Choose this Day and Every Day

A sermon by Dr. Jim Somerville
Pastor, Richmond’s First Baptist Church
Richmond, Virginia
November 9, 2008
The Twenty Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Matthew 25:1-13

          In our Old Testament lesson for today Joshua, the son of Nun, the successor of Moses, the weary warrior who has emptied the Promised Land with the edge of his sword, stands before the people at Shechem to speak a word from the Lord.  He clears his throat, cups his hands to his mouth, and says in a voice loud enough for all to hear: 

          "Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel!" 

          Joshua reminds the people of all that God has done for them, how he promised Abraham a multitude of descendants, and how he brought the same up out of Egypt; how he gave them a land on which they had not labored, and towns that they had not built; and how they now live in those towns, eating the fruit of vineyards and oliveyards that they did not plant.  In other words, they have been richly blessed, and now they have a choice.  From this mountainside in the land of promise Joshua challenges the people:  "Choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served in the region beyond the River or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living; but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

          Unlike so many of the choices we make, this is a choice that matters.  It’s not like choosing one flavor of ice cream over another, or one cable TV channel out of a hundred.  This is a choice that will determine the course and kind of life God’s people will lead from that moment on.  "Make up your minds about where the center is," Joshua seems to say, "about what direction you will travel, about where your loyalties will lie.  Everything is at stake here."  In this one question Joshua calls Israel and us to decide what is true, what is ultimate, what really matters. 

          "Choose," he says, "whom you will serve."

          Somewhere in your life someone has surely presented you with that kind of choice.  The old-fashioned revival-meeting evangelists were famous for it.  "What will it be?" they thundered.  "Will you live for God or not?  Will you start on the road to Heaven or stay on the road to Hell?  You decide, but you better decide now, before it's too late."  And then they always tell one of those stories, about the revival they preached the week before, where a young man was almost persuaded—almost persuaded—to follow Jesus, but left before he did and then got hit by a train crossing the railroad tracks.  Or the young woman from a few weeks before who hadn’t come down the aisle because her boyfriend was with her and she didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of him.  Well!  You know what happened to her.  That same night, she and her boyfriend had a head on collision with a cattle truck and died.  Or the old man who thought maybe he would make a decision the next night, but had a heart attack that same night on his way out the back door of the church, and who’s sorry now?    

          You know how they go on.  You’ve been to those revivals.  You may remember it like it was yesterday.  There’s the preacher up there, with his hair slicked back and a skinny tie knotted around his neck and a big, floppy Bible in his hand.  He’s preaching like there’s no tomorrow, sweat beading on his brow, spit flying from his mouth.   And there you are, at eleven years old, gripping the pew in front of you till your knuckles turn white and sensing, even at that tender age, that this is one of those choices that makes a difference, that it will be something you live with not only for the next few minutes but for the rest of your life.  "Choose this day whom you will serve!" the preacher bellows, and in the heat of the moment you let go of the pew and stumble down the aisle on rubbery legs as the congregation sings, "I have decided to follow Jesus.  No turning back.  No turning back."

          But here you are, sixty years later, and the only reason you grip a church pew now is to get yourself into a standing position for the closing hymn.  The choice that seemed to matter so much once doesn't seem to matter so much now, and as you stand there you realize that you haven't even made the choice to come to church today:  it was habit, sheer habit, that got you out of bed and into your church clothes this morning, and it is habit, stubborn habit, that will bring you back again next week.  It's not that you mind coming.  You always leave feeling better than you came.  But in your more honest moments you might admit that the enthusiasm of your youth has burned low, the flame of that old decision now sputters on its wick. 

          This is what had happened to the people Matthew’s Gospel was written for.  They had come to faith in Christ thinking that he would return at any moment, with the blast of a trumpet, with a host of angels.  Some early evangelist—maybe it was Paul—had challenged them to make a choice and they had, but that had been how long ago?  Thirty years?  Forty?  He had told them Jesus was coming back soon and they believed him.  For a while they watched the skies every day.  But then the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into years, and now the thought rarely entered their minds.  When they came to church they came out of habit, and perhaps little else.  Matthew writes this Gospel to urge them, among other things, toward a fresh sense of expectancy.  Hadn't Jesus said that no one knew the day or the hour when he would come again?  Hadn't he implied that it would be when everyone least expected it?  And in a flash of inspiration Matthew remembers a story Jesus once told and shares it with his readers. 

          It's a story about choices.

          "Once upon a time there were ten bridesmaids," Jesus said.  "They made a choice to meet the bridegroom, and to accompany him to the wedding feast.  Five of them were wise, and the other five were foolish."  As Jesus tells the story it becomes clear that their wisdom or their folly was measured by how long they were prepared to wait.  Picture the scene:  ten giggling bridesmaids waiting for the groom to come from wherever he was, each of them holding a lamp but five of them carrying flasks of oil as well.  The night drags on, the lamps and the bridesmaids begin to fade, until at last they are all asleep.  Suddenly, from the darkness, there is a shout:  "Here he comes!"  And the bridesmaids leap to their feet, trim their wicks and light their lamps.  But some have added oil first, and while their lanterns blaze like beacons the others sputter and die.  "Lend us some of your oil," the others beg, but alas!  The extra oil is gone and there isn't enough to share.  "You'll have to go to the dealers and buy some," the wise ones say.  But where can you buy oil at midnight?  By the time they have found what they are looking for the party is well underway.  "Let us in," the foolish shout, banging on the door, but when the bridegroom looks out at them he says, "Do I know you?  I don’t think I know you."  And the door is slammed shut. 

          "And that is how it will be in the Kingdom," Jesus says.

          He drops the broad hint in this story that if you're going to make a choice for him, you had better be prepared to see it through to the end.  Those whose commitment and enthusiasm wanes will have no place at the party.  But what Jesus describes here is true for many of us, isn't it?  In his comments on this passage Anthony B. Robinson says that the theme of an "oil shortage" suggests the present plight of many Christians—we're running low.  I hope that’s not true for all of us.  I hope that some of you are finding your lamps filled with fresh oil day by day, especially these days.  But for some of you the opposite is true, your flame is sputtering on the wick.  You need oil for your lamp, but where do you get it? 

          I think about the couple who, after fifty years of marriage, decide to celebrate by renewing their wedding vows.  It isn't really a mutual decision.  She's the one who pushes the idea.  But it's their fiftieth anniversary.  What can he do but go along?  She drags out their wedding album and her fifty-year-old veil (the dress is just a little too snug).  She invites their children and a few of the neighbors.  And on a Thursday afternoon there they are, all dressed up and standing in front of a minister in their living room.  "Sheesh," the old man thinks.  "How'd I get myself talked into this?"  But as the minister turns to him and begins to ask if he will take this woman to be his lawfully wedded wife, it is as if time slows to a standstill.  He thinks about those times that have been better for them, and those times that have been worse.  He thinks about their poorer days, and now their somewhat richer ones.  He remembers her in sickness—Oh, how he remembers!—and in health.  Like watching an old home movie the memories come spooling off the reel, sunlit and silent, flickering across the screen in his mind until he is surprised to find tears in his eyes, and the minister asking him, "Well?" 

          "Well, what?" he asks, embarrassed.

          "Do you take this woman to be your wife?"

          And he turns to look at her, as if he had only just noticed that she was standing there.  It's not the face of his wife he looks at—not "the old lady"—but his bride, her face fresh and lovely beneath the veil, her eyes brimming over with emotion.  And as he looks from her face to the faces of his beaming children and grandchildren he is overcome by love and gratitude, for all that he has, and for all that they have had together.  He feels it then—the dry lamp of his marriage being filled with fresh oil, the charred wick being trimmed and lit, the flame blazing in the darkness.  And in the soft light that shines from his face and from hers in that moment he whispers,

          "I do.  I certainly do."

          Decisions made long ago have a tendency to lose their fire over time:  even our most important decisions.  But what we need to do when we find the wick sputtering, the flame burning low, is not to abandon the lamp or look for another, but to fill that familiar vessel with the oil of fresh commitment.  And to remember: we’re not talking about renewing our commitment to a religious institution, or a set of propositions, or a political party, but renewing our commitment to a person, to Jesus.  What about it?  You who decided to follow him long, long ago, you who are deciding to follow him even now, you who have yet to decide:  Can you see that of all the choices you might make this one is the most important?  And can you understand the need to renew your commitment to him not once every fifty years, but once every day?  Because the truth is, as Bob Dylan sings, “you’re gonna have to serve somebody.”  And the truth is, also, that our deepest commitments, our “core values,” are revealed by what or whom we choose to serve. 

          You can make the decision in a moment of madness to get married, but your commitment to that decision is revealed in a life of loving service to your spouse.  You can make the decision in a moment of passion to become parents, but your commitment to that decision is revealed in a life of loving service to your children.  You can make the decision in a moment of fervor to follow Jesus, but your commitment to that decision is revealed in a life of loving service to your Lord.  It is a commitment lived out in the many small choices we make day after day after day.   It is an understanding that no matter how long ago it was, you have decided to follow Jesus, and from that decision there can be no turning back.  No turning back.

—Jim Somerville © 2008