sermon – Page 27

It’s About Time

December 3, 2023 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Advent allows us to experience the slipperiness of time, the already and the not yet, and whether we keep awake or not, God the Potter will not abandon us on the wheel.

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The First Sunday of Advent, year B
Texts: Isaiah 64:1-9, Mark 13:24-37

Beloved of God, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I’m not a potter.

I have thrown one or two pots in my life but they are much too embarrassing to show anybody. Maybe then, it is not surprising that what I remember most about the experience is being pretty frustrated. Frustrated that I wasn’t very good at it. That the clay didn’t move the way that I wanted it to. And that more than once I had to collapse the whole thing down into a ball and start again.

When the prophet speaks in Isaiah of God as the potter and as all of us as the works of God’s hands — I have to believe that God is a much better potter than I am. That God does know how to shape us, and will resist the impulse to abandon us, half-formed on the wheel. And yet, while I am absolutely convinced that God is entirely in love with each and every creation, I wonder if God isn’t also sometimes a bit frustrated. I wonder if God, like me, sometimes wishes the clay would cooperate a little bit better, would become what it was meant to be just a little bit faster.

And I say this because I think you can hear some of Jesus’ frustration slipping out in our gospel reading today. We have left Matthew now for Mark’s account of Jesus’ last days. This section, which is often called the “Little Apocalypse,” contains the last teachings of Jesus that Mark records. Some of the last words he speaks to his disciples.

And they are in response to a question: Earlier in Mark chapter 13 the disciples had been marveling at the very large stones, the enormous blocks that made up the foundation of the temple, and Jesus had replied, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

At which point, the disciples ask him, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” They want to know the date.

They want to know about the when – about time.

And Jesus knows that time is exactly what he is running out of. He is running out of time at the potter’s wheel. But these disciples, these bits of clay, are just not getting into shape! And it’s frustrating!

“Keep awake!” he says again and again. “Pay attention! Don’t worry about what’s going to happen, be awake to what’s happening now!”

These are exactly the same words he will speak in the next chapter. The same frustration that will bubble up in the Garden of Gethsemane, when he pleads again with the disciples, “Keep awake with me! I’m running out time!”

But none of them did.

And, as I was thinking more about my limited and unsuccessful attempts at pottery, I began to wonder if part of the reason that Jesus gets so frustrated might be because “time” is such a slippery thing.

Because while I was giving my whole attention to the clay beneath my fingers, when I was fully and utterly absorbed in the task, I had no idea how much time was passing. It could have been five minutes, it could have been five hours. It wasn’t just the clay that was slippery, time itself had slipped through my fingers.

And, of course, we experience the slipperiness of time all the time. It speeds up and slows down. It slips and skips. It fluctuates with our attention.

Which is why Advent is such a gift.

This is our liturgical season specifically dedicated to time and attention: to waiting and watching. Advent gives us the opportunity to notice and to experience this slipperiness of time.

Time is slippery in Advent when it moves fast and slow — fast for grown ups, for whom the days will pass by quickly, and the longer our to-do lists, the more quickly it will go. But for children it will be agonizingly slow — “When will Christmas get here?!?”

Time is slippery in Advent because it begins at the end. It it is the beginning of our liturgical year, but our reading from Mark is not from the beginning of Jesus’ time on Earth, but from almost the end.

Time is slippery in Advent because it is our season of already and not yet, when we try to wrap our heads around how God already came to be with us in person, how God is here with us now, how God will come again finally in glory to set everything to right forever.

And it sure seems like it’s about time for that last part, doesn’t it? It sure seems like it’s about time that all the shadows be banished by the Light of the world. About time for injustice to be washed away by a flood of righteousness.

It sure seems, God, like it’s about time for you to get here! It’s about time.

Advent is about all these kinds of slippery time. Because although we will celebrate Christmas exactly 22 days from now, Advent forces us to think about the kinds of time that you can’t read on a clock or circle on your calendar. And maybe that’s the precise reason that Jesus told his disciples not to worry about it. Don’t worry about the when.

Instead, he said: “Keep awake!”

Sometimes keeping awake is easy. “How did it get so late?” we might ask ourselves when we are absorbed in a task or enjoying the company of the people we love, or energized by life in the Holy Spirit.

Sometimes keeping awake is excruciating. “When will this moment pass?” we might ask ourselves when we are deep in dread or anxiously awaiting, or gripped by a spiritual insomnia when evenings and midnights and cockcrows pass by with agonizing slowness, when we are weighed down by regrets and fears and worries and resentments.

And sometimes keeping awake is impossible. Worn down and weary, we just need to shut our eyes for a while. To shut our eyes to the suffering of those around us and to death and decay and disappointment. When we are desperate for a little slice of oblivion and ignorance, we can’t help it. In our own Gethsemanes, we fall asleep.

And here’s some good news.

Even if, even when, we fall asleep, the God of time is still at work. It didn’t matter, in the end, that the disciples fell asleep in the garden. Christ died for them and for us all anyway. God is faithful. Always.

And here’s some more good news. God, unlike me, is a good potter. God will hunch over the wheel as long as it takes. God will give you the full time and attention to become what you will be, the work of God’s hands. And you are not just a lifeless pot, you are the clay that is called into partnership with the Potter.

God wants to partner with you.

Wants you to keep awake — to pay attention to the way it is about time for some peace and hope and joy and love. About time for something radical, something that will tear down the stones of corrupt systems, something that will shake the mountains of oppression and hatred, something that will shake the very stars out of the skies, something that will never pass away. And it’s coming whether you keep awake or not.

But if you keep awake, if you are paying attention as much as you can to what is happening right now —

If you let your clay be supple and responsive to God’s warm and gentle hands –-

If you lean into the already and not and yet and embrace the slipperiness of time –-

What a morning, what a dawning, what a sunrise you will see!

The dawn is coming. Already and not yet. It’s about time.

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Your Will Be Done

November 26, 2023 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

You are beloved to God, safe in the Triune God’s love now and always; will you help the children of God who are in need of love themselves?

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Reign of Christ, last Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 34 A
Texts: Matthew 25:31-46; Ezekiel 34:11-24

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

If you’re looking for hope in these parables, this is a hard one.

We’ve been hearing Jesus’ parables for six months, and you know what I’m going to say: after Gethsemane, the cross, and rising from the dead, Christ doesn’t do these judgments. So all that is left is invitation to follow, to serve, to share, to plant, to love, to be generous.

But this one feels different in a few ways. You can’t hope the main character isn’t Christ. It’s not a sower, or a vineyard owner, or a master, or a bridegroom. Jesus refers to himself as Son-of-Man and king.

The problem isn’t minor, either, like forgetfulness, or fearful hiding of treasure, or struggling to grow. Here real people suffer from real needs, and some people don’t take care of them.

And the judgment isn’t vague. Not outer darkness, or wedding doors slammed, or vineyards taken away and given to someone else. The threat here is eternal fire prepared for the devil and the devil’s angels.

It’s not really even a parable. Apart from the metaphor of shepherd and flock, this is direct teaching. Do what Christ wants in this life or you’re going to be in the torment of fire in the next. God seems to agree in Ezekiel. Some of God’s sheep have gotten fat, using up all the resources, and polluting what’s left so that a whole lot of God’s sheep are suffering, sick, hungry. Sound familiar to us? And God wants to punish the fat sheep.

Now, if this parable is as bad as it seems, there’s also clarity.

The only problem here is lack of knowledge. Everyone in this story is a subject of Christ, and every one clearly wanted to serve Christ in their life. Some cared for those who were hungry and thirsty, those who lacked clothes or were strangers, those sick and imprisoned. Some didn’t.

But all were surprised to realize that Christ was that hungry, thirsty, naked, alien, sick, imprisoned person. Those on the left would have helped had they known that. The others didn’t need to know in order to help.

So, worst case scenario, if I’m wrong and there’s a judgment day coming where you’ll be separated out because of how you did, Jesus has given you a great gift. Unlike everyone else in this parable, now you know that Christ is in anyone who struggles or is in need. If you want to serve Christ, serve them. If you want to see Christ, see them. Take care of them. There’s no need to fear the fire or any judgment. You have all you need to pass with flying colors and go to the right. Done.

But does the Shepherd King have any say over how you understand this teaching?

At the end of God’s condemnation in Ezekiel, God promises to raise up a Shepherd who will care for the sheep and feed them. But surprisingly, all the sheep – even the fat polluters – are under that care. And the Shepherd and Sovereign in the parable who returns at the end of time and deals with the sheep and goats in the flock is the promised Shepherd of Ezekiel, Christ Jesus, God-with-us.

Since this Sovereign, this Shepherd, is the one telling the parable, and the one dying and rising, and the one returning at the end of time, does Christ get to decide what’s really going to happen? Because if so, then you’re going to have to start seeing this parable the way I’ve been telling you you can. The way Christ does.

You see, Christ the Good Shepherd consistently wants only two things.

Christ wants to have one flock, everyone together, no one lost. In Matthew 18 Jesus says even 99 isn’t enough, all 100 must be safe. It is not the will of his Father in heaven, he says, that a single one be lost. In John 12, Christ promises to draw all things into God’s life when he is lifted up on the cross. In John 10 the Good Shepherd promises that the flock is bigger than we can imagine, that there are sheep you and I don’t know. And there will be one flock and one Shepherd, he says. The whole creation is redeemed and loved by the Good Shepherd. No one goes into the eternal fire.

That’s the Shepherd’s will. So – does the Good Shepherd get what the Good Shepherd wants?

Also, Christ wants all the Triune God’s sheep to be healthy, fed, cared for, safe. So, changing Ezekiel, instead of wiping out the fat sheep, Christ asks the fat sheep to quit polluting and start caring for the thin sheep. It’s not about the separation, or the eternal fire. The Shepherd has lambs in pain, and needs his followers to provide for those who hunger and thirst, to clothe and shelter those exposed and vulnerable, to care for the sick and the imprisoned, to welcome the stranger.

Peter cursed his way to unfaithfulness in the midnight hours before Jesus’ death, three times swearing he’d never met Jesus. After Easter, Jesus gives him three more questions, asking, “do you love me?” Each time, when Peter said, “yes,” Jesus said, “feed my sheep. Take care of my lambs.”

That’s the Shepherd’s will. So – does the Good Shepherd get what the Good Shepherd wants?

And can you hold these two things together instead of being afraid?

First, that you are absolutely, indisputably, unquestionably safe in the love of the Triune God now and forever, no matter what. The Shepherd loves you and all people and all things, and will look for you whenever you’re lost, will always care for you and hold you and nothing – nothing – can snatch you or anything else out of the Shepherd’s grasp. Jesus promised. What if you lived your life trusting you were that loved, that safe?

And second, that you are needed. There are people who are starving, people who don’t have clean water. People without clothes or shelter, who are sick or imprisoned, who are strangers and don’t know who can help.

And all Christ your Good Shepherd wants is that if you can help, you will. You will take the love that is yours from God and share it. Use it. Be Christ to all in need.

Your Good Shepherd loves you, now and always, and has need of you. It’s that simple.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Right, Duty, Joy

November 23, 2023 By Vicar at Mount Olive

In our weekly celebration of the Eucharist, we affirm that it is right, our duty and our joy to give thanks and praise to God. The Samaritan man who is healed of his skin disease might have said the same thing if he had been asked why we went back to say thank you to Jesus.

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
Thanksgiving Day
Text: Luke 17:11-19

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.

It is right to give God thanks and praise!

It is indeed right.

Our duty.

And our joy.

That we should, at all times and in all places give thanks and praise to you,

Almighty and merciful God, through our Savior Jesus Christ.

If you have worshiped here or in another ELCA church, those words should sound pretty familiar.

They are some of the first words of the celebration of the Eucharist, which if you’re rusty on your Ancient Greek, means “Thanksgiving.” So, it seemed like the best place to start, as we are gathered together today, on our national holiday of Thanksgiving, because it is a good reminder of how, for us, every time we celebrate the Eucharist, every Sunday is Thanksgiving. And how every time we celebrate the Eucharist, we proclaim that it is indeed right for us to give thanks to God. Not only right, it is our duty and it is our joy. Not just on Sundays, but at all times and in all places. It is right.

And it struck me that the Samaritan man who was healed of his skin disease in our gospel reading, if he had been asked, “why did you go back to give thanks?” he might have answered with these same words.

“It was right!” he might have said. Right to give thanks! After all, this is the story of Jesus miraculously making things right. The ten men in this story had been suffering from a torturous skin disease. We aren’t sure exactly what it was, but it is clear that it was a malady that was a painful and slow killer, which had separated them from their families, from their communities, maybe for years or even decades. So they had pleaded with Jesus, begging him from a distance, “Master, have mercy on us!” Make things right!

And Jesus did. Healing their bodies, yes, but also sending them to the priests to complete the necessary rituals of restoration, so that not only their health was restored, but so were their families, and so were their communities that had missed them. So that everything was made right.

And so, “of course” the Samaritan might say, “of course I gave thanks!” Not just for the healing, but for the rightness, because he saw, for a moment, the world restored to wholeness, wholeness he never expected, wholeness that felt like God’s perfect and complete and abundant life. So perfectly right. And his part? To see it, to witness and recognize it, and rightfully, to give thanks for it.

“It was indeed right,” the Samaritan might say, “and it was my duty!”

He felt it was not simply his responsibility, but the only thing he could do. And it wasn’t even what Jesus had told him to do. Jesus had told him to go to the priests, but the moment he saw his disease had been cured, he realized that he didn’t need the priests to be his bridge to God’s goodness. God was right there in front of him. What else could he do but his duty, and fall at the feet of the Great High Priest?

“And it was my joy!” the Samaritan might say.

A joy so overwhelming, so abundant, so profound, it couldn’t be kept in. He shouted! He ran! He hurled himself toward Jesus. Maybe he couldn’t decide if he should hug him or dance with him or just tackle him, but in the end all he could do was throw himself to the ground. Bowing prostrate at the feet of Jesus, with what I imagine was the biggest smile he had ever smiled – just radiating joy.

What an experience! It’s so enticing to imagine.

But it’s something that most of the time we have to imagine.

We don’t really get to experience anything like this on an everyday basis. Or, at least I don’t. I can’t think of many moments when it was so obvious that God had acted, putting the world to right. I think the moments probably happen all the time, but I just don’t notice, and maybe you don’t either.

And I really hope you do have a moment, soon, when you see, you witness, you recognize God putting something to right, something you had given up hope on. And that when you do see it, I hope that you can’t help but fall on your knees, grinning from ear to ear, shouting or maybe just whispering, a fervent thank you that bubbles up out of the sheer joy of it.

But even though we say that it is indeed right to give thanks at all times and in all places, we know that we can’t always maintain such intense, continual joyfulness that erupts in spontaneous thanksgiving. Especially when instead we are overcome with all the ways the world isn’t right, all the ways it is broken and dying – how do we feel gratitude? When we are separated from our loved ones, when we are crying out to Jesus to have mercy – how can we give thanks?

And here’s the secret – we do it anyway.

And it’s why we return, Sunday after Sunday, to our own great thanksgiving. That’s why we say the words every week. That’s why in 1863, in the middle of the bloodiest war our country had ever experienced, when it seemed that nothing was right and no joy was to be found, President Lincoln declared a new national holiday – a Day of Thanksgiving.

Because when we give thanks anyway, a funny thing happens. It’s Joy!

It can be so easy to fall into the trap of thinking that we have to feel the joy before we can really give thanks, that the only authentic kind of thanksgiving is the Samaritan’s spontaneous outburst – but the secret is that it also works the other way around. Joy produces thanksgiving – and thanksgiving produces joy. Our rituals of gratitude, when we take the time to notice and acknowledge the ways that God is working in the world – that produces joy.

There is joy when we gather in the spirit of thanksgiving, whether we gather in our homes around tables packed with family or friends, or whether we come to God’s table, where everyone is invited. Where Jesus seeks out every single person, always and forever asking, where are the others? Wanting them at the table too. There is joy.

Thanksgiving produces joy!

Whether we pass around the plates of food that remind us to give thanks, our turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and pie or whatever foods you will eat today, or whether we feast on the indescribable gift of God’s own body and blood, the bread and the wine that are our tangible signs of God’s surpassing grace.

Thanksgiving produces joy, whether we are feeling happy or whether we are mourning all those that should be at our tables but won’t be, whether everything happens exactly as planned or whether everything is on fire, whether everything feels right or whether it feels broken beyond repair.

Because God does have mercy on us. God sees what is broken, God acts to make it right, and God is doing it in all times and in all places – and when we take the time to notice, when we take the time to cultivate gratitude in our hearts, when we take the time to “Eucharist,” we enter in to God’s abundant love for us where there is peace and, you guessed it, joy.

Cheesy and corny as it may be, I’m thankful for Thanksgiving. For our holiday today and for every time we gather at God’s table of grace. I’m thankful for these rituals that open our eyes to the ways that God is putting the world right. And it is right that we respond with thanks and praise. It is indeed right, our duty, yes, and our joy.

In the name of the Father, of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Fearless

November 19, 2023 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

Don’t be afraid: your talents and abilities are needed and you are eternally loved.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 33 A
Texts: Matthew 25:14-30

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

So the third slave turned out to be right.

When given a share of money to care for in the master’s absence, he buried it. Because he was afraid. Afraid, as he said, that his master was a harsh man, and would take any profit from whatever hard work the slave put in.

But he had no idea how harsh. He didn’t commit any crime. He gave back every penny he received, in full. And the master threw him into the “outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

It’s a terrible story. And somehow you and I are supposed to learn something about God’s reign.

Can we make any sense of what Jesus is saying?

We could see it from a perspective that doesn’t make the returning master a stand in for the Son of God. There are interpretations from impoverished people that see Jesus as the third slave who refuses to go along with the capitalist oppressor.

But the context makes that hard to claim. Matthew 24 is a long discourse on the surprising, unexpected, and inevitable coming of the Son-of-Man at the end of time, ending with a parable about faithful slaves who are ready for their master’s return. These next three parables in chapter 25, with a bridegroom, a master, and a king, are told in that context, assuming they’re Christ. Let’s proceed with that assumption.

Some suggest Matthew added the judgment parts to these parables, that Jesus doesn’t act on them after Easter because he never said them. But there’s no way to prove that. No one recorded Jesus. So Jesus could have said these parables in their entirety, including judgment. Which means something happened that changed Jesus’ mind, that is, changed the mind of the Triune God. So, let’s proceed with that assumption, too.

And there is precedent for this in Scripture.

There are plenty of places in the Hebrew Bible where God is angry and wants to punish God’s people and decides not to. The best known is when God, in the wilderness, tells Moses the people of Israel have disobeyed too often and will be destroyed. Moses will become the new Abraham, the father of a new people. Moses tells God that would be a bad look, to take your people into the desert and kill them. And God relents.

So it’s possible that Jesus, as he got closer and closer to the danger against him, was angry and frustrated at his disciples’ mistakes, and maybe even their unwillingness to serve. The letter to the Hebrews says Jesus was tested exactly as we are, that’s how he is able to help us. Jesus could have considered punishing the unfaithful. We certainly would.

If that’s so, then Jesus did change his mind. We’ve been looking at these parables with an Easter lens, understanding them from the perspective of the risen Christ, who doesn’t act on these judgments. But there’s another point of view to consider, a different set of lenses, that could enlighten us as to what happened.

Go to the Mount of Olives, to a garden called Gethsemane.

Jesus, the Son of God, God-with-us, praying while his followers lie asleep, makes a critical decision. It wasn’t a foregone thing that he would choose what he called “the cup” before him. That is, to allow himself to be captured, tortured, and killed.

There is much mystery here for us. This conversation happens within the life of the Triune God, between Jesus the Son and the One he called Father, so this is fully a God decision to make. It was anguished, it was hard. But in the end, Jesus chooses a path. In the language of this parable, Jesus decides “I will go myself into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. I won’t send anyone there. I will bear the eternal love of God with which I created all things and let them kill me on the cross, and it will destroy all outer darkness, all hate, all evil, at its core.”

In the end the Son of God chooses to go the place of pain and suffering and death to transform the world. To open the reign of God by the love of God taking on all evil and breaking it.

So you can trust Christ with your life now and forever.

And this parable becomes like the others: a simple invitation to those whom Christ loves to follow. To live in God’s reign and continue bearing the love of the Triune God into all the places of pain and suffering and death.

To use your talents you’ve been given, your gifts, your wealth, your abilities, to make a difference in the world. This story is nothing more for you, no threats, no fear. Just a call to use your gifts that you’ve been given to be Christ in the world, and not bury them.

That includes your wealth. Today we’re pledging to each other what we will share for the ministry we’re doing together here at Mount Olive in 2024. We’re not pledging to the Vestry, or to the congregation as an institution. We’re saying to each other, “here’s what I will share so we can be Christ here, together.”

And it’s more than wealth. Talents were a unit of currency, but for us they are also gifts and abilities, and we also gladly share them.

There’s one more lovely thing.

This parable is one of Jesus’ patented hyperboles. One talent was about $500,000 of our money. So the first one got $2.5 million dollars to use. Jesus’ hearers couldn’t have imagined anyone with that wealth. Could you imagine being given a half a million dollars to care for and use for good? And that’s just one talent.

So if you think your talents, abilities, wealth, gifts, are far less valuable than others, listen again. You’re sitting on a fortune. You are central and critical to God’s work in this world. You might be the one person in the right place at the right time who makes a world changing difference to another person, or even beyond, as we share our ministry. And that’s priceless to God.

Don’t be afraid.

There is no outer darkness, no weeping and gnashing of teeth. That decision was made in Gethsemane. Christ Jesus has ended that threat forever. You are safe in the love of the Triune God now and always.

So what will you do with your talents, your wealth, your gifts, when you live unafraid?

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

What If?

November 12, 2023 By Pr. Joseph Crippen

What if you lived your life as if you trusted that you were absolutely, indisputably, unquestionably safe in the love of the Triune God, now and forever, no matter what?

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 32 A
Texts: Matthew 25:1-13; Amos 5:18-24

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Are people of faith at their core really just living a rewards game?

There are plenty of people today who don’t believe in a god of any kind who say that those of us who do are solely motivated by the reward of heaven or fear of hell. These critics will often say, “I don’t need a fear of some god to motivate me to do good to my neighbor, to be decent. It’s just the right way to be. You all seem to be in a faith only for the reward.”

And if you look at most of Christian proclamation over the past centuries, these critics have a point. We’ve been selling this rewards game for a long time.

Even we Lutherans. We’re supposed to believe we’re saved by God’s grace alone. But when we read parables like today’s, our grace theology collapses like a cheap card table, and we get right to moralizing, threatening punishment.

But what if you trusted that you were absolutely, indisputably, unquestionably safe in the love of the Triune God now and forever, no matter what? What would you do with your life, then?

These parables are hard, no question.

Chapters 24 and 25 of Matthew are filled with threatening stories about the end of time, with some welcomed into a new reality and others shut out. They all seem to motivate by threats and fear.

In the Gospels, Jesus’ proclamation of God’s reign is much more heavily about the here and now, the life we live in this world, than the end times. But these parables, which Matthew places during Holy Week, are pretty clearly in the context of those end times.

So why you shouldn’t be afraid? Why shouldn’t you hear today’s parable and all its friends as they seem to be saying: straighten up and fly right or the door is slammed in your face and God will say, “I don’t even know you.”

You can fairly ask, “why would I trust that I am absolutely, indisputably, unquestionably safe in the love of the Triune God now and forever, no matter what?

But hear these parables as if you’re part of the group of original disciples.

By now over 100 people, women and men, were disciples of Jesus, and Jesus spoke these parables to them, the ones already part of Jesus’ community. If you hear today’s parable as they did, for the first time, one thing is clear. This really is a minor failing. The “foolish” didn’t expect to need extra oil, and they get shut out from the celebration at the end of time? That seems an overreaction.

And if these parables were told in the few days before Good Friday, what these disciples did next makes forgetting a little oil seem even more silly to worry about. Most of them fell apart. Ran away in terror and abandoned Jesus. Denied Jesus with curses. Betrayed Jesus to his enemies. Except for the women disciples and John, most failed Jesus miserably.

So meeting the risen Christ while remembering these parables, must have been terrifying. This is when the door gets slammed in our face, they must have thought. This is when Jesus says, “I don’t even know you.” This is when he rejects all his unfaithful disciples, keeps the women and John, and goes out looking for better disciples.

But that didn’t happen.

There was no door slam or exclusion. They locked themselves behind a door, but the risen Jesus came right through it. And said, “Oh, there you all are. Be at peace. I’m sending you out with the Spirit of God in you, to share my love.”

And Christ didn’t say to any of them, “I don’t know you.” He knew them deeply and well. What they did that weekend wasn’t a surprise. Christ knew their flaws and weaknesses and failings, and loved them. And Christ knew their value, too. Christ knew he needed Peter, warts and all. Knew that all of them were necessary for God’s grace and love to get to the whole world.

No one got thrown aside or shut out. Instead, they all heard, “do you love me? Then feed my lambs.”

So again, what if you trusted that you were absolutely, indisputably, unquestionably safe in the love of the Triune God now and forever, no matter what?

How would you live your life? What would motivate you? If your place in the reign of God after death is safe, what does this story tell you about living here?

Surely there’s only one possibility that blesses everyone: share the oil. If all ten run out, who cares? They all fell asleep anyway, and had to be wakened for the party. What if they trusted the love of the bride and bridegroom and everyone laughed – the late bridegroom apologizing for tardiness, the shadowy bridesmaids apologizing for unlit lamps – and all went into the party?

I’m often foolish, by the standards of this parable. Plenty of times I didn’t anticipate something would be needed for me to do. Sometimes I prepare ahead, I’m “wise,” according to this. But I’ve got enough blind spots to feel more solidly in the foolish camp. And I want to be in the party of God’s reign that’s happening here. Doesn’t everyone?

Wouldn’t this have been a better wedding if the oil was shared and people trusted in each other’s love?

You can live in fear of the slammed door, of not being recognized, if you want.

Amos gives you plenty to be afraid of – the end times come, and it’s like being bitten by a snake or eaten by a bear. But fear and threats can’t change your heart. They won’t help you do justice, or show mercy, or love God and love your neighbor.

And you don’t need to be afraid. The actions of Christ after Easter tell you all you need to know to live in God’s reign right now, in joy and hope. Why tremble at the door waiting for it to slam when God’s already propped it open? Why worry about being excluded when the Risen Christ says, “I know you, I love you, and I need you?

What if your motivation to bring enough oil and to help others who forget to bring enough is so all can be at the party, right now? A party that includes all God’s children, with abundant food, good shelter, clothing, well-being, life and hope: this is the reign of God Christ Jesus wants so much to see here.

So what if you lived your whole life as if you trusted that you were absolutely, indisputably, unquestionably safe in the love of the Triune God now and forever, no matter what?

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen