Matthew 25:1-13
Lauren J. McFeaters
February 21, 2016
Lent II

They’re known as bridesmaids, maidens, virgins, attendants, women religious. Wise and foolish. Foolish and wise.

Christian art historically paints the “foolish ones” as wanton, card-playing, and smarmy women who revel in every kind of debauchery. I’m not kidding. Google the passage and go to the images. Be prepared to be amazed.

The “wise ones” are illuminated as glorious waifs drifting in and out of prayer meetings; angelic Tinkerbelles who flit through forest glen lamps ablaze with honor and blessing; or tall solemnly pious warriors marching in the Light of God. I’m not kidding. Google the passage and go to the images. Be prepared to be amazed.

Neither portrayal is helpful. The Wise being saints and the Foolish being whores. The Wise being blessed and the Foolish being sinners. Not helpful at all. It’s like saying Mary Magdalene was a prostitute. Really? Truly? Do you think of Mary Magdalene as a prostitute? Many do. That’s the church’s story, its tradition, but nowhere is it found in scripture.

We’ve all of us – each of us – been each of them: the foolish and the wise; the wise and the foolish. Each of us has been the extravagantly wise and the exceedingly foolish. Each of us takes our wise or foolish place on this parable stage; in this earthly story with heavenly meaning. Most scholars agree:

• The Wise Bridesmaids are Christians prepared to keep their faith and good works alive and burning.
• The Long Awaited Bridegroom is the Lord.
• The Bridegroom’s late night arrival is the Messiah coming at an unexpected time, like a thief in the night.
• The Flaming Lanterns are the believers who do not hide their light under a bushel, but shine for the world to see.
• The Wedding Banquet is the Kingdom of Heaven.

So much action. So many signs. So many puzzles to piece together.(2)

Many years ago when I was traveling in Ireland (3), and I visited an ancient church called Saint Fin Barre’s. It’s an Anglican Cathedral in the middle of Cork City and it sits on a site where Christian worship has been celebrated since the early-7th century.

If you stand at the western portico and gaze above, your eye gets lost in the multitude of carvings, reliefs, interlacing designs, and sculpture. But if you step back, certain images come into focus and it all starts to look familiar. In all its glory the parable of the Wise and Foolish comes into focus.

On one side are the wise. Their heads are covered as a display of purity. High aloft they hold their flaming lanterns. They stand on the right hand side of the bridegroom who faces them with joy. The wise are strong, virtuous, favored and standing on pedestals depicting the open doors to a heavenly wedding party.

And as you can imagine, in stark contrast, the foolish are bare-headed and cold. They are despondent, dejected, and ashamed. Their lamps hang withered and useless. Beneath their feet the closed doors of the feast are shut tightly. Our Lord looks away. And above them all is a massive depiction of the realm of angels lifting the wise into heaven and pushing the foolish into hell.(4)

One preacher puts it like this: This is one of those moments when we should be proclaiming, “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, sweet Jesus, this is not the only parable about the Kingdom of Heaven.” Because if this is what happens when we’re unrehearsed and unprepared; when we forget our oil and are turned away by supposed friends, have sweet mercy upon us!

Thank goodness there’s a basket-full of others parables at hand. There’s hidden treasure, mustard seeds, pearls of great price, yeast, and coins. If we could scoop out just one other parable that does not hinge on asking for help or sharing what we have, we’d be all snug and warm.

Anna Carter Florence says it best that this text makes church people look bad. Is this really how we define a wise person, as someone who only takes care of herself without sharing? Didn’t they think about sharing their oil? They could have walked in pairs. Is this the kind of story we want people to identify with us? “Well, you know the church, they’re the ones who hoard all their oil. They preach the wisdom of stockpiling, because they believe that if people are in need, it’s their own darn fault.”

Anna continues, “Sometimes, when I’m working on a sermon, I try to imagine what it would be like to read other passages of scripture through the lens of the particular text I’m working on. For example, what would happen if we placed this text next to other portions of Matthew’s gospel, and read them together?” Well, I tried that, she says, starting with the Sermon on the Mount back in Matthew 6 and 7, but I didn’t get very far, because the wise and foolish bridesmaids were making mincemeat out of the Beatitudes. She came up with this:

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, although to get there, you will need large oil reserves, so forget the first part of what I said; store up for yourselves oil on earth, so that you will have treasure in heaven. (6:19ff)

Or: Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body what you will wear. Worry about your oil. Worry about whether you have enough for you, and forget about everyone else. (6:25ff)

Or: Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you, unless of course you’re late and the bridegroom answers, in which case, you might as well forget it. (7:7ff) What is Jesus thinking? In telling this parable he turns the Gospel on its head, and not in a good way. If being prepared with extra oil is the ticket into heaven then most of his teaching is debatable.(5)

Instead of rescuing his disciples from the boat in the storm, we would have the story of “The Men Who Died at Sea Having Failed Sailing 101.” Instead of “The Raising of Jairus’ Daughter,” we’d have “The Ethical Dilemma of Futile Hospice & Palliative Care.”

And what is it about the oil? The Wise and the Foolish had oil. They all had lamps. They all traveled to meet the bridegroom. They were all ready for a wedding. They all slept. They all awoke.(6) What they weren’t all ready for was the delay.

Maybe, just maybe, this is not only a parable about the oil in our lamps. Maybe this is a parable about the oil we leave at home, that we keep hoarded and sheltered. Oil we don’t take out into the world. All the slippery stuff that weighs us down — the grief and sadness and anxiety, the endless tears, the voices in our heads. And, oh, that oil of fear, and pride, and shame, and stinginess. We leave that oil at home thinking we need to hide it from the world and, most especially, where else? Here.

But what if, every time we made our way to church we paused at the doorway and looked up and saw the Foolish Ones on one side and the Wise Ones on the other. The wise hold their flaming lanterns aloft. They are strong and resilient. And also the foolish, bare headed, cold, looking despondent and ashamed. Their lamps hanging withered and useless. But all of them are welcoming us, lighting our way, and saying, “This way.”

Sometimes wise. Sometimes foolish. Sometimes right in the middle. “Come because the Bridegroom is waiting,” they’re saying. “Don’t leave your baggage(7) at home, don’t leave it outside, bring it all in and shake it out. Because the Kingdom of God is here. Ready or not. Delayed or not. There’s a big, wide welcome waiting for the foolish and the wise. It’s an anointing from the God who fuels our spirits, from the One who keeps our lamps burning.

And perhaps it really is all about the oil — that viscous stuff that lubricates our souls and reminds of the promises our Lord offers over and over and over again:

• I was a refugee, and you welcomed me.
• I was hungry and you fed me.
• I was thirsty, and you gave me a bottle of water.
• I was stark naked and you gave me the coat off your back.
• I was in prison, and not only did you visit me, you’re also working to free me from my solitary confinement. (8)

Our Lord Jesus Christ, he doesn’t want us to leave it at home. He wants us to come and bring all of our dirt and find all of our joy – together.

1. Matthew 25:1-13 NRSV.
2. Thomas G. Long. Matthew. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Know, 1997, 280.
3. Thanks to Melissa Martin Sells for jogging my memory.
4. Louise Nugent. Blog: Pilgrimage in Medieval Ireland, pilgrimagemedievalireland.com, August 5, 2008.
5. Anna Carter Florence. Sermon: Filling Stations, Matthew 25:1-13. Day1, a ministry of the Alliance for Christian Media Inc. Atlanta, GA. November 04, 2007.
6. Long, 280-281.
7. Thanks to Noel Werner for leading me to the “Baggage” conversation.
8. Long, 280-281.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Acts 8:14-17
Rev. Karen Hernandez-Granzen
January 10, 2016
Baptism of the Lord

© 2016 Karen Hernandez-Granzen

Micah 5:2–5a
David A. Davis
December 20, 2015
Advent IV

Unlike our encounter with Zephaniah last week, there are few parts of the Book of Micah that are familiar to the ear.

For out of Zion shall go forth instruction and
the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between many peoples
and shall arbitrate between strong nations far away;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more. (4:2-3)

That sounds like Isaiah’s peaceable kingdom. It’s in Isaiah too. But also Micah.

With what shall I come before the Lord
and bow myself before God on high?
Shall I come before the Lord with burnt offerings,
with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
with then thousands of rivers of oil?
Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,
the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God. (6:6-8)

Ah, Micah! And, of course, the lesson for today. It’s what the Magi quoted to King Herod.

You, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
who is to shepherd my people Israel. (MT 2:6, Micah 5:2)

One evening a long time ago, I opened our refrigerator with the intent of setting out some cheese and crackers. I opened the little door on the shelf where we always keep the cheese and grabbed a few different kinds. When I reached for the brie I made a rather shocking discovery. Someone had been eating the brie. But that’s not the surprising part. The family member who was scarfing the brie ate the cheese between the skin, the rind of the brie. The cheese on the pie-shaped slice of brie was mostly gone and the rind was hanging there like the ear flaps on a winter hat. I figure not everyone eats that part of the brie but it was an impressive, delicate operation to go for the cheese and leave the rind. It required a kind of surgical precision.

You and I have been listening to the church read the prophet Micah during Advent and Christmas forever — fourth Sunday of Advent, Lessons and Carols, a pageant here and there. Not just here at Nassau, but everywhere. Micah 5:2-5a. Notice the surgical precision in how the tradition reads Micah at Christmas. God’s promise delicately lifted out and then romanticized by the season. Like all the other minor prophets, Micah isn’t lacking when it comes to judgment and wrath. Some have called Micah the angriest of the prophets. But not at Christmas. “You, O Bethlehem… he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God… and he shall be the one of peace” (Micah 5:2-5a).

The liturgical editing of Micah is more than simply cherry-picking the messianic promise. If there is a “scroogie” listener among us this morning, or even a careful listener who likes to follow along in the pew Bible when the lesson is being read, or maybe just a typical worshiper gifted this morning with some extra curiosity, a basic question ought to arise. If the bulletin lists the end of the reading or if the lector announces the end of the reading as “5a,” inquiring minds ought to be wondering about “b.” For that matter, if a lesson like this is as expected and familiar as “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” and it starts at verse 2, just once, some time, some year, someone may want to ask about verse 1.

Sometimes this sort of snipping of a scripture lesson is because of transitions, or a rethinking of how the ancient counsels number chapter and verse. It’s not always a Thomas Jefferson-esque omitting of parts you don’t like. But here in Micah it smells of a Christmas tradition that takes the cheese and leaves the rind, opting for the messianic promise and leaving behind the bleak image of a nation and a king under siege.

Now you are walled around with a wall;
siege is laid against us;
with a rod they strike the ruler of Israel upon the cheek. (5:1)

If the Assyrians come into our land
and tread upon our soil,
we will raise against them seven shepherds
and eight installed as rulers.
They shall rule the land of Assyria with the sword
and the land of Nimrod with the drawn sword;
they shall rescue us from the Assyrians
if they come into our land
or tread within our border. (5b-6)

A people surrounded on all sides by the forces of destruction. A king who has been slapped in the face. And an acknowledgment that the most brutal and violent of enemies are on the doorstep and must be turned back by might. And in between is the promise of a great shepherd rising up who will nurture the people rather than exert power over them. A ruler who will bring security to the land and will be great to the ends of the earth. This shepherd, this ruler, shall be the one of peace. In Hebrew, shalom. Peace. Wholeness. Completeness. Prosperity. Safety. The prophet Micah: the bold promise of the one of peace smack in the middle of the very real threat of defeat, destruction, and death.

I was back in Princeton Cemetery this week standing with a family around an open grave. It is always colder in the cemetery and that day the wind was whipping at my back as I stood at the head of the casket looking across that open grave at a grieving husband and children and grandchildren. I read the Scripture that I pretty much always read: “Behold I tell you a mystery, we shall not all die but we will all be changed… Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O grave, is your sting?” The Apostle Paul, First Corinthians. It is one thing to read those verses here from this pulpit on Easter morning when there is no seat to be found and the trumpet sound is still bouncing off the wall. It’s quite another to read it to a handful of brokenhearted folks as the cold wind of death blows right in their face and they have to decide if they can believe it.

Micah’s promise of the coming one of peace. It’s one thing to read it up here on Christmas Eve about 30 minutes before “Silent Night.” It’s quite another to read it when you know someone, more than one, feels the world pressing in on all sides and is wondering if peace, this peace, the peace that passes all understanding, whether that peace is real. Micah’s promise. It is more than a perfectly read sound bite clipped and made tidy as all eyes look to a manger artfully placed in an array of Christmas flowers under a spotlight up in the front of the sanctuary. It is a bold declaration of hope best received when surrounded by the world’s darkness or life’s gloom or a wilderness despair. An audacious claim of wholeness best heard when relationships have been broken or when the body has been wearing out or when important parts of life seem to be falling into pieces all around.

This promised one of peace stands among us to feed our soul with the word of salvation and to calm our spirits with the assurance of his love. The one of peace guides us toward a kingdom of compassion and justice and calls us to a life of servanthood. The one of peace invites us to experience a security the world can never give and marks us with a grace that the world can never take. To be overwhelmed by humanity’s lust for violence and still have hope in a peace that can blanket the earth. To be upset by the rejections, the anxieties, the stress of the day, and still go to bed assured of the peace that will greet you in the morning. To be battered by the torrential messages that meaning is to be found in the perfect gift or that a new car speaks to the truth of the season or that the design of a Starbucks coffee cup is an insult to Jesus himself and still dare to believe in a peace that comes in doing justice and loving kindness and walking humbly with your God. Micah’s Advent promise. Micah 5:1-6

Fiddler on the Roof is back on Broadway. An article in the newspaper described how the current production begins and ends in a new way. The actor playing Tevye opens and closes the show in contemporary clothes, a person of today. The article called it a framing device; the familiar, traditional musical framed by two very brief contemporary scenes. Apparently the director had to work at convincing the original lyricist, who is still alive, about the framing. In explaining the framing device, the director said, “I’m not trying to change it. I’m just trying to heighten the experience. I can’t imagine starting in the traditional way — it never occurred to me. We have to ask questions about where we are now.”

Imagine how Micah might explain how his messianic promise is framed by the very real threat of defeat, destruction, and death. “I’m not trying to change the promise, just heighten the experience of it.” Then the whole chorus of the minor prophets turns to us and says in one voice, “You have to ask questions about where we are now.” Where you are now. Because whether you climb to the highest spot you can find and look out at the world or you retreat to the innermost part of your soul and examine your life, it can feel like you’re being surrounded on all sides by something other, everything other, than peace. It’s in those moments, on those days, during those nights, in that wilderness that that you have to cling to the promise of the Christ Child. Emmanuel. God with us. I am with you until the close of the age. My peace I give unto you. Not as the world gives, give I to you.

He shall be the one of peace.

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