Midnight Oil

Picture the scene Jesus paints.

Night has settled in. A moon is rising lazy and late. Shadows stretch across the village road. Somewhere nearby, a bride waits with trembling excitement. Her friends surround her with music and laughter and nervous energy. They do not know when the moment will strike. They just know it will.

They clutch their lamps. Warm olive oil inside. Wicks trimmed and ready.

All that’s missing is the Bridegroom.

Jesus gives us this scene on purpose. This is His final public teaching before Calvary. The last story before the crown of thorns. If words could be written in bold red ink, these would be boldest.

“Don’t forget this,” Jesus whispers. “I am coming again.”

Not someday in a metaphor. Not as a poetic symbol or vague spiritual energy. The real Jesus. Our Jesus. With eyes that know your name by heart.

This world has a finish line. History isn’t spinning in circles. The One who lit the universe with a sentence will wrap it up with a shout.

We have a wedding to prepare for.

And what a wedding it will be. Joy that shakes galaxies. Music that vibrates through your bones. Love that looks you in the face. No tears. No funerals. No regrets whispering that you missed your chance to live.

Jesus describes that moment with a simple parable. Ten bridesmaids. Ten lamps. One Bridegroom. One surprise arrival.

Five make it.

Five do not.

Not because God is cruel.

Not because the rules were unclear.

Not because they didn’t want to go.

They just weren’t ready.

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1. Small spiritual details become massive at midnight.

The wise bridesmaids brought extra oil. The foolish ones assumed what they had would last.

The difference wasn’t dramatic. It was a detail.

That’s always how it goes.

Spiritual strength is built in secret.

Not when the spotlight is bright.

Not when the emotions are high.

Not when the organ is swelling just right.

It’s built

• in quiet worship when nobody sees

• in Scripture meditation when the phone is buzzing

• in small acts of obedience nobody applauds

• in daily surrender before temptation has time to pitch a tent

Most people don’t reject Jesus with clenched fists.

They drift with hands in pockets.

If you drop out of prayer for a week, your neighbors may not notice.

If you skip worship for a season, the sky doesn’t immediately crack.

If you put your Bible in a drawer for a year, the sun still rises tomorrow.

So we assume we’re fine.

Until midnight.

Midnight exposes what we nurtured or neglected.

You can’t cram for spiritual readiness the way you cram for a history exam. Lamps don’t refill themselves. Oil must be gathered one day at a time.

That’s why Jesus is talking to believers here.

This is not a parable about atheists rejecting God.

It’s a warning to people who believe the Bridegroom is coming.

They just don’t think it will be tonight.

A quick detour into our living rooms

We have oil for a lot of things.

Oil for success.

Oil for career.

Oil for Netflix binges that stretch into 2 a.m.

Oil for politics that invade every conversation like unwanted spam mail.

But the lamp that matters most often flickers unattended.

Truth is, our priorities are revealed by our preparation.

If your heart is ready for everything except Jesus…

maybe your heart isn’t ready for anything that matters.

One day the knock will come.

One day the shout will echo down the corridor of time.

And faith that seemed invisible will suddenly become the only thing anyone can see.

Let me give you a story I told you I would freshen up.

“It’s my wedding day!”

A groom named Jack was running late. Not a few minutes. Hours. The bride pacing. The family sweating. The pastor checking his watch.

Turns out Jack forgot a tiny detail months earlier…renewing his car registration. Which led to fines he never saw. Which led to his license being suspended. Which led to a little accident on the way to the church. Which led to a police officer running his name. Which led—brace yourself—to his arrest. Booked. Fingerprinted. Given the special tour of the local jail.

He begged. “It’s my wedding day!”

The officer shrugged. “Likely excuse.”

Small, cheap neglect. Huge, expensive consequence.

By God’s mercy, he made it. Barely. With a story that now lives rent-free in every sermon illustration folder.

Neglect doesn’t feel like rebellion.

It feels like delay.

And delay is seductively comfortable…

until comfort becomes catastrophe.

Jesus isn’t shaking His head in disgust here.

He’s shaking us awake in mercy.

Because He doesn’t want us sitting outside the party while the music starts without us.

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2. No one can borrow your relationship with Jesus.

This one cuts deep.