Sermon: October 2, 2022

Preacher: Rev Ryan Slifka

Scriptures: Psalm 137

Today we’re beginning a short sermon series on the Psalms. The Psalms being the song or hymn book of the Bible.

Today we begin with a Psalm that many readers throughout history have thought to be rather disturbing. Perhaps one of the most disturbing passages in the entire Bible. Because it ends with a graphically brutal call for vengeance through the murder of an enemy’s young children. Perhaps the most difficult part of this Psalm is that it’s a song, meaning that, it’s not simply meant to be read, but sung. Voices United, our hymn book actually leaves the last three verses out, I think for that reason. I mean, there’s plenty of bad, brutal stuff in the Bible. But there’s something especially heinous about putting ourselves in the place of the singer, and speaking such terrible thoughts and wishes aloud. In church, no less. It doesn’t seem very Christian.

It doesn’t seem very Christian to participate in a Psalm like this one. Having said all of that, though, I am with the great Old Testament scholar (who happens to be my son’s namesake), Walter Brueggemann when it comes to these texts. Brueggemann contends that it is a necessity for the church to reappropriate Psalms like this one,[i] as part of a full Christian spirituality. And in order to live our full lives before God. And I’ll just be honest, I’m more or less lifting Brueggemann’s ideas throughout this sermon. I’m more or less footnoting my sources now.

Now, first of all, it’s important for us to understand where the brutal feelings in this Psalm actually come from. The first four verses tell us the story of how we got to the point of murderous rage. Because they come from somewhere. They’re rooted in a real historical experience.

This story begins by the rivers of Babylon. The capital of the Babylonian Empire is at the intersection of two mighty rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates, and it’s known for this huge network of canals. So think of this beautiful, shady, tree-lined riverside. Willows and poplars all over.

As lovely as the scenery is, though, it betrays the deep sadness of those seated on the lush grass. Gathered there under the trees are the temple musicians, the highly skilled singers that led the Jerusalem temple in its sacred liturgies. Gregor, Kara, Andrew, the choir. Their eyes are filled with tears, as they remember their city, their homes, leveled to the ground. Family members murdered, children torn from their parents. The temple reduced to rubble. In fact, the very same thing, small children smashed against rocks is what happened to them. The killing of children was a widespread ancient military tactic in the ancient world. The Babylonians were eliminating the next generation of potential warriors and leaders.

So here God’s people embrace one another in the loss. Trying to bring eachother some kind of comfort.

Seeing as how they’re in Babylon, however, there are some Babylonians around. Keeping track of these freshly conquered prisoners. As the singers are nursing their deep emotional wounds, one of the guards pipes up. “Hey!” he says. “Enough with the doom and gloom already! Sing us one of the songs of Zion, one of those upbeat, joyous temple tunes you guys are famous for! Something with a good ol’ gospel beat.” This is mockery on top of brutality. Sort of like “where’s your God now?” It’s adding insult to injury.

Seeing as how they’re prisoners of the world’s most brutal superpower, you could see them maybe singing a few tunes to avoid punishment. But when the guards leave them alone for the night, they hang up their harps, their musical instruments, on those same willows that line the riverside. And it’s not just for storage until the next gig. One Jewish commentator says that they do this because “joy, which is synonymous with God’s presence, is no longer possible when the temple is destroyed. Exile,” he says, “exile is equated with descent into the world of the dead; like the dead, the exiles are unable to praise God.”[ii]

The twentieth century Jewish scholar Theodore Adorno once said after the Nazi holocaust that “To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbarism.”[iii] This is kind of like that. They hang up their harps because in the light of their trauma, destruction, and exile, joyous song is no longer possible. God’s people have experienced both literal and spiritual death. “How could we sing the Lord’s song,” one singer asks. “How could we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?”

The sentiment of this Psalm makes perfect sense once you know where it comes from. Few of us, I think, could imagine the kind of trauma that gave it birth. But it still happens. Rwandan genocide. The rise of the Islamic State. I mean, imagine if it were you. Think of the worst way that you’ve been wronged. If you haven’t—thank God. But if you have, think about the kind of anger, the kind of resentment you’ve felt. The desire to settle the score, to make things right—but times then. If you’d been brutalized in this same way, you’d probably feel the same way.

These people are victims of some of the worst humans do to other human beings. Their desire for justice, and redress is perfectly legitimate. And their desire for vengeance is completely understandable. This Psalm is important because it tells the truth about some of our worst experiences. And it gives voice to some of our deepest, darkest feelings.

As understandable as it may be, though. As truthful as the words are, though. It doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re right.

Nelson Mandela once said that “hatred is like drinking poison and hoping that it will kill your enemies.” Anyone who’s really hated someone knows how it distorts us. How it can basically eat up our lives, and destroy us from the inside.

Not only that, but it never ends the way we’d hoped. It never fixes the problem. Violence and resentment seem to always just breed more of the same. Abusers were often abused as children. Victims become victimizers and begat more victims. The Bible, from the murder of Abel by Cain, pictures human history as a cycle of descent. How we sin to try to fix sin. I mean, the Psalm itself is a testimony to how easy it is to become like those who’ve harmed us.

Then, of course, there’s the fact that Jesus teaches us to love our enemies. To bless those who persecute us. And calls us to do the same.

It’s clear that we shouldn’t feel this way. As understandable as our feelings may be, and as truthful as the words are. It doesn’t mean they’re right. Nor does it mean that they’re good. Good for us. Or good for God’s world.

We shouldn’t feel this way. But what if we do? Have you ever been really worked up and someone just told you to “relax?” It worked, right? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

In the same way, have you ever just tried to just stop hating someone through sheer willpower? How’d that work out? Law tells us what to do, but it doesn’t have the power to actually do it. The thing is that the anger is real. The injustice and harm are real, too. We shouldn’t feel this way, but the fact is that we’re going to feel this way. It’s going to come out somehow. The question is how.

What are we gonna do with it? What are we gonna do with our thirst for vengeance?

We can give into it, and act. Get a gun. We know how that works out, all too much. All too recently.

We can push it down, avoid it. And let it build up and burst out on our friends, our spouses, or our kids.

Or, we can follow the model of Psalms like this one. We can give it over to God. We can give it over to God.

This is where Walter Brueggemann comes in. He says that this is exactly what is happening in these Psalms. “Lord, I am being eaten up alive by my grief and my anger… and I’d like to hand it off to you.”

He says that parents often know how this works. Two kids are playing in the back yard. One runs in shouting. Has a scratch and a little blood. You put on a bandaid, and think it’s taken care of. But suddenly the kid is like “WHAT ABOUT HIM. I WON’T BE HAPPY UNLESS YOU PUNISH HIM FOR WHAT HE DID TO ME.” A wise parent doesn’t say “you can’t talk like that to your brother.” Or “relax.” A wise parent doesn’t say “let me write this down… so I can do it.” No. A wise parent says “why don’t you leave that to me. I have heard you. And I will decide what’s to be done about it. [iv]

That’s what we do when we pray Psalms like this one. There’s an assumption that there is a higher court of appeal than ourselves, or anyone on earth. We’re gonna say it in the Apostle’s Creed, that we believe that, in the end, there is One to whom we will all stand before and have to make an account. Of course, God’s settling of accounts isn’t like ours. After all, the Creator of heaven and earth experienced his only Son being smashed against the rock of crucifixion. And from the cross itself, the Lord himself pronounced forgiveness on, and even died for the ones who murdered him. But still.

Nonetheless, speaking the truth about us to God doesn’t wish our suffering or our pain away, it doesn’t pretend, doesn’t downplay it, doesn’t let evildoers of scott-free. But instead it takes that cup of poison we keep drinking out of our hands, and places it at the throne. It takes the gun out of our hands, and it puts it at the feet of the Lord, the one who holds the future, the one who made heaven and earth. Trusting that justice will be done. Not by us, but by the perfect judge. And everything will be set right in the end.

And because vengeance belongs to God, and it doesn’t belong to us, well, it frees us.

If we know that justice is out of our hands, but in the fullness of time justice will be done, we’re freed to get on with living. We’re freed to forgive our enemies, instead of holding on and giving in to the ways they’ve hurt us. We’re freed to start loving our enemies, rather than hating them. Where the practice of eliminating your enemy’s children was a way to get rid of the next generation of warriors, you could say that rather than having us deal with vengeance by dashing our the children of our enemies against a rock, that in giving our vengeance over to God, he smashes the sin and hatred in us before it has a chance to grow up. And do the same to somebody else.

Where are you being consumed by hatred? Where have you been hurt, or harmed by injustice? You don’t have to shoulder this burden any longer. You don’t have to be torn up inside. No.

You can be honest. And you can give it over to God. Give it over to the perfect judge, trusting that all has been set right in the fullness of time. Give it to God in prayer, a trusted Elder in this congregation, or make an appointment to see me.

And when you do, you’ll find yourself freed. Freed from hatred that binds you… and free to sing the Lord’s song again. Even in Babylon.

Amen.

[i] Walter Brueggemann, “Psalms of Vengeance,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDfzzJD8IpI

[ii] Adele Berlin and Marc Zvi Brettler, “Psalms,” in The Jewish Study Bible, 2nd ed. (Oxford: University Press, 2014), 1424.

[iii] Theodore Adorno, “Cultural Criticism and Society,” 1949.

[iv] This part of the sermon is more or less borrowed from Brueggemann.