The Unforgettable City: A Vow of Ultimate Allegiance Text: Psalm 137:5-6
Introduction: The Sanity of a Central Love
We live in an age of disposable loyalties. Our commitments are frequently treated like consumer preferences, easily swapped for a newer model or a more convenient option. We are told that the autonomous self is king, and that our highest duty is to our own fleeting feelings and personal peace. Into this sentimental slush, Psalm 137 throws a granite rock of covenantal faithfulness. It presents us with a love that is not a preference, but an oath. It confronts us with an allegiance that is not conditional, but absolute.
This psalm was written by a man in exile. He is sitting by the rivers of Babylon, a captive in a foreign land. His captors are taunting him, demanding that he and his countrymen entertain them with the sacred songs of Zion. But for the psalmist, this is an impossible request. The songs of Zion are not mere entertainment. They are the hymns of God's people, sung in God's city, before God's presence. To sing them in Babylon would be a profound act of spiritual treason, a cheapening of what is most holy. It would be like casting pearls before swine.
His refusal to sing is not born of sullenness, but of a fierce, protective love. And this love then erupts into one of the most solemn and startling vows in all of Scripture. He calls down a curse upon himself, a self-imprecation, should he ever forget his true home. This is not the language of polite society. This is the language of a man whose heart has been riveted to a single, central reality. For him, Jerusalem is not just a place on a map; it is the center of the world, the dwelling place of God, the symbol of all his hopes. And in this, he teaches us a fundamental lesson about the nature of true worship and right affections. Without a central, governing love, all our other loves become disordered and ultimately idolatrous.
We too are exiles. We live in a strange land, a modern Babylon that constantly demands we sing its songs and bow to its idols. And so we must understand what Jerusalem means, and we must make the same vow, with the same intensity. Our spiritual sanity depends on it.
The Text
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
May my right hand forget her skill.
May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth
If I do not remember you,
If I do not exalt Jerusalem
Above my chief joy.
(Psalm 137:5-6)
The Self-Imprecation (v. 5)
The psalmist begins with a conditional curse directed at himself, a solemn oath that demonstrates the gravity of his commitment.
"If I forget you, O Jerusalem, May my right hand forget her skill." (Psalm 137:5)
Notice the structure. "If I forget... may this happen." This is covenant language. This is how serious, grown-up men make promises. It is a recognition that some things are so important that to betray them is to invite ruin upon oneself. In our therapeutic age, we are taught to avoid such stark commitments. But the Bible is not a therapeutic book; it is a covenantal book.
The object of this fierce loyalty is Jerusalem. Now, what is Jerusalem? In the first instance, it was the literal, brick-and-mortar city of David, the place where God had chosen to put His name. It was the location of the Temple, the center of Israel's worship and national life. For the exiles, to forget Jerusalem was to forget their God, their identity, their history, and their future. But we must understand, as the New Testament makes clear, that the earthly Jerusalem was a type, a shadow, of a greater reality. The writer to the Hebrews tells us that we have come "to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem" (Hebrews 12:22). The apostle Paul says that "the Jerusalem above is free, and she is the mother of us all" (Galatians 4:26). This heavenly Jerusalem is the Church, the bride of Christ, the assembly of the firstborn. So for us, this vow is a vow of loyalty to the people of God, the body of Christ.
And what is the curse? "May my right hand forget her skill." The right hand was the symbol of a man's strength, his skill, his ability to work and to fight. For a musician, like this psalmist who hung his harp on a willow, it was the hand that made music. For a soldier, it was the hand that wielded the sword. For a craftsman, it was the hand that built. This is a prayer for utter uselessness. He is saying, "If my love for the Church, for the people of God, is not my driving priority, then may I be rendered completely ineffective. May my life's work turn to dust. May I lose the ability to do the very things that define me." This is a terrifying prayer, and it is meant to be. It shows us that our skills and abilities have a purpose, and that purpose is to serve God's people. Divorced from that purpose, they are worthless.
The Silenced Tongue (v. 6a)
The psalmist continues and intensifies his vow in the first part of verse 6.
"May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth If I do not remember you..." (Psalm 137:6a)
Here the curse moves from his hand to his mouth. If the right hand represents our doing, the tongue represents our speaking, our singing, our confessing. The psalmist is saying that if he fails to remember Jerusalem, if his mind and heart drift away from the central reality of God's covenant people, then he should be struck dumb. This is directly parallel to the captors' demand. They wanted him to sing, to use his tongue for their profane amusement. He responds by saying that his tongue has only one ultimate purpose: to sing the Lord's song, to praise God among His people. If he will not use it for that, he would rather not use it at all.
This is a profound check on all our speech. Why has God given us the gift of language? To gossip? To flatter? To complain? To speak vanities? No. He has given it to us so that we might praise Him, confess His name, and build up His saints. All our words must be brought into submission to this great central task. If our speech is not ultimately for the good of Jerusalem, the Church, then it is idle and worse than idle. The psalmist would rather be mute than a traitor. He understands that a tongue that will not praise God in His assembly is a diseased tongue, and it is better that it be silenced.
The Chief Joy (v. 6b)
The final clause provides the positive reason for this radical vow. It is the pinnacle of the oath, the foundation upon which the self-curses rest.
"...If I do not exalt Jerusalem Above my chief joy." (Psalm 137:6b)
Here is the heart of the matter. This is not about gritting your teeth and performing a grim duty. This is about the affections. This is about what makes you happy. The psalmist's loyalty to Jerusalem is not a burden; it is his highest delight. He is not saying that he has no other joys. He might enjoy his family, his work, a good meal, a beautiful sunset. These are all good gifts from God. But Jerusalem, the assembly of the saints, the place of corporate worship, is his chief joy. It is the joy that orders and sanctifies all his other, lesser joys.
This is the great diagnostic question for every Christian. What is your chief joy? What is the one thing that, if you lost it, would make all your other happinesses turn to ash? Is it your career? Your family? Your political cause? Your comfort? Your reputation? All these things are good, but they make terrible gods. When a lesser joy is elevated to the place of chief joy, it becomes an idol, and all idols are tyrants. They promise you the world and leave you with nothing but anxiety and dust.
The psalmist understands that true, stable, lasting joy is found only when our hearts are rightly ordered. And the right ordering of the heart is to place the love of God and His people at the very top. When the corporate worship of God, the fellowship of the saints, the peace and purity of the Church is your chief joy, then all your other joys find their proper place. Your marriage is sweeter, your work is more meaningful, your daily bread is more satisfying. But if you put any of those things first, you will not only lose Jerusalem, you will eventually lose them as well. To make Jerusalem your chief joy is not to diminish other joys, but to secure them.
Conclusion: Where Your Joy Is, There Your Loyalty Will Be Also
This is not a sentimental poem. It is a hard-edged, covenantal oath. It is a vow of ultimate allegiance, sealed with a curse. And it is a vow that every Christian ought to make his own. We must pledge our loyalty to the New Jerusalem, the Church of Jesus Christ.
This means we must refuse to sing the songs of Babylon. We must refuse to accommodate our faith to the spirit of the age. We must refuse to treat the worship of God as one lifestyle option among many. It is the central, non-negotiable reality of our existence.
And this loyalty is not sustained by mere willpower. It is sustained by love. It is sustained by making the gathering of the saints your chief joy. Do you love the Church? Not the abstract idea of the Church, but the actual, local, messy, glorious body of believers God has placed you in? Do you love her enough to say, "If I forget you, if I prioritize my comfort, my career, or my preferences over your good, then let my right hand wither and my tongue fall silent"?
This is the path of true blessedness. When you exalt Jerusalem above your chief joy, you are aligning your heart with God's heart. For God's chief joy is His Son, and the Bride He is redeeming for His Son. To love what God loves is the secret of all happiness. Therefore, let us remember Jerusalem. Let us prefer her, defend her, serve her, and love her. For in doing so, we find that our hands are made skillful and our tongues are loosed to sing the songs of Zion, not as captives in a strange land, but as joyful citizens of the city of God.