591_Remembering our true home (Psalm 137)

Psalm 137 By the waters of Babylon,
there we sat down and wept,
when we remembered Zion.
2 On the willows there
we hung up our lyres.
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?
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!

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

A traveler once described a strange experience he had while waiting in an international airport during a long layover. Everything around him was efficient, bright, and comfortable—restaurants, announcements, familiar brands, even familiar languages. Yet as the hours passed, an unshakable restlessness settled in. He realized that no matter how pleasant the surroundings were, the airport was never meant to be a destination. It was only a place of waiting. The danger was not discomfort, but forgetting that he was meant to move on. If he unpacked his bags there, if he adjusted too well, he would miss his flight home.

Psalm 137 emerges from one of the darkest chapters in Israel’s history. Babylon, under the ruthless leadership of King Nebuchadnezzar, had conquered Jerusalem. The city they loved lay in ruins. The temple—the visible sign of God’s dwelling among them—was razed to the ground. The land promised to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was plundered, and its people were carried away by force into a foreign land. This tragedy did not come without warning. God had spoken repeatedly through His prophets. Isaiah and Jeremiah had lifted their voices, pleading with kings and people alike to turn from idolatry, immorality, injustice, and rebellion. Yet they refused to listen. They trusted in rituals rather than repentance, in the temple rather than obedience. They assumed that God’s presence was guaranteed simply because the building stood among them. But when the enemy came, none of these assumptions could save them. God, in His righteousness, handed them over to captivity.

Now, hundreds of miles away from home, the people of Israel found themselves living among their captors. Psalm 137 opens with an image heavy with sorrow: “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion.” Their tears were not merely nostalgic; they were theological. Zion represented far more than geography. It was the place where God had chosen to make His name dwell, the center of worship, the symbol of covenant relationship. As they remembered Zion, their hearts broke afresh. They hung their harps on the willow trees—not because they had forgotten how to play, but because their songs no longer belonged to the place where they now lived.

Then came the cruel request. Their captors, perhaps mocking, perhaps amused, demanded, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion.” These were songs of freedom, songs of deliverance, songs that celebrated God’s mighty acts on behalf of His people. How could such songs be sung in a land of bondage? “How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” the psalmist asks—not as a rhetorical flourish, but as a wounded protest.

A bird may have wings, but it cannot sing freely inside a cage. Songs of Zion require liberty, not chains. This moment echoes an earlier episode in Israel’s history, when Pharaoh offered Moses a compromise: “Go, sacrifice to your God within the land.” Moses refused. Worship that remains within captivity is no true worship at all. Even today, the enemy is content if people sing while remaining enslaved to sin. He is untroubled by religious language that does not lead to repentance or freedom. Songs sung without deliverance lose their meaning, because true praise must rise from a redeemed heart.

In the midst of this pain, the psalmist makes a fierce and deeply personal resolution. “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill. 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.” Distance has not dulled devotion. Though far from home, Jerusalem remains central to his identity. He declares that forgetfulness would be worse than paralysis or silence. Jerusalem—the city of peace, the dwelling place of God’s glory—must remain his highest joy, above all pleasures and comforts, even in exile.

The psalmist then turns his memory toward betrayal. Edom, their brother nation, descended from Esau, should have come to their aid. Instead, they stood aloof and rejoiced in Jerusalem’s fall. Worse still, they assisted the enemy. The book of Obadiah exposes the depth of Edom’s sin: they looted, gloated, blocked escape routes, and handed survivors over to death. This betrayal cut deeper than the swords of Babylon. There is a unique pain when harm comes not only from enemies, but from those who should have stood beside us.

The final verses of the psalm are among the most disturbing in Scripture. They speak of Babylon’s destruction and pronounce a blessing on those who would repay her brutality in kind. These words are shocking, but they must be understood in context. Babylon was merciless. Scripture records that Zedekiah’s sons were slaughtered before his eyes, after which his eyes were gouged out and he was led away in chains. Such cruelty was common practice. The psalmist’s cry is not a command for personal vengeance, but an appeal for divine justice. He entrusts judgment to God, acknowledging that such evil cannot go unanswered.

Yet beneath the historical anguish lies a deeper spiritual truth. Captivity is not merely political; it is profoundly spiritual. Those who willingly live under the dominion of sin cannot truly rejoice in the Lord. The harps may still be present, the words still remembered, but the song is gone. Songs of Zion are songs of deliverance, and this psalm aches with longing for freedom.

That longing finds its ultimate fulfillment in Jesus Christ. The exile of Israel points forward to a greater deliverance. Christ entered our world, took on flesh and blood, and through His death destroyed the one who held the power of death—the devil—and delivered all who were enslaved by fear. At the cross, the record of debt that stood against us was canceled. The powers and authorities were disarmed and put to open shame. In Christ, captivity is broken, chains fall, and songs return.

Paul tells us that Christ abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. This means that believers are no longer defined by exile, but by hope. Yet even now, we live between worlds. Like Israel in Babylon, we are often tempted to settle, to grow comfortable in a land that is not our home. The danger is not only suffering in exile, but forgetting Zion altogether.

Scripture repeatedly calls God’s people to remember their true home. Jacob, after years of service under Laban, felt the pull of home and asked, “When shall I provide for my own household also?” Moses, standing amid the splendor of Egypt, chose suffering with God’s people over fleeting pleasures, because he was looking ahead to the reward. He remembered where he truly belonged.

This raises a searching question for us: have we grown too accustomed to this world? Too comfortable with its values, its sins, its compromises? Do we still long for the heavenly Jerusalem, or have we learned to sing contentedly by Babylon’s rivers? True repentance often begins with tears—tears that recognize captivity and yearn for freedom. Like the prodigal son, who came to his senses among the pigs, we must rise and return to our Father’s house.

The practical call of Psalm 137 is not merely to feel sorrow, but to act on remembrance. To set our real home above our highest joy. To refuse to sing songs of false peace while remaining bound. To long actively for holiness, obedience, and fellowship with God. When we remember where we belong, our choices change. Our loyalties realign. Our worship deepens.

Our Father is not distant. He waits with open arms. When we return, there is joy, celebration, and restored song. Let the songs of Zion rise again—not from the lips of the captive, but from the hearts of the redeemed. Let us remember our real home, and let that remembrance shape how we live, what we love, and where we are willing to leave behind everything else to belong.