IT is difficult to conceive what the feelings of these “other virgins” will be when, the door having been shut, and “the ready” having been safely housed, they come afterward, and piteously cry, “Lord, Lord, open to us!”
“Ah!” says my reader, “that is just a parable.” Quite so; but what is a parable? Is it a fable? Nay, it is a word-picture, a painting, with an outline, more or less distinct, of a certain event in the mind of the speaker, who, by making use of this mode of speech, seeks to gain the attention, and to exercise the mind of his hearers, more fully than he could have done by a mere literal recital of the event itself.
Now have you ever thought what the Lord meant to teach by this parable of the ten virgins? Briefly, He depicts the state of Christendom at the time of His return.
First, the virgins went forth to meet the Bridegroom.
Second, the Bridegroom tarried.
Third, all the virgins slumbered and slept.
Fourth, at midnight a cry announced the approach of the Bridegroom.
Fifth, the virgins arose and trimmed their lamps, in order to go out and meet Him.
Sixth, the part of them called “foolish” found that their lamps had gone out.
Seventh, at this crisis they went to buy oil.
Eighth, the Bridegroom came, and “the ready” went in to the marriage.
Ninth, “the door was shut.”
Tenth, then came the other virgins to find — what? A closed door, and to cry — oh, how earnestly, but in vain― “Lord, Lord, open to us!”
Now surely the meaning of this parable is not difficult to find. Let your eye rest on the history of the Church from the date of the departure of the heavenly Bridegroom to the present day. He left a promise that He would “come again.” The early Christians expected that return, and “waited for the Son of God from heaven;” but He tarried, and the effect was a state of spiritual sleep which deepened during these dreary “dark ages” of worldliness, till once again the hope of His return has been re-established in the heart of the Church. The cry, “Behold, the Bridegroom cometh!” has been sounded out, and a general stir has taken place. The “wise” have trimmed their lamps, and multitudes of the “foolish” have discovered that they lack, not a lamp of profession, but the oil. They have a Christianity without Christ, a religion without divine reality; they do not possess the Holy Ghost.
The Bridegroom comes. The ready go in with Him. The door is shut. All hope is over. Whatever “the foolish” may have been, they were not “ready,” and none but the ready can enter.
Now can you imagine, dear reader, such a scene as this? There is prayer indeed — earnest, importunate, agonizing prayer; but it is too late. “The harvest is past, the summer is ended,” the throe of grace becomes one of judgment, and supplication is in vain. “I KNOW YOU NOT,” is the withering answer. Oh, soul immortal, how are things with you in view of this event? Are you ready? This is the question of questions with you. Take a piece of paper and a pencil, or a pen, and draw a straight line. Write on one side READY, and on the other UNREADY, and then write your name under the word that truthfully describes your condition. That done, look for three minutes at the picture. If you are “READY,” washed from sins in the blood of Christ, a child of God, and an heir of glory, carrying, too, a lamp bright and burning, then sing a song of thanksgiving to God.
But if “UNREADY,” think, soul, I beseech you, of your danger — unpardoned, unjustified, lost, and about to find yourself on the outside of the shut door, unknown, unheeded, during the long, long watches of that night that knows no morning. “What meanest thou, O sleeper? Awake, call upon thy God.” Yes, sleeper, awake I awake!
J. W. S.