When it comes to preparing ourselves for the future, what is the goal we actually take into account? Before we begin any endeavor, we must know our aim. And that, I think, is what Jesus gets to in the parable of the ten virgins (Matthew 25: 1-13). We can wear the right clothes for the wedding, but if we fail to bring enough oil, we miss the opportunity the moment we have to go out in search of it. Put another way: we are called to prepare for far more than just the next immediate moment.
On the surface, all ten virgins looked the part. They all brought their lamps, and when the bridegroom was delayed, fatigue took over and all ten fell asleep. The difference wasn’t defined by those who stayed awake, but by what was kept in reserve. Five had brought extra oil, while the other five had brought only what was immediately needed.
When the cry went up at midnight, the foolish ones quickly realized their mistake. They asked to borrow from the wise, but they were turned away. It can sound harsh on a first reading, but it underscores a fundamental spiritual truth: there are certain things in this life that simply cannot be borrowed at midnight. You cannot borrow an interior life when a sudden trial lands on your doorstep. You cannot borrow character, quiet charity, or habits of prayer that were never cultivated in private. That oil is the steady accumulation built up slowly over years before anyone ever asks to see the flame.
It is precisely this intentional forethought that marks us as Christians. We are not meant to live from moment to moment, swayed by passing passions, the headlines of the day, or the convenience of the hour. We are called to take deliberate steps along a much longer path. It reminds me of the old proverb about old men planting trees that they will never see the fruit nor shade of. That truth fits our calling, because much of the most important work we do will not produce the tangible, immediate results we have grown accustomed to expecting in this life.
In expanding this out beyond ourselves, as we are called to do, our duty deepens. We have to help prepare those around us – those in our families and in our communities – by planning and building for days we will never see. In our homes, that means laying down habits of prayer and character that outlast our own presence. In our communities, it means making decisions today that plant firm roots for our grandchildren, rather than settling for the quick comfort of the present moment. A life or a community that plans only for tomorrow morning is already running on fumes. Our task is to fill the vessel, doing the quiet, unseen work today so that our light does not fail when the night grows long.