Lectionary Commentaries for November 8, 2026
Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost

The last few weeks of the liturgical year always focus on eschatological themes as the church calendar winds down toward Reign of Christ Sunday and then the First Sunday of Advent in the new year with its annual focus on the parousia.¹ The final three Gospel lections of Year A are the three parables that make up Matthew 25, the conclusion to Matthew’s eschatological discourse (chapter 24–25). Naming this wider literary context is essential for helping parishioners understand the strangeness of the three parables.

In his redaction of the eschatological discourse in Mark 13, Matthew adds these parables at least in part to make sense of an earlier addition in the discourse. In 24:36–44, Matthew portrays Jesus as drawing an analogy between the parousia and the flood in Noah’s day: Those in the ark were left behind, but those caught in the waters were swept away in judgment. This is the opposite of the way popular culture talks about the “left behind” today based on 1 Thessalonians 4:17, where those saved are caught up together with the resurrected dead to meet Jesus in the sky and taken away, and those judged are left behind.

For Matthew, those left behind are the saved who are gifted with more responsibility for the work of the reign of heaven on earth. Matthew’s purpose in presenting his eschatology in these terms is to call his audience to live eschatologically, to “stay awake” here and now, in between the “already” and the “not yet.”

Already: The birth, teachings, healings/exorcisms, death, and resurrection of Jesus as a whole mark the incursion of the end of the ages, in which we currently live and which we wait to see fulfilled.

Not yet: We also currently live in a day when Caesar (as a symbolic representation of human power enforced on others) and his demonic allies rule with intimidation, oppression, violence, and death and long faithfully for the consummation of God’s reign.

The three parables in chapter 25 (assigned for the final three weeks of the liturgical year) each offer a different metaphorical view into what that eschatological existence looks like for followers of Jesus. The parable of the wise and foolish wedding attendants is the first of these three parables.

Parables by definition have a twist in them that is key to understanding the intended impact of the parable (for example, a tiny mustard seed becoming a great tree, when everyone knew there was no such thing as a mustard tree; Luke 13:18–19). That is a problem for this parable because our knowledge of ancient Jewish and Roman wedding practices is somewhat sketchy. It is difficult to know which elements in the parable reflect actual practices and which the original audience would have recognized as being twisted. Did wedding attendants wait at the groom’s house as described, instead of being part of the wedding procession? What kind of lamps would have been used instead of torches? Was it customary for a groom to come late at night?

That said, the parable’s core meaning is clear enough. Matthew uses this story as an allegory with the groom representing the Son of the Human and his delay representing the delay of the parousia. Past supersessionist, anti-Jewish interpretations of the parable have viewed the foolish bridesmaids who do not have enough oil and are excluded from the party as being the Jews who reject Jesus as the Messiah, and the wise bridesmaids who get to enter the party as the faithful, gentile Christians. But the 10 as a whole await the bridegroom, thus signifying that they all represent followers of Jesus Christ.

Matthew’s audience is the church. Both the wise and the foolish ones, therefore, are to be found in the church, and represent “two ways” of approaching eschatological existence. This means that the parable is not an allegory about those inside the church (who enter the wedding hall) in contrast to those outside the church (who are left outside the wedding hall), but an allegory exhorting those inside the church.

As with the other Matthean wedding parable (22:1–14) that appeared in the lectionary about a month ago, just being invited does not mean one gets to stay. Those not properly robed (22:11–14) or not having enough oil for the long wait (25:3, 10–12) will not enter the reign of heaven. Those not living the ethical life taught by Jesus are not experiencing God’s reign (see 7:13–27). On the surface level, then, the parable exhorts the church (as Jesus does repeatedly in the Eschatological Discourse) to vigilantly do good works in preparation for the impending (albeit delayed) parousia (verse 13), given that the Son of the Human can arrive at any unexpected moment (verse 6).

Parables, however, are never only to be understood at the surface level. For Matthew, the eschatological ethical life is the gift of the reign of heaven. This way of living is a demand to be sure, but more, it is the way we experience the “already” of the reign of heaven in the face of the “not yet” experienced in the continuing reign of Caesar.

The parable is told such that hearers are encouraged to identify with the foolish bridesmaids—notice how much focus is on them as compared to the wise ones. In truth, we all need to be “wiser” in the sense of the parable. Preaching this text invites the congregation to ask not “Are we ready for the second coming?” so much as “In what ways are we not prepared to meet the eschatological Christ ever anew everyday?”

Notes

1. This essay is adapted from the interpretation I present in Matthew, Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Fortress, 2013).

The covenant renewal narrated in Joshua 24:14–25 offers preachers the challenge of re-presenting its ancient rhetorical claims to contemporary audiences. As with last Sunday’s passage (Joshua 3:7–17), we see Joshua acting like Moses (see also verses 24–25 and Exodus 24:7). The passage itself is an example of how the book of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic history (Joshua–Kings) that follows it address multiple readers/hearers far beyond the original narrative horizon.

One challenge in following the progression of Joshua’s back-and-forth with the people is the repeated undercutting by Joshua of what he or the people have just said, which flow I have attempted to summarize as follows:

• Joshua: “Serve the LORD! But if you don’t want to, here are two bad alternatives.” (verses 14–15)
• The people: “No way, we will serve the LORD.” (verses 16–18)
• Joshua: “You can’t.” (verses 19–20)
• The people: “No, we will.” (verse 21)
• Joshua: “OK, fine, but …” (verses 22–23)
• The people: “Read our lips.” (verse 24)
• Joshua: “Here you go.” (verse 25)

This is not the last time a representative for God will give in to what the people want, even though it will end badly (see also the people’s demand for a king in 1 Samuel 8).

Joshua’s opening (verses 14–15) seems compromised because he offers only one clear and viable option, but immediately turns around and dilutes it by adding two invalid options in the gods of the east (Mesopotamia) versus the gods of the west (Canaan). The most rhetorically potent line in the entire passage comes in connection with these two null options: “Choose this day whom you will serve.” But this line sets up Joshua’s answer: “But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD” (verse 15). Perhaps there is rhetorical wisdom we can learn from this progression!

Jesus gets at the core issue in this passage when he teaches that “no one can serve two masters, for a slave will either hate the one and love the other or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth” (Matthew 6:24; see also Luke 16:13). Servitude (if not outright enslavement) to wealth was clearly a perennial danger, as he explained the seeds sown among thorns: “The cares of the age and the lure of wealth and the desire for other things come in and choke the word, and it yields nothing” (Mark 4:19; see also Matthew 13:22). 

Every generation needs to repeatedly heed the call to put away other gods. Similar to an antiracist stance that must be renewed regularly, anti-idolatrism requires constant vigilance and recommitment. What are the comfortable, convenient, possibly familiar gods of our age that we have trouble discarding?

I often find that preparing messages for young children is more challenging than writing sermons for adolescents and adults. I will repeatedly go over my prepared words to try to eliminate or minimize abstractions, in order to make things concrete, clear, and simple. I’m pretty sure, though, that if and when I have succeeded in having a meaningful interaction with children during service, I will also have succeeded in engaging the “eavesdropping” older people. 

In the same way, Joshua’s exchanges with the people are patently for the benefit of succeeding generations, including us. This is perhaps the great rhetorical achievement of the biblical writers: that what they wrote and spoke still lays claim to us in the 21st century as it has for every generation before us. The failures of people and God’s judgment and discipline on them in the Bible provide us, if we have ears to hear, a script for how we can repent—how we can do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God today.

That said, we know it is true that people often have trouble responding to concrete, clear, and simple invitations. When Jesus invited a man to sell all he had, give to the poor, and then come follow him, “he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions” (Mark 10:22; see also Luke 18:23). The good news is that our ability to follow Jesus does not depend on us, but on God (Mark 10:27; Luke 18:27).

When I was a student at Princeton Theological Seminary, one of my regular rituals was checking my student mailbox. Once, I looked up and noticed a sign above the bank of boxes: “The main thing is keeping the main thing the main thing.” That was about 30 years ago, and that little saying has stuck with me as a way to capture the constant challenge of staying focused and, by implication, how easily we are distracted. 

The Israelites had a tradition of covenants that probably functioned as traditional religion. There were God’s covenants with Noah (Genesis 9), with Abram (Genesis 15 and 17), with the patriarchs (Exodus 2:24), and with Israel at Horeb/Sinai (Exodus 19 and following) and again in the land of Moab (Deuteronomy 29). So perhaps this covenant in Shechem was just another agreement to add to their collection, to become part of the tradition in the rearview mirror, as it were, to be recited and reviewed periodically. 

The church has likewise accrued numerous historical creeds, confessions, and catechisms, the majority of which are probably viewed as faded relics. Looking back over thousands of years, what do we discern as the “main thing,” the unifying thread (assuming there is one) that connects all of these disparate documents and the occasions that gave rise to them? Or to widen the angle further, what primary relationships of trust and obedience do we discern in human history, which includes church history? How might Joshua 24 help us grapple with what it means to be communities that take covenantal commitments seriously?

Congregations make covenantal promises to love and support those the church baptizes, ordains, and marries. Keeping such promises is much harder than simply answering in unison, “We do.” And yet, our failures should not be an argument against making promises, for promise-making is itself an exercise of faith, relying “not on ourselves, but on God, who raises the dead” (2 Corinthians 1:9). In baptism and the eucharist, the common elements of water, bread, and wine act as visible keepers of the promises of God. Thanks be to God!

In a letter dated May 15, 1943, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote to his parents from prison:¹ “I read the Psalms every day, as I have done for years; I know them and love them more than any other book.”²

Earlier in the same letter, Bonhoeffer wrote, “One of my predecessors here has scribbled over the cell door, ‘In 100 years it will all be over.’ That was his way of trying to counter the feeling that life spent here is a blank … ‘My time is in your hands’ (Psalm 31) is the Bible’s answer. But in the Bible there is also the question that threatens to dominate everything here: ‘How long, O Lord?’ (Psalm 13).”³

Like Psalm 13 with its opening imploration (“How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” [Psalm 13:1]), Psalm 70 is an individual lament that begins with an urgent entreaty for divine intervention: “Be pleased, O God, to deliver me. O LORD, make haste to help me!” (verse 1). In Psalm 70, the psalmist cries out to God for deliverance from enemies, who “seek my life” and “desire to hurt me” (verse 2). The psalmist asks that those people “be put to shame and confusion” and “be turned back and brought to dishonor” (verse 2).

Although Psalm 70 includes a moment of hope (“Let all who seek you rejoice and be glad in you. Let those who love your salvation say evermore, ‘God is great!’” [verse 4]), the psalm immediately returns to—and ends with—a call for God to act: “But I am poor and needy; hasten to me, O God! You are my help and my deliverer; O LORD, do not delay!” (verse 5).

“Do not delay!” The psalm ends with a final, urgent appeal. There is no recorded divine response, no move to praise.

Of course, there are moments in each of our lives when the words of Psalm 70 could easily be our own words: moments marked by a desire for divine intervention (and for that divine intervention to happen now, soon, without delay) and a yearning to see those who have done us wrong shamed and dishonored. And, doubtless, there are moments in our lives when we wish for immediate help and deliverance but hear no instant answer. In those moments, Psalm 70 provides us with a scriptural basis for lament, for airing our grievances, and for asking for help. Psalm 70 is also a reminder that we might not receive an immediate answer.

But doubtless, there are also moments in each of our lives when the urgency of Psalm 70 is not our own, moments when our lives continue in a steady stream of regular days filled with regular concerns. And so, if we hear Psalm 70 read on a Sunday when our lives are rolling along as they normally do, we might not feel particularly connected to this psalm of lament. We might find, instead, that we sit and think of other things, mostly mundane (“Do we need anything from the grocery store?” “What’s for lunch?” “What do I need to get done this week?”).

Yet it is perhaps on those days that we might benefit most from hearing a psalm like Psalm 70. After all, the urgent cry of the psalmist (“O LORD, make haste to help me!”) is someone else’s cry. The psalm can serve as a prompt, a powerful reminder that even while our own lives might be rolling regularly along, that is not necessarily the case for everyone. Others might be hurting, calling out for help, awaiting deliverance. Others might be crying out but hearing no response.

In his letter to his parents, Bonhoeffer briefly invokes Psalm 70, noting that “I cannot now read Psalms 3, 47, 70 and others without hearing them in the settings by Heinrich Schütz.”⁴ (Schütz’s “Eile mich, Gott, zu erretten” [“Make haste, O God, to save me”] draws from Psalm 40:13–17, which is repeated almost verbatim in Psalm 70). Edwin Robertson reminds us, “If our image of Bonhoeffer does not fit an anxious prayer” like that found in Psalm 70, “it is because we are among those who observe him from the outside.”⁵

Yet the reality was that Bonhoeffer was also asking, “How long, O Lord?” and struggling with both the necessities of daily life (in the same letter, he asks for ink and stain remover, and also sends birthday wishes to someone he knows) and with his imprisonment. In one of his poems, as Robertson notes, Bonhoeffer compares how others see him (“composed, contented, and sure”) with how Bonhoeffer himself feels (“troubled, homesick, ill like a bird in a cage”).⁶

Psalm 70, like many lament psalms, can provide us with a voice to express our own grief, our own anger, and our own hope for divine help. It can be a way to beseech God to “make haste to help” us.

But when we hear this psalm in the moments when our own lives are going along pleasantly enough, such a lament can serve another purpose. Psalm 70 also calls listeners to stop and listen: Who around us is living in a moment when the words of this psalm are their own? Who might be experiencing anxiety and turmoil even if we cannot see it in their day-to-day actions? And how might we help and deliver those who are so urgently crying out?

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for November 12, 2017.
2. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison: The Enlarged Edition, ed. Eberhard Bethge (Touchstone: New York, 1997), 40.
3. Bonhoeffer, 39.
4. Bonhoeffer, 40.
5. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Meditations on Psalms, ed. and trans. Edwin Robertson (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2002), 145.
6. Bonhoeffer, 145. For the full text of Bonhoeffer’s poem titled “Who Am I?” see pp. 145–146.

In 1 Thessalonians 1–3, Paul reflects upon his initial ministry and continual concern for the Thessalonian Christ-followers; in 1 Thessalonians 4–5, Paul offers the congregation instructions on a range of issues: most notably and expansively, regarding those who have died in Christ (4:13–18) and the “times and seasons” (5:1–11). Whereas the second reading for this Sunday pertains to the former, the second reading for next Sunday considers the latter. 

Although the apostle does not tackle eschatological topics until later in the letter, each of the first three chapters of 1 Thessalonians concludes with remarks regarding Christ’s coming (Greek parousia; see 1:10; 2:19; 3:12, and note also 5:23). Eschatology (that is, “speech regarding the end”) is frequently and accurately said to feature in 1 Thessalonians. The same is true for 2 Thessalonians, especially 1:5–2:12. Earlier interpreters of the Pauline letters would sometimes speak of 1 and 2 Thessalonians as Paul’s eschatological or tribunal letters. While eschatology is not the “be all and end all” of the Thessalonian correspondence, neither is it a passing or peripheral concern.    

Interpretation: The text in focus

First Thessalonians 4:13–18 begins with Paul expressing his desire for the Thessalonians not to be ignorant (Greek agnoein; see also our English word “agnostic”) concerning those who are “sleeping” (in other words, who have died). More than a euphemism, sleep conveys a theological conviction that the Christian dead are in God’s care and keeping (see also Stephen in Acts 7:58). They are at rest and at peace in Christ.

Paul does not sate our curiosity by informing us who had died or how they did so. As a pastor, his immediate concern is to comfort, console, and encourage the Thessalonian believers amid their grief and loss. While acknowledging and sharing their loss and grief, he does not want them to grieve without hope. Even as the Thessalonians had been marked and sustained by hope in the past (see 1 Thessalonians 1:3), the apostle anticipates that they will continue to be a hopeful people, putting on the hope of salvation like a helmet (note 5:8). While unbelievers (“others”) grieve without hope (so 4:13), it should not be so with them.

Were one to ask why, Paul would maintain, as he does more expansively elsewhere (see especially 1 Corinthians 15), that Christ-followers believe and confess that even as Jesus died and rose again, those who have died in Christ will also be raised by God through him (4:14). Indeed, Paul assures the Thessalonians based on a “word of the Lord” (written or otherwise) that the dead in Christ—far from being forgotten, much less lost for time and eternity—will be given priority over the Christian living when Christ comes (4:15).

Not only will God raise the Christian dead first when Christ comes, but the coming of Christ will also be public and climactic. His greatly anticipated, highly heralded coming from heaven (with a cry of command, the archangel’s call, and the trumpet of God) will set into motion the culmination of all things in Christ. Paul reiterates in 4:16 that those who are dead in Christ will be raised first when he comes. Thereafter, the Christian living will be caught up with them to meet the Lord, and together, they will be with the Lord forever (4:17). The intended impact of the apostle’s instruction in this section of 1 Thessalonians was encouragement for the congregation amid their acute grief and loss (4:18).              

Reflections: The text proclaimed

There are any number of facets of 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18 upon which a preacher might focus. Here are a few that merit careful and even special attention.

1. Christian grief and consolation: Paul plainly and patently says that Christians may grieve over the deaths of loved ones. Arguably, failure to do so would result from a failure to take the sting of death seriously enough. To grieve without keeping the hope of the resurrection and salvation clearly in view, however, is sub-Christian and is more aligned with an ancient Roman tomb inscription that read: “I was not; I was; I am not; I care not.” Although the song by musical group Kansas makes for a catchy tune, Christians do not concur when they sing, “Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.” 
2. Resurrection hope: Paul’s instruction to his Thessalonian converts regarding the hopeful future of Christ-followers is inextricably linked to the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ himself. Because Christians believe in and belong to him, they/we, like Christ, will be raised by the power and promise of God when he comes. As Charles Wesley so aptly and poetically put it in the customary fourth stanza of his famed hymn “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today”: 

Soar we now where Christ has led, Alleluia!
Following our exalted Head, Allelulia!
Made like him, like him we rise, Allelulia!
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Allelulia! 

1. Maranatha! Christians who are embarrassed by Paul placing himself among the Christians living at the time of Jesus’s coming need not be. As it happens, Paul can also envision himself as dying before Christ appears (note 1 Thessalonians 5:10). Regardless, Christians the world over confess week after week that “Jesus shall come to judge the quick and the dead.” We do well to join the ancient Christian cry, “Our Lord, come!” Indeed, it is the responsible, faithful position of any and every Christian generation to live life in light of Christ’s promised return. This need not—and ought not—devolve into unhelpful and inevitably flawed predictions regarding the timing of his coming. To be sure, death stings, but we can continue to cling to and sing about the resurrection hope that is woven into the very core of our Christian confession and is regularly anticipated in both baptism and the Lord’s Supper.