Between Sundays

As life gets busy in this new ministry year, I want to take a minute to ponder the value of slowing down. Of making room for prayer, for devotional time, for journaling, for sitting with Scripture on a regular basis. And I want to start where Jesus so often starts, with a story. One of his stranger ones, in fact.

Ten bridesmaids wait for the bridegroom, lamps in hand. Five bring extra oil, and five do not. The bridegroom is delayed, everyone dozes off, and at midnight the shout goes up: he is here. The five without oil turn to the five who came prepared and ask them to share. And the answer sounds a little harsh. No. There will not be enough. Go buy your own. By the time they get back, the door is shut.

I have often wrestled with this parable, because it seems to reward the ones who would not share. But, with deeper study and reflection, I’ve learned the key is the oil and what it teaches us about the practice of faith.

The wise bridesmaids are not selfish. They are telling the truth about something that simply cannot be handed over at the last second. There are things in life you can’t just borrow in the moment of crisis. You can’t borrow a relationship with God the night your world falls apart. You can’t borrow years of prayer and quiet faithfulness all at once, when you suddenly need them. That kind of oil is gathered slowly, a little at a time, in the ordinary, unremarkable days when nothing much seems to be happening at all. And then one day that midnight shout goes out, and you discover you have exactly what you need, or you discover that you do not.

This is not a parable about hoarding. It is a parable about tending the lamp now, in the calm, so there is light when the darkness comes. And the way we tend the lamp is prayer.

So let me tell you about one small practice that helps me keep a little oil in the flask. I try, imperfectly, to keep a daily rhythm of prayer and reflection, and one of my favorite companions for it is an app called Pray as You Go. It is produced by the Jesuits in Britain, rooted in the Ignatian tradition, that centuries-old way of praying that invites you to slow down, sit with Scripture, and notice where God is stirring in your life. This year they are marking twenty years of quietly accompanying people in prayer around the world. Each session runs only ten to thirteen minutes and weaves together music, a passage of Scripture, and a few gentle questions to sit with. It is not a sermon. It is not a Bible study. It is simply a doorway into prayer, and most mornings, it is the one I walk through.

Here is what I love about it. It does not hand you answers. It gives you music and a text and a little silence, and then it trusts you and the Holy Spirit to do the rest. It makes room. And making room, I have come to believe, is most of what prayer actually is. Not performing. Not producing the perfect words. Just showing up, growing quiet, and letting God get a word in edgewise. A few minutes at a time, day after day, the flask fills.

Most of us are not very good at this. We live busy, noisy, over-scheduled lives, and we tell ourselves we will pray when the calendar finally clears. But the calendar does not clear itself, and the midnight shout does not check whether we are ready. This is exactly why Jesus says, keep awake. Not to frighten us, but to invite us to live prepared, lamps trimmed, so that whenever we meet him, and we will, we are not scrambling in the dark.

So here is my invitation for this week, offered as a fellow traveler, not an expert. Find your doorway into prayer. Maybe it is Pray as You Go. If you would like to try it, you can find it at prayasyougo.org or wherever you download your apps. Maybe it is a few minutes with your Bible and a cup of coffee, or a walk where you leave the earbuds out and simply listen. The form matters far less than the showing up. Ten minutes. A little music. A little Scripture. A little silence. Oil for the lamp, gathered slowly, against the day you will need it.

Keep awake. Tend the quiet. And keep the light burning.

Until Sunday, and all the days between,
Dr. Hutton