History shows that evil rarely marches under banners we immediately recognize. Too often, it comes draped in righteousness, purity, and fear. This piece is a lament for how easily we have been—and still can be—drawn into the machinery of cruelty.
My Friend, You Were There
My friend, When the Holy Catholic Church, seeking to preserve the Faith in all its radiant purity, instituted the Inquisition, you were there— not as a bystander, but as a willing voice.
You denounced the old widow, who lived alone with her cat. You whispered against the Jewish family— familiar, yet forever marked as other— and gave your assent to their undoing.
You crowded into the square to watch the trials. You sang hymns as the flames crowned their bodies with smoke. You wept tears of joy that the world was made purer that day.
My friend, When the ships came heavy with human cargo, and the auction blocks stained the soil, you were there.
You placed your bids. You weighed their flesh. You wrote the laws that chained their children.
You sang hymns on Sunday, and broke their backs on Monday. You called it providence. You called it order.
My friend, When the traders came with flags and rifles, when the rivers flowed with rubber and blood, you were there.
You signed the charters. You counted the profits. You sold the shackles and the scales.
You called it commerce. You called it destiny.
My friend, When the banners of the Reich unfurled, and the drums of destiny beat their hollow call, you were there.
You shouted with the crowds as glass shattered from shopfronts. You signed the letters, you cheered the laws, you raised your hand high in salute.
You bought the house, the shop, the art your neighbors were forced to leave behind.
You praised the strong hand that swept away the weak. You rejoiced as neighbors vanished, grateful that your streets were made clean.
My friend, When Stalin summoned the will of the people to root out the enemy within, you were there.
You reported the whispered doubts of your cousin, your friend, your brother.
You paraded with red flags while the trucks rumbled into the night. You filled the quotas. You seized the land. You counted the spoils as others disappeared.
You sang of the bright tomorrow as you cast your eyes down and stepped over the absent.
My friend, When Mao lifted the Little Red Book, and the children cried out against their fathers, you were there.
You led the chants. You scrawled denunciations across the walls. You struck the old professor who dared to hesitate. You cheered as the temples fell, and the old poems burned, convinced you were building a paradise on the bones of the past.
My friend, When Pol Pot promised that the fields would bloom with new life, you were there.
You marched the teachers into the paddies. You pointed the rifle. You praised the year zero that would erase the memory of all that came before.
You smiled as the world was reborn in silence.
My friend, When the generals rose in the name of order, when the prisons filled and the stadiums overflowed, you were there.
You nodded at the names. You counted the profits. You watched the blindfolded taken at night.
You called it security. You called it salvation.
My friend, You have always been there.
Only too late did you realize. Only too late did you doubt— but not much.
You fell silent, lest you betray your doubt. You looked away, lest you see.
You told yourself it would be different this time. You told yourself you had learned. But the signs are familiar. The words are familiar. The silence is familiar.
The United States was founded as a democratic republic, a nation where governance was entrusted to the people and their elected representatives. Yet, in the present age, democracy appears increasingly untenable, not because of external threats, but because the citizenry itself seems willing to surrender its role in self-governance. Rather than engaging in the messy and difficult work of democracy, Americans have increasingly deferred power to an elite class—oligarchs whose wealth, status, and influence have elevated them beyond the reach of ordinary accountability. In doing so, we have embraced a political theology that anoints the rich as our rightful rulers, sanctifying economic disparity as though it were ordained by divine providence.
A key factor in this transformation is the theological justification for inequality, particularly through the Prosperity Gospel—a strain of Christianity that equates material wealth with divine favor. If wealth is a sign of God’s blessing, then poverty must be a mark of moral or spiritual failure. This belief, deeply embedded in the American consciousness, has provided a convenient ideological foundation for the rise of oligarchy. The result is a republic in name only, where the wealthy govern without meaningful challenge, and where democracy is tolerated only to the extent that it does not threaten the interests of the ruling elite.
Alexis de Tocqueville, in Democracy in America, warned that “the aristocracy of manufacturers… are one of the most dangerous that has ever appeared in the world” because they hold power over the masses without obligation or accountability. Likewise, James Madison in The Federalist No. 10 cautioned that factions dominated by economic interests would threaten the republic, as “the most common and durable source of factions has been the various and unequal distribution of property.”
II. The Historical Cycle: Republics in Decline
America is not the first republic to slide into oligarchy. The Roman Republic offers a particularly illuminating parallel. Beginning as a relatively participatory system after the expulsion of its kings, Rome’s republic gradually concentrated power in the hands of wealthy patricians. By the late republic, a handful of families controlled vast estates worked by slaves, while formerly independent farmers were displaced into a dependent urban proletariat. The final century of the republic saw repeated attempts at reform by populist leaders like the Gracchi brothers, who were assassinated for proposing land redistribution. When Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon in 49 BC, the republic that had stood for nearly 500 years had already been hollowed out by economic inequality.
Venice provides another instructive example. The Republic of Venice began with a relatively broad-based Great Council of citizens. However, in 1297, the Serrata (closure) of the Great Council permanently fixed membership to established families, creating a hereditary aristocracy. Over time, even within this oligarchy, power concentrated further into the hands of the Council of Ten and eventually the three State Inquisitors. What began as a merchant republic gradually calcified into rule by the few, with elaborate ceremonies maintaining the fiction of the Serenissima Respublica (Most Serene Republic) while actual democratic elements withered.
The Weimar Republic’s collapse demonstrates how economic crisis can accelerate democratic decline. The hyperinflation of 1923 and the Great Depression devastated Germany’s middle class, traditionally democracy’s strongest supporters. As economic security vanished, so did commitment to democratic processes, with many seeking salvation in authoritarian alternatives. Alarmingly, in contemporary America, we witness similar anti-democratic impulses despite experiencing nothing remotely comparable to Weimar’s catastrophic conditions—suggesting that our democratic erosion stems not from genuine economic devastation but from manufactured grievance and the deliberate exploitation of social divisions.
But what fuels this manufactured grievance? Unlike the desperate economic collapse of Weimar Germany, today’s American discontent is stoked less by material suffering and more by a carefully cultivated sense of resentment. The modern oligarchy has perfected the art of distraction, channeling public anger away from corporate excess and systemic inequality and toward cultural and ideological battles that serve no economic interest for the working and middles classes. Instead of demanding higher wages, we are encouraged to fight over identity politics. Instead of questioning why billionaires pay lower tax rates than teachers, Americans are bombarded with outrage over books in libraries. Economic anxiety is repackaged into tribal conflict, ensuring that the real architects of inequality remain unchallenged.
This strategy is not accidental—it is the logical evolution of the media landscape. As traditional journalism declines, political entertainment thrives. Once, the press served as a check on power; now, it too is absorbed into the machinery of grievance, owned by the very oligarchs it should scrutinize. The consolidation is staggering: 90% of U.S. media is now controlled by just six corporations, compared to 50 companies in the 1980s.[1] This concentration has decimated local journalism while amplifying voices that serve oligarchic interests. The electorate is not simply disengaged—it is actively misled, encouraged to see fellow citizens as enemies rather than those who rule over them. This is not the erosion of democracy through neglect, but through engineering.
The success of this model is evident in voter behavior. Discontent no longer translates into economic reform movements or policy advocacy; instead, it is absorbed into personality-driven politics, where would-be strongmen are seen as righteous warriors against manufactured threats. The shift from democracy to oligarchy is not imposed—it is sold, marketed, and ultimately, embraced.
In this light, the warnings of America’s founders appear remarkably prescient. Thomas Jefferson warned against an “aristocracy of monied corporations” and stated, “I hope we shall… crush in its birth the aristocracy of our monied corporations which dare already to challenge our government to a trial of strength, and bid defiance to the laws of our country” (Letter to George Logan, November 12, 1816). Yet today, we have embraced the very model the Founders feared, allowing economic elites to determine policy, shape culture, and control the mechanisms of governance. The people, rather than resisting this transformation, have largely accepted it—guided in part by a religious narrative that equates power with virtue and poverty with failure.
III. The New Oligarchy: Wealth as Divine Favor
The modern American oligarchy is not merely composed of the wealthy, but of those who have successfully positioned themselves as figures of admiration and near-worship. Silicon Valley billionaires, hedge fund magnates, and political dynasties have become the new aristocracy, justified not by noble birth but by financial success. What separates today’s oligarchs from the robber barons of the past is not their wealth alone, but the theological and cultural framework that has shielded them from critique.
The concentration of wealth has reached unprecedented levels. According to Federal Reserve data, the top .1 percent of Americans—just 330,000 individuals—now hold 12.5% of the wealth, a staggering 40% increase from 8.9% in 2010. Meanwhile, the bottom 50% of Americans—165 million people—now hold only 5.5%.[2] This means the richest one-thousandth of the population controls more than twice the wealth of half the entire country. This marks a historic reversal of the post-WWII economic order. Yet rather than prompting concern, this concentration is often celebrated as evidence of entrepreneurial success and innovation.
This oligarchic influence extends beyond domestic borders. Foreign billionaires and sovereign wealth funds increasingly shape American policy and economic priorities through strategic investments, lobbying efforts, and ownership of U.S. assets. The globalization of capital has created a transnational oligarchic class whose interests often align regardless of nationality, further removed from democratic accountability. While domestic oligarchs at least feign the pretense of national loyalty, foreign wealth operates with even fewer constraints, treating American democracy as simply another market to be influenced or manipulated for profit.
The Prosperity Gospel, a uniquely American theological development, has played a significant role in this transformation. This doctrine teaches that material success is evidence of God’s blessing, while poverty signals a lack of faith or effort. In this view, wealth is not merely economic—it is moral. This ideology serves as a powerful deterrent to any redistributionist impulse, as it frames economic disparity as a reflection of divine will rather than systemic injustice.
Consider concrete manifestations of this oligarchic power: Congressional studies show that policy outcomes overwhelmingly align with the preferences of the wealthy. The Princeton study by Gilens and Page (2014) concluded that “economic elites and organized groups representing business interests have substantial independent impacts on U.S. government policy, while average citizens and mass-based interest groups have little or no independent influence.”[3] This influence is maintained through campaign finance—in the 2020 election cycle alone, the top 20 billionaire donors collectively spent $2.3 billion, more than twice as much as Joe Biden’s entire campaign, with a single billionaire contributing over half that sum.[4] Our democracy has effectively been captured by a donor class whose interests dictate policy priorities.
This capture extends to the very institutions designed to safeguard democracy. The judiciary, once a bulwark against concentrated power, has been systematically reshaped through strategic appointments and massive funding of judicial campaigns. Supreme Court decisions like Citizens United have equated money with speech, unleashing unprecedented corporate (thus oligarchic) influence in elections. Meanwhile, elected officials increasingly depend on wealthy donors and corporate PACs to fund ever-more-expensive campaigns, creating a system where access and influence are directly proportional to financial contributions. The result is a government formally elected by the people but functionally beholden to monied interests.
We see this play out in specific policies. The 2017 Tax Cuts and Jobs Act delivered massive benefits to corporations and wealthy individuals while adding $1.9 trillion to the national debt. Meanwhile, proposals for universal healthcare, student debt relief, or expanded social services—policies that would benefit the broader citizenry—face insurmountable opposition despite popular support. The revolving door between Wall Street and government regulatory agencies ensures that financial regulations are written by and for the financial elite. Figures like Steven Mnuchin, who moved from Goldman Sachs to hedge fund companies to Treasury Secretary, or Gary Gensler, who went from Goldman Sachs to Assistant Treasury Secretary, Under Secretary of the Treasury, Chair of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission, Commissioner of the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission, and Chair of the Securities and Exchange Commission, exemplify how the line between regulator and regulated has blurred beyond recognition. When financial institutions faced collapse in 2008, they received immediate bailouts, while millions of Americans lost their homes with minimal assistance.
The tax system itself has been shaped to benefit the oligarchy. In 2021, ProPublica revealed that the 25 richest Americans paid an effective tax rate of just 3.4% between 2014-2018, while the average American paid around 14%.[5] This disparity did not occur by accident but through deliberate policy choices that allow the wealthy to categorize income as capital gains, exploit loopholes, and shield assets through complex financial structures unavailable to ordinary citizens.
Yet, the same religious justifications that elevate the wealthy conveniently overlook the conduct of those at the top. The modern oligarchs are often anything but paragons of virtue. Their lifestyles, filled with excess, exploitation, and moral as well as often legal bankruptcy, are far removed from the Christian ideals of humility, charity, and service. As Jesus himself warned in Matthew 19:24, “Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” And yet, the rich are celebrated, while the poor—often vilified as lazy or undeserving—are left to navigate a system rigged against them.
IV. The Willing Servitude of the Electorate
This transition from democracy to oligarchy has not been solely imposed from above; it has been embraced from below. A significant portion of the American electorate has come to see governance not as a participatory duty, but as a spectacle—one in which wanna-be strongmen and billionaires are revered as saviors rather than as figures to be held accountable.
Some defend this system as a meritocracy, where wealth reflects productivity and innovation. Yet Federal Reserve data shows that, using historically typical rates of return, inherited rather than earned wealth may account for over half of total wealth, undermining the narrative that economic status is purely the result of individual effort.[6] When nearly half of all wealth comes through inheritance, the myth of pure meritocracy becomes impossible to maintain. Nevertheless, the electorate continues to defend a system that increasingly resembles the hereditary aristocracies our founders sought to abolish.
The cultural obsession with wealth, combined with religious narratives that equate prosperity with righteousness, has dulled the instinct for democratic engagement. Why question the morality of economic inequality when it is perceived as a reflection of God’s order? Proverbs 22:7 states, “The rich rule over the poor, and the borrower is slave to the lender.” Why demand accountability from the ruling class when they are seen as divinely chosen stewards of the nation’s fate?
This abdication of democratic responsibility has been significantly accelerated by the capture of media institutions by the same oligarchic interests. Independent, objective news sources have largely disappeared from citizens’ lives, replaced by conglomerates owned by the very elites whose power should be scrutinized. What passes for journalism often amounts to ideologically laden content designed to reinforce existing power structures while appearing to inform. The resulting information ecosystem leaves citizens simultaneously overwhelmed with content yet starved of the context and critical analysis necessary for meaningful democratic participation. This theological deference to wealth has allowed democracy to wither, not through violent overthrow, but through active acquiescence.
The illusion of consumer choice masks growing corporate concentration, where 75% of household items are now controlled by just ten corporations.[7] When we believe we are making free market choices, we are often simply selecting between products owned by the same conglomerate. This mirrors our increasingly limited political choices, where candidates across the spectrum rely on the same donor base and serve similar corporate interests despite superficial differences in rhetoric.
Consider Amazon’s successful opposition to unionization efforts in Bessemer, Alabama (2021-2022), where billions in corporate resources were deployed to defeat workers seeking basic protections and better wages.[8] Rather than seeing this as class conflict, many Americans defend corporate interests against their own economic self-interest, having internalized a worldview where the market is sacrosanct and labor organization is somehow un-American. This represents the culmination of decades of ideological cult conditioning that has separated Americans from their own civic and economic power.
V. The Disappearance of Ethics in Public Life
If the Prosperity Gospel were true to Christianity, it would demand that the wealthy adhere to moral obligations—generosity, humility, and justice. Yet the reality is quite the opposite. The modern oligarchy exploits faith not to guide ethical behavior, but to silence dissent.
Throughout history, faith has been a force for challenging power—from the Social Gospel movement’s advocacy for labor rights to Martin Luther King Jr.’s invocation of Christian morality in the fight for civil rights. Dr. King warned, “We must rapidly begin the shift from a ‘thing-oriented’ society to a ‘person-oriented’ society” (Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence, April 4, 1967), criticizing the worship of material success over human dignity.
Yet today, much of American Christianity has been hollowed out, transformed into a vehicle for wealth-worship rather than a challenge to injustice. The teachings of Jesus, who spoke of the poor inheriting the kingdom of God and the moral dangers of riches, have been replaced by a doctrine that tells the poor they simply need to pray harder and wait their turn.
VI. The Oligarchs’ America
The American experiment in democracy appears to be in retreat, not because of foreign invaders or external threats, but because we have abandoned the very principles that sustain it. A democracy requires engaged citizens, yet we have become a nation content to let the wealthy govern without challenge. A republic requires accountability, yet we have deified billionaires and accepted their dominion as inevitable, if not righteous.
The Prosperity Gospel and its ideological offshoots have played a crucial role in this transformation. By equating wealth with divine favor, they have given a theological foundation to inequality and sanctioned the rise of oligarchy. This ideology has not only justified the unchecked power of the rich, but has also pacified the poor, persuading them that their struggles are personal failings rather than structural injustices.
If America is to reclaim its democratic aspirations, it must first confront the myths that have enabled its decline. We the People must remember that wealth is not virtue. Power is not righteousness. And democracy is not sustainable when its people cease to believe in their own right to govern. Until these truths are recognized, the nation will remain in the hands of those who have been deemed, by wealth and by providence, our betters.
History shows that oligarchic rule is not an inevitability. From the antitrust reforms of the early 20th century to the labor movements that shaped the New Deal, democratic resurgence is possible when citizens recognize their own power. But this requires first dispelling the myths that sustain the status quo: that wealth equals virtue, that political change is impossible, and that democracy is someone else’s responsibility.
[1] Ashley Lutz, “These 6 Corporations Control 90% of the Media in America,”’ Business Insider, June 14, 2012.
[3] Martin Gilens and Benjamin I. Page. “Testing Theories of American Politics: Elites, Interest Groups, and Average Citizens.” Perspectives on Politics 12, no. 3 (2014), 565.
[6] Laura Feiveson and John Sabelhaus. “How Does Intergenerational Wealth Transmission Affect Wealth Concentration?” Federal Reserve FEDS Notes, June 1, 2018.
Justice, in any age, is a fragile thing. When upheld, it brings order, clarity, and fairness. When corrupted, it festers unseen at first, then collapses with ruinous consequence. The Temples of Utu: A Contemporary Lamentation for Justice is a prophetic lament cast in the voice and style of an ancient civilization, yet it speaks with painful familiarity to those who observe the world today.
Ningišzida, with snakes emanating from his shoulders, on a relief of Gudea. Photograph by Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP (Glasg) CC BY-SA 4.0.
This work draws upon the mythic imagery of Mesopotamian religion, invoking gods who, for the people of Sumer and Akkad, embodied cosmic forces—truth and deception, judgment and decay. Though their temples have long crumbled to dust, their symbols remain potent warnings for the rise and fall of justice in human society.
Be aware, however, the Lamentation does not reflect the historic reality of how and where justice was actually dispensed in ancient Mesopotamia. A rudimentary understanding of the justice system, such as we understand it, is discussed in early scholarship, such as Samuel Noah Kramer’s The Summerians: Their History, Culture and Character (1963/1971), for those who are interested in the basics (see for instance pp. 83-88). If truly interested in historical reality, seek out more updated, contemporary scholarship! It will be worthwhile!
Who Are the Gods Named in This Lamentation?
Utu (Shamash): The Mesopotamian god of the sun, justice, and truth. Utu was depicted as the divine judge who saw all things, presiding over oaths and fair dealings. His light illuminated deception, and his scales weighed the hearts of the people. When justice was upheld, his temples shone golden in the sun; when corruption took root, his light dimmed.
Namtar: The herald of death and bringer of plagues, Namtar represents creeping inevitability—the slow, inexorable spread of decay. In this lamentation, he is not an agent of quick destruction, but of corruption’s quiet advance through the halls of justice, spreading like a sickness that hollows out institutions from within.
Ningišzida: A chthonic (underworld) deity associated with serpents, passage between worlds, and the boundary between truth and falsehood. He coils around the pillars of justice, his forked tongue shaping words that once carried fairness into tools of deception. His presence signals the transformation of law into an instrument of the powerful, a mask of legitimacy covering injustice.
Enlil: The great god of storms and divine authority. Though absent for much of the lamentation, his presence gathers at the end, a harbinger of reckoning. If Utu is the impartial light of justice, Enlil is the storm that follows when justice is betrayed.
These figures serve as more than mythological references—they embody timeless realities. The slow erosion of judicial integrity, the rise of factionalism over fairness, the perversion of law into a tool of the mighty—these are not merely the concerns of an ancient civilization but of every society that has ever built temples to justice, and of every people who have watched those temples fall.
As you read (or listen to) The Temples of Utu, consider not only the past, but the world around you. Are the scales of justice still balanced? Or has the light of Utu grown dim once more?
An Reading of Donald S. Yarab’s “The Temples of Utu: “A Lamentation for Justice”
The Temples of Utu: A Lamentation for Justice
Part I: The Silencing of the Scales The First Turning Away
In the days of order, when truth stood firm in the public square and the scales weighed all hearts with equal measure, the temples of Utu shone golden in the light of the sun. The judges, priests of Utu—Utu, whose eye sees all deceptions, whose light banishes shadow—sat in chambers of cedar and stone, their hands unstained, their vision clear. The weak approached without trembling, for the law was etched in tablets that none might alter, and justice flowed like water through the streets of the city.
But in time, whispers came upon the night wind. First to one priest, then another. Golden whispers, honeyed promises, from the lips of those who dwelled in towers of privilege. And some turned their ears to listen.
From the towers of the mighty came emissaries bearing gifts that were not called bribes, bearing words that were not called threats. And the first priest of Utu who accepted such offerings felt the scales within his heart shift, so slightly he did not mark it. But Utu marked it. Utu, whose eye sees all deceptions, whose light banishes shadow.
Yet Utu's voice grew fainter in the halls of judgment, as the mighty pressed their thumbs upon his sacred scales.
The First Injustice
When the widow came before the seat of judgment, Her cause was just, her claim was true. But he who robbed her wore the sigil of the faction, And gold had changed the color of the law.
The priest of Utu spoke with borrowed tongue: "The letter of the tablet says thus and thus, Though its spirit cries otherwise." And so the widow left with empty hands.
She raised her voice to Utu in the square: "Where is thy justice, Lord of Truth? Thy priests speak with forked tongues, Thy scales are weighted with gold."
But no answer came from the heavens, For the priests had muffled Utu's ears with silk.
Part II: The Spreading Corruption The Selecting of the Loyal
As the cycles of the moon passed, it came to be that when a priest of Utu returned to the earth, those who chose his successor looked not for wisdom, not for fairness, not for devotion to the scales of truth. Instead, they sought those who had bowed before the factions, who had pledged themselves in secret chambers to uphold not the law as it was written, but the interests of those who appointed them.
And so the temples of Utu, one by one, were filled with those who had sold their sight before ever taking the seat of judgment. The words remained the same, the rituals unchanged, but the spirit had fled from the body of justice.
Then came Namtar, herald of plagues and divine judgment, moving through the corridors of power. Not with swift death did he strike, but with slow corruption, a disease of the soul that left its victims standing but hollow, wearing the robes of justice while serving the lords of greed.
The Purchased Judgment
See how they come with scrolls of precedent, Twisting ancient words to serve new masters. The tablet says what they wish it to say, The law bends like reeds in the wind.
Namtar walks among the pillars of justice, His touch light as coin upon the palm. Each judgment purchased furthers the contagion, Each verdict for sale spreads the plague.
The merchants of discord dine at the judges' tables, The priests of faction whisper in their ears. "This cause favors our patrons," they murmur, "This ruling advances our creed."
And the people cry out to Shamash, to Utu, But the god of justice has turned his face away.
Part III: The New Order of the Scales The Temples Transformed
And so it came to pass that the temples of Utu no longer stood as bulwarks against chaos, but as instruments of those who ruled from shadow. The priests spoke still of justice, wore still the robes of impartiality, but their eyes looked ever to their masters for guidance. Their words were shaped not by the tablets of law, but by the whispers of faction.
The scales that once weighed all hearts equally now tipped by design. The light that once revealed truth now cast strategic shadows. And those who came seeking justice found instead a marketplace where outcomes were traded like cloth and grain in the bazaar.
Ningišzida, serpent god of the underworld who knows the passage between life and death, between truth and falsehood, wound himself around the pillars of the temple. His forked tongue spoke through the mouths of judges, words that seemed just but served injustice, verdicts that spoke of law while mocking its purpose.
And the people learned that there were two laws in the land: one for the mighty, another for the meek.
The Twisted Scales
The scales of Utu hang crooked now, Weighted with bribes and heavy with deceit. The blindfold of justice has become a hood, Pulled tight by hands that serve the powerful.
Ningišzida coils around the judgment seat, His serpent form hidden beneath official robes. "Justice," they proclaim, while dealing in its absence, "The law," they intone, while breaking its heart.
The mighty approach the temple without fear, For they have purchased indulgence in advance. The weak approach with dread upon their faces, For they know the verdict before the case is heard.
The tablets of law remain upon the wall, But the words change meaning at the touch of gold.
Part IV: The Unraveling The Breaking of the Covenant
Thus was the covenant between the people and the law undone. Not by decree, not by conquest, but by the slow poisoning of the wells of justice. As the cycles of the sun passed, the people came to know that the temples of Utu offered no sanctuary, that the words of his priests held no truth, that the scales of judgment measured not justice but advantage.
And in this knowing, the bindings of society began to fray. For what is law if not promise? What is justice if not trust? What is order if not the belief that truth will prevail against falsehood?
The factions that had captured the temples of Utu did not see the doom they had wrought. They celebrated their victory over impartiality, their conquest of the scales. They did not hear the whispers of Enlil, god of wind and storm, gathering his breath for the tempest to come.
For when justice fails, chaos awakens. When law becomes weapon rather than shield, the people take up arms of their own. When truth is no longer honored in the temples, it finds voice in the streets.
The Price of Betrayal
Now the city trembles on foundations of sand, The temples of justice stand as hollow shells. What was built through centuries of wisdom, Falls to ruin through seasons of corruption.
The people no longer speak the name of Utu, For his priests have made it bitter on the tongue. They turn instead to other gods, darker gods, Gods of vengeance, gods of fire.
The mighty sleep uneasy in their beds, For they have slain the guardian of their peace. In purchasing the law, they rendered it worthless, In bending justice, they broke its spine.
And Enlil gathers the winds of retribution, For no society stands when its pillars are rotten.
Epilogue: The Warning The Voice of Memory
Those who remember, who still hold truth sacred in their hearts, who recall the days when the temples of Utu shone with uncorrupted light, raise their voices in the twilight of justice. They speak of what was lost, of scales that balanced, of laws that served all equally. They warn of what comes when the mighty believe they have placed themselves beyond judgment.
For Utu watches still, though his priests have forsaken him. Shamash sees still, though his temples have been corrupted. And the day will come when light returns to the chambers of darkness, when truth again flows through the veins of justice.
But the price of restoration will be bitter, paid in the coin of upheaval. For what is corrupted cannot be cleansed without fire.
The Future Reckoning
Remember this in days to come, When the storms of chaos break upon the land, When faction fights faction in the ruined streets, When the mighty tremble before the dispossessed:
It began with the silencing of the scales, It began with the purchasing of truth. It began when the temples of Utu Became marketplaces for injustice.
And those who turned their backs on truth, Who sold the scales for temporary gain, Who twisted the tablets of sacred law, Will cry out: "How could we have known?"
But their hands are not clean. For they desecrated the temples, stone by stone. They corrupted the judges, word by word. They unmade justice, verdict by verdict.
And when Utu returns to claim his throne, Neither gold nor faction will shield them from his light.
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)
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.
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.
Northcoast Antiquarian 