When They Sing Their Lamentations: Ancient Ritual and Modern Grief
"...when they sing
their lamentations,
my queen, then sail
your boat of sorrow
to another shore."
-- The Exaltation of Inanna, Enheduana
In his recently published Complete Poems of Enheduana, the World's First Author, Sophus Helle discusses the use of ritual lamentation in Sumerian society. "The logic of lamentation," Helle writes, "was that the gods might impose terrible disasters on the human population simply to prove how powerful they were. To avert this, the priests and priestesses would show the gods that they appreciated their terrifying powers by ritually grieving over the devastation that the gods might choose to impose, making a future show of force unnecessary. … When the gods had their powers recognized through laments, they were expected to cease their devastation. … [T]he lamenters' lavish display of submission was a way for humans to gain a measure of control over the gods."
As you can imagine, this concept captured my mind and I've been chewing on it ever since. On the one hand, the Sumerians were addressing the pressing issues of their time in what seemed the most logical manner - by convincing the gods, who controlled all kinds of natural hazards and bequeathed both victory and defeat upon the human populace, to direct their ire elsewhere if they felt slighted by humanity. As a modern pagan, I feel the temptation to propitiate the gods in a similar manner despite my more advanced understanding of plate tectonics, weather patterns, and climate change. When I visit Washington's Pacific coast, after all, I say frequent prayers to Cascadia regardless of whether I truly believe she is listening or not. Sometimes you have to hedge your bets (and sometimes the prayers come whether you're consciously thinking about said bets or not).
On the other hand, there's also something to be said for facing the gut wrenching grief of inevitable, or at least extremely likely, disastrous events before they actually occur. Earthquakes, floods, wildfires, tsunamis, these hazards are part of life on our dynamic planet. Some we can forecast, some we can't, but none of them can we truly control. As for less 'natural' disasters such as war, nuclear meltdowns, and the ever-cascading consequences of climate change, most of us on an individual level still feel like we have very little control over when and where they'll strike. Maybe we do what we can to avoid or mitigate them, maybe we leave it up to fate; either way, there's no 10-day forecast for them either and so many of us live in fear. Low-grade anxiety for some, all-consuming panic and dread for others, and a whole spectrum of pain in the middle. We unconsciously grieve what hasn't happened yet because we know it's coming. We can't help ourselves.
Wouldn't it be a relief to lance that purulent wound once in a while? To consciously, purposefully mourn for that which has not yet occurred yet lurks in our awareness? Every day I strive for a future where the next Cascadia Subduction Zone tsunami takes no lives, but that future is so far away that I suspect I will never see it. Far likelier is the scenario where thousands die - maybe tens of thousands. The knowledge of this colors all of my work, makes it a race against an unseen clock with the highest of stakes. Would it help, then, to vent my current fear and anger and, yes, grief for this disaster now? To scream at the heavens, to sob prayers, to invoke Cascadia and beg her mercy?
I know it wouldn't change the chances of the waves swallowing us up, nor would it earn any divine intercession, but I think there's still value in the process. I think the Sumerians were onto something with such structured, ritualized displays of grief. You can't ignore what you have honored in ritual, after all. You can't pretend disasters don't happen while simultaneously howling about them to the heavens. Would ritual lamentation thus help us more fully embrace the uncertain, impermanent nature of all we know and love? Would it help us look disaster in the face and more willingly turn our efforts and resources to mitigation instead of turning away completely in willful ignorance?
We cannot gain a measure of control over the gods, perhaps, but maybe through this we could instead gain a measure of control over our own emotions - a victory almost as precious.
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