And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet, and the door was shut. Later the other young women came also, saying, ‘Lord, lord, open to us.’ But he replied, ‘Truly I tell you, I do not know you.’ Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour. (Matthew 25: 10-13)
One of my two kids always regarded my competence with suspicion. Okay, a whole lot of suspicion. From the moment they had enough words, I was regularly grilled. “How do you know that?” “Why would you do that?” “Why did you think you COULD do that?”
There’s nothing quite like a tiny, cross person, who looks so darn cute and whom you love sooooo much, taking you down a peg or two.
Because, really, most of parenting, for me anyway, was flying by the seat of my pants. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.
Eventually, I got tired of justifying myself and started messing with the whole thing. Probably not a stellar parenting decision.
I was driving to my in-laws’, a weekly trip so the kids could grow up knowing their grandmother. Just as we left the driveway, the accusatory voice piped up from the back seat.
“Mommy, how do you know where we are going? This, after all, is Daddy’s mommy we’re visiting, not yours.”
“Oh, you’re right,” I responded. “I don’t know the way. I guess we’re going to Montreal.”
Yup. Chaos ensued.
I had to pull over to settle one child, which, because kids, also meant settling the other. There was palpable relief when we arrived at my mother-in-law’s open arms and fresh muffins.
The whole scenario still makes me giggle because it’s an analogy for how we relate to God. God has consistently demonstrated love and care, and yet we keep questioning God’s competence.
Are you SURE you know where we’re going?
Spoiler alert. God isn’t flying by the seat of God’s pants.
That doesn’t mean the journey will be predictable, comfortable, or remotely like the itinerary we would have chosen. Trusting God isn’t believing that nothing difficult will happen. It’s believing that difficulty doesn’t mean we’ve been abandoned.
Which brings us to those bridesmaids.
Honestly, this parable makes me squirm. The shut door. The refusal to share. Those awful words, “I do not know you.” Where are the open arms? Where are the muffins?
We shouldn’t pretend the ending isn’t troubling. But neither should we turn it into permission to decide who belongs inside God’s love. That isn’t our job.
I’m not sure that you noticed, but the story tells us that all ten bridesmaids fall asleep. The difference isn’t that some manage to remain perpetually alert. The difference is their readiness for a delay.
They have prepared for the possibility that the waiting will last longer than expected.
Well. That feels familiar.
Change is difficult enough when there’s a clear beginning, middle, and end. Waiting through change is another thing entirely. Something familiar is ending, something new hasn’t taken shape, and nobody can give us a reliable arrival time.
We pray. We make plans. We revise the plans. We wonder whether God has misplaced the directions.
And sometimes we mistake the absence of an answer for the absence of God.
Perhaps the hardest part is allowing the waiting to change us, too. Not rushing to fill every silence. Not insisting that yesterday’s map must describe tomorrow’s road. Learning to notice Christ beside us now, rather than assuming we will meet God only when everything is settled and the anxious questions finally stop.
But waiting isn’t necessarily evidence that nothing is happening. Nor is it proof that we have failed. Faithfulness can look like staying open to a future we cannot yet describe.
For the whole of our Region, that matters. Our calling reaches beyond the survival of any single congregation. We belong to a wider community of faith, called to listen, discern, and care for one another through change.
What might it mean to ask not simply, “How do we keep everything going?” but, “What is God inviting us to become together?”
Those are different questions.
The first can leave us gripping the familiar until our knuckles hurt. The second makes room for grief, curiosity, and possibilities we haven’t considered.
Trusting God doesn’t require us to call every change good. Some changes hurt. Some decisions need challenging. Some losses deserve tears rather than a cheerful explanation about God having a plan.
We can trust God and still ask questions. We can trust God and seek help. We can trust God while admitting that we are tired and would very much like to arrive already.
The oil, perhaps, invites us to consider what sustains that kind of faithfulness. Prayer. Scripture. Rest. Honest conversation. Worship. Relationships that remind us we don’t have to carry everything alone.
Not spiritual fuel hoarded against somebody else’s need, but practices that keep us available to God and neighbour over the long haul.
And waiting is not an excuse to stop loving until the future becomes clear. There are neighbours to feed, lonely people to visit, injustices to challenge, and stories to hear. The work of mercy doesn’t require a completed strategic plan.
Across our Regional Council, we can encourage one another without pretending every community needs the same answer. We can share wisdom, acknowledge weariness, and make room for new ministry without declaring the old ministry worthless.
That, too, is keeping our lamps ready.
I knew the way to my mother-in-law’s house. My children didn’t need to know every turn to be loved through the journey.
The analogy has limits, obviously. God isn’t a mother making an ill-advised joke about Montreal.
But we don’t need to know every turn, either.
We need to keep making room for love, for courage, for the next faithful step.
Even in the waiting.
Blessings today, and remember you are Loved.
~Rev. Lynne