Moonlight and Memory: A Reflection on Time

Moonlight, Strandgade 30 (1900-1906) – Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864–1916)
Oil on canvas, 41 x 51.1 cm; On view at The Met Fifth Avenue, Gallery 813.
Hammershøi’s Moonlight, Strandgade 30 captures the stillness of night in his Copenhagen apartment, where light and shadow become the true subjects of the scene.
Photograph courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Public Domain

A poem by D.S. Yarab, reflecting on the fleeting nature of time, the way memories persist even as moments dissolve, and how the quiet glow of moonlight can stir both longing and serenity.


Whispers of the Waning Light

The misted pane distorts the night,
A wavering world in silvered hue,
The lamplight bends—a trembling sight,
Yet past and present shimmer true.

The clock-hands drift in softened glide,
Their silent whispers feign retreat,
Yet memories, steadfast at my side,
Hold time within their quiet seat.

A voice long stilled, yet clear it sings,
A scent unbidden lingers near,
As if the years had feathered wings,
And bore me back to what was dear.

Yet all dissolves in drifting haze,
Elusive as the frost-bound air,
What tempts the mind, what thought betrays,
What hand still grasps what is not there?

So let the veils of time unwind,
No rush to capture or define—
For in the fleeting, we may find
That all was ours, yet none was mine.


Prophetic Lamentation in the Biblical Tradition on Judicial Corruption

The content discusses transforming a prophetic lamentation about the corruption of the American justice system into a biblical framework, relating it to Judeo-Christian themes. It emphasizes the corruption of judges influenced by wealth and oligarchs, using biblical imagery and references to emphasize concerns for justice. The work calls for repentance and restoration while echoing biblical prophetic traditions highlighting the importance of righteousness and divine justice, urging readers to recognize the significant consequences of judicial corruption and its societal ramifications.

Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels.com

Recognizing that most Americans may have a familiarity with Judeo-Christian themes, imagery, and language—but little to no awareness of Mesopotamian themes, imagery, and language—I sought to recast my recent prophetic lamentation on the corruption of Justice, The Temples of Utu, into a biblical framework. By doing so, I aimed to ensure that my lamentation on the corruption of the American justice system, particularly the concern that judges and Justices are being purchased by oligarchs and beholden to faction, would resonate more deeply with contemporary readers.

The work found by scrolling further down, A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment, was created by transforming The Temples of Utu: A Contemporary Lament for Justice into a text that more explicitly resonates with the Judeo-Christian tradition. By incorporating biblical references throughout and aligning the themes with scriptural principles, this lamentation follows the prophetic tradition of calling out corruption and pleading for divine justice.

An Audio Reading of Donald S. Yarab’s
A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment

To aid in understanding the biblical framework underlying this transformation, the following terms and themes are central to the work:

I. Theological Names and Concepts

  1. El Elyon (אֵל עֶלְיוֹן) – A Hebrew name for God meaning “God Most High.” It first appears in Genesis 14:18-20 with Melchizedek, emphasizing God’s supreme authority and sovereignty over all creation.
  2. Adonai (אֲדֹנָי) – A Hebrew term meaning “my Lord,” traditionally used as a substitute for YHWH out of reverence. It signifies God’s absolute authority and dominion.
  3. El Shaddai (אֵל שַׁדַּי) – Typically translated as “God Almighty,” it first appears in Genesis 17:1 when God makes a covenant with Abraham. It highlights God’s power, might, and provision.
  4. Elohim (אֱלֹהִים) – A plural form used singularly for God in the Hebrew Bible, emphasizing divine power and majesty.
  5. Mammon (μαμμωνᾶς) – An Aramaic term used by Jesus in Matthew 6:24 and Luke 16:13, personifying wealth and material possessions as an opposing force to God. In this work, Mammon represents the corrupting influence of material gain and injustice.

II. Historical and Symbolic References

  1. Babylon – The empire that conquered Jerusalem in 586 BC, destroying Solomon’s Temple and exiling many Judeans. In biblical prophecy, Babylon symbolizes oppressive human power and arrogance that defies God (Isaiah 47:1-11; Jeremiah 50-51; Revelation 18).
  2. Egypt – The nation that enslaved Israel before the Exodus. Egypt is often used as a biblical metaphor for oppression, idolatry, and the worldly systems from which God delivers His people (Exodus 20:2; Deuteronomy 4:20; Hosea 11:1).
  3. Assyria – The empire that conquered the Northern Kingdom of Israel in 722 BC. Known for ruthless expansion and forced resettlement, Assyria is depicted as an instrument of God’s judgment but ultimately doomed for its arrogance (Isaiah 10:5-19; Nahum 3).
  4. Tyre – A Phoenician port city known for its wealth and trade dominance. Biblical prophets condemned Tyre for its pride, greed, and economic exploitation (Ezekiel 27-28; Isaiah 23). In this work, Tyre symbolizes commercial corruption and economic injustice.
  5. Mount Sinai – The sacred mountain where Moses received the Law from God (Exodus 19-20). Sinai represents divine revelation, covenant responsibility, and the foundation of justice.
  6. Sodom – The city destroyed for its wickedness and injustice (Genesis 19:24-25). In prophetic literature, Sodom serves as a symbol of moral corruption and a warning of divine judgment (Isaiah 1:9-10; Ezekiel 16:49-50).

III. Prophetic Tradition and Literary Framework

  1. Biblical Lamentation – This work follows the tradition of biblical lament, particularly seen in Lamentations, the Psalms, and prophetic writings. These laments express grief over national corruption and divine judgment (Lamentations 1:1-4; Psalm 137).
  2. Prophetic Literary Forms – The text incorporates multiple prophetic genres, including:
    • Lawsuit (rîb) – Where God brings charges against His people (Isaiah 1:2-3; Hosea 4:1).
    • Woe Oracle (hôy) – Pronouncing judgment upon injustice (Amos 5:18-24; Habakkuk 2:6-20).
    • Lament (qînâ) – Mourning the destruction caused by sin and corruption (Jeremiah 9:17-22; Ezekiel 19).
    • Restoration Promise – Common in prophetic literature, offering hope after judgment (Jeremiah 31:31-34; Isaiah 61:1-3).
  3. Covenantal Framework – Judges in ancient Israel were not merely legal authorities, but covenant mediators tasked with upholding divine law. Their corruption represents a betrayal of that covenant, mirroring Israel’s repeated failure to uphold God’s justice (Deuteronomy 16:18-20; Isaiah 1:21-23).
  4. Justice for the Oppressed – The recurring emphasis on justice for widows, orphans, and foreigners aligns with the core concerns of biblical prophets, such as:
    • Amos 5:11-12 – Condemning exploitation of the poor.
    • Micah 6:8 – Calling for justice, mercy, and humility.
    • Isaiah 10:1-2 – Warning against unjust laws that oppress the vulnerable.
  5. Apocalyptic Elements – The “Day of Reckoning” section reflects apocalyptic themes, seen in:
    • Joel 2:1-2 – A warning of impending divine judgment.
    • Daniel 7:9-14 – God’s ultimate triumph over corrupt rulers.
    • Revelation 18 – The fall of oppressive systems.

IV. Purpose of This Work

By drawing on these biblical themes, historical symbols, and prophetic traditions, A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment aims to offer a theologically rich meditation on the corruption of justice. It calls for repentance, righteousness, and restoration, echoing the voices of the biblical prophets who spoke against oppression and warned of impending judgment.

For readers wishing to explore the scriptural foundations of this work, a guide to the work labeled as containing in-text biblical citations is available at the button below. Finally, though many have their favorite bibles, I do not hesitate to recommend for studying the Old Testament, Robert Alter’s The Hebrew Bible: A Translation with Commentary. The scholarship, especially in the footnotes, is unmatched. Another useful online resource is biblehub.com – which allows you access to multiple bible translation traditions.


A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment

A Lament for the Perversion of Judgment and the Abandonment of Righteousness

Part I: The Forsaking of Righteousness

The First Turning from Truth

In the days when righteousness stood firm in the land, when the Law of The LORD was a lamp unto the feet of judges, the courts of justice were as sanctuaries where truth dwelled. The judges, servants of El Elyon—The LORD, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the One who brought Israel out of Egypt and wrote His covenant in fire upon Sinai, sat in chambers of cedar and stone, their hands unstained, their judgment righteous. The widow, the orphan, and the foreigner approached without fear, for the Law was written by the finger of Elohim upon tablets of stone, and justice flowed like the waters of Shiloah through the gates of the city.

But in time, whispers arose from the chambers of power. First to one judge, then another. Golden whispers, honeyed promises, from the lips of those who dwelled in palaces of privilege. And some turned their ears to listen.

From the houses of the mighty came messengers bearing gifts wrapped in fine linen, bearing words that concealed their true purpose. And the first judge who accepted such offerings felt the scales within his heart shift, so slightly he did not perceive it. But The LORD perceived it, as He perceived the wickedness of the sons of Eli, whose hands were stained with bribes and whose lips defiled the altar. The LORD, before whom no falsehood can stand, whose eyes search the hearts of men.

Yet the voice of Adonai grew fainter in the halls of judgment, as the mighty pressed their thumbs upon the sacred scales of Moses.

The Widow’s Cause Rejected

When the widow came before the seat of judgment,
Her cause was just, her plea righteous.
But he who wronged her wore the seal of the rulers,
And silver had changed the words of the Law.

The judge spoke with a tongue not his own:
“The letter of the Law says thus and thus,
Yet its spirit is silenced beneath my tongue.”
And so the widow departed in sackcloth.

She lifted her voice in the gates of the city:
“Where is Thy justice, O LORD of Hosts?
Thy servants speak with deceitful lips,
Thy Law is sold for pieces of silver.”

But no thunder came from Mount Sinai,
For the judges had stopped their ears with gold.

Part II: The Spreading Abomination

The Choosing of the Corrupt

As the seasons of harvest passed, it came to be that when a judge returned to the dust, those who appointed his successor sought not for wisdom, not for righteousness, not for fear of The LORD. Instead, they sought those who had bowed before the mighty, who had pledged themselves in secret chambers to uphold not the Law as it was given through Moses, but the interests of those who elevated them.

And so the courts of judgment, one by one, were filled with those who had sold their birthright for a bowl of pottage before ever taking the seat of judgment. The words of their oaths remained the same, the ceremonies unchanged, but the fear of El Shaddai had departed from the administration of justice.

Then came the spirit of Mammon, whom Solomon warned against, moving through the corridors of power. Not with swift judgment did he strike, but with slow corruption, a leprosy of the soul that left its victims outwardly clean but inwardly defiled, wearing the robes of righteousness while serving the lords of unrighteousness. And Elohim looked down, as He did in the days of Noah, and beheld that the wickedness of man had multiplied, and that the thoughts of his heart were only evil continually.

The Judgment Purchased with Silver

Behold how they come with scrolls of precedent in hand,
Twisting the words of the prophets to serve new masters.
The Law speaks what they command it to say,
The statutes bend like bulrushes in the wind.

Mammon walks boldly among the pillars of justice,
His touch light as silver upon the outstretched palm.
Each judgment purchased furthers the transgression,
Each verdict for sale defiles the holy sanctuary.

The judges feast at the tables of the merchants of Tyre,
The masters of wealth whisper close in their ears:
“This cause favors our interests,” they murmur,
“This ruling preserves the power we hold dear.”

And the people cry out to the Holy One of Israel,
But His face is turned away from His defiled courts.

Part III: The New Order of Iniquity

The Temple Defiled

And so it came to pass that the courts of justice no longer stood as bulwarks against wickedness, but as instruments of those who ruled from behind veils. The judges spoke still of righteousness, wore still the robes of impartiality, but their eyes looked ever to their masters for instruction. Their words were shaped not by the Law of Moses, but by the whispers of corruption.

The scales that once weighed all causes righteously now tipped by design. The light that once revealed truth now cast deceptive shadows. And those who came seeking justice found instead a marketplace where judgments were bought and sold like cattle and grain in the markets of Jerusalem.

The Serpent, who from Eden has twisted the words of Elohim, wound himself around the pillars of judgment like the bronze serpent once lifted in the wilderness. His forked tongue spoke through the mouths of judges, uttering words sweet as honey yet bitter in the belly, verdicts that invoked the sacred Law while rendering it void and without effect.

The Perverted Judgment

The scales of judgment hang crooked now,
Weighted with bribes and heavy with deceit.
The mantle of justice has become a shroud,
Pulled tight by hands that serve the powerful.

The Serpent coils around the judgment seat,
His ancient form hidden beneath holy garments.
“Justice,” they proclaim, while dealing in oppression,
“The Law,” they invoke, while breaking its covenant.

The mighty approach the courts without fear,
For they have purchased favor with unrighteous mammon.
The poor approach with trembling upon their faces,
For they know the sentence before the cause is heard.

So the pillars of justice, hewn by the hands of the faithful,
Were carved anew by the chisels of corruption.
The covenant of right judgment lay broken upon the steps,
As the people watched their inheritance dissolve like morning dew.

Part IV: The Breaking of the Covenant

The Covenant Forsaken

Thus was the covenant between The LORD and His people defiled. Not by the sword of Babylon, nor by the chariots of Egypt, nor by the cunning of the Assyrians, but by the slow poisoning of the wells of justice. As the cycles of seedtime and harvest passed, the people came to know that the courts offered no refuge for the oppressed, that the words of judges held no truth, that judgment measured not righteousness but privilege.

And in this knowing, the foundations of society began to crumble. For what is Law if not covenant? What is justice if not faithfulness? What is order if not the keeping of sacred promises?

The rulers and mighty men who had captured the courts of judgment did not see the doom they had wrought. They feasted upon their victory over righteousness, their conquest of the scales. They did not hear the voice of Adonai, gathering like thunder upon the mountains, as in the days of Sinai, preparing for the day of visitation.

For when justice fails, the whirlwind awaits. When Law becomes a snare rather than a protection, the people cast aside its yoke. When righteousness is no longer honored in the courts, it cries out from the dust like the blood of Abel, calling for vengeance before the throne of El Elyon.

The Harvest of Corruption

Now Jerusalem trembles upon foundations of sand,
The courts of judgment stand as whitewashed tombs.
What was established through generations of faithfulness,
Falls to ruin through seasons of corruption.

The people no longer call upon the name of The LORD in the courts,
For His servants have made it bitter on the tongue.
They turn instead to other deliverers, darker powers,
Gods of vengeance, spirits of retribution.

The rulers sleep uneasy in their chambers,
For they have slain the guardian of their peace.
In purchasing the Law, they rendered it powerless,
In perverting justice, they broke its authority.

And The LORD cried out, as He did through Amos:
“But let justice roll down like waters,
And righteousness like an ever-flowing stream!”
But the stream had dried, the land was parched, and the people drank the wine of oppression instead.

Epilogue: The Prophetic Warning

The Voice of the Remnant

Those who remember, who still hold the Law sacred in their hearts, who recall the days when the courts of judgment shone with uncorrupted light, raise their voices in the wilderness of injustice.

They speak of what was lost, of scales that balanced, of laws that protected the least among the people. They warn of what comes when the rulers believe they have placed themselves beyond the judgment of El Shaddai.

For the LORD watches still, though His servants have forsaken Him. The Holy One of Israel sees still, though His courts have been corrupted. And the day will come when righteousness returns to the gates of the city, when justice again flows like living water.

But the price of restoration will be bitter, paid in the coin of tribulation. For what is defiled cannot be cleansed without fire, as Sodom was overturned in fire and brimstone, and the altars of Baal were cast down in the days of Elijah.

The Day of Reckoning

Remember this in days to come,
When the storms of judgment break upon the land,
When faction rises against faction in the ruined streets,
When the rulers tremble before the dispossessed:

It began with the perversion of judgment,
It began with the purchasing of truth.
It began when the courts of the LORD
Became marketplaces for injustice.

And those who turned their backs on righteousness,
Who sold the Law for temporary gain,
Who twisted the statutes of the Most High,
Will cry out: “How could we have known?”

But their hands are not clean.
For they defiled the sanctuary, stone by stone.
They corrupted the judges, word by word.
They profaned justice, verdict by verdict.

And the LORD shall arise, as He did at Sinai, in fire and storm,
As He did at Babylon, with writing upon the wall.
Neither silver nor rulers will shield them;
They and their wealth shall melt like wax before the flame.


The House of Azag: A Contempory Lamentation

The text explores the myth of Ninurta and the contemporary retelling of Azag’s story, emphasizing themes of power, complicity, and the consequences of forgetting history, blending prose and verse to convey a timeless lamentation.

Cuneiform tablet: nir-gal lu e-NE, balag to Ninurta
Seleucid or Parthian Period, ca. 2nd–1st century BC
Mesopotamia, probably from Babylon (modern Hillah)
Clay tablet inscribed with a hymn of praise to Ninurta, the storm god and vanquisher of Asag, the demon of disease.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Object No. 86.11.349
(Public Domain Image – Courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art)
Cuneiform tablet: nir-gal lu e-NE, balag to Ninurta
Seleucid or Parthian Period, ca. 2nd–1st century BC
Mesopotamia, probably from Babylon (modern Hillah)
Clay tablet inscribed with a hymn of praise to Ninurta, the storm god and vanquisher of Asag, the demon of disease.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Object No. 86.11.349
(Public Domain Image – Courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art)

On the Inspiration for The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation

Inspiration often comes suddenly and from unexpected sources. While rereading Samuel Noah Kramer’s The Sumerians: Their History, Culture, and Character (1963/1971), I came across a passage recounting the myth of Ninurta, “the god of the stormy south wind,” who in battle destroyed Asag (Azag), “the demon of sickness and disease, whose abode is in the kur, or netherworld” (p. 151).

This passage immediately sparked a question: How would the story of Azag’s heir unfold in the modern age of plague and divisive politics? And how might it be told in the style of a Sumerian lamentation or myth?

The result is a hybrid of prose and verse, a structure reminiscent of ancient lamentations, epic chronicles, and prophetic texts. The prose sections serve as a narrative scaffold, unfolding the events and guiding the reader through the cycle of tyranny, reckoning, and return. The verse distills the emotional and symbolic essence of these events into stark, prophetic utterances, in keeping with the brevity and weight of traditional lamentation poetry.

By blending these forms, The House of Azag mirrors the ancient mode of storytelling in which history, myth, and warning are inseparable. It is both a retelling and a foretelling, a meditation on the cycles of power, complicity, and ruin—and the price a people pay when they forget the past.

An Audio Reading of D.S. Yarab’s The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation


The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation

Part I: The First Reign

The Time of Pestilence

In the days of turmoil, when truth was cast into the dust and the air itself grew thick with sorrow, there arose a ruler from the House of Azag—Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta, yet never truly vanquished. His tongue dripped venom, his hand withered the harvest, and his breath carried pestilence upon the wind. The multitudes, fevered and blind, hailed his coming, for they had forgotten the old warnings. They did not recall the tale, the curse, the name:

From the House of Azag, Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta.

And so, in his first reign, he set forth a sacrifice—one not of fire nor incense, but of breath and blood, of silence and mourning, that the land itself might wail beneath his shadow.

The Reign of Plague

He, of the House of Azag, heir to ruin,
Crowned in blight and anointed in ash,
Raised his hand, and the heavens grew silent,
Breathed his word, and the earth was unmade.

Fevered winds bore his whispered decree,
A covenant sealed in the shroud of the dead.
And they, the lost, the beguiled, the willing,
Bowed before the plague-born throne.

His altars dripped not with oil nor myrrh,
But with breathless sighs and broken names.
And still they called him savior, still they knelt,
Though the air itself was thick with wailing.

The Judgment

Thus was the land cast into shadow,
And the wise were scorned, the healers undone.
Not by sword nor by fire, but by silence,
Did the House of Azag reign.


Part II: The Fall and the Interregnum

The Elder Warrior’s Time

And so it came to pass that after the years of pestilence, when the land was burdened with sorrow and the cries of the forsaken rose to the heavens, an old warrior took up the mantle of the fallen city. He was a man of the elder years, not swift but steadfast, not mighty in arms but resolute in purpose. And he stood against the darkness, bearing the weight of the withered earth upon his back.

He drove out the ruler of the House of Azag—not by blade nor by fire, but by the will of the people, who in their suffering turned against the master of plague. The temples of deception cracked, the halls of power shuddered, and the great beast was cast into exile, retreating to the shadows of the wastelands.

Yet the abominable beast does not slumber.

The Warrior’s Triumph

He, the warrior of elder years, stood firm,
His hands worn, his voice a beacon.
And the people, weary of death and despair,
Turned from the House of Azag.

The tyrant fell, his name a whisper,
His throne an empty husk of ruin.
And for a time, the land breathed free,
And the winds carried no plague.


Part III: The Second Reign

The Return of Wrath

But the abominable beast does not die. Even as the warrior sought to mend the broken walls, the deceiver’s voice slithered through the ruins. He whispered of old glories, of stolen kingdoms, of vengeance against the weak. He promised dominion to the cruel, riches to the corrupt, and absolution to the faithless. And in the dark corners of the land, where grievance festered, where truth was forgotten, and where justice was mocked, they listened.

And the warrior—burdened by years, by the weight of a land divided—fought not with sword or fire, but with weary breath and reasoned word. And they laughed, for reason had no purchase in the ears of the blind.

Thus, through falsity and oath-breaking, through fear and fury, the House of Azag rose once more. And this time, not in sickness, but in wrath.

The Return of the Abominable Beast

He, of the House of Azag, whisperer in shadow,
Spoke in silvered lies, and the deaf gave answer.
He stirred the dust, and the bitter took arms,
He spread his hand, and the oath-breakers swore.

Not by plague, but by vengeance, he came,
Not with fever, but with fire.
The halls of wisdom he razed,
The scribes he silenced, the truth he unmade.


Part IV: The Willing Hands

The People’s Bargain

And when he, of the House of Azag—Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta, called forth his name from the abyss, they who had once trembled at his touch did not recoil. They did not remember the pestilence, nor the wailing of their own dead. Instead, they gathered at the gates, voices raised in fervor, hands outstretched not in defiance, but in welcome.

For he did not come as he had before, cloaked in sickness and ruin. This time, he came bearing gifts—promises of glories unearned, of burdens lifted from their shoulders, of enemies cast into the void. He did not call them to serve, but to rule. He did not ask them to sacrifice, but to consume.

And so they bent the knee, not in chains, but in hunger. Not from fear, but from desire.

And the warrior, standing upon the walls, cried out: “Have you forgotten?”

But they turned their faces from him.

The Willing Betrayal

He, of the House of Azag, called to the lost,
And they answered, not with dread, but with praise.
For he did not come with pestilence,
But with crowns of dust and golden lies.

He whispered: “The land is yours.” And they rejoiced.
He promised: “The labor is no longer yours.” And they knelt.
He declared: “The past is a burden. Remember it not.”
And they cast their own memories into the fire.


Epilogue: The Consequence

The Reckoning to Come

Thus, the gates were flung open, not by the tyrant’s might, but by the hands of the desperate and the blind. They, who had suffered under his reign, now lifted him upon their shoulders, crying, “He is the chosen! He will restore what was stolen!”

But there was nothing to restore. What they had lost, they had cast away.

And when the reckoning came, they wailed once more,
Crying out, “How could we have known?”

But their hands were not clean.

For they had built the throne, brick by brick.
They had paved the way, stone by stone.

And when the monstrous beast took his seat,
He did not need to command them.
They carried out his will before he spoke it.

Schadenfreude and the Politics of Resentment: A Society Unmoored

The author reflects on a troubling societal trend where individuals derive joy from others’ misfortunes, particularly amidst widespread economic inequality. Instead of advocating for fairness, many focus on undermining those with minor advantages while overlooking systemic issues that favor the ultra-wealthy. Historical concepts like Nietzsche’s ressentiment underline this destructive mindset. The piece illustrates this with a union example, where members aimed to diminish benefits for others instead of promoting broader equity. The author emphasizes the need to redirect resentment towards addressing inequality, fostering solidarity rather than division, and calls for reclaiming virtues like justice and compassion in the face of collective suffering.

Throughout my life, I have encountered individuals and groups who seem to lack not only a moral and ethical compass but even a basic sense of self-interest. When they witness others losing an advantage—whether in employment, social standing, or opportunity—they do not respond with sympathy or concern but instead with unrestrained joy, reveling in another’s misfortune. Rather than advocating for fairness or seeking to improve society or their own standing, they take solace in the suffering of others, as though deprivation itself were a form of justice.

This perverse celebration of the misfortune of others becomes even more striking when we consider the actual distribution of power and wealth in our society. While workers resent each other’s minor advantages, America’s top 12 billionaires have amassed over $2 trillion in wealth—an increase of 193% since early 2020. The displacement of legitimate economic anxiety onto fellow workers, rather than the rigged systems enabling such extreme concentration of wealth, exemplifies how resentment is weaponized against collective interests. Instead of questioning the forces that have hollowed out the middle class, many find misplaced satisfaction in seeing others fall.

This phenomenon is not new. Philosophers and historians have long observed the destructive power of ressentiment—a term Nietzsche used to describe the corrosive, festering resentment of those who feel powerless, who, unable to elevate themselves, seek instead to bring others down (Nietzsche, 1887/1989, p. 36). The weaker spirit, he argued, does not strive toward greatness but seeks revenge against those who embody what it cannot attain. In our current dystopian era, where the richest 1% now control 54% of all stock market wealth—up from 40% in 2002—this sense of powerlessness has fertile ground in which to grow. Rather than demanding fairness or aspiring to something greater, many find solace in celebrating the stripping away the rights and relative advantages of others, while the true beneficiaries of systemic inequality remain untouched.

When the slide into the current era began, I began to see this corruption of the spirit play out in the most mundane of settings. Decades ago, in the workplace, I encountered a revealing example of the mindset that prioritizes resentment over solidarity. Our office had only a limited number of private offices and computers, with the former assigned to attorneys based on job classification and the latter distributed by seniority across all employees, including attorneys and investigators within the collective bargaining unit. When discussions arose about relocating to a new office space, the union sought input from the membership on concerns to bring forward to management. At the time—which was years before I became a supervisor—I was the local union steward.

To my astonishment, a significant number of members advocated for the union to ask management to eliminate private offices for all non-managers in the new space simply because not all job classifications had been granted them. Their logic baffled me. Rather than seeking to extend a benefit to more workers, they focused on stripping it from other bargaining unit members, as though incremental improvements in working conditions for some created intolerable working conditions for others.

Fortunately, I was able to argue—successfully—that this approach was entirely backward. Instead of resenting those who had obtained an improved working condition, we should advocate for an expansion of the working condition rather than its elimination. The rational course was to request that more job classifications be made eligible for offices, using objective criteria related to job duties and their similarities to those that already warranted offices. While we were ultimately unsuccessful in securing additional offices, we did succeed in shifting the mindset of the membership. What began as an impulse to strip others of their advantage out of frustration became, upon reflection, a collective effort to push for broader equity. We may not have won the tangible benefit, but we avoided the far greater loss of allowing ourselves to be divided by shortsightedness and resentment.

And yet, this very same ugly impulse now dominates our national discourse. The cruel celebration of public servants losing their livelihoods becomes even more troubling when viewed against economic realities. While many Americans cheer the human pain that the elimination of government positions and the middle-class existence which such positions enabled, the ultra-wealthy’s share of national wealth has reached levels not seen since the 1920s. Even more striking, as the oligarchs’ wealth share has nearly quadrupled since 1953, their share of total taxes has remained virtually unchanged. Yet rather than questioning this dramatic shift in resources, many find satisfaction in seeing their neighbors lose healthcare benefits and perhaps even their homes.

This misdirection of resentment has particularly pernicious effects along racial lines—an all-too-familiar pattern in American history. While the median Black family holds just 12.7% of the wealth of the typical white family, and 28% of Black households have zero or negative wealth, political entrepreneurs channel economic anxieties into racial antagonism rather than solidarity. The very communities that could benefit most from collective action are instead pushed toward celebrating each other’s losses rather than confronting the systemic structures that perpetuate their deprivation.

Even those who remain employed in federal service are subjected to arbitrary and senseless disruptions, yet their plight is met not with sympathy but with open derision. Some are forced to return to offices that lack the space to accommodate them, while others are ordered to relocate across the country to similarly ill-equipped workplaces—an absurdity greeted with applause rather than outrage. The schadenfreude is both bizarre and troubling, driven not by principle but by petty resentment: If I had to go back, so should they. I was never allowed to work from home, so why should they? I doubt they were even efficient in the first place.

These justifications are not arguments but thinly veiled expressions of bitterness, exposing a society conditioned to revel in the suffering of others rather than demand justice, fairness, or rational policy. Worse still, there is little recognition that these actions—these firings, transfers, program terminations, and other disruptions—whether arbitrary, capricious, cruel, irrational, intentional, or, at times, unfortunate yet necessary—inflict real harm on individuals with families and loved ones, embedded in communities not unlike our own.

This kind of envy serves only the interests of those who seek to keep us divided, distracting us from the real issues that demand our attention. Understanding the true scale of inequality—where most Americans’ wealth is tied to their homes while the top 1% controls over half of all stock market wealth—can help redirect resentment toward productive change. Rather than celebrating when others lose benefits or job security, we must recognize how the concentration of wealth and power benefits from our division.

This lesson has been articulated time and again by thinkers from across traditions. Aristotle’s concept of megalopsychia—the great-souled person—stood in contrast to those driven by pettiness and envy, emphasizing instead the nobility of advocating for the common good (See Book IV of the Nicomachean Ethics). In the Christian tradition, agape—a selfless, communal love—demands that one’s neighbor be uplifted, not torn down (1 Corinthians 13:4–7).

Yet in modern America, these lessons are too often ignored in favor of a corrosive, zero-sum mentality that pits the powerless against one another rather than against the forces that perpetuate their economic insecurity and often economic suffering. A society where 26-28% of Black and Latino households have negative wealth, while billionaires added over $2 trillion to their fortunes during a global pandemic, has deep structural issues to address. Yet instead of confronting these systemic challenges, we have allowed ourselves to be divided, finding hollow satisfaction in our neighbors’ misfortunes rather than building the solidarity needed for meaningful change.

This is the moral failure of our time—not just the overt corruption of those in power, but the willing embrace of cruelty by so many in the public. A nation that delights in its own suffering, that views the suffering of its neighbors as a victory rather than a tragedy, is one that has lost its way. The challenge before us is not merely political but fundamentally ethical: to resist the temptation of resentment and to reclaim the higher virtues of solidarity, justice, and shared human dignity.

Yes, there is a legitimate argument for addressing the national debt and curbing government spending. And yes, when Congress engages this issue in a constitutionally sound manner, it may result in job losses in the public sector. Such decisions, if undertaken with deliberation and fairness, may at times be necessary. However, what we have witnessed thus far is not a measured fiscal policy but a reckless, chaotic purge—carried out without regard for Constitutional norms, the rule of law, economic stability, or human impact. Even where reductions in government employment may be warranted, they should never be occasions for celebration, nor should they serve as fuel for the schadenfreude and politics of resentment that have become disturbingly and consistently prevalent.

Would that we had the wisdom to see it.


References

 Aristotle, and Terence Irwin. Nicomachean Ethics. 2019. 3rd ed., Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 2019, https://www.perlego.com/book/4620092.

Nietzsche, F. (1989). On the Genealogy of Morals (W. Kaufmann & R. J. Hollingdale, Trans.). Vintage Books. (Original work published 1887).

LSE Inequalities. (2025, January 2). Ten facts about wealth inequality in the USA. London School of Economics and Political Science. https://blogs.lse.ac.uk/inequalities/2025/01/02/ten-facts-about-wealth-inequality-in-the-usa/

Tomorrow: The Response to a Republic in Crisis

A Republic does not fall in a day, nor is it restored in one.

Today was the reckoning—the recognition of what we have lost, the indictment of our failures. But reckoning alone is not enough. If the Republic is to endure, we must turn from despair to restoration.

Tomorrow is that turn.

It is not a promise that the Republic will be saved. It is a challenge: that we must choose to save it. Not by rhetoric, not by grievance, not by empty nostalgia, but by reclaiming reason, morality, and purpose—by remembering what the Republic was meant to be.

What shall we make of tomorrow? That choice is ours.

A reading of the D.S. Yarab’s essay “Tomorrow”

TOMORROW

What shall we make of tomorrow?

If Today is the reckoning, then Tomorrow must be the response. But where does restoration begin? Not in speeches, nor in promises, nor in the empty rituals of politics. It begins in the only place it can—within ourselves.

A Republic cannot be saved by its institutions alone. Laws, constitutions, courts, elections—these are but scaffolding. They do not stand without a foundation, and that foundation is the people. If the people are unmoored, if they are ruled by grievance, by appetite, by fear, then no law will save them, no leader will redeem them. If the people themselves are lost, then the Republic is lost with them.

We have been taught to believe that we are powerless, that history is something done to us rather than something we shape. But this is a falsehood. The truth is that the fate of a nation is not determined by its rulers alone—it is determined by its citizens, by what they accept, by what they demand, by what they are willing to stand for.

If we are to restore reason, we must reclaim the habits of thought that we have abandoned. We must question, we must listen, we must doubt, we must seek to understand before we seek to judge.

If we are to restore morality, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard than those we condemn. We must not mistake vengeance for justice, or self-righteousness for virtue. We must remember that morality is not merely a tool to wield against our enemies but a mirror in which we must see ourselves.

If we are to restore purpose, we must remember that liberty is not the right to do as we please but the responsibility to govern ourselves, to live not as individuals alone but as a people. We must choose to build rather than to destroy, to create rather than to consume, to serve rather than to rule.

But we cannot restore what we do not understand.

Education: The Foundation of Restoration

We must educate ourselves—not with propaganda, not with the comforting lies of factional loyalty, but with truth. Real education is neither indoctrination nor mere vocational training. It is the development of the mind, the sharpening of judgment, the capacity to distinguish the essential from the trivial, the real from the false. It is learning to think.

The founders of this Republic, despite their flaws and contradictions, understood that knowledge was the safeguard of freedom. Jefferson wrote that “If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be. Franklin warned that democracy was always one step from tyranny if the people lacked the wisdom to guard it. Washington, in his farewell address, cautioned against faction and the corruption of reason by unchecked ambition.

Yet today, we have forsaken the intellectual inheritance of the Republic. We do not educate for wisdom—we educate for compliance. We do not seek understanding—we seek affirmation. We do not debate—we shout. We do not learn—we consume.

A people who will not think for themselves will be ruled by those who think only of themselves.

If we are to reclaim the Republic, we must first reclaim ourselves. We must read not to confirm what we already believe, but to challenge it. We must seek facts, not slogans. We must recognize that learning is not a passive act but an active responsibility, that ignorance is not an excuse but a failure.

We must resist the seduction of easy answers.

We must understand what we have lost.

The Spirit of the Republic

The Republic was never meant to be an empire. It was never meant to be a mere tax revolt. It was never meant to be a vessel for ideology, oligarchy, or faction.

It was an idea. A radical, fragile, difficult idea: that a free people could and should govern themselves—not by force, not by wealth, not by divine right, but by reason and consent.

This idea has been betrayed, not by one party, not by one movement, but by all who have sought power for its own sake, who have turned democracy into a game of conquest, who have mistaken governance for domination.

The Republic was meant to be a living thing, a constant dialogue, a place where principles could be tested against reality, where reason could temper passion, where justice could stand apart from vengeance.

But we have let it become something else.

We have let it become a battleground for competing tribes, each seeking to impose its will rather than to govern in common cause. We have allowed it to be captured—by interests, by ideologues, by oligarchs, and finally by would be tyrants who have no stake in the future of the people they claim to serve.

We have mistaken cynicism for wisdom. We have mistaken manipulation for leadership. We have mistaken spectacle for governance.

But the Republic is not yet lost.

If we understand what has been taken, we can take it back.

If we remember what the Republic was meant to be—not a possession, not a weapon, not an empire, but an ideal—we can begin the work of restoring it.

Not through empty gestures. Not through rage or grievance. But through the slow, difficult work of becoming a people worthy of self-governance again.

The road to restoration is not a single act, nor a single moment. It is a thousand small choices, made every day, by each of us.

What shall we make of tomorrow?

That choice is ours.