Commentary on Ephesians 5:15-20

20240818_SBrown_2ndR_Eph5:15-20

At first glance, this text may seem to hold little homiletical promise. Most of us typically don’t use “wise” or “foolish” to describe politicians or relatives; our vernacular is more colorful. One might hear “the days are evil”—but on stage in a Shakespearean drama. Where can a preacher find traction here? Fortunately, clues in the lection itself and its larger context reframe these verses, revealing plenty of preaching territory to explore.

As I suggested last week in connection with Ephesians 4:25–5:2, commentators surmise that the paraenetic (ethically formational) material in this letter may be modeled on the pre-baptismal homilies candidates for baptism in the early church would hear in the weeks leading up to baptism itself. In that setting, speaking about the “wise” versus the “foolish” would be a clever use of street-friendly speech. Tales of the wise versus the foolish were woven through the oral fables of ancient Mediterranean cultures, as they are to this day. 

Remarking that “the days are evil” appropriates the language of apocalyptic literature, popular in this time. “The days are evil” is the sort of phrase one might have emblazoned on the front of a first- or second-century T-shirt, had there been such a thing; the back could read: “Redeem the time!” (Today we might say “Seize the day!”) 

Such language would connect with listeners either just baptized or soon to be, shaped by pagan popular culture but now ready to learn the practices of Christian community. Again, common vernacular leads into the language of faith in verse 18: “[In light of this critical point in time, which we could spend wisely or foolishly], do not be drunk with wine, but be filled with the Spirit.” Today we might say, “In these critically decisive times when action matters, don’t let yourself stumble around in a directionless haze, self-medicated with alcohol, but give yourself over to the Spirit of God.” 

The phrase “be filled with the Spirit” evokes the context of Christian worship. Verse 19, essentially an echo of Colossians 3:16c, is a striking passage, in that it is one of a few New Testament texts that focus on the spiritually formative practice of singing. 

Studies indicate that we best remember words that we do not merely read or recite, but sing. Maybe you’ve had one of those days when a tune lodged itself in your brain; for hours, you couldn’t escape either the tune or the lyrics.

As a teacher of Christian worship, I advised seminarians and working pastors to pay attention to the lyrics they encouraged their congregations to sing. The theology we have sung over a lifetime is the theology that will accompany us when the rest of memory blurs; it is the theology that will carry us as we face life’s end. On a sudden impulse, I went to see a fellow pastor fighting a chronic blood infection. He was exceptionally alert that afternoon. He asked me to help him remember all the stanzas of “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” We sang it together, in parts, then talked of other things. Hours later, he died peacefully. The Ephesians writer recognized the spiritual durability of our songs and hymns.

The simple phrase “among yourselves” (verse 19) is worthy of attention in a sermon. We sing our worship songs and hymns with, and for, one another, even as we sing them as praise to God. During my years in parish ministry, I found myself walking the path of bereavement with many widowed men and women. Sometimes a bereaved spouse would come to church, but choose a seat at the back of the sanctuary. It struck me that they stood silently during hymns. I asked one widow, also a friend, about this. She said, “I need others to sing the hymns to me, and for me, until I can sing them again myself.” 

Another dimension of congregational song we can address is a grammatical one: how the pronouns we sing can either broaden or narrow the horizon of our faith. There is a place for songs and hymn texts featuring “I,” “me,” and “mine.” But if we sing exclusively of our individual relationship with Jesus, or of God’s specific attention to our personal troubles, we risk fostering a self-absorbed version of Christian faith. Like all the epistles, Ephesians stresses the plural “you”—the “we” and “us” and “ours” of our faith. We also need hymns that turn us outward to the “they,” “them,” and “those” outside our sanctuary walls who are the object of unceasing divine concern. Because that’s true, their sufferings and hopes matter to us, too. 

The meaning of “giving thanks” (verse 20) is a matter of debate. Does this refer to the Lord’s Supper (often called Eucharist, literally “giving thanks” in Greek)? Or does it simply suggest grateful prayers? A preacher might choose one or the other, or even explore both in a sermon. The eucharistic reading would connect readily with today’s gospel text, John 6:51–58.

Alternatively, we might wrestle in a sermon with what it means to “give thanks at all times and for everything.” To tell bereaved parents, a midlife dad who has lost his job, or a newly diagnosed cancer patient that they must “give thanks for everything” is pastorally untenable. To assure a congregation of God’s unfailing commitment to them in the throes of suffering is a lifeline. 

When a friend of mine was diagnosed in her 30s with multiple sclerosis, she plunged into a crisis of faith. Years later she told me, “I had to lose the God I thought I should believe in, but couldn’t, so I could find the One I could believe in—the One who bears the effects of MS with me.” 

Gratitude to the God who has become one of us—accompanying us even amid oppression, pain, isolation, and grief—is an act of holy defiance against all the forces, seen and unseen, that conspire to crush our faith and our hope.