Daniel 3:17-18 If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.
The destruction of Jerusalem happened slowly at first, and then all at once. It started with intimidation. The Babylonian army marched all through the city of Jerusalem and waved their glinting swords, and pounded their hard shields, saying, “We are strong! You are weak!” After that, they took the family of Jacob’s money, collecting tributes and taxes. Then they forced the people to speak the Babylonian language and to practice the Babylonian religion. “You are conquered,” they said, “Now you must learn to do things our way.”
And the family of Jacob didn’t like this. They knew that if they stopped speaking their own language and telling their own stories and practicing their own religion, they’d soon forget all about Abraham, Moses, Rebekah, Rachel, and the others. They’d forget they were ever slaves in Egypt or how God delivered them. They’d forget about Adam and Eve, Noah and the rainbow. They’d forget about the angel that came for Ishmael or the promise given to Isaac. They’d forget about how their family was split apart and came back together. They’d forget about water coming out of rocks and manna in the wilderness.
And so the family of Jacob told their children, “We are going to have a rebellion. We’re going to fight back.” This was a very hard decision because Babylon had the most powerful army in the world. And fighting against Babylon meant certain death. But there was something that scared them more than death: extinction.
The parents told their children, “If we die, you will have to carry on without us. You will become the memory keepers. The family of Jacob will live on in you. Our city might be destroyed, but we will continue as long as you keep speaking our language, practicing our religion, and telling our stories.”
And then the parents did something really brave and really dangerous. They took their swords and yelled, “Babylon, we aren’t going to do what you say any longer.”
And the Babylonian army came and beat down the rebellion. The temple was toppled. And the leaders retreated to the palace. But the palace was destroyed, all the leaders were killed, and their children, the princes of Jerusalem, were gathered and tied with ropes, and dragged across the wilderness, over mountains, and back to Babylon.
As they traveled, the children imagined all the terrible things that would happen to them when they arrived in Babylon. Maybe they’d be put into cages or tortured or forced to fight each other or who knows what else. And so they cried and prayed and struggled to sleep, and cried and prayed some more.
But when they arrived in Babylon, they were not thrown into a damp prison or spat on or laughed at. Instead, they were given nice rooms, lots of food, and interesting books to read. And tutors to help them learn the new language. There were playgrounds, friends, pools, and so much to do. They couldn’t believe their luck. This was turning out better than they could have hoped.
But it was not as lucky as it seemed. You see, the Babylonians were trying to distract the children so that they’d forget all about their life in Jerusalem and their families and their language and their traditions. Because although the army had destroyed the city of Jerusalem, Babylon still needed to stamp out the idea of Jerusalem. Until the memory was gone, the city would continue to exist. And as long as it existed, it continued to be a threat. Just the memory of Jerusalem was enough to cause another revolution.
So they gave the princes new Babylonian names. And they fed them Babylonian food and didn’t let them pray to their God, celebrate their holidays, practice their religion, sing their old songs, or tell their stories. And they hoped this would be enough to make the children forget.
But the children did not forget. They remembered their fathers and mothers. Their parents had died to preserve Jerusalem. And now the children carried that memory. They knew that the city, the culture, and the whole family of Jacob were on the brink of extinction. And they were not going to let it go so easily.
And so the children refused to eat the Babylonian food, worship the Babylonian god, or practice the Babylonian traditions. They sang their own songs, celebrated their own holidays, told their own stories, and prayed to their own God. And when the king asked them why they were not fitting into their new life, they said, “Our parents would not approve. We are the memory keepers.”
The king laughed and said, “This is ridiculous. I could have thrown you in prison or had you killed. But instead, I brought you into my own palace and am offering you my own food. I’ve given you books to read, teachers to teach you, and nannies to care for you. I’ve done more for you than your parents ever could. So why worry about what your parents would think? They’re gone. They can’t help you now. But I’m helping you. So show some gratitude.”
But the princes just said, “We are grateful that you didn’t kill us and that you’ve treated us so nicely. But if we don’t honor our parents, live our traditions, tell our stories, and worship our God, we will forget where we came from. And whenever any of us forget, there is one less person keeping it alive.
“You have changed our names, but you cannot change who we are. We are princes of Jerusalem. And we will always be who we were born to be. We did not choose our family, but they are ours, and nothing can replace them. And we cannot deny our beliefs. They are part of us, even if they are not cool or convenient.”
But this only made the king angrier. “You come from a weak family and a silly religion,” he shouted as he tore down some curtains. “Your family couldn’t save itself against my army. None of my soldiers were struck by lightning when they tore your temple down or took your gold. If your God had any power, if he cared at all about your family, he would have stopped my soldiers. But he didn’t. He abandoned your family, and your family abandoned you when they decided to die fighting me. And so here I am trying to raise you to be so much better than them. You are Babylonian now. We are your family, I am your king, and this is your people.” The king gestured wildly out the window.
“My palace is your palace,” he shouted, thumping his fist on the table, “and my god is your god. And this should be really good news for you, because I have a much bigger, better, stronger, longer-lasting tradition than you ever had. So join us, and forget about your silly, backwards upbringing. You’re much better off as a child of Babylon.”
But the princes shook their heads. And this made the king even more furious. So he called in the soldiers, “We can’t keep people around who refuse to be a part of us. We can’t allow other ideas and other loyalties. That’s how rebellions start. That’s how nations fall. The memory of Jerusalem must be killed one way or another. And if you won’t let it die, then we will have to kill you. If that’s what you want, then I’ll throw you in this fire and turn you into ash.”
The soldiers seized the princes as the princes replied, “You might be right. Our God did not save our city. Our family lost the battle. Our people have fallen, our temple is destroyed, our kingdom is in shambles. But we are who we are, and we believe what we believe, and we know what we know. And we remember our parents who died for this memory, and we have the names they gave us. And we believe that our God will save us from the furnace. But if not, we cannot be anyone else but who we are. And we are princes of Jerusalem.”
The king had had enough. He told the soldiers to throw three of the princes into the furnace. And the princes closed their eyes, and prepared to feel their bodies burn up from beneath them. But instead, they felt pleasantly warm. God had come for them. He came for them like he hadn’t come for Jerusalem or their parents or their people. And he saved their lives.
And when the fire didn’t work, the king threw one of the princes into a lion’s den, but the same thing happened. God came for the boy and protected him too. And the king learned that he could not simply replace their families or their names or their faith. And their God was not silly or weak or stupid. Their God was powerful. And their lineage was noble. And while their city was gone, and their people were scattered, and their homes burned, the memory remained strong and clear and bright. And memory is a powerful thing. And with their memory, the family of Jacob continued.
They’d persisted through slavery in Egypt, they’d passed over oceans and deserts, and now through lion’s dens and into a fiery furnace. And somehow, they were a people that kept existing. And the king came to know that this scattered group of people would continue for a thousand thousand years. They’d outlive him and his kingdom. And other kingdoms. They’d become more powerful than any tyrant or dictator. They’d take over the world someday. Not with soldiers, but like a stone rolling down a mountain that hits another stone and another stone and another stone until a landslide cascades and covers the valley below. Or like a forest grows over a mountain, or like snow covers the land with a billion tiny miracles.
Because they knew who they were. They were the family of Jacob, the city of Jerusalem. And that family and its city could never really be destroyed, because it was not built with mortar and stone, but was composed in the sacred places of their hearts. And they carried it with them, tucked beneath their ribs. And they passed it down from parent to child, parent to child.
And it has been passed to you. You may not have chosen this family or this faith. But it is often those things you do not choose that hold onto you when you are cold, that keep you going when you are lonely, and come for you when you are lost. Kings die, and lions are tamed. People’s minds go wild, their bodies give out, and their wealth dries up. But our names remain. And our people and our stories continue. And you are part of that story. You are princes and princesses of Jerusalem. You are memory keepers. The city lives in you. And someday, when there are enough of us, we will bring it back to the earth, and we will pluck it out of our hearts, and place it on the ground. And our memory will cease to be a memory, because it will be the city we live in.
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