“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, and there we wept when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion.’ How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” Psalm 137:1–9 (NRSV)
This week, as our Jewish siblings concluded the holy days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we entered October carrying both sacred reflection and global sorrow. In a time when violence is once again consuming Israel and Gaza, I preached this past Sunday from Psalm 137, a haunting text about exile, memory, and the ache of displacement.
These are hard words to hear. When I was a younger preacher, I would have skipped them altogether, but scripture like this demands honesty. It shows us what happens when people are traumatized; when they lose their land, their safety, and their hope. The Jewish people who wrote these words were living in exile, carried off to Babylon, grieving for everything they knew.
Even now, during these holy weeks, our Jewish siblings remember that ancient trauma. They remember what it means to lose everything and still believe that God is near.
I read this psalm because it is a story not of divine cruelty but of human anguish. All of scripture is human beings wrestling with God, trying to make meaning of their pain. The psalmist here is not glorifying violence. They are saying, “What do you expect from us, Babylonians? You stole our home and now you demand that we sing you a happy song?”
That heartbreak is not unfamiliar. It reminds me of the way enslaved Africans were forced to sing for their captors in this country. They were expected to perform joy for people who profited from their pain. You do not feel like singing for someone who has stolen your freedom, but you do what you must to survive.
To sing God’s song in a strange land, to perform faith when your spirit is broken, can feel impossible. Yet that cry from exile echoes through every generation. “If I forget you, O Jerusalem,” the psalmist says, “let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth.” Their song is caught in their throat.
When I think about that pain, I also think about how trauma can mutate into rage. The psalmist’s last words are violent and shocking because they come from unbearable grief. They long for revenge against the ones who destroyed them.
It may not feel holy to admit that, but all of us, if we are honest, know that impulse. When we are deeply hurt, a part of us wants to strike back. Maybe not with stones, but with words, with silence, or with small acts of power. Broken people break people. Hurt people hurt people.
We see this same pattern play out across history. Jews, Muslims, and Christians, siblings who share Abraham as their ancestor, have fought each other again and again over land, identity, and belonging. We call that region the Holy Land, but it is an unholy mess.
What we are witnessing in Israel and Gaza this week is not only a war but a disappearing. We are watching people who have been hurt for generations hurt each other again. Trauma without healing breeds amnesia. It convinces us that our suffering is unique, that this time it is different, that vengeance is justified — but when you strip away the politics and power, it is still the same story. Children are dying. Families are being erased. Lives are being destroyed by grief that has never healed.
The same story echoes here at home. Europeans fled tyranny only to enact tyranny on Indigenous people. Colonizers seeking freedom enslaved Africans to build their churches and their roads. Centuries later, we still redraw boundaries and build walls, pretending that some lives matter more than others.
It is human to cling to our tribe and protect what feels like ours, but that instinct, if left unchecked, leads to isolation and violence. The only way to sing God’s song in a strange land, the only way to survive, is to sing together.
We must enlarge our tribe. We must say to one another, “You are my other. You are me. We are connected.” There is no such thing as being human alone. There is no faith without community. There is no survival without recognizing that our lives are intertwined.
If we forget that truth, the destruction will not stop in Gaza or Tel Aviv or Kyiv. It will come for all of us. Our tall buildings, our wealth, and our power will not protect us from existential rage.
The only thing that saves us is remembering who we are and whose we are. We were created in a right relationship with God. We came into the world knowing we were loved and that our neighbors were, too. Somewhere along the way, we forgot. We forgot that we are holy, and we forgot that our neighbor is holy. That is where the fighting begins.
I think often about our own history at Middle Church. This congregation began as a Dutch Reformed church in 1628, born from colonizers who enslaved Africans and stole Lenape land. And yet, centuries later, look around: There is no single majority in this room. We are a tapestry of color, language, and culture. Together, we have become something new.
I am the first African American and the first woman to serve as senior minister in the Collegiate Church. I stand here because people before me, like Micah van Angola, an enslaved woman who fought for her freedom in 1662, remembered her worth. She knew deep in her bones that she was holy. That same memory lives in us.
Holiness is our birthright, but it is also our responsibility.
We are responsible to heal the world. To speak truth to power. To call out injustice. To refuse silence. We are responsible to let love be the light that cuts through the darkness.
Freedom is not a concept unless we enact it. Liberation is not a dream unless we live it. So I ask you: What are you doing to make yourself free, and what are you doing to free your neighbor?
Because God is in the business of liberation, and if we remember who we are — beloved, connected, and sacred, then we can finally sing together again. We can sing freedom. We can sing fierce love.
Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis is senior minister and public theologian at Middle Church in New York. She is the author of “Fierce Love” and “The Just Love Story Bible.” Her work has been featured in numerous media outlets, including the New York Times, Washington Post, Ebony, and Essence.
