Our story today comes from Midrash Tehillim, a collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms. It's a look at Psalm 137, which starts with the heartbreaking words: "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept as we remembered Zion." It’s not just a lament, though; it's a window into the soul of a people grappling with loss, trauma, and the yearning for redemption.
Rav Yehuda, quoting Rav, tells us that God actually showed David the destructions of both the First and Second Temples. Imagine seeing that future devastation laid out before you. Heavy stuff. The Midrash paints a vivid picture of the exiles' journey. When Jeremiah reached the Euphrates, he refused to go with Nebuzaradan to Babylon because he knew the remaining exiles needed him. The exiles, seeing him leave, were heartbroken. Jeremiah swears to them that they cried all the way to Zion. He points out that they were so broken-hearted, they didn't even have a place to sit until they reached the Euphrates. They were forced to keep moving against their will. "We were pursued on our necks," they lamented.
Why did the Israelites cry so much by those rivers? Rabbi Yochanan offers a powerful reason: For them, the loss of even one fish from the Euphrates in Israel was more painful than all the evil Nebuchadnezzar had inflicted. When they were in their own land, they drank only rainwater, natural springs, and well water. In Babylon, they were forced to drink from the waters of the Euphrates, and they died. The exiles wept for those killed by their enemies, those who died on the journey, and those killed by the Euphrates.
The Midrash doesn't shy away from the humiliation. Nebuchadnezzar forced the kings of Judah to walk naked along the riverbanks in chains. When he noticed they were walking upright, he ordered books filled with sand placed on their shoulders until they bent over. "We are pursued on our necks," they cried. Rabbi Acha bar Abba says that at that moment, God almost returned the world to chaos but stayed his hand, saying, "Everything I have created, I have created for these people."
There's a poignant comparison drawn to a king's daughter who refuses a cup from her husband and is banished, only to later regret her pride when married to a leper. The exiled Israelites, in a similar vein, initially refused to sing for their captors, recognizing the sacrilege of performing sacred songs before idols. As Rabbi Yitzhak Bar Tabla puts it, they ultimately chose to bite their fingers rather than desecrate their heritage.
This refusal to compromise their faith came at a cost. Nebuchadnezzar, enraged, hung the corpses of those who refused to play. But despite the horror, they rejoiced that they did not sing before an idol. The Midrash tells us that God swore to Israel, "You have ruled yourselves and cut off your right fingers. Even I… have turned back my right hand because of the enemy, and I will not return it except to remind you."
So, what do we take away from all this? It’s more than just a historical account. It's a profound meditation on loss, resilience, and the enduring power of memory. The Midrash grapples with questions of excessive mourning, reminding us, as Rabbi Joshua says, that "a decree is not issued unless the majority of the congregation can uphold it."
Even in our own lives, how do we balance remembering the past with living in the present? How do we mourn without letting grief consume us? The Sages suggest practical measures: keeping a small reminder of Jerusalem in our homes, like ash on the head of the groom at a wedding, placed where tefillin are worn, as a constant symbol of remembrance. It is taught in the Talmud, Sotah 49b, that a person should forsake everything he has in his house and leave only a small reminder of Jerusalem.
Ultimately, the Midrash Tehillim on Psalm 137 is a reminder that even in the darkest of times, hope and memory can sustain us. It's a call to remember, to mourn, but also to rebuild and to never forget the preciousness of what we hold dear. "If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill."