By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept,
when we remembered you, O Zion.
As for our harps, we hung them up
on the trees in the midst of that land.
For those who led us away captive asked us for a song,
and our oppressors called for mirth;
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
How then shall we sing the Lord’s song
upon an alien soil?
These words from Psalm 137 are what came to my mind Wednesday morning when I woke up and realized that the previous night had not been a bad dream — that, in fact, an overwhelming majority of voters had chosen a convicted felon who built his campaign on lies, division, hate, cruelty, and violence to be our next president.
This psalm was written when the Jewish people were in exile. Jerusalem had been destroyed by the Babylonians, much of the population killed, and those who survived forced into exile in Babylon.
It was a crushing experience. Unlike their ancestors, who had wandered in the wilderness, they were moving away from – not toward – the Promised Land. Their entire identity and relationship with God was based on that land of promise.
Psalm 137 is a lament, an outpouring of pain and grief over what they had lost. It is a response to their captors who mockingly request that they “sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
This is not a request for some good music. The Babylonians are taunting them, insulting the God of Abraham and Sarah. Where is your God now? If your God is so great, why could we defeat you so easily? Let’s hear you sing about that God.
The Israelites don’t know how to answer that question. “How can we sing the Lord’s song upon an alien soil?” the psalmist asks.
How could God still be with them if they were not in their land? Did God still care about them? Was it possible for them to still have a relationship with God? Was there any hope for them at all?
These words have resonated with me all this week. The Israelites are mourning the loss of Jerusalem; many of us are mourning the loss of our vision of America.
That’s the vision of a country where all are created equal, all have the God-given rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It’s the country whose fights for freedom and embrace of those seeking refuge from foreign shores inspired the people of France to give us the Statue of Liberty, a beacon of welcome to thousands and thousands of immigrants who passed the statue in New York Harbor on their way to new and better lives.
It’s the vision that prompted Emma Lazarus, a young Jewish poet, to write these words about that statue, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.”
It’s a vision of a country where anything is possible, where people of all races and creeds are welcome, where the poorest child can grow up to be successful.
Of course, this vision has never really been true. Ask Native Americans, or Black Americans, or women, or Jews or Muslims. Ask immigrants, or gay, lesbian, and transgender Americans. All too often, this vision of America has not included them.
But always there have been those who have worked to make that vision a reality for everyone. Blood has been shed over who is and is not included in that dream.
Now we have a president-elect who has made it very clear that the American dream is for only a privileged few.
Tuesday’s election legitimized hate and bigotry. Those who do see the “others” as lesser humans, as undeserving of equal rights, of not being welcome in this country, will soon have a champion in the White House.
And the implications of the election go well beyond our shores. The president-elect’s admiration for the world’s cruelest dictators, like Vladimir Putin, threatens the people of Ukraine. If affects our allies in Europe.
His belief that industries should have free reign to do as they please, the environment be damned, puts our planet at even greater risk than it already is.
The vulnerable among us and around the world have now become even more vulnerable. In texts, emails, and phone calls from many of you this week have told me of your fears and pain.
People are afraid; and for good reason. Now is a time for weeping and lamentation. We need to honor that; to acknowledge the very real grief, pain, and fear that will be with us for a long time.
The psalmist asks “How then shall we sing the Lord’s song in an alien soil?”
It’s a good question. For those of us who woke up on Wednesday feeling like exiles in an alien land, what do we do now? How do we sing God’s song of truth, compassion, and justice?
Our faith has something to say about that.
We worship a God whose first and foremost concern is for society’s most vulnerable members, those who live in fear or on the margins.
Throughout the Old Testament, we are reminded again and again of God’s special concern for the widows, orphans, and immigrants — those who are among the poorest of the poor, and the least protected of God’s children.
The scripture lessons we heard today are those appointed for the Fourth of July. These words from Deuteronomy are what we hear on the day we celebrate the founding of this country.
God “executes justice for the widow and orphan, and loves the strangers, providing them with food and clothing. You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
The prophets remind us that God judges nations, their citizens and leaders, by how well the poor, the aliens, and the marginalized are treated.
Jesus has the same concerns. He reaches out to women, the poor, the unclean, the foreigners, and treats them with dignity and respect. He expects his followers to do the same.
But many of his followers cast their lots with a man whose every utterance and action is antithetical to the teachings of Jesus.
So what do we do? How do we respond to the situation we are in, to the dark days that many believe are before us? Not as Democrats or Republicans or Independents, but as Christians?
I’ve heard some say that it is time to put the violent and hate-filled rhetoric of the campaign behind us, that we should forget about all that, and move ahead.
That is not a Christian response.
Jesus calls us to love our neighbors. But Christian love does not mean making nice by ignoring evil, papering over deep divisions, pretending they don’t exist.
The Old Testament prophets were scornful of such attempts.
“They have healed the wounds of my people lightly, saying ‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace,” the prophet Jeremiah says.
Or as a more modern translation puts it: “They offer only superficial help for the harm my people have suffered. They say, ‘Everything will be all right!’ But everything is not all right!”
In our nation today everything is not all right. And to pretend otherwise is not the way of faith.
In a few minutes we will renew our baptismal covenant, which gives us an outline of our responsibilities as Christians.
We are to come together for study, prayer, and worship, to gain strength from one another and discern together what God is calling us to do.
We are to seek and serve Christ in all people, which does not mean we try to make everyone Christian, but that we believe that all people of all faiths are created in the image of God.
We are to love our neighbors and respect the dignity of every human being.
At the root of all of these promises we make is love; love that has the courage to stand up to bullies and evil.
Love that stands in solidarity with those on the margins; love that protects the vulnerable.
Love that will not be silent in the face of injustice. Love that stands up to and breaks down walls of hate.
For us as a community of faith, it means in part continuing to do the things we are already doing. It means continuing sponsoring and supporting families of refugees, making them feel welcome and supported in what may seem an alien land.
It means continuing to work with Solidarity Sandy Springs to ensure that our Hispanic neighbors have food to eat, and the services they need.
It means helping the victims of natural disasters around the world. It means working to pass sensible gun laws and laws that preserve a woman’s right to make her own health care decisions. It means being willing to take to the streets to let the world know that Black lives do matter; or to march in a Pride parade to say LGBTQ lives do, too.
It means spreading the word that this is a church where people of all races are welcome, where rich and poor; young and old; gay, straight, and transgender children of God are all welcome.
It means we continue to be a center of resistance to hate and bigotry, whether it comes from our president or our neighbors, that we will not be silent in the face of evil. Journalist Dan Rather said in an article I read this week that people staying silent is what fascists count on.
The world does not need any more cowardly Christians.
I say this with no illusions the path before us will be easy. There are difficult days ahead. There will be times when we feel like we are fighting a losing battle. Days when it seems like our vision of justice, respect, and equality for all is far, far away.
After the 2016 election I came across this quote from the Talmud, based on the words of the prophet Micah. I printed it out and taped it above my desk. You’ve heard it from me before, but this seems like a good time to hear it again.
Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief;
Do justly, now.
Love mercy, now.
Walk humbly, now.
We are not obligated to complete the work,
but neither are we free to abandon it.
Amen.