That’s precisely what we find ourselves pondering in Midrash Tehillim 79, a fascinating exploration of Psalm 79, attributed to Asaph. The psalm begins with a cry of devastation: "O God, nations have entered Your inheritance!" (Psalm 79:1).

But here's the puzzle: Why is this anguish labeled a psalm, a song? Shouldn’t it be a lament? The Midrash, a collection of rabbinic commentaries on the Hebrew Bible, dives deep into this apparent contradiction. It reminds us of another instance of grief expressed with a sense of the sacred, such as when "David went up the ascent of the Mount of Olives, weeping as he went" (2 Samuel 15:30). Yet, this, too, is part of a larger narrative of faith.

The Midrash finds its answer in Proverbs 21:15: "It is joy for the righteous to do justice." The righteous, even in their sorrow, acknowledge divine justice and sing to God. Asaph, therefore, isn't just lamenting; he's recognizing God's hand, even in destruction. He's paying his debt, so to speak, and offering praise amidst the pain.

To illustrate, the Midrash presents a powerful parable of a king and his wayward son. The son's behavior enrages the king so much that he storms into the son's chamber, tearing it apart in fury and throwing the son out. Later, the king reflects. He realizes that, in his anger, he could have killed his son. But he didn't. Why? Because he preferred his own son to inherit him, rather than a nephew.

Asaph, the Midrash suggests, is making a similar point about God's anger towards Israel. God unleashed his wrath on the Temple, on "trees and stones," rather than utterly destroying his children. As Lamentations 4:11 says, "The Lord has exhausted His anger; He has poured out His blazing wrath." But how? "He has kindled a fire in Zion?" It seems misdirected, doesn't it?

The Midrash then takes a surprising turn, questioning the very rules of access to the sacred space. "You let them enter," Asaph cries, referring to the invading nations. "And it is not written in the Torah (Numbers 1:51) 'But the outsider who comes near shall be put to death.'" Not only outsiders, but even Aaron's holy sons were consumed by fire for improper entry, and Uzziah was struck with leprosy for overstepping his bounds by burning incense. What about those who were meant to enter?

God's response, according to the Midrash, is both a rebuke and a promise. "These entered without permission," God says of the invaders, "therefore I struck them down. But those who entered with permission, I commanded them to enter." The implication is that God has a plan, even if it's difficult to understand.

And what of Jerusalem, now a ruin? God promises, "What did the name Jerusalem do? It made itself a ruin, but I will renew it as it says, 'Instead of bronze I will bring gold' (Isaiah 60:17)."

But Asaph isn't finished. He challenges God further: "Master of the universe, behold, You are renewing these, Your sons who were killed. What will You do, as it says, 'They gave the corpses of Your servants as food to the birds of the sky, the flesh of Your pious ones to the beasts of the earth' (Psalms 79:2)?" Were they truly pious? After all, Jeremiah 6:23 describes them as "Jerked horses and eager warriors, every man staring ahead to the fight, jeering at them."

Asaph’s response is profound: "Once judgment was passed on them, they were pious." It's a radical idea—that suffering and punishment can elevate even the flawed. The Midrash draws a parallel to Deuteronomy 25:2-3: "If the wicked son deserves a beating, he is called your brother before you afflict him." At first, he's wicked, but after punishment, he's your brother.

So, what does this all mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in moments of despair, when the world seems chaotic and unjust, there's a deeper narrative at play. A narrative of divine justice, of transformation through suffering, and of an enduring bond between God and humanity. Even a lament can be a psalm, a song of hope, if we recognize the potential for renewal within the destruction.