacrament, prayer after prayer, breath after breath.
As our New Zealand Prayer Book reminds us so beautifully, we worship a Creator “from whom all life comes”, a God who assures us that with him “nothing is wasted or incomplete”. Your life, your age, your sorrows, your joys … none of it is wasted. It is all oil for the lamp. It is all preparation for the light.
And, yes, the Bridegroom might seem delayed. The wait can feel long. In the long midnight of illness, or the quiet ache of grief, we get incredibly tired. But notice what the parable actually says: all the bridesmaids fell asleep. The wise ones were snoring right alongside the foolish ones!
Hear the comfort in that: God does not condemn us for being human. God does not lock the door because we needed a nap. Sleep is not the enemy, and God does not punish us for growing weary. Because, as Paul writes to us and the Thessalonians, our hope is anchored in something far bigger than our own ability to stay awake. Our hope is anchored in the Resurrection, and with the Thessalonians we know what it is to grieve. In a tight-knit community like ours, we know the empty spaces in the pews all too well. We know the names of those we love but see no longer. But we do not grieve as those who have no hope. We listen to the language of our Prayer Book, which sings to us in our darkest moments: “Because Jesus lives, nothing can separate us from your love, which unites us now with those we mourn.”
Think of that. The love that holds you right now in this exact seat is the exact same love holding those who have already died. There is no distance in Christ. The circle is unbroken.
So, how do we live out this readiness this week?
We do it by letting go of fear. We do it by trusting that the God “who formed my inward parts; who knitted me together in my mother’s womb” (Ps 139:13) will hold us to the very end. When the evening comes, and the shadows lengthen, we don’t need to panic. We can pray that beautiful, classic prayer from our evening liturgy:
Lord, it is night. The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God. It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done; let it be.
The night is dark. Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives … rest in you.
The night is quiet. Let the quietness of your peace enfold us, all dear to us, and all who have no peace.
The night heralds the dawn. Let us look expectantly to a new day, new joys, new possibilities.
Dear friends, your lamps are not going out. They are held in the hands of the One who is the Light of the World. Be at peace. You are ready, because nothing can separate us from His love. Amen
