“The bridegroom was delayed.” Of all the words in this strange and unsettling parable, I think those five may be the most important. The bridegroom was delayed.
Everyone had gathered for a wedding. Ten bridesmaids, lamps in hand, ready to welcome the bridegroom and accompany him into the celebration. They knew what they were waiting for. They had every reason to expect an evening of joy. But the bridegroom didn’t come. And didn’t come. And still didn’t come. Eventually, all ten bridesmaids fell asleep. And really, who could blame them?
The first followers of Jesus believed that God’s kingdom was coming and coming soon. They had seen glimpses of it in Jesus himself: the hungry fed, the sick healed, the outcasts welcomed, the powerful challenged, the poor lifted up. They had heard Jesus speak of a world turned upside down, where the last would be first, where the meek would inherit the earth, where mercy and justice would prevail. And after the resurrection, they believed that the fullness of that kingdom was just around the corner. But years passed. Then decades. People they loved grew old and died. Empires continued to oppress. The poor continued to suffer. Violence continued. And the promised new world did not arrive. The bridegroom was delayed.
And here we are, twenty centuries later, still waiting. Still waiting for a world in which every child has enough to eat. Still waiting for a world in which the color of someone’s skin, the country of their birth, or the circumstances of their life do not determine their opportunities or their safety. Still waiting for a world in which the powerful use their power for the good of all rather than for themselves. Still waiting for a world in which creation is cherished rather than exploited, and peace is more than the brief interval between wars.
We have devoted years, sometimes decades, to trying to make this world a more just and compassionate place. We have marched, voted, volunteered, written letters, donated money, raised children, taught students, cared for neighbors, and worked to build communities that reflect something of God’s love. And we have seen real progress. Things have changed, sometimes dramatically, for the better. Yet we have also seen how fragile that progress can be. How easily compassion can give way to cruelty. How quickly fear can overcome generosity. How readily people can be persuaded to turn against their neighbors.
This past week’s election has given many of us reason for relief, perhaps even renewed hope. And there is nothing wrong with celebrating when we believe our country has taken a step toward greater justice. But we also know, or we should know, that no election brings the kingdom of God. No political victory, however welcome, completes the work of love. And no political defeat can put an end to God’s promises. The bridegroom is still delayed.
So, what are we supposed to do in the meantime? How are we to live in this in-between time, when we have caught glimpses of God’s dream for the world, when we long for that dream with all our hearts, but when the world around us still falls so painfully short? I think that is the question Jesus is asking us to wrestle with in today’s parable.
Ten bridesmaids. Five wise, five foolish. The curious thing is that, for most of the story, you cannot tell them apart. All ten have been invited. All ten show up. All ten bring lamps. All ten expect the bridegroom. And when the wait becomes unbearably long, all ten fall asleep. Notice that. Even the wise ones fall asleep. Jesus is not demanding that we maintain some superhuman level of vigilance. He is not suggesting that faithful people never become tired, never become discouraged, never need to rest. Thank goodness for that.
The difference between the bridesmaids is simply that five have brought enough oil to endure a longer wait than they anticipated. They have prepared not just for the bridegroom’s coming, but also for his delay. And perhaps that is where this ancient parable has something particularly important to say to us.
We know what it is to begin a journey full of enthusiasm and expectation. We know what it is to believe that if we just work hard enough, pray faithfully enough, organize effectively enough, we will see the changes we long for. But we also know what it is to discover that the journey is longer than we imagined. That the work remains unfinished. That some of the things we hoped would be accomplished in our lifetimes may not be accomplished in our lifetimes. And that raises a painful question: How do we sustain hope when we may not live to see the fulfillment of what we hope for? How do we keep our lamps burning when the night is so long?
This question takes on particular urgency as we grow older. There comes a time in life when we begin to realize, in a way we perhaps never did before, that our time is limited. We find ourselves wondering about the world we will leave behind. About our children and grandchildren. About the future of this fragile planet. About the future of our democracy.
These are not small wonderings. Nor are they wonderings we can quiet with easy reassurances. But I wonder whether this parable invites us to ask a somewhat different question. Not, Will the world become what we hope it will become during our lifetimes? But rather, How shall we live faithfully, knowing that we may never see the fullness of what we hope for? And perhaps even more importantly, What will we leave behind that will help others keep their lamps burning?
Because the remarkable thing about Christian hope is that it does not depend upon our seeing the final results. Christian hope is not optimism. Optimism says that things will probably work out. Christian hope says that even when things do not work out as we wish, even when we cannot see a way forward, even when the evidence seems to suggest otherwise, we trust that love is more powerful than hatred, that justice is more enduring than oppression, and that death does not have the final word. Not because history guarantees it. But because God has promised never to abandon this world. And because in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, we have already caught a glimpse of God’s future.
We have seen what God’s dream looks like. And once we have seen it, we cannot simply pretend otherwise. We cannot stop caring about the hungry or turn away from the stranger. We cannot make peace with injustice or decide that the suffering of others is simply the way things are. We have seen too much of God’s dream to settle for that. So, we keep our lamps burning.
And what does that mean, practically speaking? Perhaps the oil in our lamps is the practice of love, repeated day after day, year after year, whether or not we can see its effects. Perhaps it is the stubborn commitment to compassion when the world encourages indifference. Perhaps it is the willingness to stand alongside those who are marginalized, even when doing so is uncomfortable or costly. Perhaps it is the daily work of prayer, worship, friendship, generosity, and forgiveness. Perhaps it is the courage to remain open to change rather than allowing disappointment to harden into cynicism.
And perhaps, especially in this season of life, it is the willingness to invest ourselves in a future we will not personally inhabit. To plant trees whose shade we will never enjoy. To nurture faith in people whose understanding of Christianity may look quite different from our own. To support ministries whose fruits we may never see. To pass along not simply the institutions we have inherited, but the love, courage, curiosity, and compassion that gave those institutions life in the first place.
I don’t know what the future holds for our nation, our planet, our church, or even for those we love most. None of us does. And I cannot promise that the things we have worked for will be accomplished in our lifetimes. But I believe this: the value of our faithfulness is not measured by whether we live to see its results. We are part of a story much larger than our own lives. Generations before us kept the light burning through their own long nights of uncertainty. They handed that light to us, sometimes with trembling hands, sometimes with great confidence, but always in hope.
And now it is our turn. Our turn to keep faith with God’s dream. Our turn to love this wounded world without surrendering to despair. Our turn to make room at the table, to challenge injustice, to care for creation, to nurture the generations coming after us. Our turn to carry enough oil for the long night. And when we grow tired, as surely we will, we can rest. We can lean on one another. We can remember that the light does not depend upon our strength alone. Because the deepest promise of our faith is not that we will succeed in bringing about God’s kingdom. It is that God has not finished with this world. The bridegroom is delayed. The night is long. But the wedding feast is still promised. And even now, in the darkness, there is light. Amen.
