Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how our ever-expanding, always-deficient knowledge of the gospel is like exploring a vast estate. Picture the expansive acreage at Biltmore or the sprawling Blenheim Place in Oxfordshire or the fictional Downton Abbey. Imagine further that this has now become your inheritance by virtue of your adoption. Now, consider roaming the grounds of your new home, finding stands of hemlock, magnolia, and rhododendron, waterfalls, hot springs, and old-growth forests, new trails that open to unexplored fields and creeks that empty into secluded ponds. The grounds of this estate are big. In fact, in this scenario, you never quite reach the boundaries of your property. The further you walk, the more you find. This, I suggest, provides a metaphor for the growing exploration of our inheritance. The Gospel Estate defies surveyors, for it has never been exhaustively mapped or adequately bounded. It’s just big. Our next section of the 23rd Psalm illustrates how our understanding of all that we are given tends to grow (and must continue to).
“. . . you anoint my head with oil . . .”
You’ll recall that the metaphor shifts in verse five from the Lord as shepherd to the Lord as host. We considered the grace shown as he prepares for us a meal in the presence of our enemies, yet the picture of hospitality continues here. An explanation might be helpful. We’re expecting guests in our home tonight. Were I to greet them this evening by first pouring oil into their hair, I’d expect furrowed brows, cocked heads, muttered protests, and a shorter-than-anticipated visit. I’m not familiar with the customs in Farragut, Karns or Blount County, but we don’t do that in Powell. In the ancient Near East, however, anointing one’s head with oil communicated esteem. These oils might be mixed with local fragrances and would serve to refresh and soothe guests who might show up fatigued from travel. Do you remember Jesus’ rebuke of his host in Luke 7? Seeing their contempt for the sinful woman’s display of worship, our Lord said, “You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment”. To anoint one’s head with oil was to communicate honor. Now consider that as a gospel benefit.
Were our Lord to only suspend our sentence, lift our guilt and clear our record, this kindness would call for ceaseless praise. Yet he does more. He anoints our heads with oil. This tender, dignifying act may seem unreasonably gracious, yet there it is.
“. . . you anoint my head with oil . . .”
It is our duty and joy to press forward in our knowledge of the inheritance secured for us by grace. To fail in this is to diminish the accomplishment of the cross, obscure the vastness of mercy and dim the glory of the God who not only forgives our sins but anoints our head with oil. “He”, the Psalmist says, “lifts the needy from the ash heap; he seats them with princes” (Psalm 113:7b-8a). Does that seem too lavish for you, Christian? Is it bigger than you think plausible? Do you see this mercy as inordinately generous? If so, look harder at your inheritance. Consider Romans 8, Ephesians 2, or Isaiah 53. If you tend to cower when approaching the Lord in prayer or if shame envelopes you so fully that you wish for your own disappearance or if you suspect that the Father forgives you out of obligation to his covenant, but actually sees you in varying degrees of contempt and disdain, may I encourage you to lace up your boots, leave the porch, find a trail and start walking? Explore further. Bring somebody with you. Hike these grounds with your siblings (or bring an orphaned friend who has yet to be adopted). Take your time. Look around. Drink in the vast gospel landscape. Take another look at the fields you’ve walked before. Keep walking. And you might want to pack a lunch because the estate that is now your home is big.