Psalm 137

1 By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion.

2 On the willows [Or poplars] there we hung up our lyres.

This is an abrupt change from the psalms before and after. It is a song about not-singing. It is as if the psalmist said, “I’m going to write a song about how I can’t sing”. It’s not that he wasn’t capable of singing, but that his heart wouldn’t allow it. He and his companions hung up their instruments, sat down, and wept. “By the rivers of Babylon” sounds like a lovely place, and indeed it may have been one of the fabled seven wonders of the ancient world. Known for its system of canals and irrigation channels, Babylon was a symbol of life in the desert, nurtured by the Euphrates and other rivers. Ezekiel mentions sitting by the Chebar River as well (Ezekiel 1:1-3). So in a place of beauty and life and abundance, there’s unfortunately great sadness. The Jewish people had been carried away into captivity and they didn’t know when it would end. Rumor was that it would be seventy years, but that’s lifetime for most. And honestly, who could believe such a rumor. Captives weren’t set free, exiles didn’t go home. It was a dream. And so, stuck in a foreign land with no hope of return, there were no happy songs that seemed appropriate, only an acapella lament, sung in the key of mourning. The creative moment that inspired this song began with a group of guys crying together. That is a rare moment indeed, and only something deeply disturbing could cause it. They remembered Zion, the beauty of the temple, the songs of worship, the smells of incense and sacrifice, the throngs of people delighted and in awe of the spectacle. And then they remembered the Babylonian army slaughtering people in the streets and setting fire to the holy place after they carried away everything of value to present to their god and king. It was over, for good. No reason to ever smile again. Grieving permanent loss is one of the most difficult things. When you know that someone is never coming home, there’s nothing you can do but sit down and cry. 

3 For there our captors required of us songs, and our tormentors, mirth, saying, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

4 How shall we sing the LORD's song in a foreign land?

When you are sad, one of the worst things someone can do is tell you to be happy. It is the height of insensitivity and lack of empathy. A decent human being would never tell a grieving person to put on a happy face and sing a party song. That’s why the translation “tormentors” is appropriate, even though it stretches the meaning of the word “those who carried us away” just a little bit. The fact that they were demanding songs at such a time suggests mockery. Of course there are times when people need to be encouraged to smile and be happy, but a discerning person knows when and when not to do that. Consider also that the mockers are the same nation that ravaged the psalmist’s hometown. They cannot be sincere in their desire to hear happy songs. They want to dig the knife a little deeper and remind these poor Jews who is in charge now. And so the psalmist asks, “how can we sing YHWH’s song in a foreign land?” It’s a good question. How do you maintain faith in a hostile environment, and not just faith, but genuine joy in faith? What do you do with your anger at your captors and your frustration with God for his inaction? The answer from the psalmist seems to be that you write about it and ultimately you sing about it. That is afterall what this psalm is: a song about how I can’t sing songs. You express your feelings in words to God and others, and you commit to staying true to God even when you don’t feel like it. The same principle applies to marriage. There are hard times when you think that you and your spouse will never see eye to eye on something, and you wonder what happened to the person that you married. When did they change? (although maybe it was you that changed!). Still, if you remember your vows and the person you married, you will yourself to continue singing. You take that harp off the tree and string words together until you’ve got a song, even if it's a song about how hard it is to sing. 

5 If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill!

6 Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy!

The psalmist pledges to remember Jerusalem no matter what, calling curses on himself should he forget. “Remembering Jerusalem” and “setting the city above his highest joy” are parallel to one another, framing statements about his right hand and his tongue. The phrase, “its skill” is not in the text, but it is implied. The force of the statement is something like, “If I forget Jerusalem, may I never play or sing again!” I read an article once suggesting that the psalmist had a stroke resulting in half of his body being limited physically as an attempt to explain these physiological phenomena. I’m not sure about that because it seems like he hasn’t forgotten how to play and sing since this song exists. He must have played and sung it -- quite a bit actually in order to make it into the Psalter. The word “joy” in verse 6 is the same as the word “mirth” in verse 3. The psalmist’s tormentors demanded “joy”, but Jerusalem was his highest joy and the city was no more. It was and forever would be only a memory for the psalmist. This is a poignant picture of grief. For all practical purposes, Jerusalem will never be what it once was to the psalmist. Even if he returns after the seventy year captivity, the psalmist will find an overgrown, broken down pile of rocks that will require generations to restore. Jerusalem is dead, and the psalmist must know that. However, he will keep her alive in his thoughts and in his songs. This is not unlike grieving the loss of a loved one. We keep them alive through the stories we tell and the images of them that we carry in our minds. In Christ, we hope for reunion, and we believe that there will be a reunion. We believe that we will sing songs of joy once again. Indeed that is what happened to the captives. This became their song: “When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy” (Psalm 126:1,2) They went out weeping with seed to sow and came home rejoicing, carrying sheaves of wheat with them. Grief is a season, a long season, but it has an expiration. Remember the things and people that you love. Keep them alive in your stories and songs. Joy will return. 

7 Remember, O LORD, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem, how they said, “Lay it bare, lay it bare, down to its foundations!”

As the psalmist remembers Jerusalem, his mind returns to the trauma that ended it all. The Babylonians unleashed their pent up fury as they rampaged through the city killing indiscriminately, pillaging anything of value, and demolishing the temple. That’s bad enough, but what the psalmist remembers so painfully is the complicity of Israel’s neighbors, the Edomites. They were watching from a safe distance, cheering on the carnage, literally shouting, “Raze, raze to its very foundation!” The Edomites had been brothers with Israel. We know them as Esau and Jacob. So perhaps the bad blood goes all the way back to Jacob’s theft of Esau’s birthright and patriarchal blessing (the first of which Esau had treated as of little value). Perhaps this is just a “what goes around comes around”, moment of justice for Jacob. Or perhaps the motivation was more immediate. One less rival in the neighborhood could make life better for the Edomites, less competition for resources and land. Or maybe they were just grateful that it wasn’t them and they wanted to show solidarity with the Babylonians for fear that they might come and do the same to them. Whatever the motivation, it demonstrated a lack of compassion and humanity. It was something for which Edom would later be judged (see the book of Oabadiah). As the psalmist remembers this event, he asks that the LORD would remember it as well and judge the Edomites for it (see the book of Obadiah). Usually the LORD remembering something is a suggestion that he do something on my behalf. The thief on the cross said to Jesus, “remember me when you enter paradise”, hoping that Jesus would intercede for him. When we have been victimized, this is an appropriate prayer, “LORD, remember what this person has done to me.” You be the judge because you will do it right. I will let my emotions get in the way and judge unfairly. You who know all things, who discern the thoughts and attitudes of the heart, you will judge rightly, and so I entrust that responsibility to you. 

8 O daughter of Babylon, doomed to be destroyed, blessed shall he be who repays you with what you have done to us!

9 Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock!

The psalmist moves from remembering the cheerleaders (the Edomites) to the team on the field (the Babylonians). First, he declares that they are destined for destruction. Convinced of God’s ultimately justice, and with the taunts about singing the songs of Zion in his ears, the psalmist declares in one Hebrew word that Babylon is doomed for destruction. This is not a memory, it is a vision of the future. Indeed 70 years after the events of Jerusalem, recompense will come in the form of the Persian army and Babylon will fall in a night. While the Babylonian king is partying, the writing appears on the wall, “weighed in the balance and found wanting.” Justice served. The psalmist pronounces two “blessings” on those who will execute justice. It’s an unusual use of the word that usually indicates God’s blessing on his faithful ones. Here it is the hope of a good life for those who do justice and repay the Babylonians for what they have done. Persian rule was better than Babylonian rule as they allowed some of the captives to return home and enjoy some level of self-government. Maybe they were blessed in that sense. I suspect it’s more about the psalmist simply expressing his desire for justice and the satisfaction of knowing that the bad guys paid for their crimes. The specific deed mentioned here is the violent murder of children. In warfare the goal was to terrorize and demoralize in order to command quick obedience. If the defeated nation knew what the conqueror was willing to do, no matter how evil it was, it tended to keep them in line. Grabbing children from their mother’s arms and shattering their skulls against the rocks had the effect of encouraging submission. I’m sure the Babylonians weren’t the first to do this, and as modern warfare demonstrates, they were not the last. Justice in war -- this is the desire of the psalmist, but it certainly seems illusive. In the modern world we have war crimes convictions, but usually the perpetrator is never subject to punishment in this life. Try as hard as we can, accomplishing perfect justice in this world will always escape us. For this reason we must entrust it to God, and I think this is what the psalmist is doing. He doesn’t seem to be angling for opportunities at personal vengeance, (I’d sure love to pop the guys that did that to my child!”)  No, he’ll leave that to someone else who is guided by the hand of God. This psalm is often singled out as uniquely horrific and not worthy of praying because of these two “blessings”. I disagree. It is authentic in capturing the rage that we should all feel when we see injustice, particularly when the victim is a child (abortion, abuse, genital mutilation). The Enemy targets children because they represent the glory of God (Psalm 8:2), and the people of God must pray for justice on behalf of the children. And we must act when there is something that we can do to stop it.