How to Lose Your Soul

How to Lose Your Soul

Psalm 23:5; Matthew 16:26

April 7, 2019 • Mount Pleasant UMC

One of the best apps on my phone today is “Find My iPhone.” I know other platforms have similar apps, and I love that when I misplace my phone (not lose—misplace), I can set off a tone and find it. I won’t tell you who does that most often in our household! There are other things, though, I wish had similar apps because I seem to lose things more and more often. Has anyone seen the screwdriver I just laid down? Where did I put my glasses? I learned a long time ago that, whenever we moved into a new house, one of the first things I should do is hang up a hook to hang my keys on—otherwise I’d never know where they are! Some tell me I might be losing my mind, and sometimes when I’m reading (or preaching), I lose my place and have to start over in a particular section. That’s at least part of why I related to a song from the movie Mary Poppins Returns:

Do you ever lie awake at night?

Just between the dark and the morning light

Searching for the things you used to know

Looking for the place where the lost things go

The fact that I lose so many things makes me sit up and notice when I hear Jesus say this: “What do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul? Is anything worth more than your soul?” (Matthew 16:26, NLT). Wait? I can lose my soul? Well, Jesus asks that question expecting the answer, “No, nothing is more valuable than my soul, who I am at the deepest level.” So since it is that valuable, since my soul is the most precious thing I have, and since I tend to lose a lot of things that are important to me, I want to know how not to lose my soul. When Jesus gave that warning to his followers, he has been on a retreat with the twelve and Peter has taken the bold step of actually calling Jesus the Messiah, the Savior of the world. With that confession, Jesus pushes his followers a bit further, and he starts using language about taking up a cross and denying themselves if they want to follow him fully. He basically says that the tighter they hold onto the things they can see, the baubles and the glittering objects in this world, the further they are from the kingdom of God. He’s asking them: what’s most important to you? Are you willing to give up everything you see and trust me to take care of you, to protect you, to walk with you? Are you willing to really be my disciple?

This morning, we are one week away from Holy Week which also means we’re getting closer to the end of this psalm we’ve been walking through during Lent. As we talked about last week, this psalm, Psalm 23, the Shepherd Psalm, has taken a different turn in the last three verses. David, the shepherd boy, has gone from talking about God to talking to God, and in the verse we’re looking at this morning, he’s talking about the same kind of trust that his later descendant, Jesus, was talking about with his followers. David, as a one-time shepherd himself, knows that even after they have gotten through the darkest valley, the danger is not yet over and if the sheep don’t learn to truly trust the shepherd, the journey is going to end in disaster.

So the sheep have now made it through the darkest valley. In David’s imagination, they are arriving on the high ground, where there is food for the sheep, grass they can eat. But there is also danger. There’s danger from predatory animals and there is danger from cliffs. Sheep are not ferocious animals, so they can be very quickly taken by an aggressive predator. Or they can lean just a little too far out over the edge, trying to reach that last green leaf or clump of grass and find themselves tumbling toward death. Just because they have made it through the darkest valley doesn’t mean they are completely safe, and that’s why the shepherd, even on the high ground, can’t leave them on their own.

David puts it this way: "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows” (23:5). Now, there’s a lot of stuff packed in those 21 words, and we’ve only got a short time this morning, but I want to start with the symbols at the end (oil and the cup) and work our way back to the beginning of the verse. Now, I’ve reminded you before that in the Bible oil is a symbol of healing. It’s also a symbol of the presence of God’s Spirit. For both of those reasons, we still use oil to anoint people who are in need of healing. We don’t do that because there’s magic in the oil (not even in this oil I bought in Israel) or even because doing it has some sort of effect on God. It’s not that anointing somehow locks God into having to heal us just the way we want him to. There is nothing magic in the oil; it’s a symbol and a reminder of God’s presence. Several years ago, a woman in our congregation, Julie, asked me after worship if I could anoint her. She had an extremely rare disease and was going in for a procedure to improve her quality of life, so could I anoint her and pray for her? Of course, I said, and we gathered with her husband and a few other folks after worship in the church office to do just that. The oil was very fragrant—and it was also slippery. You see where this is going? As I was praying for Julie, the bottle of oil slipped out of my hands and spilled all over her and onto the carpet. Thankfully, Julie laughed it off and said she wanted to be anointed but not that much! My secretary’s office smelled like that oil for weeks after. Now, if the oil was magic, you would have thought that much oil surely would have healed Julie, but she knew that wasn’t the point. Oil is a reminder of God’s presence, and Julie had no doubt of God’s presence up to and through the moment of her death. The oil reminds the sheep of the shepherd’s presence.

I read this week of another use of oil on sheep, which I found both amusing and challenging. Phillip Keller, an author and one-time shepherd, talks about how the male sheep, in the fall, will fight with each other to impress the female sheep, the ewes. A male sheep will strut around the pasture but if he finds another male who is invading his territory, he will challenge that sheep. The two will butt heads and bodies, sometimes all night long, to decide who is superior. (Now, we humans may have developed more “sophisticated” techniques for impressing those we desire, but we’re not really much different from the sheep, are we?) Keller says sometimes the contests would get so ferocious that sheep could be injured, maimed or even killed, so to prevent that from happening, a shepherd will smear generous amounts of oil (or grease) on the sheep’s forehead and nose. When they go to butt heads, then, Keller says they basically slide off each other and the tension is dissipated. Now, not only is that funny to think about, it also reminds us that the presence of God’s Holy Spirit (which oil represents) should calm us down. When we’re upset with someone, when we want to take them on, when we butt heads with a brother or sister in Christ, the Holy Spirit comes between us and helps us focus on what is really important rather than on what we think is important. One of the Spirit’s jobs is to remind us that we don’t have to be “top sheep” (Keller, A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23, pgs. 119-121). We’re just called to be “good sheep.” “He anoints my head with oil” reminds me of God’s presence and his protection. If you want to lose your soul, ignore the “oil” of the Holy Spirit.

He anoints my head with oil. “My cup overflows” (23:5). Have you ever had your cup overflow? Have you ever gotten distracted while pouring a drink and before you know it, it’s all over the counter or the table? No, just me? Okay, then. So the image here is that you have more than you need. It’s provision—abundant provision. Overflowing provision. But again, it’s not the sheep providing for itself. It’s the shepherd who provides; it’s the shepherd who gives more than is needed. Now, we’re not talking about material things here, or filling an actual cup with some sort of drink. Rather, David is describing God providing what we need. In the hot summer desert of Israel, sheep (and all living things) need a lot of water. They need an overflowing cup, which the shepherd provides. We heard this earlier in the psalm: God provides what we need. God does not guarantee everything we want, but he does promise to provide what we need. The problem is not with God; the problem is with us.

We confuse what we “want” with what we “need.” We often buy the American lie that says God has to provide whatever we ask for, and that God will give us health and wealth and fast cars and big houses and expensive baubles. We confuse the so-called “American dream” with “the blessed life.” In Scripture, Jesus’ mom, Mary, is specifically called “blessed.” In the Gospel of Luke, Mary is told she has “found favor” with God (Luke 1:28), and twenty verses later she sings that all generations will call her blessed (Luke 1:48). And that’s been true, but what did her “blessed” life look like? Lifelong poverty, being pregnant out of wedlock in a culture where that was unacceptable, shunned by people who had known her all her life, having a son she never completely understood, apparently losing her husband when she was still young, and watching her son suffer and die painfully on a cross. Talk about a blessed life! We would wonder what she had done wrong to have all that happen to her! Yet, I am certain Mary would say with the psalmist, “My cup overflows.” She had everything she needed because she knew the shepherd. An overfilled cup is a sign that God has given us more than we need, more than we could expect, more than we deserve. That’s why God’s defining characteristic in the Bible is that untranslatable word hesed—someone who owes you nothing yet gives you everything (cf. Card, Inexpressible, preface). If you want to lose your soul, insist on providing for yourself, or insist that God bless you the way you “deserve” to be blessed. My cup overflows.

And that brings me back to the beginning of this verse: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies” (23:5a). The image throughout this verse is of a sumptuous banquet which is held in spite of threats to the sheep. One author I read pictured it as a gathering in the wilderness, where the sheep and the shepherd feast and the enemies, the threatening animals who want to attack the sheep, pace relentlessly outside a circle of light, waiting for a chance to attack (cf. Goldingay, Psalms for Everyone, Part 1, pg. 75). The shepherd is both provider and protector. The shepherd is willing to give himself so that the sheep can eat and rest in peace. Think of a table that is not only a celebration but a place of safety and comfort in the midst of a hostile world.

Or maybe you might think of another table, a well-set table, all according to the customs and traditions of the time, set for a Passover feast in the city of Jerusalem. It is actually the night before the full Passover takes place, but the host, the shepherd, knows that he will not be there for his flock on the next evening. The celebration must take place on this night, because this feast, this meal has a larger purpose than sustaining them bodily. Jesus, the good shepherd, wants to leave this table with his flock, his followers, so that they will remember him, so that they will be strengthened by him, so that they can face the enemies who are coming at him and them even that very night. The table, in the presence of so many enemies all around them (and even one at the table that night), is not for him, but for them, for the preservation of their souls, so that when the enemies come at them the next day, the next several days, the next weeks, months and years, they will be able to resist, to stand against them, and to change the world. All because Jesus, the good shepherd, set a table before them in the presence of his (and their) enemies.

Their enemies that night were not predators; they were the religiously righteous, the ones who were determined to get rid of Jesus no matter what the cost, even if it was at the cost of their own soul. Our enemies might not be quite so visible or tangible. Our enemies are the temptations, the trials, the “sins that so easily entangle” us (cf. Hebrews 12:1). All it takes today to lose our soul is a little justification here, a little there, a choice to disobey here and another one there, a denial of Jesus here, an embracing of the world’s values there—and before you know it, we are undone and our soul is lost. Do you know what the difference is between us and those twelve men gathered around the table of the last supper? Not much, really. They faced the same temptations we do. Every day they faced the choice to follow Jesus or to compromise what they said they believed. It was incredibly tempting to just give up a little to get along—“go along to get along” as they say. That’s what we do if we want to lose our souls. But not these disciples. When the temptation came along, they remembered this meal, this banquet. They remembered it every time they gathered. They remembered it every time they saw bread and wine. In this table, this meal, they found the strength and, maybe more importantly, the joy they needed to remain faithful. That joy is what sustained them when persecution came. That joy and this table is what sustained them when the days seemed dark. And two thousand years later, the Roman Empire is rubble and the church of Jesus Christ is still alive and well. As it has been said, those who were at that table and those who came after them “knew how to outlive their enemies and they knew how to outdie their enemies” (Williams, Communicator’s Commentary: Psalms 1-72, pg. 186).

We still come to the table to find strength and joy and hope and grace. When I was in my first appointment, one of my tasks every Sunday was to go with the children to what we called children’s church, and on communion Sundays, I would attempt to explain what communion was all about. One Sunday, I decided to ask them what they thought. “What is communion?” I asked, and one little boy piped up, “It’s a snack in the middle of service!” I’ve always thought of that every time I talk about this table being a feast. Granted, it’s not much in the way of food, but that’s not what I mean when I say it’s a feast. It’s what this table represents: all of the grace God has given us. We call this act many things. It’s a sacrament: an outward sign of an inward grace, something we do tangibly that represents something going on inside of us. It’s an anticipation and a celebration: we’re told that, in the end, when the church gathers in eternity we will gather at “the marriage supper of the Lamb” (Revelation 19:7-9). This small meal anticipates that eternal one. It’s a time for giving thanks: for all the ways God has provided for us and protected us and given us more than we deserve. More than anything, this meal is given to us for the preservation of our soul. Once a month, it reminds us in tangible ways who we are and whose we are. Want to know how to truly lose your soul? Walk away from this table unchanged. Or walk away from this table and refuse to receive what Jesus has for you and for me in this place and in this time. He prepares a table before me.

It’s an interesting thing we do here, and I’ve noticed through the years that we often don’t know how to respond. First of all, some have asked why I hand you the piece of bread rather than have you tear it off. Some assume it’s for portion control and others think it’s for germ control, and while both of those might happen, it’s really for another reason entirely. You see, grace is something we receive, it’s not something we grab or take for ourselves. The bread represents God’s loving mercy and grace, and all we can really do is hold out our hands to receive. We can’t do anything to earn it. If we could, it would not be grace. So I encourage you, when you receive the bread this morning, to respond to Jesus in some way that expresses your heart, your gratitude for the gift that is being given. It’s not me or anyone else who is giving you the bread or the cup, not really. Those of us who serve simply stand in the place of Jesus. So respond to him, in gratitude for all that he has given you.

One more thing I want to say before we come to the table: you are not worthy to receive this meal, and neither am I. Many years ago, I had a woman approach me who had been coming to the church for quite a while, had been baptized and had become a member. But she had not been coming forward for communion. Come to find out, if I remember right, she had never received communion, and when I asked her why, she said, “Because I don’t feel worthy. I’m not good enough.” I don’t remember what I said to her that day, but my pastoral response to anyone who is feeling that way today is this: you’re right, you’re not good enough. Neither am I. Neither is Pastor Rick, though he’s closer than I am! But none of us are “good enough.” Paul tells us, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). That’s why we need grace. That’s why we need the good shepherd to set the table for us. We’re not good enough and we can’t be. But Jesus is, and in spite of our failings, even the ways we might have failed him today, he still invites us to the table he has set, in the presence of our enemies, where we are anointed with oil and our cup overflows. To all the “not good enoughs,” Jesus says, “Come.” To all the sheep, wandering in the wilderness, Jesus says, “Come.” To all the enemies who want to destroy God’s flock, Jesus says, “Come.” What I say every time we have communion is true: this table, Christ’s table, is open to all who love Christ or want to love him. So come, the table is prepared, the feast is ready, and the shepherd is here. Let’s pray.