ŠAMAŠ SPEAKS: PRIMORDIAL TENSION BETWEEN CHAOS AND ORDER

Instead of practicing virtue, it is the nature of all beings—be they beast or man—to marshal whatever forces they can to achieve individual ends. Sometimes those forces are benevolent, but more often just the opposite. Sometimes malevolent motivations are wrapped within the guise of benevolence, and we are forced to discriminate—to unmask that which is hidden from us—in order to survive either individually or as a society. 

When malevolence meets malevolence, chaos inevitably results. Unbridled chaos would be our destruction, either in the form of loss of spirit and self-awareness, or as loss of life and the collapse of society. If not right away, eventually. Unless chaos can be curbed. Never can chaos be controlled or fully tamed, of course, but its most destructive elements can be mollified, and order established. 

For mankind to have any chance to survive, let alone thrive, in a world moving always toward chaos, they must appreciate the interplay of action and reaction, and all its subtleties.

The tension between order and chaos is eternal. It evolves, percolating up and down, back and forth, across space and time. It exhausts itself but is never relieved, subsides for a time but is always renewed. Managed, but never controlled—not completely. So few are able to behold the cosmic pirouette of order and chaos, with first one seizing the lead, then the other. 

To even begin to ascertain chaos’ impact on the world, one must understand the three distinct realms in which the tension operates. The first encompasses natural and supranatural events that are beyond mankind’s ability to influence. Chaos existed before all else and did not welcome the coming of the primordial gods and the creation of heaven and earth. The gods’ motivations vary, and their relationships and actions—like the decision to destroy paradise—impact the delicate balance of order and chaos. Likewise, environmental forces occurring both naturally and at the gods’ behest influence man and his world. Floods, earthquakes, droughts, even the arrival of a single new species can have great impact. Some gods may wish to encourage such forces, unleashing chaos upon mankind, while others may seek to maintain order.  Such reflect the vicissitudes of the gods individually and collectively.

The scale of these forces is massive, and so men can do very little about the resulting changes in circumstance. They, or their priests, can only attempt to appease them through prayer and devotion, pleading for them to intercede on mankind’s behalf. But even the gods cannot always know when catastrophe might strike, or when order will be restored as chaos subsides or peace returns to the divine the pantheon.  Destinies can take many paths.

The second place where chaos and order collide is at the level of the community, whether that of the temple with its priestly managers or that of the city-states led by kings. When the natural and supranatural worlds are tranquil, communal order and prosperity prevail. But during times of flooding or drought, or discord within the divine pantheon, communal order will be disrupted.

Substantial community resources are spent in building and maintaining military power—troops must be armed and fed, and fortifications constructed. Be it permanently or on a temporary basis, temple rituals, trade, agriculture, investment and communal relationships all are impacted. The decision of one city-state to attack another, whether taken independently or in coordination with its patron god, leads to havoc for both. Gods may intervene either to avoid or encourage the disruption.

Of course, such actions impact the third and final level at which chaos and order clash—that of the individual. Natural and supranatural forces and communal actions by priests and kings have great bearing on the lives of individual men. Discord at these higher levels will bring chaos to the citizen. On the other hand, should there be peace in those realms, the combination of heavenly order with communal order should foster prosperity among the citizenries.

When chaos is in abeyance, men and women have a chance to realize their dreams. If their thoughts and deeds are sincere and worthy, and if the right gods are worshipped, individuals may achieve spiritual beatitude and self-awareness. As a result, and if they adhere to certain prescriptions, they may be able to gain influence over their own destinies. Their šīmtums.  

When they hold us gods in mind and act in line with our wishes, men can achieve personal glory and wealth. But of course there are never any guarantees.

When chaos is subdued in the worlds of men and gods, communities can prosper. An individual’s internal struggles, too, may be calmed, and clarity of thought achieved. Such an individual has a greater chance of reaching bliss in life. 

Now . . . what happens if the supranatural/natural states and the communities are stable, but the citizens remain unhappy? Perhaps they feel that they work so hard to support the kings and temples but have so little to show for it. Or perhaps a farmer’s water is being stolen by his neighbor. Or that neighbor fails to work the land that he rented from the farmer. Or the neighbor who is stealing water not only fails to work the land but also commits adultery with the farmer’s wife. And that same neighbor accuses the farmer of killing his son, when in fact the son died because he drowned in the Euphrates.

Such violations, and many others, can create chaos for the citizens. Perhaps they could work things out on their own, but likely not without a set of fair and established rules to address grievances. Trading agents may fail to pay merchants fully for the commodities sold on their behalf. Innkeepers may not turn over criminals who congregate in their inns.  Husbands with barren wives may wish to take on a second wife, then mistreat the first.

Such chaotic events can quickly multiply and build off each other, making everyday life increasingly difficult and happiness impossible to achieve.

As chaos becomes the norm for more and more individuals, it will eventually become the norm at the communal level. The accumulation of perceived injustices and their lack of repercussions would undermine political and religious authority. Thus, the progression of chaos normally flowis from the supranatural/natural to the communal to the individual. The usual progression of tensions—from the gods down to the community and then the individual—reverses.

When individual chaos reaches the communal level, this can disrupt the natural and supranatural realms, and the gods will likely attempt to sort out the dysfunctional conditions. 

They may go about restoring order in several ways. Might there be a new king among the city-states who could be supported to restore order? Could a more stable city-state march upon a chaotic one and bring it order, even though such an act will probably increase chaos in the short term? 

The gods may disagree amongst themselves as to what actions to take, in which case their own tranquility is put at risk. Thus, dissatisfaction that began at the individual level and migrated to the communal level may now reach the supranatural/natural level. Previously sidelined gods may view this as an opportunity to expand their influence and that of the cities that worship them.

Arguments often are neither coherent nor consistent, and thus neither is the recollection and interpretation of facts. Whether due to self-interested bias or imperfect memory, one can never trust a god’s version of past, present, and future events. To convince others, and indeed even oneself, of one’s omniscience requires profound arrogance, and this arrogance may for a time bring order to a chaotic situation by changing the narrative. But be wary, for eventually the clandestine forces of chaos may reemerge even more strongly than before, and one’s downfall will then be inevitable.

The primordial gods suffered such a fate, while neglecting to see what was coming. They lost control of the narrative, the stories that convey meaning and message to mankind. Once the Babylonian god Marduk decided to stage his coup of the Mesopotamian pantheon, he expropriated the story of creation. Marduk was a master at commandeering the narrative to suit his own ends, and his action perhaps represents the most egregious example of historical revisionism. Though Ea and Elil survived as major divinities, their status was diminished. Marduk was anointed as chief god, and his city Babylon dominated Mesopotamia. But eventually Marduk too would diminish, and the Babylon of Ḫammurabi ’s reign did not last forever.

Enlightenment is the imparting of not just facts but the perspicacity to know what one knows and what one doesn’t know, and the ability to ferret out the truth and assess ambiguity, to generalize in some cases of justice and particularize in others, and to adjust one’s thinking about justice and about reality as circumstances evolve. It is only by establishing a system of universally accepted rules of behavior that justice can prevail. Only then can one be confident that order will overcome chaos—at least, until those rules are abandoned. 

I, Šamaš, have as much as possible and for as long as possible taken it upon myself to mitigate the tension between chaos and order for the benefit of mankind, knowing that in order to do so there must be rules of behavior put forth by the kings, reinforced by the temples, and accepted by the citizens. 

I have brought enlightenment to men and, with having done so deftly, I precipitated the conditions by which order can be realized.   Can mankind be enlightened without order?  Can order exist for mankind without enlightenment?  One cannot exist for long without the other.

To establish such conditions, I often had to entice, to cajole, to reward and—yes—to threaten and to punish. 

I have led a general to his enemy’s secret hiding place and taught him how to forge battle armor. I advised an extraordinary king on how to be king and taught him how to curry favor with his subjects by combining fear with justice, how to rule with sympathy and not just at the point of a sword.

The gods of course are happy to be immortal, and all men covet it. But few seek wisdom, and immortality without wisdom lacks morality. Without morality, chaos lurks.  

Immortality should be the means to an end, not the end itself, providing an opportunity to assimilate a vast array of experiences and draw from them to expand one’s beneficence.

My beneficence, my morality, my wisdom—all stem from the opportunity granted by my immortality to develop a sensitivity to tensions between chaos and order and an ability to anticipate how they will play out in the future. 

HOW CHAOS SUSTAINS THE GODS

My presence was ubiquitous during the early days in the marshes of southern Mesopotamia, in Mari, in Hurrian, and later in Assyria. The Elamites, on the other hand, mostly disregarded me for the next couple thousand years, though my silhouette appeared now and again. I only recently fully reemerged, ironically because of the Elamite plundering of my stele, which allows me to converse with you today.

Mankind attributes immortality to all gods, when in fact the gods can easily withdraw it from any among their number whensoever they like. At the same time, mankind strives for a form of immortality by burying their dead with instruments, jewelry, and provisions that are completely useless once their loved ones migrate from their bodily vessels to the underworld, where Ereškigal rules as queen with the help of her Anunnaki sycophants. In fact, Ereškigal hardly pays any attention to the countless souls who show up at her gate. 

There is one way that death can be forestalled—not necessarily indefinitely, but at least for a long time—if the deceased’s descendants remember them.  The items placed in graves are irrelevant in and of themselves but are relevant if the physical accoutrements buttress the memories of the ancestors. I am not one to break this small illusion held by the bereaved.   What is significant is that the ethereal form of temporal immortality can exist provided that the life of the deceased was lived honorably and recognized as such. 

If the deceased did not live honorably, one might ask how then should they be thought of?  Regarding their ritual practices towards the dead, it would be to the descendants’ advantage to honor their ancestors whether the deceased were honorable or not.  For they are motivated to maintain grave offerings and hold memories dear because they fear troubles effected by their deceased ancestors or the gods who supported them.  

Not dissimilar to the mortal dead, gods may achieve immortality so long as mankind remembers them. Thus, there is a strong motivation for gods to make their divine presence felt and powerfully impact people’s lives. However, unlike men, even unrighteous gods may be remembered if fierce enough. Nevertheless, if that fierceness leads to chaos, then eventually the world will evolve, and their names may leave the memory of men.   Of course, in contrast to most men, the duration of gods’ presence in the universe is far longer.

Now I would like to discuss another conundrum. One might suppose that if indeed the gods were all powerful and beneficent, they would provide unlimited bounty, peace, and happiness for all peoples. Yet if such were the case, mankind would no doubt begin to feel entitled. They would have no incentive to honor and pay tribute to the gods. They would become forgetful. And eventually, without their veneration, we gods would cease to exist . . . or so goes the theory.

So let me expound upon the objectives of divinities: to relish in their own narcissistic pleasures, to solicit adoration and obeisance from other gods and men, and to keep mankind on edge in order to remain imprinted in their consciousness. 

Fickleness and dissention are in fact deliberate strategies deployed by some gods who fear that too much “goodness” threatens the divine pantheon. Our own immortality depends on chaos, so it is in their best interest to sow discord. The more trouble they cause, the greater their imprint in the minds of men, and thus the less likely they will fade into oblivion.

That is how some of the celestial gods look at the world, or at least how they act.

Fortunately, mankind has me, the sun god, to illuminate. My truths and wisdom are meant to enlighten all men. And I am not alone. 

Around the time I was born, the goddess Nanše also appeared. She was the daughter of Enki, keeper of the mes, and Ninḫursaĝ, the mother goddess. 

Whether because of our personalities or simply due to the whims of the universe, Nanše and I were delegated jointly with the responsibility of imparting truth and justice in a world of chaos. Of course, to say it was “delegated” is perhaps an overstatement, because neither the primordial gods nor Elil or Ea sanctioned such a role. For reasons I cannot explain, Nanše and I viewed the world differently than the other gods. When they saw chaos, they saw opportunity. When they strived for order, we strived for moral order.  When they saw chaos, they saw opportunity. When we saw chaos, we strove for order. And whenever they sought a return to order for their own interests, after having used the chaos to accomplish their objectives, we went a step further in striving for enlightened order.   As explained earlier, enlightenment and order must be linked.

Though I can point to certain exceptions, the truth is that most of the other gods really did not care about achieving order or enlightenment for its own sake. Indeed, just the opposite. And the priests who may have professed enlightenment of a sort, more often than not, allied with the gods in this. For chaos threatens individuals’ sense of security, making them more likely to add to temple coffers so that priests might intercede with the gods on their behalf. Thus, by controlling communication with the gods, priests could not only enrich themselves but also bestow or withhold the grace of the gods as they wished. 

I can say with deep regret, but with certainty, that morality was little recognized, let alone practiced, by the gods. Proof of this lies in the fact that Nanše, undoubtedly the most compassionate and altruistic of all the gods, has been relegated to obscurity. The Akkadians do not even recognize her in their pantheon. Perhaps if she was more of a vixen, like my sister Ištar, she would have achieved greater recognition.

As a tribute to her virtue, I shall recite a hymn once sung to honor her.

Who knows the orphan, who knows the widow,

Knows the oppression of man over man, is the orphan’s mother,

Nanshe, who cares for the widow,

Who seeks out justice for the poorest.

The queen brings the refugee to her lap,

Finds shelter for the weak.

Nanše is thoroughly good, and I defer to her goodness over mine. But she never achieved more than third-class status in the divine hierarchy because she lacked the ferocity sometimes necessary to confront chaos and deceit.

BENEVOLENT PUNISHMENT AND THE MERITS OF SUFFERING

To gain and sustain divine influence requires a willingness to engage in two unbecoming practices. First, one must self-promote unabashedly. I normally do not condone this behavior, as noted earlier, but recognize its critical importance.

Second, although punishment without purpose is heinous, to punish when necessary is divine. Even if it seems unjust, punishment can serve a greater purpose.

Of course, I would always rather encourage good behavior than punish bad. But should good behavior be insufficient to battle the forces of chaos, and men’s nefariousness need to be halted, punishment must be threatened and then imposed. Good behavior by itself simply may not be enough. Importantly, nefarious men will undoubtedly aver good intentions when committing heinous acts, so one must discriminate carefully.

And there is another proper, though more subtle, use for punishment. If gods or men questioned my resolve, my support would dissipate, and I would lose the ability to act. Thus, to achieve higher ends, I do not hesitate to foment evil, falsehood, violence, and oppression. I encouraged Ḫammurabi to do the same, when needed, even though it might be perceived as allying with the forces of chaos rather than the forces of order.

In a perfect world, the good-hearted would recognize that even when destruction is perpetuated by me it is not without benevolent reason. The same could be said for other gods most of the time. Once men confessed their sins and admitted their failings, and of course prayed to their gods, the chaos inflicted could cease.

In this idealized world, Judgment of men does end with their deaths. I, along with the moon god Sîn, would judge the dead, meting out reward and punishment where deserved. Of course, it is so naive to believe that postmortem judgment was for the benefit of the dead. Once dead, what difference did they make to the living or to the order that existed in the land between the two rivers? No . . . the fear of harsh judgment in the afterlife was meant to encourage good behavior in the current life. 

Facing hardship in moderation had purposes beyond punishing and teaching. It could also spur creativity and innovation. Thus, an inherent tension between chaos and order is critical for the civilizations of men to progress. I have always tried to use chaos only to catapult men to more advanced forms of order, but I have also always been aware that other gods use chaos for opposite objectives.

Could the peoples of Mesopotamia have developed the world’s first great civilization on their own? Hardly. 

Without divine intervention, the Mesopotamians would have migrated elsewhere, voluntarily or involuntarily. Perhaps other gods would have taken them in and nurtured them, but who could count on that? Most likely, they would have perished without leaving any echoes of their existence. As explained to Ḫammurabi when he visited me at the E-babbar temple, many other peoples have suffered such a fate.