01.27. Chapter 7. The Ten Virgins

Chapter 7.
The Ten Virgins Or, the Judgment of Foolish Citizens of the Kingdom

Then shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten virgins, who took their lamps,[1] and went forth to meet the bridegroom. And five of them were foolish, and five were wise.[2] For the foolish, when they took their lamps, took no oil with themselves. But the wise took oil in their vessels with their own lamps. Now while the bridegroom tarried, they all nodded[3] and slept. But at midnight is raised a cry, Behold the bridegroom; come ye forth to meet him.[4] Then arose all those virgins, and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish said unto the wise, Give us of your oil, for our lamps are going out. But the wise answered, saying, Lest there be not enough for us and you, go rather to them that sell, and buy for yourselves.[5] And while they were going away to buy, the bridegroom came; and the virgins that were ready[6] went in with him to the marriage-feast, and the door was shut. Afterwards came also the other virgins, saying, Lord, Lord, open to us. But he answered and said, Verily I say unto you, I know you not. Watch, therefore, for ye know not the day nor the hour.—Mat 25:1-13.

[1] λαμπάδος, properly torches. Probably the ’lamps’ consisted of a short wooden stem held in the hand, with a dish at the top in which was a piece of cloth dipped in oil or pitch. Lightfoot (’Hor. Heb.’) gives from the Talmud an account of torches used at marriages among the Ishmaelites answering to this description. They carry before the bride "decem baculos ligneos, in uniuscujusque summitate vasculum instar se utellæ habentes, in quo est segmentum panni cum oleo et pice." The number ten is noticeable.

[2] Such is the order in the chief uncials, and adopted by Tischendorf, Westcott and Hort, and the R. V.

[3] ἐνύσταξαν. The nodding was transient, the initial stage, hence the aorist; the sleeping was continuous, hence ἐκάθευδον, the imperfect. Nodded is a familiar word, but it has the merit of stating exactly what happened, and conveys the idea that as the night advanced the virgins were overtaken with drowsiness.

[4] εἰς ἀπάντησιν: literally, "unto meeting:" a familiar and important ceremony.

[5] μήποτε οὐκ, which Goebel renders ’never,’ making the refusal unnecessarily peremptory. The rendering above given is Campbell’s, after the Vulgate.

[6] αἱ ἕτοιμοι = the ready ones, viz. the wise virgins. The last of the parables is one of the most beautiful and touching. The arts have been made to minister to its illustration: poetry, painting, and the drama have combined to give it an exceptional hold on the Christian imagination. The weird pathos of the story is unspeakable. The occasion is so happy, the agents so interesting, the issue so tragic. It is a wedding that is on hand; the characters brought on the stage are virgins, young, bright, and fair; the fate of some of them is so hard—exclusion from the marriage festivities at which they so longed to be present, and for so slight a cause—a little too late. One’s heart is sore for those five witless, luckless girls. A parable like this one would rather silently read than expound; for exposition is almost certain to mean turning poetry into prose. For another reason one shrinks from the interpreter’s task in the present instance. No parable has been so completely taken possession of by allegorising theology. The natural story has been buried beneath a heap of spiritual meanings which have been accumulating from the patristic period till now. To every word—virgin, bridegroom, lamp, oil—has been assigned its emblematic significance. A comparatively sober Catholic commentator counts fifteen parts which have their spiritual equivalents, not reckoning among these the part in which the foolish virgins are represented as going to buy, which he regards as a mere ornament.[1] To go against the exegetical tradition of well-nigh two thousand years is not only audacious, but almost profane. And yet there is no parable in which preliminary discussion of the story apart from the moral interpretation seems more urgently needed. Convinced of this, we must decline to ask such questions as what does the oil signify, until we have formed a clear idea of what persons whose oil-supply had run out would be likely to do at an ordinary wedding. The result of our inquiry may be to place us in the undesirable position of an almost solitary dissenter. Yet what can one do but state honestly the opinions which, after much reflection, commend themselves to his mind?

[1] Maldonatus. The situation, or course of events, is by no means clear. The movement of the narrative is rapid, many details are omitted, only the salient points necessary to the moral lesson being given; and, as has been remarked, the information supplied by travellers and writers on antiquities concerning Jewish customs do not afford much help towards filling up the picture.[1] Such information carries us little beyond the generality of a torchlight procession, which was not peculiar to Judaea, but formed a feature in the marriage customs also of Greece and Rome.[2] We read of ten virgin-companions of the bride, whose function it was[3] to go forth with lamps to meet the bridegroom. But from what point did the torchlight night journey start? and how are we to conceive its progress? To these queries no less than four distinct answers are given by the commentators. They may be briefly stated thus:—

[1] So Fritsche and Bengel.

[2] Vide Wetstein for references to classic usage.

[3] αἵτινες, Mat 25:1, implies that the clause following describes the kind of virgins meant. They are bridesmaids.

1. The virgins set out from their own homes with lamps in hand, arrive one after the other at the bride’s home, there wait for the announcement of the bridegroom’s approach, whereupon they prepare to accompany him, with his bride, to his house, where the nuptial festivities are celebrated.[1]

2. The virgins meet at the bride’s home, their rendezvous. How or when they get there is a matter of indifference to the parable. There they wait till the approach of the bridegroom is announced; then, for the first time, they proceed to light their lamps, that with these they may go forth to meet the bridegroom and conduct him to the bride’s house, where, and not in his own house, the marriage takes place.[2]

3. The virgins, assembled at the bride’s house, set out with their lights to meet the bridegroom without waiting for the announcement of his approach, expecting him to come at a certain time. When they have gone a certain length on the way it becomes apparent to them that he is not coming so soon as was expected, and, weary with the journey, they turn aside to some halting-place—an inn, a private dwelling, or the roadside—to rest, and are soon overpowered with sleep, from which they are aroused by the cry, The bridegroom is at hand; whereupon they join his party and return with them to the bride’s house.[3]

4. The virgins join the procession of the bridegroom and the bride coming from the house of the latter and going to the house of the former; meeting the bridal party at some convenient point on the road at which they have gathered.[4] [1] Bornemann in ’Studien und Kritiken, 1843, Ewald, Greswell.

[2] Goebel.

[3] Bleek, Meyer, &c.

[4] Trench Arnot, Lange. The difference which chiefly concerns us in these four hypotheses is that between the second and all the rest. That view implies that the foolish virgins had no oil at all, while all the others imply that they took with them from their homes oil enough to last for the time which they expected to elapse before the arrival of the bridegroom. On the one view their folly consisted in never thinking of oil, and merely taking the empty lamps; on the other it consisted in taking only as much as was usually sufficient, and making no provision for the possible case of the delayed arrival of the bridegroom. The author of the second hypothesis insists, in support of it, on the reflexive pronoun ἑαυτῶν after λαμπάδας in Mat 25:1, and before ἔλαιον in Mat 25:3. The foolish virgins took their own lamps, but they took not their own oil; for that, or for the light, that oil gives, they trusted to others; it would be enough to be in the company of those who had light-giving lamps. The expression, "Our lamps are going out," in Mat 25:8, he thinks does not mean the oil in our lamps is exhausted, but simply implies that wicks had been kindled in oilless lamps, which of course were no sooner lighted than they began to go out. Against the more common view he argues that it makes the wise far too wise, for how should they be able to guess that the arrival of the bridegroom might possibly be delayed a considerable time? Moreover, he contends that in any case there was no need for an extra supply of oil. The lamps were not needed till the arrival of the bridegroom was announced, and the procession of virgins to meet him went only a short distance, and lasted only a short time. The idea of the virgins setting out in a haphazard way, without any announcement, to meet the bridegroom, is altogether unlikely, and the halt on the road for rest absurd, and contrary to all notions of propriety. The argument is ingenious, and in some points, especially the last referred to, cogent; but the hypothesis in question has its assailable points also. If some of the other views make the wise too wise, it in turn makes the foolish too foolish. It is surely possible to be as foolish as the moral of the parable requires without being so foolish as to take lamps without ever thinking of oil! In fact, the folly of the foolish virgins on this view has no relation to the moral lesson. Suppose the bridegroom had not tarried, the foolish virgins would have been equally at fault. But the point of the parable is to illustrate the effect of delay, or of the unexpected, in testing forethought, which is the chief part of wisdom. Besides, on this view it is difficult to see why the foolish virgins trimmed, that is to say, lighted, their lamps. They knew they had brought no oil, they knew why they had neglected to do so, viz. because they reckoned it enough that their companions should have lamps that gave light. Why did they not continue to be of this mind, and join the procession with lamps unlit? Were they so foolish as not to know that a wick without oil to feed the flame would not continue to burn? One other objection may justly be taken to the hypothesis in question. It seems intended to obviate the difficulty in the spiritual interpretation arising from the fact of the foolish having oil—faith, hope, love, yet after all failing to attain salvation. The hard problem is solved by the simple method of degrading the foolish virgins into mere formalists. They have their own lamps,[1] and probably are very conscious of the fact; but they have not that without which lamps of religious profession are of no use, viz. the oil of grace.

[1] Greswell, adopting the reading ἐν τοῖς ἀγγείοις ἑαυτῶν μετὰ τῶν λαμπάδων in Mat 25:4, makes a point of the fact that the vessels for extra supply of oil were the property of the virgins, while the lamps are not said to be. "Though their lamps might have been received from any other quarter, the vessels in question must have been provided for themselves. The original provision of the lamps, with their ordinary supply of oil, conveying as it did the privilege of an invited guest, or being an evidence thereof, might be due to a cause independent of themselves; but the provision of vessels, at the same time, was a precaution which emanated from the wise virgins themselves." On the whole it appears certain that the general tenor of the story and its didactic purport demand that we should suppose that all the virgins alike were furnished with a certain amount of oil, such as would have sufficed for ordinary circumstances, and that the distinction of the wise virgins and the proof of their wisdom consisted in their taking with them an extra supply in vessels used for that purpose, whether attached to the torch handle or carried separately. In all other particulars we are willing to adopt the second hypothesis and to conceive of the circumstances thus: The virgins come from their own homes to that of the bride with lamps burning, there rest waiting for the announcement of the bridegroom, their lamps still burning or blown out. When the cry is raised, they all rise and trim their lamps, the wise pouring in more oil, the foolish lighting theirs as they were, to discover soon that the oil was exhausted. The procession goes forth to meet the bridegroom, to conduct him to the bride’s house, where the marriage takes place. Usually the marriage-feast was celebrated in the house of the bridegroom,[1] but the practice does not appear to have been uniform, exceptions occurring in the sacred history, as in the cases of Jacob and Samson,[2] and reasons readily suggest themselves why the parabolic representation should follow the exceptions rather than the rule.

[1] This fact may account for the reading of D in Mat 25:1, which adds to the text καὶ τῆς νύμφης = to meet the bridegroom and the bride.

[2] Gen 29:22; Jdg 14:10.

Having settled one question respecting the oil, in finding that the folly of the foolish virgins consisted not in bringing no oil, but in not bringing enough, we have now to deal with another more difficult and delicate, viz. was the oil indispensable? Would the foolish virgins have been excluded from the feast supposing they had joined the procession and arrived in good time, simply on the ground that they carried lamps which gave no light? This question the commentators do not so much as ask themselves, yet with one consent they virtually answer it in the affirmative. They come to the parable with the foregone conclusion, that the oil, like the wedding garment, signifies some necessary grace, faith, love, &c., without which no man can see the Lord, and of course they find themselves shut up to the conclusion that the foolish virgins were placed in the fatal dilemma of being obliged on the one hand to procure oil somehow, and on the other to make themselves too late for the feast by their endeavour to obtain the needed article. It is an extreme instance of exegesis dominated by homiletic preoccupation. The bondage is so complete that it may appear almost an impiety to claim the liberty to hold a different opinion. And yet there are good reasons for doubting the soundness of the exegetical tradition at this point. One is the endless diversity of opinion as to the emblematic significance of the oil. Every interpreter has his own conjecture. The oil is faith, charity, almsgiving, desire for the praise of God rather than the praise of men; good works in general, the Holy Spirit, diligence in the culture of grace, religious joy. In short, it is anything you please; each conjecture is purely arbitrary, one is as legitimate as another, and the multiplicity of opinions justifies the inference that they are all alike illegitimate. Another reason for doubt is the fact that in the parable the ground of exclusion is not want of oil, but lateness.[1] They that were ready went in with the bridegroom to the marriage-feast. They were ready by being present, while the others were away in quest of oil. Had these absent ones been present and gone on with their sisters, they would, for anything that appears to the contrary, have been admitted also. But the chief consideration that weighs with us is that drawn from the natural probabilities of the case. Suppose it were the story of an ordinary wedding, not intended to convey any spiritual lesson. A number of young women are about to set out on a torchlight procession in the evening to escort the bridegroom. Some of them have mislaid their torches, and cannot find them in the hurry when the cry is raised The bridegroom is at hand! or, as in the parable before us, their torches are rendered useless for want of oil. What are they to do? Run the risk of making themselves too late by searching for their torches or going in quest of oil, or fall into the procession? Of course they go on with their companions, and of course they are admitted to the feast with the rest. For though the carrying of a lighted torch is a part of the festive ceremonial, and belongs to the conventional proprieties of the occasion, it is not the essential element The essential element is the welcoming of the bridegroom; the carrying of lights is an accident due to the fact that the procession takes place by night. If this be a correct representation of what would happen in natural life, and all that we learn from those conversant with Eastern customs confirms it,[2] then it was simply a second act of folly on the part of the foolish virgins to disqualify themselves for showing honour to the bridegroom, and to make themselves late for the feast by going away to buy oil, so turning an accessory into an essential, and imperilling substantial interests by scrupulous regard to ceremony. Had they been wise they would have gone on as they were, and so gained an admission to the festive hall.

[1] Weiss, ’Das Matthäus-Evangelium,’ says that the want of oil does not, any more than the sleep, cause exclusion from the feast. It mocks, he adds, every allegorising interpretation.

[2] The passage cited from Ward’s ’View of the Hindoos’ by Trench, ana after him by Morrison, is quite in accordance with our view. Ward mentions that, at a certain marriage ceremony which he witnessed, the bridegroom, coming from a distance, kept the party waiting for him several hours. Then, his arrival being announced in words similar to those in the parable, all lighted their lamps, and ran to join the procession. Some, however, lost their lamps. What then? The author says—"It was too late to seek them, and the cavalcade moved forward," not saying, but implying, that those who had lost their lamps did not waste time in seeking them, but went on without them (vide vol. ii. p. 171).

According to this view the foolish virgins act in character from first to last. They are fools all through. They are foolish first in taking only a limited supply of oil, assuming that the usual will happen; while the wise with characteristic forethought make provision for the unusual, that is, for the possible case of unexpected delay. They are foolish next in going away at an unseasonable hour to purchase oil instead of taking their place in the marriage procession as they were, a little put to shame by their dark lamps, nevertheless making sure their part in the main events of the occasion, the welcoming of the bridegroom, and admission to the wedding feast. Such consistency of character commends itself as intrinsically probable. The only serious objection to the hypothesis is the fact that the suggestion to go and buy oil comes from the wise virgins. How, it may be asked, could they advise their sisters to do a foolish thing? Does not the very fact of their giving such advice imply that to procure a supply of oil was indispensable to admission? Now it is not necessary in order to meet this difficulty to adopt the suggestion of Augustine, that the advice of the wise was only an exemplification of that mockery of wisdom at the calamity of folly spoken of in the book of Proverbs.[1] There is certainly not a little in the circumstances to give plausibility to this view. The hour was midnight, and the bridegroom was at hand, what likelihood of being able to get oil at all when the shops of those who sold were shut, and their owners in bed? What chance of getting it at least in time, however near the houses of the vendors might be? To say in such circumstances, Go and buy, was very like heartlessly advising to do the impossible. But the conduct of the wise can be explained without ascribing to them cruelty. Sudden emergencies bring into play a certain element of selfishness. Then it is every one for himself. The sharp loud cry is raised, Behold, the bridegroom is at hand! Excitement and hurry pervade the house, each one is engrossed with her own business, and when help is sought by the shiftless from the shifty it is declined with the best answer that occurs at the moment. In natural life one might say to another, "Go and buy for yourself," without expecting the advice to be taken seriously, yet without intending to mock. Objectively the advice of the wise virgins to the foolish was a mockery; subjectively it was nothing more than a declinature to be burdened with their neighbours’ affairs.

[1] Augustine’s words are, Non consulentium, sed irridentium, est ista responsio (Serm. xciii. 8); similarly in Epist. cxl. 31.

If the foregoing view be correct, the oil, hitherto regarded as a symbol of grace, under one aspect or another, ought rather to be reckoned a symbol of the means of grace; and the action of the virgins who went to buy oil will represent the superstitious importance attached to such means by a certain class of religionists to the peril of their spiritual interests. Taking together the two acts of tolly committed by the foolish virgins, the neglect to take a sufficient supply of oil, and the unseasonable attempt to provide what was lacking, the resulting character is marked by two salient features—lack of forethought and superstitious regard to form, or, to express it otherwise, vain regard to appearance. That is to say, folly reveals itself in this parable under the same guise as in another parable, in which a contrast is drawn between the foolish and the wise, that, viz. with which the Sermon on the Mount concludes; and the fact confirms us in the belief that the view we venture to take is correct. The foolish builder is a man who thinks not of the future, and who has regard only to appearances; while the wise builder keeps in view the uncertainties and dangers of the future, and is not content with mere appearance. The characteristic differences come out in connection with the cardinal question of the foundation. The one builder, the wise one, makes the foundation of his house a matter of serious consideration; the other begins to build without ever thinking of a foundation, and therein shows his folly. His mistake does not consist, as is often imagined, in making a bad choice of a foundation; but in acting as if a foundation were a matter of no consequence, beginning to build anywhere, on the loose sand, on the banks, or even in the bed of a river, dried up by summer heat. This appears very clearly from Luke’s report of our Lord’s words.[1] He that heareth and doeth is there compared to a man who "built a house and digged deep and laid a foundation[2] upon the rock;" and he that heareth and doeth not to a man that, "without a foundation,[3] built a house upon the earth." That is, the one takes great pains with the foundation of his house—digs below the surface, and goes deep in digging—digs till he reaches the rock; the other takes no pains about a foundation, provides none indeed, but begins at once to build at haphazard on the surface of the ground. It is thus not a case of choosing well between two possible foundations, one good, the other bad; but rather a case of attending to or neglecting the foundation. And the question to be considered by the expositor or preacher is not what are the two foundations represented respectively by the rock and the sand, but what are the qualities of character implied in attending to or neglecting the foundation of a house. The rock and the sand have no independent significance, the one didactically important point is the contrast of character brought out by the difference indicated in the respective ways of disposing of the question of a foundation.

[1] Luk 6:46-49.

[2] θεμέλιον, without the article, implying that a foundation is not, as usual, a matter of course.

[3] χωρὶς θεμελίου In what respects, then, do the characters of the two builders, behaving as represented, stand in contrast? Obviously in two respects. First, the wise builder has a prudent regard to the future. He anticipates the coming of storms, and aims at being well provided against these. The foolish builder, on the other hand, thinks only of the present. It is sunshine to-day, and he recks not of to-morrow and the storms it may bring. Then, secondly, the wise builder looks not merely to appearance. The question with him is not what will look well, but what will stand. The foolish builder, on the contrary, cares for appearance alone. A house without a foundation looks as well as one having a foundation; it may even be made to look better. These distinctions have their counterpart in the spiritual sphere, which form the salient characteristics of two classes of men both professing religion. There are those who have forethought, and those who have none; those who think of the trial which the future may bring, those who think only of to-day and its bright sunshine. The one class count the cost when they meditate becoming disciples of Christ; the other receive the word with joy, leaving out of view the ’tribulations’ they are likely to encounter in the career on which they are entering. Again, the one class look to what is not seen by men in religious character, the hidden foundation of inward disposition; while the other consider only what can be seen by men, the outward act. The outward acts of both may be the same, but the motives are entirely different. The motive of the one is love of goodness; that of the other, vanity. Both pray, but a man of the one class prays in secret, his desire being not to be known as a praying man, but to get the favour he asks of Heaven; a man of the other class prays by preference at the corner of the street, desiring chiefly to get credit for a devotional spirit. Both practise beneficence; but the one from love or pity, and with modesty; the other not so much sympathising with the poor, as seeking a reputation for philanthropy.

Such are the distinctive attributes of the wise and the foolish, the genuine and the counterfeit, in religion. The marks of the one are forethought and sincerity, or depth; the marks of the other thoughtlessness and insincerity, or superficiality. The two sets of attributes always keep company. Sincerity implies forethought, and forethought sincerity; and in like manner the two other attributes imply each other. The man who has regard only to appearances would never profess religion at all, if he considered the future. He acts from impulse, imitation, and fashion, and the use of religion as a support in trial is not in all his thoughts. Hence it was that Christ so often presented the difficulties of the spiritual life to those who offered themselves as disciples. It was His way of ridding Himself of counterfeit discipleship originating in by-ends or thoughtless sentiment, and of securing that His circle of followers should include only men whose religion was an affair not of sentiment alone, but of reason and conscience, of reason looking well before, and of conscience realising moral responsibility. The parable of the two builders shows us the respective fates of these two classes. Looking to appearances it would be difficult to say which was to be preferred; perhaps the verdict would be in favour of the counterfeit, for they make appearances their study, and it is not wonderful if they excel in their own line. But the elements judge infallibly and ruthlessly, The rains descend, the floods rush, and the winds blow, and the house built on a rock stands, "it fell not;" but the house built on the sand "fell, and great was the fall of it. The elements are trials of all sorts, by providential calamities, by religious doubts, by sinful desires, by tribulations connected with profession of religion. Such trials the man of forethought and sincerity stands; before them the man whose piety is imitative and impulsive goes down.

Such are the lessons to be learnt from the parable of the Wise and Foolish Builders, and they seem to us fitted to throw light on the parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. It is to be presumed that wisdom and folly have fixed characteristics in Christ’s teaching, so that if we have correctly determined their respective attributes in any one place, we may expect to find them reappearing in all other places where they are spoken of. They do reappear in the parable of the virgins if we decide to regard the going to buy oil as an act of folly, not otherwise. On that assumption we have in the parable two characteristic acts of the foolish virgins close of kin to each other. There is the initial act of taking an inadequate supply of oil, wherein is revealed characteristic want of forethought. As the foolish builder did not anticipate storms, but acted as if the usual good weather were to last always, and without exception; so the foolish virgins did not anticipate delay, but acted as if the usual at marriages was sure to happen, the prompt arrival of the bridegroom at the appointed time. Then there was the further act of folly consequent on discovering the evil result of the first, that, viz., of going away to buy oil, instead of doing without it, and joining the procession so as to insure admission to the feast. This act corresponds in general character to that of the foolish builder in having regard only to appearances, and so neglecting to provide a foundation. It is the act of persons to whom custom is an inviolable law. These foolish virgins must be in the fashion, must attend to all the usual ceremonies, must have their lighted lamps as well as the rest. The accidental though interesting accompaniment of the bridal procession is to their custom-ridden minds the essence of the matter, it would look so ill to meet and escort the bridegroom with dark lamps in their hand. The two acts of folly are obviously of kindred character, so that those who do the one are likely to do the other; they both denote enslavement to the usual, which is a characteristic mark of the morally commonplace, in contrast to the wise, who show their wisdom by the ability to anticipate the unusual as possible, and to disregard custom when it stands in the way of the attainment of a great end. The parable affords no scope for the display of the latter phase of wisdom, for the wise virgins having oil enough were in a position to follow the usual custom, and of course did it; for to set aside even the least commandment of fashion unnecessarily is no part of wisdom. But it is true, nevertheless, that the wise are distinguished by freedom as well as by forethought in reference to the usual. They are incapable of being enslaved by superstitious regard for that which is only of secondary importance, a means to an end, an affair of decorum rather than of principle. Such freedom belongs to wisdom both in social life and in religion. On the other hand, the lack of such freedom is a sure mark of the weak and unwise. They are superstitiously devoted to the fashion of their time in religion as in other spheres. Means of grace, forms of worship, take the place of absolutely binding laws in their minds, and so become hindrances rather than helps in the Divine life. They understand not that "as ceremonies, such as men have devised, are but temporal; so may and ought they to be changed when they rather foster superstition than edify the Church using the same."[1] They think all change impious, and the very thought converts the risk into a baleful reality.

[1] ’Old Scotch Confession of Faith,’ ch. xxi.

It may appear strange, if the going to buy oil was an act of folly, that Jesus did not distinctly indicate the fact But was it not enough to say, once for all, "five were foolish"? The omission to characterise the second act as foolish is a significant recognition of the persistency of character, more instructive than the repetition of the epithet foolish. It signifies: "Take care to possess the spirit of wisdom, for remember the spirit that is in you will dominate all your conduct. Ye cannot be foolish to-day, and wise to-morrow; foolish in this action, wise in the next. Character tends to fixity, and to get the benefit of wisdom at any time ye must be under its guidance at all times." A great, solemn truth, to be seriously pondered by all, and too often overlooked. As now explained, the present parable obviously points to a species of degeneracy to be manifested in the Church in the course of ages very different from that spoken of in the parable last considered. There the evil foretold is a hideous combination of hypocrisy, tyranny, and sensuality; here the evil hinted at is religious superstition. The two evils manifested themselves together in the Church, the one among the clergy, the other among the illiterate. The latter is the less evil, and its doom accordingly is milder. The foolish virgins are simply shut out from the feast, the unfaithful upper servant is cut in two. The lesser doom is serious enough, and it is one to which all are exposed who resemble the foolish virgins in their religious character. The slaves of use and wont are ever in peril of their souls, ever exposed to the risk of exclusion from the joys in store for those prepared to receive the Bridegroom at His coming at each crisis in the Church’s history. So were the Pharisees excluded from the society of Jesus, which was a veritable wedding party. So were the Hebrew Christians, clinging to venerable Jewish customs and ordinances, in danger of forfeiting all share in the blessings of the Kingdom of Grace. As their faithful Teacher warned them, there was a risk of their being carried by the strong current of old custom away from Christ, as a boat is carried down a river past the landing-place on the opposite shore.[1] While they went to buy at the Jewish synagogue the Bridegroom might come, and the door be shut.

[1] Heb 2:1, μή ποτε παραρυῶμεν, "lest haply we drift away."—R. V. The slumber of the virgins is a feature in the parable which cannot fail to attract the attention of all thoughtful readers. To the allegorising interpretation which strives to discover a spiritual equivalent for every feature in a parable, this slumber denotes the negligence which overtakes all more or less with reference to the eternal, venial and remedial in the case of the wise, fatal in the case of the foolish; or, the common sleep of death. To others, unable to acquiesce in either of these suggestions, and averse from the allegorising method of exegesis, the introduction of this feature appears simply a device for bringing about a situation involving a surprise which brings disaster to the unprepared. The foolish have to sleep, because had they kept awake they would have observed that their oil was getting done, and have provided a fresh supply in good time. The wise have to keep their foolish sisters company in slumber, that they may escape the charge of unkindness in allowing the sleepers to sleep on till it was too late to attend to the necessary preparations.[1] The truth lies between these extremes. The sleep of the virgins is not of such grave significance as the allegorisers imagine, and on the other hand it is something more than a mere device for bringing about a situation necessary to the moral of the parable. It is a meagre view which sees in the delay of the bridegroom, only a contrivance to make room for slumber, and in the slumber in turn only a contrivance to give occasion for a surprise. The delay of the bridegroom represents a spiritual fact; the protracted endurance of the period of development, and the consequent indefinite postponement of the consummation of the kingdom. And the sleep of the virgins represents the natural inevitable occupation with the present which ensues when through long delay hope or expectation of a future good has been all but extinguished. The relevancy of the parable requires that the sleep should have some such counterpart in the spiritual sphere; for if the fact were otherwise we should have a situation described to which there is no parallel in religious experience. The sleeping scene, therefore, besides being thoroughly true to the natural, has an important didactic significance. It teaches that there is a certain sleep of the mind with regard to the future and the eternal which is unavoidable, in itself perfectly harmless, yet fraught with danger to such as are not ever ready for any event, so that the most sudden crisis cannot overtake them unawares. The inevitableness of this sleep is very happily brought out in the delineation of the scene. The word all itself implies it; the universality suggests the idea of necessity. Then the way in which sleep comes on is significant. They grow drowsy, then begin to nod, then fall into deep slumber. The sleep is involuntary, the virgins do not go to bed with deliberate intent to sleep, they are overtaken with sleep while maintaining an attitude of waiting, like the disciples in the garden, like weary sentinels on the battle-field, like devout worshippers in church. Fatigue, advancing night, the demands of nature, prevail over all wakeful influences. Yet these are by no means wanting. For the virgins, one and all, are full of the excitement of the occasion. To see them one would say that though the bridegroom should tarry till daybreak sleep will be impossible till he arrive and the wedding festivities are over. That is not said, but it goes without being said; it is enough to remember that the occasion is a marriage, and that the actors in the drama are young maidens. The innocence of the sleep follows of course from its being unavoidable, but it is also taught by implication when in the sequel the wise virgins are represented as having time to trim their lamps between their awaking and the arrival of the bridegroom. Sleep in their case does not interfere with the efficient performance of all needful offices. Yet that this sleep, though innocent, may be dangerous appears from what befalls the hapless maidens. They awake and discover that neglected tasks have to be attended to when there is no time for their performance.

[1] So in effect Storr, ’De Parabolis Christi.’ The parabolic representation at this point is characterised in a conspicuous degree by that felicity on which we have often had occasion to remark. It suggests more lessons than it is expressly designed to teach. It illustrates, for example, the ’sweet reasonableness’ of Christ’s teaching, in so far as it exhibits an ideal of waiting, not too exacting for human nature under the conditions of this present life. When Christ requires of His disciples to watch, as He does in the closing sentence of this parable, He does not demand exclusive preoccupation of mind with the future. The watching required, we learn from the parable, is such as is compatible with a very complete engrossment with the present. It signifies timely preparation, ordering life on a right principle deliberately adopted once for all. It involves not continuous straining of the attention towards the eternal, but fixed intention active even when we are unconscious. The tension of the mind may innocently and must naturally vary, it is enough that its intention is ever the same, enough that we live under the power of the future and the eternal even when not thinking of it. This is quite possible. All know what it is to sleep under the power of the thought of having to rise at a particular hour in the morning. The slumber is light; there is a certain semi-consciousness all through the night. The slightest whisper, the calling of one’s name ever so gently, suffices to awaken him; nay, in some mysterious way the latent thought of the engagement in prospect, the journey to be undertaken, suffices of itself to perform the part of an alarum clock, and to rouse the sleeper at the appointed time. So wise virgins sleep, as those who lie down with the thought in their minds that at any moment they may hear the thrilling call: "Behold the Bridegroom! come ye forth to meet Him."

Christ’s ideal of watching, though eminently and characteristically reasonable, is too high for many. In the parable one half of the virgins fail to realise it, but in real life the proportion of defaulters is much larger. The number of those who understand the art of watching, providing for the uncertain future, for the unusual, for the eternal, while living healthily and heartily in the present, is small. The multitude are the slaves of the usual; the wise man who can anticipate the unusual and prepare for it is one among a thousand. How many accidents by land and sea are due to the rarity of such wise forethought! Railway accidents happen because they are exceptional, and officials get accustomed to their not happening. Sailors on the outlook observe something before them, but take no alarm. They think it is a cloud when it is an iceberg, for icebergs are not usually met with at that time of the year. Their mind is asleep under the soporific influence of the usual, though their physical senses are awake. The same cause works disastrously in the spiritual sphere. Here it is specially difficult to expect the unexpected, and specially dangerous to lack the power to do so, and many there be who fail. The young Christian does not expect the difficulties and delays connected with the fulfilment of his hopes which he is destined to encounter, and when they occur he is scandalised and becomes an apostate. Or he is not prepared to find the life of the spirit passing through phases markedly different from each other, and he clings to the initial stage and remains a babe, superstitiously attached to forms which, once means of grace, degenerate into mere fetishes. So also does it fare oftentimes with religious communities. They lack the wisdom to anticipate and provide for changes in the course of development. These when they come find them enslaved by the past, and unprepared to meet the new situation, and the inevitable result is decay and death. In parabolic language, the doom of those who are guilty of such folly is that the door is shut not to be opened again to them when they arrive too late and seek admission. Taking the parable as a story of natural life, this feature seems arbitrary. Children ask their parents the hard question, "Why could he not open the door?" and learned interpreters ask the same question ana acknowledge themselves unable to answer.[1] When the representation is viewed in connection with the final judgment it becomes too awful to speak of, and very difficult to construe with other Scriptural teaching. A recent writer remarks that the exclusion of the belated virgins allegorically interpreted leads to the wholly unbiblical thought that even the most earnest desire for salvation is in vain when the hour of decision has struck. "The irreparabile damnum of the ’too late’ in this sense is not a Biblical doctrine."[2] When one thinks of the penitent thief, he is conscious that the difficulty is not imaginary. Then one cannot but remember the supplement in the Pauline teaching to the doctrine of exclusion taught in the parable of the Great Supper. "None of those men which were bidden shall taste of my supper," says the parable, The Jews are cast out pro tempore, and the Gentiles brought in to provoke the former to jealousy, that they may also at length be brought in, says the Apostle Paul. Applying Paul’s doctrine to the present parable in the case of the Jews, it would imply that that people, prevented by their prejudices from taking part in the bridal procession, would nevertheless gain admittance to the feast when arriving late they cried, "Lord, Lord, open to us." Without doubt the judgment of exclusion in its temporal application is not in this parable, any more than in the parable of the Supper, absolute. It merely indicates tendency. It is not on that account trivial. Even the temporal losses entailed by the lack of the wisdom commended in this parable are grave enough to justify serious solicitude. Leaving the eternal reference out of account, that wisdom is highly to be prized. In view of eternity its value is unspeakable.

[1] Reuss speaks of the virgins going to buy oil and their exclusion as features introduced with a view to the application. In natural life they could have got oil in the house of the bride, and they would have been admitted though late.

[2] Weiss, ’Das Matthäus-Evangelium.’ The End