And they wrestled with those feelings in their writings, seeking solace and understanding. Let's dive into a passage from Midrash Tehillim, a collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms, specifically Psalm 121. It’s a journey through hope, despair, and the unwavering promise of divine protection.

The Psalm begins, "A Song of Ascents. I lift my eyes to the mountains…" But what mountains are we talking about? Midrash Tehillim sees this as more than just a scenic view. It's about ascending to a spiritual level, one where we're free from the oppression of Esau, a symbolic representation of those who seek to harm Israel. The midrash connects this ascent with the prophecy in Obadiah 1:21: "And saviors shall go up to Mount Zion to judge the mountains of Esau."

So, it's a song of liberation, a promise of rising above adversity. But the path isn't easy.

The text paints a stark picture. Imagine a day of judgment, a time when even family can't save you. Fathers can't protect sons, brothers can't help brothers. It’s a lonely, terrifying image. In that moment, the people of Israel turn to their Father in Heaven, echoing the words of Isaiah 63:16: "For You are our Father, for Abraham did not know us…" They recognize that ultimately, their only true refuge is God.

And what does God say in return? A comforting, yet challenging, promise: "Let not your foot slip." It’s not just about physical safety, but spiritual resilience. It means that even when everyone else is falling into Gehenna, the rabbinic concept of hell, you – the righteous – will be secure. As 1 Samuel 2:9 says, "The steps of the righteous are guarded by God."

But here’s the thing: life throws curveballs. We face troubles, we doubt, we even dare to question. Asaph, in Psalm 44:24, cries out, "Awake, why do You sleep, O Lord?" It's a raw, honest expression of feeling abandoned.

The midrash doesn’t shy away from this. It acknowledges the prophets' weeping, their pleas to a seemingly silent God. But even in those moments of doubt, there's a reminder of God's unwavering promise: "I cannot forget you," as Isaiah 49:15 declares, "Can a woman forget her nursing child?"

The text then weaves in the importance of remembering Jerusalem, a constant thread throughout Jewish prayer and tradition. "If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!" (Psalm 137:5). This isn't just about geography; it's about memory, about keeping the dream of redemption alive. It's why we mention Jerusalem in our prayers, in the grace after meals, and even at weddings, symbolized by the ashes placed on the heads of the bride and groom.

Then, the midrash takes a darker turn, focusing on the memory of Edom, often associated with Rome, and its role in the destruction of the Temple. Why Edom, when Babylon was the initial destroyer? Because, the midrash explains, it was prophesied that Edom would ultimately prevent the Temple's rebuilding. The text recounts a gruesome act of desecration, a vivid reminder of the pain and humiliation inflicted upon the Jewish people.

But here's where it gets interesting. God responds, not just with vengeance, but with a call to remember our own actions. "Remember what Amalek did to you," God says, referencing Deuteronomy 25:17. It’s a powerful reminder that memory is a two-way street. We ask God to remember us, but we must also remember our own history, both the good and the bad.

The midrash uses the analogy of a sick king whose kingdom seems to disappear when he's unwell. Similarly, God's kingship seems diminished in exile. But when we emerge from exile, when we restore God's kingdom, then God's reign will be fully realized. "And saviors shall ascend Mount Zion to judge the mount of Esau, and the kingdom shall be the Lord's" (Obadiah 1:21).

The text concludes with a stark image of retribution: "Fortunate is he who seizes and dashes your children against the rock" (Psalm 137:9). It’s a disturbing verse, one that demands careful consideration. The midrash interprets this as a reflection of the violence inflicted upon the Jewish people, a mirroring of their suffering. It's not a call to action, but a statement of divine justice, a promise that those who inflict pain will ultimately face the consequences of their actions.

Ultimately, Midrash Tehillim 121 is a powerful exploration of faith, memory, and the enduring promise of redemption. It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, we are not alone. We have a history to remember, a future to strive for, and a God who never forgets us. And perhaps, most importantly, it challenges us to remember not only the wrongs done to us, but also the importance of striving for righteousness in our own lives. What does it mean for you to keep Jerusalem in your heart, and to strive for a world where justice prevails?