Dancing in the Dark***

MATTHEW 25:1-13

¹“Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. ²Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. ³When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; ⁴but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. ⁵As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. ⁶But at midnight there was a shout, ‘Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.’ ⁷Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. ⁸The foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ ⁹But the wise replied, ‘No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.’ ¹⁰And 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. ¹¹Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, ‘Lord, lord, open to us.’ ¹²But he replied, ‘Truly I tell you, I do not know you.’ ¹³Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

***

So we’ve got these ten bridesmaids. Ten young girls in their fanciest dresses, their hair perfectly set, their feet crammed in the daintiest of shoes. Ten girls waiting for the arrival of the bridegroom.  They're waiting for the haggling over the gifts to be done. Waiting for the groom and the bride’s relatives to come to some sort of agreement. 

The night begins with anticipation and excitement. It’s a celebration!  A party! 

But then the waiting comes. And more waiting. Ten anxious and excited young girls get tired, and they fall asleep.  The bridegroom is delayed. And the excitement dwindles. 

And the doubt comes in. Will he ever come? Where is he? What has taken him so long? 

The lamps grow dim and the darkness descends. 

Imagine the deep darkness of a town before electricity and streetlights, before light pollution and headlights, before the glow of television and computer screens through living room windows. Imagine the heavy, deep darkness. The girls’ eyes are straining to decipher every shadow in the darkness, their ears aching over every crack of leaves and fallen branches underfoot, every shift in the wind that might indicate that their groom is coming. 

But their limbs grow heavy and their eyes grow weak. It’s too much to ask that a group of young girls stay awake any longer. 

And they all fall asleep.

And the bridegroom comes, and they all startle awake, scrambling to smooth their dresses, tuck their hair back in their bobby pins, and grab their lamps, ready to escort the groom to the party. 

And five have enough light. And five do not. 

Five planned ahead. 

They were like those moms on the playground who always have a snack and extra wipes and those tiny bottles of hand sanitizer.

They were like those folks who carry an extra cell phone battery in their glove compartment and always refill their gas before it goes below a quarter of a tank.

They’re the folks who do their homework right when they get home from school and make outlines of their papers before they start writing.

These are the ones who have retirement plans and extra pairs of socks and never run out of clean underwear.

Considering the fact that it is 10:03 on a Saturday night, and I’m still working on this sermon, I suppose you could guess that I am not one of those people. 

It’s a win if I can get my kids out the door with shoes on the right feet and teeth brushed. It’s a win if I don’t have to ask for the extension and I actually do something with the potatoes I bought instead of letting them rot on the kitchen counter. I’m happy if I leave a conversation not feeling like an idiot, and I’m really proud of myself if I can go home and not rewind the tape of the day over and over in my head, trying to figure out how I can do better next time.

I usually don’t eat until I’m famished, so then I cram the closest, quickest thing into my mouth, usually from somewhere in the sugar and caffeine food group. 

I drink too much coffee and not enough water. 

And the laundry always piles up until I have to stay up until midnight waiting for the last load that has the spiderman socks and the not-itchy pants and the ninja turtle t-shirt that is the right color green.

I forget the preschool snack until 8:45 that morning, and I always pay my bills on the 31st.

I ran out of oil a long time ago.

I ran out of oil when my Young Life leader told me that the Muslims in Africa were going to hell.

I ran out of oil when the boy I had a crush on in eleventh grade wouldn’t date me because my boobs weren’t big enough.

I ran out when my parents almost got divorced when I was in fourth grade, and my brother was killed when I was in sixth.

I ran out after the miscarriage and after they rushed my son to the NICU. 

I ran out of oil when my roommate in college told me that the only reason I was depressed was because I wasn’t praying enough.

I ran out of oil because I’ve asked for more -- more faith, more energy, more hope, more commitment, and I was told to go down the street, pray the right prayer, believe the right things, go to the right church, and buy it.

I am no wise bridesmaid.

I’m wandering in the dark.

I’ve run out of oil and my dress is wrinkled and covered in dried leaves and moss and my hair is ratty and I have no idea where I’m going.

Maybe the wise ones have it all together and they have planned for the future and they’re the patient ones who brought the steam iron and the extra bobby pins and their faith is just right and they can stand up and say the Nicene Creed without flinching over the virgin birth -- but they, too, have forgotten where light comes from.

The wise are busy - busy making plans and lists and lists of plans, busy plugging every possible hole and organizing for every possible contingency. They worry about filling the pews and doing the programs. They worry about having enough pot roast at the pot luck and enough bakers for the bake sales. 

And these are all really important things. But that’s not where our light comes from. 

Maybe it’s not about having light at all. Maybe it simply about being able to dance in the dark. Being able to trust that the Bridegroom is there, leading you, instead of the other way around.

Most scholars claim that this is a simple “parousia” parable - a parable about the end times and the waiting for when Jesus comes back. Jesus is praising the wise ones and rebuking the foolish ones. It reminds me of this song the church choir used to sing when I was growing up: “be watchful, be ready, for you know not when the Son of Man is coming” and then they’d end it with this deep baritone solo: “Heeeeeeeee’s Commmmmminnnnngggg!” It was creepy, really. Matthew wants to tell the Christians who are still waiting for Jesus to come back to wait a little bit longer, to be ready, to do good works and fill up their lamps with love and kindness and faith and justice. "I know it's been 25, maybe 50 years after Jesus' death, but hang in there - He's coming.

And that’s all good and well. It’s great even.

But we’re still waiting. It's been 2000 years now, and it’s still dark. And so now the parable must mean something else for us. 

It means that we’re all running out of oil. We’ve all started to forget where our light comes from, and we’re all running low, and we’re all rushing from one thing to the next trying to keep our lamps full, trying to do the right thing and say the right words and come up with the perfect program that will finally get people in these doors. 

But I don’t think it’s about all the stuff, or the plans, or our perfection. It’s not about the oil anymore. 

Jesus has been gone for 2000 years. And he’s coming. Someday. Probably. I mean. I hope.

Or. Maybe he’s already here, dancing with us in the dark.

I’m out of oil, but I’m not going back in to town. 

I’m not going to miss it when the groom comes by.

I’m going to sit here in the dark, and feel it deep into my bones.

I’m going to wander and feel lost and a little bit scared in this heavy darkness.

I’m going to breathe it in. 

I’m not leaving this place to find some artificial light to light my way.

I’m going to stumble over tree roots and uneven sidewalks and fear all that unknown all around me. 

Jesus said he was coming, and I guess he still is. 

Meanwhile, I’m going to try to dance in the dark.

Meanwhile, I’m going to keep searching for the bridegroom even though I have no idea where I’m going. I’m going to follow the glimmer of the ones ahead of me, the ones who did bring enough oil, and I’m going to make it to the party.

Mother Teresa once wrote: "If I ever become a Saint—I will surely be one of ‘darkness,’”… "I will continually be absent from Heaven—to (light) the light of those in darkness on earth.” “Darkness is such that I really do not see — neither with my mind nor with my reason — the place of God in my soul is blank — There is no God in me — when the pain of longing is so great — I just long and long for God.”

Just long and long for God. 

Learn to dance in the dark.

So that when the bridegroom comes, you’re not off on some wild goose chase for some fake light. You’re out there, wandering, searching for God, dancing in the dark because you know that you’re already in, you’re already at the party.

Thanks be to God.

     ***The image and focus of girls dancing in the dark has been shamelessly stolen from a sermon on this passage by Angela Hancock. Seriously, y'all, she's the real thing.

Phylacteries Broad and Fringes Long

MATTHEW 23:1-12

¹Then Jesus said to the crowds and to his disciples, ²“The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; ³therefore, do whatever they teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach. ⁴They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them. ⁵They do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long. ⁶They love to have the place of honor at banquets and the best seats in the synagogues, ⁷and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have people call them rabbi. ⁸But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all students. ⁹And call no one your father on earth, for you have one Father — the one in heaven. ¹⁰Nor are you to be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Messiah.¹¹The greatest among you will be your servant. ¹²All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.

So the other day I was inspired for this sermon by a bumper sticker on a car I saw on the corner of East Liberty and Negley Avenue. It said, “If you’re following me, you’re lost, too.” Ha. I thought about that in direct relationship to my role here at Greenfield. If you’re following me, you’re lost too…

If I were to tell you the truth, I’d tell you that you should do what I say, but not necessarily what I do. I mean, really, I write sermons because I’m a little bit narcissistic. I write sermons so I can hear what I need to hear. So I can tell myself to do what I need to do. 

So often I talk about grace and freedom and letting go of perfectionism and finding time to BE and to sit in God’s lap and to soak up God’s love and to work for justice and to be the hands and feet of Christ…

And then I get so distracted that I leave my coffee mug on the roof of my car and I always say I’ll start exercising tomorrow, which will match my new “quiet time” regimen, and I’ll have a cleaning schedule that would include scrubbing my kitchen floor twice a week. 

I’ll stop buying Starbucks and new pairs of jeans that I don’t really need even though they were 870% off and I’ll be more patient with the folks who come to The Table and I’ll spend more time really listening to my kids. Heck, I’ll put down my computer and the Lindsay Lohan rumor website and bend down to look in their eyes to really get what they’re saying to me. I’ll start my sermons on Tuesday morning.

Friends. Do what I say, not what I do.

And I think it’s so easy to demonize these Pharisees. They’re the ones who parade around the town and are the religious leaders and who know all the answers and have enough money and are the elite in the Jewish world. 

They wear Nikes and eat Big Macs and drink Starbucks and have houses with backyards and college degrees. Not their houses, they’d have the degrees. 

The Pharisees were the ones who helped interpret The Law for the common folks, they were popular, they had a lot of followers and actually were trying to make The Law accessible and relevant to their contemporary culture. 

They weren’t bad. They were just the ones with the two car garages and the steady incomes and the educations. 

You guys. I hate to tell you this. But. They were us. 

And Jesus tells the crowds, the huddled masses of hungry and poor and homeless and weak and bleeding and blind and broken - do what they say, but not what they do. 

They walk around with phylacteries broad and fringes long.

Now, phylacteries are these boxes - usually containing Bible verses - that are worn either around the arm, or around the forehead. It’s a commandment mentioned in four different passages in the Torah, Deuteronomy 6 and 11, and twice in Exodus. You are to wear God’s word as an emblem on your forehead. 

They walk around with phylacteries broad and fringes long.

They are walking around with boxes blocking their view and tassels on the ends of their robes, tripping them up.

They’re walking around so focused on the “right” things - the right law, the right words, the right places and people - that they’re tripping and blind. And they’re bringing everyone else down with them.

Do as they say, but not as they do. 

Sure. We’ve got a lot of good ideas. A lot of good intentions. 

But maybe we’re tripping over our own tassels. Maybe we’re walking around a bit blind ourselves.

But I think the only real thing that Jesus criticizes here, is that the Pharisees are going around acting like they’ve got 20/20 vision, like they’re graceful dancers, or those runway models who never have to practice walking in their high heels before they go out in public.  They think they’re seeing everything clearly and they’re walking a straight line.

But they’re not, Jesus says.

And neither are the crowds all around them. 

And neither are we.

But do we know it? Do we know how very blind we are? Do we know how very clumsy? 

If you’re following me, you’re lost, too.

Imagine how this would sound to the crowds, to the ailing and the mourning and the lost and the hungry who gather around Jesus, looking for answers, seeking truth and healing and hope from him. Imagine hearing that they and the almighty, all-knowing, respected Pharisees are cut from the same cloth. We’re all hungry. We’re all lost. We’re all blind and tripping over ourselves. 

Jesus has torn down the dividing walls of class and education and self-righteousness. 

He has brought the haughty down low, and raised the oppressed. 

Mahatma Gandhi was quoted once as saying, “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” 

Maybe we’ve been tripping over our tassels and we’ve been walking around with only half our sight? Maybe we’ve been acting so unlike our Christ.

Maybe as one of my commentaries states, “Lacking confidence in the divine ‘yes,’ we hypocrites make masks or broadcast our piety in order to win a human ‘yes.’” 

Maybe we’re bringing others down with us because we act like we’ve got it all together. We keep up appearances. We wouldn’t dare being vulnerable with one another.

If you’re following me, you’re lost, too. 

But do you know it?  Do you realize what is tripping you up and making you walk into trees? 

That’s the only difference between us and the crowds surrounding Jesus. They’re a wreck, but at least they know it. At least they admit it. At least they’re not alone in their self righteousness. 

I think Jesus wants us to join the crowds. To realize how very blind and hungry and clumsy and lost we are. Join the crowds that follow him around and beg for his healing and his answers and his forgiveness and his love. Join the crowds and defy the authorities that want to keep us in line, want to keep us on their broken paths. He wants us to quit the robes and the Global Positioning Systems and the Googling and the lattes  and the car payments and follow him. Quit trusting in broken systems of power and oppression. 

It’ll feel like we’re lost. It’ll feel like we’ve made some wrong turns and like we need to get our prescriptions checked at the optometrist’s. 

We’ll be questioning the very people we’ve been told we’re supposed to trust.

We’ll be subverting authority and questioning the status quo.

We’ll not just feed the hungry, but we’ll ask why they’re hungry in the first place.

We’ll not just send a check to the United Way to help support after school programs for kids, but we’ll demand answers for why young black men are dying in the streets.

We’ll not just talk about equality, but we’ll go out into the streets and demand it.

We’ll not just say that everyone needs a roof over his or her head, but we’ll grab a hammer and we’ll start building them.

We’d not just smile and nod at each other on Sunday mornings and be glad that things are as they have always been, but we’d get in the thick of it. Instead of pulpits and altar cloths and thimblefuls of grape juice, we’d share hunks of bread and be vulnerable with each other. We’d build community. Not more buildings. And we’d do church differently.

We’ll not just post political websites and Daily Show episodes on Facebook, but we’ll share a meal with folks who don’t agree with us. We’ll talk out our differences. 

We won’t just proclaim all the right answers and then go home to dinner on the table and extra blankets on our beds. We might have some awkward Thanksgiving dinners with the in-laws, and we might have to worry about getting lice from the homeless man we just hugged. 

We’ll get a little dirty. 

We might get some bruises. Or tear gas in our eyes. We might even go to jail. We’d question authority and do acts of civil disobedience. We’ll get our hearts broken. We might end up crucified, like Christ. 

But we’d know that God is our true Father and Christ our true brother. We’d be empowered to be lost, just like those who gathered around Jesus 2,000 years ago. We’d look beyond the distractions of life and sanctuaries and old crumbling church buildings and see, really see, what God has in store for us. We might have a revolution. We’d be transformed. We’d be resurrected.

Oh God. May they do what I say. And not what I do.

Thanks be to God.