By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion... How can we sing the Lord’s songs while in a foreign land? Psalm 137:1-4
I used to know a young man who was Anglo-Indian: his father Indian, his mother English. He had lived long periods of his life in both countries. “But,” he said, “I’m never quite sure where I really belong. When I’m in India I feel an outsider, even though I was born there. And when I’m in England I sense that people view me as a foreigner.”
I find that hard to imagine. I have been extraordinarily fortunate - in seventy-plus years I have only ever lived permanently in four towns or cities, and that includes my student years. I have only ever had half-a-dozen homes; indeed, the word “home” is so obvious to me that I never really think about it. Thoroughly comfortable in my own skin, I know who I am and where I belong.
Homesickness? - yes, I have experienced that, but only during my first week as a student a mere fifty miles from home (no mobile phones in those days!), and briefly on a kibbutz in Galilee and on other short travels. So it takes a real effort of imagination to relate to someone like my Anglo-Indian friend.
Millions of people in our world are “displaced” as a result of war, injustice or sheer hopelessness at their present circumstances and future prospects. Many are genuine refugees, fleeing to the unknown for fear of the cruelties that might be done to them if they stay where they are. Often they end up in dreary camps, wretched hostels, grim holding centres.
Others, of course, have made a choice to move around the world in search of a better life, even though it may not be strictly necessary. But what right have we to judge them until we have walked in their shoes?
The people in Psalm 137 are displaced people.
It’s about 600 years before Jesus, and the powerful, cruel Babylonians - the bully-boys of the time - have taken over their beautiful and historic city of Jerusalem (or “Zion” as it was also known). They have been rounded up like cattle and dumped in camps “by the rivers of Babylon”, far, far from home.
They aren’t just homesick: despair would describe it better. Will they ever see their homeland again? Their captors make things worse by taunting them: “Come on, you like singing, don’t you? - give us one of your precious Zion songs!” But they just can’t do it - “There on the poplars we hung our harps.”
Living in Britain, I am conscious of living in one of the world’s most multi-cultural, multi-racial, multi-religious countries. I have spent most of my life in London, which sucks in people from every part of the world. How privileged I am - and of course it’s absolutely no credit to me.
Even if your experience is very different from mine, here’s a question for all of us: do we ever stop to think what it must be like for people far from home when, say, they walk into one our churches?
Yes, many may be there by choice rather than by coercion. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t lonely and sad. Lonely people don’t tend to walk around with a placard round their neck declaring “I’m a stranger a long way from home - will you talk to me?” or “You can’t imagine how much it would mean to me if you were to invite me into your home for a meal or a coffee.”
No, of course not. They come with a smile. But who can guess what might be behind that smile? - what heartache, what sheer misery.
And it’s not only people from far-off places. No, somebody may have turned up who is from Barnsley or Barnstable or Biggleswade, come to your city for work or study. Hey, it could be somebody who lives just round the corner coming along for the first time. What is it like for them?
Another question: Do I instinctively turn my face away from unknown faces, quite regardless of colour (“Oh, someone else will talk to them, and I really am very shy...”), or do I make a point of seeking them out and extending to them the love of Jesus?
Remember the words of Jesus: “I was a stranger and you did not invite me in” (Matthew 25:43). Let’s be in no doubt: that handshake, that friendly word of greeting, yes possibly that invitation to our home, may be one of the best things we will ever do.
Father, give me eyes to see the loneliness of the stranger, and compassion to befriend them. Amen.
I used to know a young man who was Anglo-Indian: his father Indian, his mother English. He had lived long periods of his life in both countries. “But,” he said, “I’m never quite sure where I really belong. When I’m in India I feel an outsider, even though I was born there. And when I’m in England I sense that people view me as a foreigner.”
I find that hard to imagine. I have been extraordinarily fortunate - in seventy-plus years I have only ever lived permanently in four towns or cities, and that includes my student years. I have only ever had half-a-dozen homes; indeed, the word “home” is so obvious to me that I never really think about it. Thoroughly comfortable in my own skin, I know who I am and where I belong.
Homesickness? - yes, I have experienced that, but only during my first week as a student a mere fifty miles from home (no mobile phones in those days!), and briefly on a kibbutz in Galilee and on other short travels. So it takes a real effort of imagination to relate to someone like my Anglo-Indian friend.
Millions of people in our world are “displaced” as a result of war, injustice or sheer hopelessness at their present circumstances and future prospects. Many are genuine refugees, fleeing to the unknown for fear of the cruelties that might be done to them if they stay where they are. Often they end up in dreary camps, wretched hostels, grim holding centres.
Others, of course, have made a choice to move around the world in search of a better life, even though it may not be strictly necessary. But what right have we to judge them until we have walked in their shoes?
The people in Psalm 137 are displaced people.
It’s about 600 years before Jesus, and the powerful, cruel Babylonians - the bully-boys of the time - have taken over their beautiful and historic city of Jerusalem (or “Zion” as it was also known). They have been rounded up like cattle and dumped in camps “by the rivers of Babylon”, far, far from home.
They aren’t just homesick: despair would describe it better. Will they ever see their homeland again? Their captors make things worse by taunting them: “Come on, you like singing, don’t you? - give us one of your precious Zion songs!” But they just can’t do it - “There on the poplars we hung our harps.”
Living in Britain, I am conscious of living in one of the world’s most multi-cultural, multi-racial, multi-religious countries. I have spent most of my life in London, which sucks in people from every part of the world. How privileged I am - and of course it’s absolutely no credit to me.
Even if your experience is very different from mine, here’s a question for all of us: do we ever stop to think what it must be like for people far from home when, say, they walk into one our churches?
Yes, many may be there by choice rather than by coercion. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t lonely and sad. Lonely people don’t tend to walk around with a placard round their neck declaring “I’m a stranger a long way from home - will you talk to me?” or “You can’t imagine how much it would mean to me if you were to invite me into your home for a meal or a coffee.”
No, of course not. They come with a smile. But who can guess what might be behind that smile? - what heartache, what sheer misery.
And it’s not only people from far-off places. No, somebody may have turned up who is from Barnsley or Barnstable or Biggleswade, come to your city for work or study. Hey, it could be somebody who lives just round the corner coming along for the first time. What is it like for them?
Another question: Do I instinctively turn my face away from unknown faces, quite regardless of colour (“Oh, someone else will talk to them, and I really am very shy...”), or do I make a point of seeking them out and extending to them the love of Jesus?
Remember the words of Jesus: “I was a stranger and you did not invite me in” (Matthew 25:43). Let’s be in no doubt: that handshake, that friendly word of greeting, yes possibly that invitation to our home, may be one of the best things we will ever do.
Father, give me eyes to see the loneliness of the stranger, and compassion to befriend them. Amen.
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