Pentecost 24, Year A
Matthew 25:1-13
Today’s gospel makes me think about Hanukkah. You might be wondering, “Why Hanukkah? That’s not our holiday as Christians. What does that have to do with anything?"
You’re right. Hanukkah isn’t our holiday. It’s specifically not our holiday, but the holiday honors the work of the same God we worship. Thus, it’s worth considering for a moment.
After his death, Judea (the area of our concern) was ruled by the Ptolemies- Greek-influenced rules from Egypt until 200. At that point, a Syrian king defeated the Egyptian rule and Judea became part of the Syrian empire. (Still with me?) This went okay for about 25 years until the Syrian ruler- Antiochus IV Epiphanes got into a dispute with the leadership of the Temple in Jerusalem. Long story less long, because of internal political divisions in Jerusalem and the pressures on the distant Syrian rules, Antiochus IV went into Judea, wreaked havoc, killed many people, and desecrated the Temple. In doing so, the Temple was out of commission for worship and daily sacrifice for more than 3 years. This means the Jewish people in the area were cut off from their worship rites and consolations for that amount of time.
(If you’re tempted to dismiss that as inconsequential, I invite you to remember how you felt when we were unable to worship in the sanctuary for some amount of time in 2020.)
Under Antiochus IV’s rule, Judaism was outlawed and a large statue of Zeus was erected in the Temple. This was too much for many of the Jewish people in the community and so a large-scale revolt began in 167 BCE. A man named Matthias, along with his five sons, led the revolt. It was his youngest son, Judah Maccabee (aka Judah the Hammer), who completed the effort in 164 BCE and drove the Syrian leaders out of Jerusalem and Judea.
With that victory, the Temple needed to be cleansed and rededicated so that worship could be again. This not only required the physical clean-up but also the ceremonial aspects of recommitting the space to the service and worship of God. Part of that rededication was the required lighting of certain lamps for 8 days. Within the temple, they only found one day’s worth of pure and still consecrated olive oil- in its original jug, sealed with the wax and mark of the High Priest.
They needed a whole week to press and clarify more olive oil, but they decided to at least light what they had as a demonstration of their intention. The miracle of Hanukkah is that the oil lasted 8 days- long enough for them to obtain and consecrate additional oil so that the people’s work in the Temple could begin again and continue. The provision of the oil for longer than expected during this time of rededication was perceived to be a blessing of God’s providence and favor. Commemoration of the miracle during the rededication became a minor festival in Judaism from that time forward, observed in homes with the lighting of candles 8 days in a row at a given time in the Jewish calendar.
If you’re still with me, thank you. If you left off, come back… I’m about to make my connections!
We know by way of notes from rabbinical schools around the time of Jesus’ birth that Hanukkah was being observed. This means that Jesus knew the story of Hanukkah and so did his disciples. It means all his Jewish followers knew the story. It means Mark, Luke, John, and Matthew knew the story.
Which brings me to my question about today’s gospel: if we say that the gospel of Matthew was written between, say, 73-83 AD/CE, how did people go from believing God would provide enough oil in an emergency to believing it was a personal failure not to have enough?
In slightly over 200 years, we go from believing God provided for the community and sustained their needs, to panicking that if we, personally, were not prepared- then it was all over and we were shut out. The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God.
How does a God of provision, mercy, and hope become the bridegroom who locks out the people who didn’t cover their own behinds by having extra oil?
It happens through the loss of hope. By the time Matthew is writing, at least 40 years after Jesus’s ministry and resurrection, two or three generations of believers have come and gone. People who earnestly believed in Christ’s imminent return started to think the stories might have been exaggerated. Children who had heard the stories from their parents and inherited their hope, buried their parents and grandparents without seeing the fulfillment of the promises.
As hope wanes, complacency sets in. People look to other sources for strength and survival. When hope fades, so does care for the community. After all, why should I be bothered to care about you and your needs, when I’ve got my own and your problems have nothing to do with mine?
It is worth noting that in today’s parable, all the waiting bridesmaids fell asleep. Not just the foolish ones, they all (wise and foolish together) became exhausted with the waiting and dozed off. When they were awakened by the shout, the lamps were out, having burned out while they slept. Some of the women had brought extra supplies and relit their lamps. Some didn’t have extra supplies and they panicked, “We’re not ready!” Their friends sent them running to the oil dealers and while they went, the bridegroom came.
Here's the problem with that: maybe you can’t share oil, but you can share light.
Maybe you can’t share oil, but you can share light.
People who remembered the miracle of Hanukkah and God’s provision, it seems to me, would have been likely to say, “Let’s walk together. It might not be quite as bright, but we have enough lamps to welcome the groom.”
Instead, there was panic, hoarding of resources, loss of hope, and then the hyperbolic end to the parable where some people were left in the dark. Left in the dark by the one we allegorize to be the same one who made one day of oil last for 8 days.
I cannot rescue this parable from its terrifying conclusion, but I can give it context. This parable is coming right in a chapter of warning before the story of Christ’s passion. It’s coming right behind many warnings about being prepared for the struggle that will come to believers in the world- mainly to Jewish and Gentile followers of Christ in a territory occupied by Rome.
It is a story about keeping faith and keeping the faith. The early hearers of this story knew they were called into discipleship community- a way of sharing hope together, lest any fall away in despair because Jesus tarried.
We are called into the same type of life- living together, sharing light, waiting in the same dark, refusing to hoard power or resources, and trusting in God’s provision. That trust is not a blind refusal to do anything for ourselves, but an active way of watching for divine provision and sharing it with others.
The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God.
Our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness. That blood, that righteousness, that redemptive love is of the same substance and being as the provision of oil for the Temple lamps, as the keeping of promises to Abram and Sarah, as to forgiveness to David for his sins, as the annunciation to Mary of Nazareth and the inspiration for her canticle of turning.
When we say that God is the same- yesterday, today, and forever- then it means we have hope, confidence in things unseen, that God provided, provides, and will provide. This provision may occasionally be evidenced by individual blessings, but the overarching story of God is blessing and supply for the community. In this way, hope is shared. Light is shared. Mercy is shared.
God grants all we need. God pours forth more than enough. Our cups runneth over. Surely the goodness and mercy that follows us all our days stirs up enough hope that we could share with our neighbor- in word and deed, in church and in the world- so that everyone has enough light to walk together to meet the future.
The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God.
A God who provides. More than enough. For everyone.
Amen.
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