March 7, 2010

Psalm 63 and 1 Corinthians 10:1-5, 11-13

Psalm 63 has lots of “soul.” The author tells us that

·         My soul thirsts (v. 1),

·         My soul is satisfied (v. 5),

·         My soul clings [to God] (v. 8),

·         And, anyone who messes with my soul better watch out, because they’re goin’ down – “down to the depths of the earth” (v. 9).

The last one is hard to spot. In English, the word “life” appears, rather than “soul.” But that’s okay. In Jewish thinking, there’s no difference between life and soul. In Greek thinking, body and soul were distinct. We still tend to think that way. For Jews, however, the notion of “soul” encompasses our whole being – body and spirit, the seen and unseen.

So what matters is not the choice of words, but the order of events. The poet and his (or her) soul move from thirst … to satisfaction … to holding on to God … and feeling safeguarded forever.

That’s the sequence of the psalm … and the outline of this sermon.

* *

The soul wants to be well. It wants to be full and overflowing and healthy. But it isn’t. So the soul is subjected to physical pain.  Because body and soul are interrelated, “My flesh faints.” This is not just a spiritual thirst, but one that takes a toll on the flesh – like being “in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

The psalm heading says David wrote these words in the wilderness of Judah, while being chased by Saul (see 1 Sam. 23:14, 24:2). That Judean wilderness was a place of rock and sand, no shade from the sun, no rivers or streams to refill canteens, no orchard or vineyard with ripe fruit waiting to moisten the tongue, and no “green pastures” or “still waters” where the Lord will safely lead.

St. Augustine, however, knows that “wilderness” is a universal condition.  No one is safe, no one exempt. David isn’t alone. For Augustine, the whole world is a “wilderness,” of danger and temptations.  Sooner or later, every living “soul” feels the drought.

In that vein, Lindsay Armstrong suggests how we have tried to cope with our thirst:

We didn’t just shop; we maxed out our credit … shopped for new clothes … came home with new toys … We bought more groceries while food in the refrigerator spoiled … [moved into] houses with double height entries, chef’s kitchen, oversized garage, master suite [and] home theatre where on our big screens we [watched] the biggest loser (of weight, that is) [and] … the audaciously proportioned Super Bowl.

We didn’t just eat [she continues], we stuffed … didn’t just exercise [but] became weekend warriors. Christmas was as big as we could afford [or bigger]. Our waistbands [grew ever] larger.

Yet we never had enough. Except when it came to God. We never let our [thirst] for God get out of control. In fact, in the midst of this propensity toward size, our appetite for God stayed paltry.     (Journal for Preachers, Lent, 2010, p. 6-7.)

Like Jesus in the wilderness, tempted by the devil to live on anything but God, we’ve tried it all. But the author of Psalm 63 desires one thing only. He (or she) “craves God like a coffee drinker craves the first morning cup,” Armstrong says.  Nothing less will do.

 “My soul thirsts for you,” the poet says. My flesh faints for you, [O God].”

* *

But not forever. Soon Step 2 arrives … and “My soul is satisfied.”

All our efforts to slake our own thirst had the opposite effect of what we wanted – creating more thirst, leaving us longing for more.

But the witness of the poet is that God hears the growling stomach, the pleading of a parched tongue and chapped lips. And God responds.  A cup of cool water would suffice. But God goes further, setting “a rich feast” in front of the poet. The Hebrew is particularly descriptive, for it literally says, “a feast of suet and rich food.” Not exactly what I’d want after a long haul in the desert – but proof of the abundance God offers, and probably just what desert nomads dream of. God gives more than needed, we are told – more than enough – not a lean diet but a diet we can lean on.

Perhaps the analogy can be made to Communion. We come to the Lord’s Supper expecting a scrap of bread and sip of wine, but get food for the soul – food for our whole being, a meal meant to satisfy us to the very core of our existence.

As Jesus told the devil, we “do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes … from God!” God provides and satisfies.

* *

So, Step 3 logically follows.  “My soul clings [to God].”

The soul casts its lot with the trustworthy God and against all other providers that are illusory or insufficient.

Lips once parched with thirst become “joyful lips” – lips of glad song. God’s praises are sung and God’s wonders retold. The whole body is involved. Flesh that had nearly fainted now lifts up its hands in blessing … even as the soul realizes that it too is lifted up – “upheld” in God’s right hand.

Again, St. Augustine is helpful, providing the title of this sermon; for, instead of “clinging,” he translates v. 8, “My soul is glued to God.”

What a wonderful image! He suggests that this isn’t just a matter of our own strength or willpower for holding on. We are attached … bonded … connected in ways that will not easily break … ways that do not depend on us … and ways we did not initiate. It’s another way of saying what the Apostle Paul will tell the Christians in Rome when he says, “Nothing in all creation can ever separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

The soul of the psalmist isn’t joined to God by “static cling.” Super Glue is more like it.

* *

Having survived the desert-like thirst, with needs met and a strong new sense of belonging, the psalmist looks confidently forward. He (or she!) does not pretend that all hardships are past, obstacles removed, and enemies “neutralized.” Something or someone may still lurk in the shadows ahead. But the psalmist is not worried or afraid, knowing that God stands by, as a powerful ally and safeguard against all evils and ills.

The psalmist is protected “under the shadow of God’s wings,” while “Those who seek to destroy my soul will go down to the depths of the earth.”

They don’t stand a chance.  They are the ones who should worry, not he. They are the ones who will find themselves in the desert, thirsting, fainting, perishing in the end.

“They will be given over to the power of the sword.” Or worse, “they shall become prey for the jackals.”

We had fun with that phrase Thursday night in Worship Committee when we talked about this psalm. Turns out it is the ultimate curse in the Bible, the worst thing you can say to a person – to wish for their corpse to go unburied, left rotting in the sun, torn apart and consumed by scavenging wild dogs. We talked a lot that night about jackals. One person even suggested getting a license plate with that written on it!

That’s a pretty good safeguard, isn’t it, to have God and wild dogs on your side?!

* *

That’s where the psalm takes us – from searching and nearly fainting, to being glued to God and secure no matter what in the certainty that God will not let anything ultimately harm you.

It’s a pretty good message for Lent, as we join Jesus in the desert, and on the way to Jerusalem and the cross. It assures us that the one who feeds us (body and soul) and takes away our thirst at this Table will not forget us or forsake us.  Death is dying, and life is coming.

As Paul told the Corinthians in today’s New Testament reading: “God is faithful.”

And we in turn are invited to be faithful too – by loving God with all of our heart, mind, strength … and soul.

To the glory of God.