Can I check your oil?

Can I check your oil? 

A Sermon on Facebook Live - Sirach 26:10

Pentecost XXIII - Proper 27A 

November 8, 2020

 

Okay, I’m going to get this out of the way right at the beginning. 

 

No, I’m not going to complain about Matthew. You know by now how I feel about Matthew’s gospel. And, no, I haven’t changed my mind. 

 

This parable of the 10 Virgins or Bridesmaids is not the worst parable in Matthew but that’s because they’re all pretty bad, in my estimation. I honestly believe most of his parables are Matthew’s particular spin on what Jesus said.

 

I suppose he’s allowed. And, I’m allowed not to like it.

 

No, what I want to tell you so I can be done with it is about a church marquee sign I saw while I was in Scotland last year. 

 

The newspapers were filled with headlines about how the Kirk (or Church) of Scotland – which, of course, is Presbyterian – had released its Kirks from the mandatory tithe to the denomination because they understood the churches were so poor they couldn’t possibly pay it. In doing so, the papers said, they had placed the denomination on the certain path to bankruptcy.

 

In my walks around Glasgow and Edinburgh, I noted many Kirk of Scotland Churches that looked pretty stark and foreboding from the outside. My grandmother would have said, “Looks like somebody hasn’t loved that place in a long, long time.”

 

Except there was this one church with a lovely yard, a manicured lawn, a few lovely trees and a well-lit sign. I was intrigued. 

 

As I looked closer to the sign, I read the sermon title for that Sunday, which said, “Would you rather stay awake with wise virgins or sleep with the foolish ones?”

 

I think I said, right out loud, "O, good grief!" 

 

My next thought was, Well, I guess if people are going to walk by your church you might as well entertain them. And then, I understood about the bankruptcy thing.

 

If this is the first time you’ve heard the Parable of the Virgins (or Bridesmaids) or if it’s been a while since you last heard it, let me recap. There are ten virgins (bridesmaids) who are waiting for the bridegroom with their oil lamps.

 

The custom in the Middle East at that time was that the virgins would await the arrival of the bridegroom and greet him with a procession of light in the darkness, which marked the beginning of the wedding event. If you missed it, you were out of luck. Five of the virgins brought extra oil for their lamps in case the bridegroom was delayed; five did not.

 

When the lamps of the "unprepared five" began to dim, they asked those who were prepared for their extra oil, but there wasn't enough to go around. Those who did not plan ahead were left out, they missed the procession and the wedding. 

Please note that it was somehow the virgin/bridesmaids fault or responsibility that the groom was late. I mean, seriously?

 

Let’s set aside, for a moment, Matthew’s apparent obsession over who can get into heaven and whether or not we will be left out of the procession to heaven because we didn’t bring enough oil.

 

Let’s ask, instead, what is it that ‘fuels’ our lives of faith so that we may be the Light of Christ for others? 

 

What is the power source that increases our belief and provides us with the confidence to wait “in sure and certain hope”, even in the darkest moments of our lives? 

 

Indeed, what is it that we must build up our own reserves and cannot borrow from others?

 

When I was a little kid, I used to love to drive with my father in his Studebaker. On Saturday mornings, we would take the trash to the dump. That was my absolute favorite time to drive with my Dad.

 

None of my siblings wanted to come along. They wanted to watch dumb cartoons which – unless they were Looney Toons – just bored me. So, it was just me and my dad, off to the dump, sure, but there were no interruptions and no competition from my siblings for attention. Cartoons or time with my dad? No contest.

 

Besides, I liked the ritual of it. First, we would stop off at the gas station. The gas station attendant would come bounding out of the station house. 

 

He always wore a gray pinstriped jumpsuit with a freshly laundered, white T-shirt underneath. On Sundays he wore a shirt and tie because he had gone to early mass and slipped his jumpsuit over his church clothes. And, a hat. He always wore a hat. Which he tipped when he said hello or goodbye.

 

He always greeted my father by he formal name and my father always returned the favor. Mr. Gilbert was his name, and he always looked at me, tipped his hat, and ask, “How are you, Little Lady? Why, you get prettier every time I see you.” I would blush and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert.”

 

If there were special uniforms to be worn, there was also a liturgy to be followed. A greeting, a welcome, a tip of the hat, and then the petition. 

 

“Fill ‘er up with high test,” my father would say. 

 

“Sure thing,” Mr. Gilbert would respond, right on cue as he turned to twist off the gas tank cover and insert the nozzle.

 

Just like that, he’d return to the window and say, “Check your oil?” 

 

“Hmm… ,” daddy would always say, “I think she’s okay but you better check.”

 

And then, my daddy would get out of the car and join Mr. Gilbert as he lifted the hood and the two men would talk about the Boston Red Sox or the Patriots or the boxing match the night before, or what was happening in politics. 

 

While they chatted, Mr. Gilbert would pull out the long dipstick and then the two men would examine it, and then Mr. Gilbert would wipe it off and put it in again and then pull it out with a flourish and then he and my father would Really Examine it.

 

Most times, Mr. Gilbert would always pronounce it well by saying, “Yup, you’re good for another week, Mr. Souza,” as he took the oil cloth from his back pocket, wiped the dip stick, placed it back in the dipstick holder, and then carefully closed the hood of the car.

 

The two men would chat some more before daddy took out his wallet and fished out a couple dollars which Mr. Gilbert would take inside the station. 

 

He’d come out with change and . . . this was the BEST part, the part I never told my siblings or even my mother . . . a Tootsie Roll pop.

 

Before my father could return to his seat, Mr. Gilbert would always lean into the window and hand me my treat and say, “Here you go, Little Lady. You win the prize for being the prettiest little girl at my gas station.”

 

I would smile and clap my hands and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert,” and even though it was only 9 o’clock in the morning, I opened it and started eating it. And, my father didn’t stop me. My mother would have. Not my father. It was my reward and our secret. Besides, I would have polished it off by the time we got back home.

 

Now, I dare say that what I have just described no longer happens at gas stations any more.  I would be thrilled to know that it did, but it certainly hasn’t been my experience. No one knows your name. No one asks to check your oil. You’re lucky if anyone washes your windows. In fact, here in Delaware, you have to pump your own gas. And, if your oil needs checking, you can do that on your own as well.

 

I’m not sure how often my father changed his oil but it seemed to me to be pretty often. It used to be normal to change the oil every 3,000 miles, but with modern lubricants most engines today have recommended oil change intervals of 5,000 to 7,500 miles. Moreover, I’m told that if your car's engine requires full-synthetic motor oil, it might go as far as 10-15,000 miles between services!

 

So, it’s pretty easy to fall out of the habit of checking your oil – or being prepared, being ready – especially if you don’t have to anymore. We can get complacent with our lives. Worst, we can become careless, as in care less.

 

I have come to see that some of our cultural liturgies and rituals served as guardrails on life’s journey. Most of them are gone now, and, I think, our lives are the poorer for their absence.

 

It’s been eight months since many of us have been back in our churches. Eight unbelievably long months. And, even those of us who have been back into our church buildings find it not as satisfying and long for us to “get back to normal” – and, we know exactly what we mean when we say “normal”.

 

This might be a good time – especially as we face repairing the breach in our country after one of the most contentious election cycles in history and the country remains very much on edge – to check in on each other. Yes, COVID has made that important but I’m not talking about just the status of our physical condition.

 

Maybe we need to set up little rituals of relationship. If you haven’t already, maybe that starts with actually introducing ourselves to our neighbors. Maybe the next time we’re at the gas station, we introduce ourselves to the attendant or, if we’re at a self-serve place, to talk to the attendant in the little booth. 

 

Or, try to go grocery shopping on the same day and talk to the person behind the deli counter, the bakery, the meat or fish counter and the checkout register. Ask for their names. Tell them your name. Say ‘please and thank you’. Smile.


I'm told that it wasn't so long ago when people greeted each other with the question, "Is it well with your soul?" How lovely. 

 

Relationships are fuel for our soul, they are the stuff that make us shine with the love of God which seeks the Christ in every person and respects the dignity of human being. 

 

Forming relationships, respecting the dignity of every human being, are the ways we can heal the soul of this nation.

 

I don’t know and I can’t be sure, but I’m thinking that setting up little social and cultural rituals and liturgies can help us form those relationships – even in the midst of the COVID pandemic.

 

So, let’s not worry about who will get into heave and who won’t, shall we? I keep thinking of that little Kirk in Glasgow. Instead of a snarky sign about staying awake with wise virgins or sleeping with foolish ones, what if it said, simply, “Check your oil?”     

 

 Amen.