The Night the Lamps Went Out

July 2, 2025 - Matthew 25:1-13

Not all stories end in silence. Some end in the echo of footsteps walking away while the door clicks shut forever.

Jesus told this story in the last light of his life, just outside a city where the air smelled like blood and betrayal. The temple was still standing, yes, but the blood of prophets had soaked its stones.

His own cross was only days away. And instead of running, he sat on the Mount of Olives and told a story about ten girls and a wedding that didn’t go as planned.

Ten lamps. One groom. Five broken hearts.

They All Had Lamps

Every single one of them looked the part. They weren’t skeptics or scoffers or pagans. They were waiting. They were dressed. They had their wicks trimmed. They were church girls, if you like the translation. You’d let them babysit your kids or teach Sunday school. They looked just like the real thing, because they almost were.

Except they weren’t.

Five brought extra oil. Five didn’t. That’s it. That was the whole difference.

It wasn’t a matter of theology. All ten believed the groom was coming. It wasn’t a matter of effort. They had shown up. They’d waited. But five had an unseen reserve. The others had just enough to look ready.

You can call it a detail. Jesus calls it everything.

The Long Night

The groom didn’t come when they expected. He was late. The night dragged on. Their confidence dimmed. Their eyelids drooped.

I know this part. I’ve lived it. Maybe you have too. When the thrill of conversion fades, and your prayers feel like messages in bottles that never wash ashore. When you go to church but wonder if God stayed home. When the promises you once clung to feel like the echo of someone else’s hope.

That’s the long night. It always comes.

And in that long night, it’s easy to forget. Easy to drift. Easy to leave the oil behind. You don’t mean to. You just… never go back for it.

Then comes the cry.

The Sound That Shattered the Silence

Just a voice…piercing, sudden, cold as metal:

“Here is the bridegroom. Come out to meet him.”

That’s it. Just a sentence. But it will divide history.

The lamps flicker. The girls scramble. The prepared pour their oil and rise in quiet strength. The unprepared beg. “Give us some of your oil.”

But oil can’t be borrowed. Not at midnight.

No One Can Get You Ready Then

That’s the brutal heart of this story. You can borrow someone’s theology. You can ride your grandmother’s prayers. You can attend a gospel-preaching church and quote verses all day. But when He comes, the question won’t be what you know. It will be: Do you have oil?

Not did you feel moved. Not did you cry once at youth camp. Not do you own a Bible. Do you have oil?

The kind that burns in the waiting. The kind that survives delay. The kind that no one sees but God.

The Shut Door

The five go in. The others return too late.

“Lord, Lord, open to us!”

You can hear their fists on the wood. You can hear their breathless desperation. But the answer cuts deeper than silence:

“Truly, I say to you, I do not know you.”

There are no second chances in that moment. There’s no pastor to call. No altar to kneel at. No song to stir repentance. What you are then is what you are forever.

And the door shuts.

Not softly. Not slowly. It slams.

Hell Isn’t Fire First. It’s Memory.

That’s what Jesus wants us to see. What makes hell unbearable isn’t the flames. It’s the recollection of an open door that you didn’t walk through. The lamp you didn’t fill. The warnings you waved away. The sermons you critiqued instead of obeyed.

Regret is the fire.

What If You’re Not Ready?

Some of you reading this are the foolish virgins. You’ve got the lamp. You’ve got the playlist. You’ve got a childhood full of VBS crafts and Christian t-shirts. But you’ve never brought oil. You’ve never truly looked to Christ.

I don’t mean did you say a prayer. I mean: Do you love him now? Do you long for his coming, even if it wrecks your comfort? Do you obey his Word when no one is watching? Are you still repenting? Still believing?

The ready don’t rely on their moment. They rely on a man. The One who bled. The One who rose. The One who’s coming like lightning on a clear sky.

The Ozarks Know Something About Waiting

I pastor a little church at the end of a long, winding road. We don’t have traffic lights. We don’t have cell signal. We have silence, stars, and long stretches where nothing seems to happen.

I’ve watched storms roll in from my holler. Watched deer pause before bolting. Watched farmers stand by the fence line, eyes scanning the horizon for a truck that’s running late.

Waiting teaches you things. It exposes what you trust. It shows you who you are when nothing happens.

Jesus is late on purpose.

The delay is the test.

The groom is coming. And when he does, it will be a normal day. The cows will moo. The coffee will percolate. Someone will crack an egg.

And then the sky will split.

Some will rise. Others will knock. One group will step into the light. The other will see it disappear.

Are You Watching?

Jesus ends with a command: “Watch. For you do not know the day or the hour.”

Watch like a man whose house might burn tonight. Watch like a woman whose child might come home. Watch like someone who knows the door is still open…but not for long.

Because the lamps are flickering. And midnight is closer than we think.

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