He’s Late!

Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, “Lord, lord, open to us.”

But he replied, “Truly I tell you, I do not know you.”

Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour [Matthew 25:11-131].

When World War II ended in 1945, those who served in the armed forces were generally discharged according to what we’d now call a logarithm that combined two primary variables: (a) one’s length of service, and (b) the amount of time spent at or near “the front lines” of battle. The higher the serviceman’s combined value, the sooner he got a ticket home.

Because our Dad had not been deployed overseas during the war—for nine months, he successfully guarded Denver from the Japanese, and later, for a bit more than two years, he guarded Sioux City (Iowa) from the Germans—he had instructions to turn the lights out after everyone else had been sent home. And so, even though more than three months had passed since “VJ Day” (September 2, 1945), in December 1945, he was still posted to an Army discharge center near Chicago.

In late September, Mother had returned to Gastonia with our older brother, Terry, born that June. Like so many other couples who had endured the anxious war years, they longed to resettle-down and carve out a modest life in post-war America.

Thanksgiving had come and gone. Dad was still in the Army. Into December now, he was still filling out discharge forms near Chicago. The days got shorter and shorter and his spirits began to ebb. Yet every day or so, new rumors would surface explaining that they too would be discharged “any day now.”

As the number of soldiers being processed dwindled, more or less official word came down that their discharge center would be closed on the 20th. With an anticipated two-day train ride home, Dad wired Mother that he’d be home late in the afternoon on the 22nd. Our Uncle “Boot”—Dad’s brother—already home himself, picked Mother up and carried her into town to meet the train, but when it arrived, there was no “T.E.” Obviously, there had been some snafu. And so, with no specific news in hand, Mother returned to her parents’ house in South Gastonia, where she and Terry had been staying, to await further news of Dad’s arrival.

There, of course, hadn’t been a snafu; there’d been a series of them. Dad’s discharge had been delayed with no adequate explanation. He’d tried to wire Mother about the situation, but his telegram had not gone through. Yet, as he boarded the train in Chicago the day he was supposed to arrive home—the 22nd—he hoped, at least, he’d make it by Christmas.

At a quarter after eleven (p.m.) on Christmas Eve, Dad stepped off the train onto the wooden station platform in Gastonia. He was exhausted from the two days of travel, but his spirits were soaring. Tears welled up within his eyes as he glanced upward, gazing through a light snow that promised Bing Crosby’s dream of a “White Christmas” had come true, even down South in the Piedmont of North Carolina.

He tried calling the Grier household, where Mother and her family were awaiting both his arrival and the Advent. Their line was dead. The Operator said that the snow had no doubt taken down the rural telephone line.

He managed to telephone his half-brother, Mason, who agreed to drive to the station to get him. Mason drove Dad back to the Robinson home place, where half-sisters, Edith and Aline, and Dad’s own Mother lived. They clamored that his presence was such a wonderful Christmas present. “Stay here tonight,” they said. “We’ll get you down to the Grier’s in the morning.”

Dad, anxious to see his wife and baby, would have nothing of it. He told them he’d get to South York Road if he had to walk and so, against their protestations, brother Boot said, “Snow or no snow, let’s go.”

Boot got Dad to the old Grier home place about half past midnight. The snow still falling, Dad shook his brother’s hand, and with his duffel bag over his shoulder, he danced up the front steps two at a time. As Dad would retell the story over the ensuing years, early that Christmas morning, he was overwhelmed by the stillness in the air, the gentleness of the falling snow, the strong, clean smell of pine trees, and the relief that his ordeal was finally over. The war was behind him. He was home; he had been reunited with those whom he loved.

He opened the front door—no one locked their doors back then—and stepped into the center hallway. Not a sound—everyone was sleeping. “How should I wake them?” he thought to himself.

“I’m home,” he yelled. “Betty, I’m home.”

In just a few seconds, he heard Mother squeal as she ran down the stairs. She jumped in his awaiting arms and hugged him tightly. It took less than a minute for the entire household to be stirred, for them to put on their night robes, and assemble in the front parlor to welcome Dad home.

“We drove to the station on the 22nd, the day we expected you,” Mother said. “When you didn’t arrive, we weren’t sure what to do.”

“I know. I was delayed,” was Dad’s response. “The only important thing is that I’m here now.”

You see, as I look back on our family story—we seem to have been blessed with so many—Mother and her family were prepared for Dad’s scheduled arrival. They just weren’t prepared for his delay. And, if I may be so bold, I think that’s the point at the heart of Jesus’ “Parable of the Wise Bridesmaids,” Matthew 25:1-13, the Gospel lesson assigned for this upcoming Sunday (the Twenty-Fourth Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year A). You see, it is one thing to be ready for the groom; it is quite another to be ready for the groom’s delay.

If the parable is unfamiliar, here’s a quick summary. Jesus says the kingdom of heaven is like this: Ten bridesmaids take their lamps and begin to await the bridegroom. The “foolish five” have lamps, but no oil. The “wise five” have flasks of oil along with their lamps.

The groom is delayed. All ten gals fall asleep. When the groom finally arrives at midnight, all the bridesmaids get up to greet him, but the foolish five can’t follow after him; they have no oil. Their lamps have burned out while they were waiting. To be sure, somehow they manage to buy some additional oil, but by the time they get back with it, the bridegroom has taken the other five into the wedding banquet, and the door was shut [25:10].

At least two points can be emphasized about this parable of judgment. First, all ten were ready for his quick arrival. The foolish five had some oil in their lamps; they just didn’t have enough to last if the groom was delayed. Second, all ten bridesmaids fall asleep. It isn’t that they/we are required to stay away until the groom’s arrival. Instead, the requirement is that we remain ready in case there is a delay!

And in Christ’s case, there certainly appears to have been a delay. Two thousand years have come and gone and his Parousia, literally, Christ’s “presence that follows absence,” has been delayed. It is easy perhaps to say that we are ready for His return, but are we really ready for the delay in that return?

As we wait with watchful readiness, are we mindful of the words of our Lord when he said, “In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven” [Matthew 5:16].

As a close friend shared with me when we discussed this Parable together a few years ago,

At the beginning of Faith’s journey, one often can’t tell the followers apart. All are excited, all are expectant. They all have lamps, so to speak. They all are dressed for the celebration. They all claim to know the Groom, and they all know how to sing, “Lord, Lord.” Yet as we move deep into the darkness of the night, when we see some of our fellow sojourners franticly trying to fan a dying ember back to life, we begin to distinguish wisdom from foolishness.

Awaiting His delayed return—are we busy loving those around us, even those whom we don’t really like? During this delay—His delay—are we busy forgiving those who have wronged us? Do we support the vulnerable—all who are vulnerable, not just the ones with whom we agree? Do we visit those who are lonely? Do we administer to those who are thirsty or hungry? Do we care for those who are imprisoned, either by walls or psychological barriers?

Got a light?