Yeshua’s parables always worked on more than one level: surface, soul, spirit. The Parable of the Ten Virgins in Matthew 25:1-13 might be one of His most layered, urgent warnings to the remnant. This isn’t about five saved and five unsaved. This is about those who were all waiting for the Bridegroom, who all had lamps, who all fell asleep, but only half were truly prepared when the cry came.
So He says, Matthew 25:1: “Then the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom.” Then. Not now, not in a past story, but at that appointed time, then, this is what the kingdom looks like. He’s talking about the final hours before the return, the waiting, the watching, the separating.
The wise virgins knew something we forget. Something ancient. Something not Western or modern or cultural. Something born from Torah patterns, Temple shadows, and Holy Spirit-led readiness.
Let’s talk about the oil first. In Greek, the word is elaion, olive oil. This was the same substance used in the Menorah, the sacred anointing oil (Exodus 30:22-33), the offerings in the Temple. In Hebrew, it’s שֶׁמֶן (shemen), which comes from a root (שׁ־מ־ן) that relates to “fat” or “richness,” as in abundance, overflow, or that which rises to the surface. The oil is not just symbolic; it carries life and purpose. It represents the presence of the Ruach haKodesh, the Spirit of God dwelling within, constantly refilling, illuminating. You didn’t keep oil in your lamp just to have it. You kept it because the flame would die without it.
These lamps, in Greek lampas, were not tea candles in a cozy window. These were torch-like vessels that required oil-soaked cloths to be lit. They could light a path in the dark, but only if they were trimmed, fueled, and ready. If not, they smoked, sputtered, or went out entirely.
All ten virgins had lamps. All were waiting. All grew drowsy. The wise didn’t stay awake because they were superhuman; they slept too. But they had oil. They had brought extra. They had anticipated the possibility of delay. They were walking in a mindset that said: “I may not know when, but I’m not going to be caught empty.” That’s not legalism. That’s love. That’s relationship.
The word used for “wise” is φρόνιμος (phronimos), meaning thoughtful, prudent, practically aware. It’s the same word Yeshua used when telling His disciples to be “wise as serpents” (Matthew 10:16). These were spiritually sensitive women. They took the time beforehand to prepare, to press in, to carry what would be needed when the moment came. It’s like going camping: you prepare for every contingency.
But the foolish, μωρός (moros), is not just silly or clumsy. It literally means dull, from which we get “moron.” It speaks of spiritual density, a fogginess of heart that does not discern the hour. They brought lamps, but no oil. They were in position, but lacked substance. They had a form of godliness, but no fire to sustain it. They had the ritual, the identity, maybe even good intentions, but they were spiritually unlit.
Then comes the cry at midnight, not at dusk, not at dawn. At the hour when darkness is deepest. A voice cries out: “Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!”
The foolish say to the wise, Matthew 25:8: “Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.” The wise reply: “No, lest there not be enough for both us and you. Go to those who sell and buy for yourselves.”
This may sound harsh to modern ears, but it is not selfishness. You cannot borrow someone else’s oil. You cannot run on someone else’s intimacy with God. You cannot enter on your grandmother’s prayers or your pastor’s zeal or your spouse’s devotion. When the moment comes, you either have cultivated oil in your vessel, or you have not. You either walked with the Spirit or you imitated it. That cry will not give you time to catch up; it just reveals what is already in your lamp.
Matthew 25:10: “While they were going away to make the purchase, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the wedding feast; and the door was shut.” That is Temple language. That is ark-of-Noah language. That is the closing of opportunity. The moment is sudden, final, sealed.
Later, the foolish return, knocking, crying out, Matthew 25:11-12: “Lord, Lord, open to us!” But He replies, “Truly I say to you, I do not know you.”
He does not say, “I never loved you,” or “You were too sinful.” He says, “I do not know you.” In Hebrew thought, “knowing” is relational—yada. It is experiential, intimate, lived. It is not about having heard of Him or even believed He was coming. It is about walking with Him daily, Spirit to spirit.
So what did the wise virgins know that we forget?
They knew the flame would not last without oil.
They knew that delay did not mean denial.
They knew preparation was not optional; it was relational.
They knew that being close to the Bridegroom meant more than proximity; it meant possession, His Spirit filling their vessel.
What is our lamp today? Our lives, our spirits, our walk.
What is the oil? The abiding, poured-in presence of the Holy Spirit, cultivated in secret, drawn from time in the Word, in worship, in stillness, in obedience.
This is not about scaring anyone. It is about waking us up. If your lamp has gone dim, it is not too late. There is still oil for the hungry. The sellers are still open. The invitation is still extended.
But the cry at midnight is coming. And when it comes, you do not want to be looking for oil. You want yours to be burning.
©2015 AMKCH
image done by chatgpt at my direction 2024