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1 By the rivers of Babylon— there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion. 2 On the willows there we hung up our harps. 3 For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!" 4 How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? 5 If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither! 6 Let my tongue cling 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's fall, how they said, "Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations!" 8 O daughter Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us! 9 Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock! (Psalm 137 NRV)
So from the banks of Tranquitas Creek to the bayous of Houston I was transplanted. The first few months in Houston were filled with tears and longing for the "good old days" of living in a small South Texas town. We knew the reality; there was no work in K-town for my Dad and Houston had been feeding us even before we moved there. Thank God we were not held captive there with captors who asked us to sing nor torture us. Our move was voluntary and very much needed.
The psalmist is sharing his honest recollection of his experience as a Prisoner of War, carted off by force from Zion to this new place in Babylon. He ia honest in asking how he could possibly sing the songs of the Lord in a strange land?
This is more than physical exile—it's spiritual dislocation. These are worship leaders with nothing to worship, musicians with no stage, people of God in a godless land. Their harps hang silent on the willow trees, instruments of praise now monuments to grief.
We all know what it's like to find ourselves in places we never intended to be—not just geographically, but emotionally, spiritually, relationally. Perhaps you're sitting by your own river of Babylon today, wondering how you ended up so far from where you thought you'd be. Sometimes the hardest part of suffering isn't the suffering itself but having that suffering misunderstood or mocked by others. When people treat your sacred losses as trivial, when they ask you to perform spiritually for their satisfaction, when they don't understand why you can't just "get over it" and move on—that compounds the pain.
"How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land?" This isn't defiance—it's devastation. It's the cry of people whose hearts are so broken that song feels impossible. How do you worship when everything feels wrong? How do you praise when you're in pain? How do you sing about God's faithfulness when His promises seem distant?
This question gives us permission to acknowledge that sometimes worship is hard. Sometimes praise doesn't come easily. Sometimes the gap between what we believe about God and what we're experiencing in life feels too wide to bridge with a song.
The psalm doesn't condemn this struggle—it names it. Faith isn't always expressed in singing. Sometimes faith looks like sitting by a river and weeping, like hanging up your harp because you can't play it right now, like honestly admitting that worship feels impossible.
Despite their inability to sing, the exiles make a fierce commitment: they will not forget. Even if they can't worship right now, they won't abandon their identity as God's people.
This is the paradox of faith in crisis—you might not be able to sing, but you refuse to forget the songs. You might not feel God's presence, but you won't deny His reality. You might be sitting in Babylon, but you won't pretend it's home. You might hang up your harp, but you won't throw it away.
There's a profound faithfulness in this refusal to forget. When everything in you wants to move on, to assimilate, to just accept your new reality and stop grieving what was lost—choosing to remember is an act of resistance, a declaration that your displacement is temporary, that Babylon is not your destiny.
Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem's fall, how they said, 'Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations!' O daughter Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us! Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock!"
These final verses are jarring, uncomfortable, even shocking. The psalm moves from grief to rage, from sadness to a desire for revenge so violent it's hard to read. Many modern readers want to skip these verses or explain them away.
But here's what's remarkable: this raw, unfiltered anger is in Scripture. God included these words in His Word. This suggests that God makes space for our rage, that He can handle our most honest, ugly emotions, that He doesn't require us to spiritualize our pain or sanitize our feelings before bringing them to Him.
While the psalm ends with anger, it doesn't end there in the larger story. The exiles eventually returned to Jerusalem. The harps came down from the willows. The songs were sung again. Babylon was not the final word.
This suggests that seasons of silence and grief are real, but they're not forever. The fact that you can't sing today doesn't mean you'll never sing again. The truth that worship feels impossible now doesn't mean it will always feel impossible. The reality that you're sitting by rivers of Babylon doesn't mean you're staying there permanently.
God is big enough to meet you in your anger, patient enough to wait through your silence, and faithful enough to bring you home again when you're ready.
PRAYER: Lord, when we find ourselves in places we never intended to be, when singing Your songs feels impossible and our harps hang silent, help us to remember who we are and whose we are. Give us permission to grieve honestly, to struggle authentically, and to bring our whole selves—including our rage and confusion—into Your presence. Thank You for making space for our pain and for the promise that exile isn't forever. Sustain us until we can sing again. In Jesus' strong name we pray, Amen.
Have a great and blessed day in the Lord! OUR CALL TO ACTION: This week, if you're in a season where worship feels impossible, give yourself permission to be honest with God about your struggle while making one small act of "remembering"—perhaps journaling about God's past faithfulness, reviewing old prayers He's answered, or simply declaring out loud, "I may not be able to sing right now, but I refuse to forget."
I love you and I thank God for you! You matter to me and you matter to God; now go and make your witness matter!
Pastor Eradio Valverde, Jr.
