I wonder how all this talk of King and Kingdom, power and rule is ringing in your ears this morning. I know this language makes many uncomfortable. It is why the feast that many of us grew up with as Christ the King is now called the Reign of Christ. It is why many refer now to the Kingdom of God as the Kin-dom of God. The King imagery can be an obstacle.

I wonder what you imagine when you think of a King, when you contemplate bowing your knee in service to a ruler. What does a kingdom look like to you?

I wonder what it was like during, and immediately following the American Revolution. What was it like to call God “King,” when blood had just been shed to free them from the rule of one called King.

I wonder how long it took for that bridegroom to show up. How much oil did a first century lamp hold? And how long could a full lamp burn before it started to flicker and go out?

What made half of the bridesmaids think to bring extra oil, as if to expect a late arrival?

This parable of Jesus about the coming of the kingdom of God has a lot of holes in it, if you poke it enough. But parables aren’t allegories and they aren’t historic accounts. They are meant to cast an image that those who are listening can see themselves in, in order to teach a larger point.

The larger point here is that in order to see God break into the world, we have to be ready, we have to be prepared to watch, to be patient, and to be wise enough to prepare ourselves for the unexpected long haul.

Waiting, watching, holding out hope. Sound familiar?

Jesus has been teaching through parables in the Gospel of Matthew for weeks now. As we hear today’s Gospel reading, we should remember that from now on Jesus will move toward his Passion with his friends and disciples close and the crowds at a distance. He has been teaching about the Kingdom: the Kingdom of Heaven is like….As we continue to listen we will notice the coming chapters are preparing the disciples for their work after Jesus’ death. Parables, as one commentary suggests, teach us about justice and grace. Some are stories of direct cause and effect like the parable of the ten maidens and today’s story of the talents; others are stories of grace like the tax collector who is justified, the prodigal who receives a welcome home party or the laborers who receive a full day’s pay for an hour’s work.

I’ve been desperately trying to figure out who’s responsible for 2020 being the year that it has been. What evil force is behind all this? At the beginning, I thought it was marketing for Charmin, or maybe Purell. Then I thought it was definitely Zoom.

Today, All Saints Sunday, marks for us the end of our Liturgical Year. Next week, we will celebrate the First Sunday of Advent, and begin a new year together. Last year, every Sunday in Advent we sang the Canticle of the Turning. This song is based on the Magnificat, or the Song of Mary, in which she proclaims that God has flipped the world upside down by choosing her to bear the Son of God.

We sang, with great delight, “My heart shall sing of the day you bring. Let the fires of your justice burn. Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near, and the world is about to turn!”

Buckle up, my friends, because today I want to preach with you all about holiness. As usual, I want to start with a story from my childhood church. The Pentecostal denomination of my youth placed a high premium on what we called personal holiness. How much someone adhered to a strict code of individual behavior was both a way to deepen one’s relationship with God and an outward representation of that relationship, a living proof-text of one’s righteousness. But often to me, this definition of “holiness” was simply a burden.

The scenario from our gospel this morning feels very contemporary, in which a group of people sets out to entrap someone whose religious and political allegiances are seen as threatening. Instead of doors opened to receive fresh air and understanding, questions become spears designed to wound and demonstrate the opponent’s weakness. “Tell us what you think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?”

This question is beyond loaded. The emperor is a symbol not merely of government, but of oppression and idolatry. The tax was a way not only of counting heads in Judea and Galilee but of financing their own oppression. To support it was akin to asking for a knee to be pressed against their necks. But to challenge it was to mark oneself as a potential revolutionary. Either way, you couldn’t win.