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Psalm 49:1-20

(Scripture incorporated into sermon)

Psummer of Psalms VII - Psalm 49

As many of you already know, I like to preach from the Book of Psalms during the summertime—this will be the seventh year we have done this, and in that time we have gone through almost half of the 150 Psalms. So if you love this sermon series, the good news is that we’ve got seven or eight more years to go! And if you hate this sermon series… well, who could hate the Psalms? They are truly the songs and the poetry of God’s word—or as John Calvin called the Psalms, the “anatomy of the soul,” representing every single human emotion—from joy to sorrow, from fear to courage, from humble piety to exuberant passion and everything in between.

I also like to begin each year with what I call my “birthday psalm.” Last Monday, I turned 49 years old, so today we’re kicking things off with Psalm 49. By the way, YOU have a birthday Psalm, too—unless you happen to be over 150 years old. It’s a great way to start off a new year of your life, and to make God’s word a part of that celebration. And you don’t even have to wait for your birthday—how old are you today? That’s your Psalm! Go read it after worship today. But first, my turn! Let’s jump right in…

Psalm 49 is addressed to the leader—most likely that’s the leader of worship in the temple. It’s a Psalm… “of the Korahites” or literally in Hebrew a song “of the sons of Korah.” Korah was a cousin of Moses, and a member of the tribe of Levi. His sons (or his descendants) wrote several of the Psalms in the Book of Psalms, and that makes sense, because the tribe of Levi were responsible for the worship of God in the temple. They were priests, teachers, and in the case of the sons of Korah, musicians and poets. In the Old Testament book of Numbers, we learn that while all the other tribes of Israel were given land in order to provide for themselves, the Levites (and thus the Korahites) were not—they were expected to devote themselves entirely to the service of God, and therefore they had to rely on whatever financial support was provided to them by the other tribes.

In other words, the Korahites were the original “starving artists.” Understanding this will make it a little easier to understand Psalm 49, which one of them apparently wrote, possibly in a moment of fear, despair, self-pity or jealousy, while contemplating his poverty and comparing himself to some jerk who was flaunting his superior wealth. Anyone ever have a moment like that? Of course not—at least not that we would admit in public!

Verses 1-4:

1 Hear this, all you peoples; give ear, all inhabitants of the world, 2 both low and high, rich and poor together. 3 My mouth shall speak wisdom; the meditation of my heart shall be understanding. 4 I will incline my ear to a proverb; I will solve my riddle to the music of the harp.

I love this idea of solving your riddle, figuring out the thing that’s really bothering you, by picking up your instrument and playing. As a musician, I can relate. And if you’re not a musician, I’m sure God has given you some kind of skill or talent that works the same way—grab your tools and head to the garage, pick up your knitting needles, your paint brushes, your golf clubs, or your running shoes, or head to the kitchen to bake something—basically DO something, create something with the work of your hands (or feet), and soon your heart and your head will follow, putting you in the right frame of mind to hear what God is trying to tell you. Then (and only then) your mouth can speak wisdom, your ear can hear the wisdom of a proverb, and your heart can meditate in calm and clear understanding.

In verses 5 and 6, the Psalmist pours out his frustration:

5 Why should I fear in times of trouble, when the iniquity of my persecutors surrounds me, 6 those who trust in their wealth and boast of the abundance of their riches?

There’s a lot going on in these two verses: The Psalmist isn’t just mad because people around him are flaunting their wealth. They’re also persecuting him in an evil or unjust way (that’s what iniquity means), and they’re doing it at the worst possible time, when he’s already facing other, unnamed troubles. But that’s not the worst of it—to add insult to injury, he’s being attacked by those who give their trust, their confidence, their first allegiance to money—and this seems to be working great for them, while the Psalmist has put his hope and trust in God, and has received nothing but trouble in return.

In the very next verse, verse 7, the Psalmist begins to formulate his answer—but I like to imagine there’s probably about 20 to 30 minutes of intense and discordant harp-slamming between verses 6 and 7, slowly and eventually settling down and resolving to more pensive and reflective tones:

7 Truly, no ransom avails for one’s life, there is no price one can give to God for it. 8 For the ransom of life is costly, and can never suffice, 9 that one should live on for ever and never see the grave.

Here the Psalmist comes to the realization that there is something far more valuable than money, and that’s life. Life is a gift from God alone, and God alone determines the number of your days. No matter how wealthy you are, you cannot buy more time, and no matter how poor you are, your allotted days cannot be taken away from you.

He goes on in verse 10:

10 When we look at the wise, they die; fool and dolt perish together and leave their wealth to others. 11 Their graves are their homes for ever, their dwelling-places to all generations, though they named lands their own. 12 Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish. 13 Such is the fate of the foolhardy, the end of those who are pleased with their lot. Selah

Quick note: That word at the end of verse 13, “Selah” is an untranslated Hebrew word that occurs often in the Psalms. It’s untranslated because no one really knows what it means, although it’s probably some kind of musical notation—a pause, an instrumental break, or a change in tempo. I always like to imagine it’s a key change, raising the mood and the emotional stakes as the song progresses.

Ok, back to the fate of mortals. Verse 14:

14 Like sheep they are appointed for Sheol; (Sheol is the Hebrew word for the ground, or the grave) Death shall be their shepherd; straight to the grave they descend, and their form shall waste away; Sheol shall be their home. 15 But God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will receive me. Selah

Ok, what’s going on here? The Psalmist clearly said that everyone dies, rich and poor alike, we all go to the grave, but now it seems like he’s switching gears and saying “but not me…key change!” He’s kind of saying that, but I think he makes an important distinction between body and soul (Hebrew nephesh, or “selfhood”).

There was no concept of “heaven and hell” in ancient Hebrew theology—at least not the way we conceive it today. Those are later innovations, heavily influenced by Greek and Roman mythology. There was, however, this idea that when you die, they put you in the ground (Sheol) and you cease to exist. You simply perish forever. Unless… unless you belong to God, in which case some critical aspect of who you were, your “personhood” or your soul, returns back to God and is received into God’s self.

This is what the the author of the famous 23rd Psalm (The Lord is my Shepherd) probably means at the end when he says “and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

So the author of Psalm 49, I think, is making a contrast here between those who put their hope and confidence in their financial wealth—he actually says in verse 14, “Death shall be their shepherd,” death guides them, and in the end they will have nothing left—not their money, not their body, and not even their basic personhood.

But for those who trust and hope in God, well… “The Lord is my shepherd, and I shall want for nothing.” Or in verse 15 of Psalm 49, “God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will receive me.” If you follow the Lord in life, the Lord will claim you in death. If you follow money in life, money cannot claim you in death. Nothing will claim you. Nothingness will claim you. So be careful what you chase after.

The Psalmist began his song pouring out his fear to God—his fear of his own precarious state, and his frustration at those who seem to have everything, but who scorn God and persecute the faithful. He ends his song not in fear, but calm confidence.

Verse 16:

16 Do not be afraid when some become rich, when the wealth of their houses increases. 17 For when they die they will carry nothing away; their wealth will not go down after them. 18 Though in their lifetime they count themselves happy —for you are praised when you do well for yourself— 19 they will go to the company of their ancestors, who will never again see the light. 20 Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish.

The final verse, verse 20, is a repeat of verse 12 above. It’s the chorus or the refrain. It may sound a little harsh, but I think it has a humble beauty to it. The Psalmist is back to talking about everyone, all mortals. We mortals make some pretty amazing things for ourselves—beautiful songs, works of art and literature, business empires and breathtaking cities, pomp and circumstance—but in the end, we’re not so different than the animals we blessed last week in our blessing of the pets. They don’t make any of those things. They don’t need any of those things. And yet somehow they still manage to be happy (and to make us happy) in their short stays on this earth.

May we, too, find happiness—with what we have, and with who we are. May we, too, live to make others happy, while we still have time and years to do so. And may we also strive to please the God who made us, trusting and following him alone, Until we return at last to his loving embrace.