For it was there that they asked us,
our captors, for songs,
our oppressors, for joy.
“Sing to us,” they said,
“one of Zion’s songs.”
Oh how could we sing
the song of the Lord
on alien soil? (Psalm 137:3-4)
Kathleen Norris, in her book The Cloister Walk reflects on this psalm by saying, “These lines have a special poignancy for women: All too often, for reasons of gender, as well as poverty and race, we find that our journey from girlhood to womanhood is an exile to ‘alien soil.’ And how do feminist women, who often feel as if we’re asked to sing in the midst of an oppressive patriarchy, asked to dress pretty and act nice, read such a psalm? We may feel, as radical feminists do, that the very language we speak is an oppressor’s tongue. How, then, do we sing?
I don’t have an answer to this. I’m definitely stuck on her (and the Psalm’s) provocative question.
I can feel my tendency to jump ahead to a quick and easy answer, to start singing a little jingle. But like those radio commercials that get stuck in your head, my quick and easy answer to this question would be just as insipid, irritating, and shallow. Hardly a beautiful song that’s reflective of my longing for “home” and an acknowledgment that I’m far, far away.
For me, there’s another question though, that’s a precursor to this one: Do we even know or remember that we’re on “alien soil?” I suppose this could be asked of all of us – particularly those of us who consider ourselves ‘Christians’ – hoping for/waiting for a new kingdom, a new soil, so to speak. Truth be told, we’ve become pretty acclimated to this life, this culture, this ground. In fact, we may not want to leave when we’re finally released from “exile.”
But I appreciate Norris asking the question uniquely of women. Do we remember, as she so powerfully states, that our journey from girlhood to womanhood is an exile to “alien soil?” Probably not. What if we did? What if I did? What aspects of that journey would I need to remember, grieve, mourn, and, while traversing pray I’m not asked to sing?
Hard to answer. Indeed, hard to sing.
How, then, do we sing? Norris anticipates the quandary and continues, “If the psalm doesn’t offer an answer, it allows us to dwell on the question.” Maybe, at least for right now, its enough to wonder about my “captors,” those things that imprison me; my “oppressors,” those things that keep me (internally and externally) from living freely, fully, richly; my “alien soil,” those places I’ve been led and have sometimes willingly gone that have taken me further and further from “home,” from who I most truly am, from who I most desire to be.
Think I’ll just hum for a bit while I sit longer with the question.
One more thing: there’s an earlier quote that deserves mention. It’s actually the one I was originally searching for in Norris’s book after having a lovely (and may I say, melodic) conversation with my friend, Molly, this morning.
‘Women seem to have trouble drawing the line between what is passive acceptance of suffering and what can transform it.’ This is the danger that lies hidden in Emily Dickinson’s insight that ‘Pain—is missed—in Praise”: that we will try to jump too quickly from one to the other, omitting the necessary but treacherous journey in between, sentimentalizing both pain and praise in the process.
I think that it’s our “jumping too quickly” that gets us singing those cheap jingles, music that lacks depth, resonance, complexity, movement, and emotion. Honestly, I’m far more compelled by the “treacherous journey in between” (thanks, Molly). Though frightening and indeed, exile-like, I’m guessing the music along the way will rival the best movie score, classical symphony, or angelic choir.
OK…back to humming, questioning, thinking, and maybe, eventually, singing.
