Lament: Psalm 137

This is our fifth and final week to look at biblical lament. We’ve read Psalm 13, Psalm 22, and spent two weeks on Lamentations. We’ve gradually gotten darker, and this morning’s reading may be the darkest and deepest we’ve gone. Yet, like other laments, on the other side of the darkness, one finds light. But this scripture is pretty dark. The other day, I saw this headline: the ten worst passages in the Bible. It was written by an atheist as evidence for why he doesn’t believe in the God of the Bible or any god for that matter. He listed our morning reading, Psalm 137, as number one. He’s got a point. It’s a pretty rough passage. So I thought the best way to test our commitment to biblical lament was to journey into the most chafing and abrasive lament in the Bible.

Here’s the backdrop. When the Babylonians invaded and ultimately destroyed Jerusalem, they killed many, but they took some back as slaves.  When it came to the best and brightest, like Daniel, the Babylonians trained them for royal service. When it came to the lower class, the Babylonians forced them into cruel and torturous labor.  As they worked, their masters teased them. They joked about how the Babylonian gods had killed the arrogant God of Israel, the supposed one true God. When the Jews kept worshipping, this only emboldened the teasing. As they brutally abused them, they’d say, “hey, sing us one of those worship songs. Sing us one of those songs about your god, the god we killed when we destroyed his temple.” Surrounded by laughter and cruelty, they kept working. Every now and then, a slave master got frustrated. He’d hit one of them. He’d hit one of their children. Sometimes, the Babylonians killed frustrating Jewish slaves-men, women, and children.  In the face of these atrocities, the Jews refused to sing for their captors. They hung their harps up on trees. Yet when their oppressors weren’t looking, they cried. They wept.  They remembered Zion, and this brought a mix of anger and hope.

I can’t think of a more honest part of the Bible than this.  Psalm 137 1 By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. 2 There on the poplars we hung our harps, 3 for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!” 4 How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land? 5 If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill. 6 May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy. 7 Remember, Lord, what the Edomites did on the day Jerusalem fell. “Tear it down,” they cried, “tear it down to its foundations!” 8 Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction, happy is the one who repays you according to what you have done to us. 9 Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.

Let’s go through this a few verses at a time.  1 By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. 2 There on the poplars we hung our harps, 3 for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”  I’d love to know the name of the river. There’s a decent chance it was either the Tigris or Euphrates, which still flow in that part of the world, modern day Iraq. Genesis 2 places the Garden of Eden as around the Tigris and Euphrates. As they reminded each other of Creation and Eden, I can see them saying, “This is no Eden. This is not good, but fallen. This is no heaven but hell.” They missed Jerusalem. They missed Zion. A few would return someday, but most of them would die in Babylon. They missed their past life.

In the midst of this, the Babylonians teased them.  They tried to force them to sing. They made fun of their worship. They ridiculed their hope.  I can’t imagine what that would have been like. I’ve never been enslaved or abused. I have been teased for my faith and beliefs. I’ve been in conversations where my hope was ridiculed. I’ve watched films, shows, and media where my hope were held up as ridiculous.  But I never suffered or faced persecution. It was merely intellectual condescension. I’m amazed they endured this. In fact, this is one of the hallmarks of Jewish identity. 

We could look at the totality of Jewish history, but I’ll just focus on biblical history. If we trace their story from Abraham to Jesus, they spent the majority of that time period as a persecuted minority. Consider the 400 years of Egyptian slavery. Consider the time spent subject to the Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, and ultimately the Romans.  They were accustomed to relying on hope not power, faith not prestige, lament not success.

They were people of exile. They clung to their exilic identity. During this time period, with the temple destroyed, they developed synagogues. These were teaching centers where they gathered to proclaim Moses and the Prophets. They gathered to tell their stories and teach the next generation. They gathered to hope. They said, “This is who we are. We’re gonna be who God called us to be no matter what. No matter what. We may be in Babylon, but we’re people of Zion.” They practiced a radical nonconformity and preserved their faith and hope. We see these synagogues in the ministry of Jesus. These synagogues become the forerunners of Christian gatherings. Our church buildings are not temple for the people are the temple. Instead, our church buildings are like synagogues, teaching centers where we gather to remember our essential stories. We gather to claim our identity as people of exile, to gather the strength to live in the world but not be of the world.

4 How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land? 5 If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill. 6 May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy.  Verse four moves me so much. They don’t know that they can sing. That makes sense to me. How could you sing when things were as bad as they were?

Singing has long been an intimate part of our spiritual memory.  People smarter than me can explain what happens in our brains and emotions when we sing. Singing is different than speaking. Singing takes us to a different realm. I realize this every Easter Sunday. My best Easter sermon is no match for the songs of Easter Sunday.  I miss singing with you so much. I dream of this. When this is all over, (I expect a gradual end), and everyone is back, I want to sing the songs of Easter, no matter the season. For that day will be a resurrection for us. I want to sing Low in the Grave He Lay, Crown Him with Many Crowns, and Christ the Lord is Risen Today.  I dream of that day. I know I will cry. I know I will smile. I’ll catch up on all the hugs and jokes. I can’t wait.

But, let’s be honest. It will be easy to sing those songs on that day. The hard part is singing them now. I love to sing. I love to sing to my girls when I put them to bed. But I confess this. Some nights, it’s been hard for me to sing. Some nights, I haven’t felt like singing. But faith is singing even when you don’t feel like it.

This part of the psalm reminds me of another song. Let me set it up. In high school, I was part of a school chorus for all four years. The director, Jeff Rice, changed my life for he taught me how to sing. More than that, he introduced to all kinds of music from various cultures with various languages. One year, he taught the guys an African American spiritual. The girls sang another piece, and then we’d sing this guy’s only piece. The song was “Steal Away.”  It was always my favorite part of practice and concerts. The harmonies were captivating. Beyond that, the message moved me even as I didn’t truly understand it. Mr. Rice told us the story, but in my social context, it was hard to totally get it. During the years of American slavery, slaves would often sing this in the fields. “Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus! Steal away, steal away home, I ain’t got long to stay here.” The song had a double meaning. On one hand, the slaves reminded each other of their ultimate hope in Jesus. They would live with Jesus forever. On the other hand, they sometimes used this song as code in the Underground Railroad. Stealing away to Jesus was stealing away to freedom. As they sung this, I can see slave owners doing their best Babylonian impression. I can see the teasing. I can see them almost feeling sorry for them as they continued to trust in a God who had not come for them. Yet, on more than one occasion, the master would awake to realize the slave knew something he didn’t. The slave was gone, having found freedom under the cover of darkness. Their God had heard them, even in slavery, even in exile.

7 Remember, Lord, what the Edomites did on the day Jerusalem fell. “Tear it down,” they cried, “tear it down to its foundations!” 8 Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction, happy is the one who repays you according to what you have done to us. 9 Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.  That’s quite an ending. It’s what makes it the most problematic part of the Bible for some.  Vengeance. The exiles proclaim a desire to hurt, even kill, the children of the Babylonians. 

We’ve said this throughout. Laments are vulnerable.  Laments are transparent. Laments flow from the heart and reveal an intimacy not often expressed in church talk. Laments will make you feel uncomfortable. Our society often reminds to vulnerability with suspicious looks to enforce the boundaries. Don’t share too much. It’s uncomfortable. It’s weak. 

But it’s not weak. We should get comfortable with it. To be clear, they spoke Psalm 137 to each other in their gatherings. They didn’t proclaim it to the Babylonians. It was meant for their intimate gatherings. You don’t tweet Psalm 137. Please don’t. It’s not for the world. They won’t understand it. It for exiles in a context of trust and vulnerability. Exiles create a space for honest speech. Lament is how exiles talk.

Let me be clear. The exiles did not plan to dash the Babylonian children on the rocks. We have no record or account of a Jewish violent uprising against Babylon.  They were sharing how they felt, not what they planned to do. They knew the words of Moses, “Vengeance is mine.”  They knew God would take care of it. They were not supposed to take vengeance. Just as Moses was not supposed to kill the Egyptian slave master but wait for the Lord to send the 10 Plagues. They knew God would take care of it.  In due time, we know that God did bring vengeance on the Babylonians by allowing the Persians to conquer them.

This psalm is not a call to violence but an honest cry for mercy. You might hear it like this.  “If that happened to their child, they’d see this different.  If that Babylonian master saw his child abused, he’d quit abusing my child. If that Babylonian master saw his child enslaved, he’d quit enslaving my child. If that Babylonian master saw his child killed, he’d understand.” It’s not a call to violence but a plea for compassion.  “God, make them understand what they’re doing to us.”

It’s all very heavy. The question for us is this.  Can we commit to this? Can we talk like this? After all, this is how exiles talk.  Lament is how exiles talk. But we struggle to talk like this. People will think we’re crazy. It’s too vulnerable. We’ll sound weak. Sometimes, I think the only thing we’re more afraid of than our pain is talking about our pain.

I believe that God is calling our church to practice lament-in our worship, in our common life together, and in our conversations with one another. Lament refuses idealism and pie in the sky optimism. Lament refuse cynicism and endless sarcasm. Lament names pain and claims hope. Lament is honest hope. If we enter into lament, we’ll have to go deeper in our faith than we’ve ever gone before. It will feel weird at first. It might scare us. But hear me. To survive this time, to survive what lies ahead, we must tap into this essential part of our long tradition. We must locate the identity of the exiles. We must sing songs of Zion in a foreign land.

I’ll end with this. This psalm always reminds me of “The Sound of Music”, the story of an Austrian singing family who fled rather than work for the Germans in World War II.  As a kid, I remember the captivation I felt from watching Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer, and all the children playing the Von Trapp family. Every time I’ve watched it, one scene always moves me the most. At the end, as they plan their escape from the Nazis, they find themselves at a singing competition. After the family performs, Captain von Trapp addresses the Austrian crowd. “I shall not be seeing again perhaps for a very long time. I would sing for you now a love song. I know you share this love. I pray that you will never let it die.” Then, he begins to sing “Edelweiss”, a patriotic ode to the Austrian homeland named for an indigenous flower.  While singing, the Captain becomes overwhelmed with emotion knowing everything has changed. He’ll either live afar in exile or be captured and thrown in prison.  It’s as if he’s thinking of Psalm 137. “How can I sing songs of Austria when the Nazis have taken over?”  As he chokes up with emotion, his family joins him to keep the song going. He motions to the crowd, who joins in the singing.  In doing so, they cope with exile. It’s an act of defiance. By passing the song on to the next generation, they reach out to a future after the exile has ended. And be sure. It will end. Remember. Never forget. Jesus hears us. Jesus is with us. Jesus is coming back for us.  Let’s sing his songs until he returns. Lament is how exiles talk. Lament is how we sing. Lament is how we live.