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Becoming Human Together
Rev. Sharon Dittmar
February 23, 2003

In 1872, at a meeting of the Society of Biblical Archeology, George Smith rocked the archeological and Judeo-Christian world when he announced, "A short time back I discovered among the Assyrian tablets in the British Museum an account of the flood."[1]  The tablets that Smith referred to were part of The Epic of Gilgamesh, a Sumerian story written in 2,000 B.C.E., over 4,000 ago.  The Epic of Gilgamesh is older than Homeric epics, and the oldest stories in Genesis.  Smith's discovery of a flood story predating the Bible gave support to a growing and controversial school of thought known as "biblical criticism". 

In the early 19th century, German intellectuals and theologians, influenced by Enlightenment ideas of reason and science, began to compare sections of the Bible, to test them for style, nuances, similarity, and difference.  What they found, shocked them.   The stories within the Bible are different both stylistically and morally, potentially indicating different authors with different opinions.  It also became clear that Biblical signature stories (thought to only appear in the Bible) appeared other places in other forms before they made their way into the Bible.

A comparison of the flood in Gilgamesh to the Biblical Flood Story clearly shows that the author of the Biblical story knew the story in Gilgamesh and edited it for his (or her purposes).   Both stories contain a flood ordained by God or the gods, an ark, the death of humanity, a surviving family, a raven, and a dove.  The stories are so similar that they are immediately recognizable.  It is like looking at a plagiarized paper. 

They are the same story, but with different twists.  For example, in the Bible God sends the flood because people are disobedient, and afterwards he makes a covenant with Noah.  In Gilgamesh the gods (plural) send a flood because humans are noisy and irritating, and after the flood is over, the gods make no promises to behave better in the future.  Two very different ideas about divinity.

The re-discovery of Gilgamesh was extraordinary.  Archeologist had been digging at the great Assyrian royal library in Nineveh (in present day N. Iraq, near Turkey) since 1839.  The tablets containing Gilgamesh were discovered in 1853, but no one could read them because they were in the ancient wedge shaped written language known today as cuneiform.  The tablets were dug up and transported to the great modern plunderer of the world (the British Museum), where they rested with 25,000 other broken, undecipherable tablets for twenty years.[2]

In the 1850's archeologists found a keystone that helped them translate cuneiform.  By the 1870's Smith began work on the Gilgamesh tablets, tucked away among a vast majority of tablets containing taxes, crop lists, and official letters.  As an epic story, and moving one at that, Gilgamesh was and is stunningly different and rare among ancient tablets. 

Today scholars agree that there was a historically verifiable Sumerian king of Uruk (modern day S. Iraq) named Gilgamesh.  The historical Gilgamesh lived between 2700 and 2500 B. C. E.[3]  The stories within the Gilgamesh epic date from this period, but (like the Bible) they were written down over the course of the next 1,000 years.  The epic was very popular in the ancient Near Eastern world.  Subsequent archeological finds have uncovered various versions of Gilgamesh with related (but some unrelated stories) in Sumerian, Assyrian, Hittite, and Palestinian locations (modern day Iraq, Turkey, Syria, Palestine).  Like the Bible, each culture and language that encountered Gilgamesh emphasized different parts.

I first learned about The Epic of Gilgamesh in my Old Testament class in seminary.  Our professor mentioned its age and its relevance to the Biblical flood story (also serpent story).  I took it upon myself to read this epic (or at least find it to see how long it was) so that I could have a better understanding of the Bible.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Gilgamesh is short (approximately 90 pages), as well as a beautifully written, haunting human story about friendship, loss, life, and death.  (explanation of translation by Mason)

The Epic of Gilgamesh revolves around the friendship of two men, Gilgamesh, a spoiled arrogant king, and Enkidu, a man from the forest who goes to live in the city.  The epic begins:

 Gilgamesh was king of Uruk,
           A city set between the Tigris
           And Euphrates rivers
           In ancient Babylonia.
           Enkidu was born on the Steppe
           Where he grew up among the animals.
           Gilgamesh was called a god and man;
           Enkidu was an animal and man.
           It is the story
           Of their becoming human together.[4]

Gilgamesh grapples with the theme of humanity, what it means to be human, and this is why it is of such interest to us.  As a story that validates biblical criticism, Gilgamesh is interesting, but hardly merits an entire sermon.  However, as a story of what it means to become human, it is of infinite value. 

I find it of comfort, extraordinary comfort, that 4,500 years ago humans were struggling with and asking themselves the same questions that we ask and struggle with today.  Moreover, this is a very "humanist" story.  There are certainly gods.  They appear in this story.  They are also capricious, violent, squabbling, vengeful, and only rarely kind or caring.  When Gilgamesh mourns the traumatic death of his beloved Enkidu, he does not turn to the gods who are in part responsible (as are he and Enkidu), he turns away from them, and into himself and other humans.  This is a story about living into the boundaries of our lives - the life we are born into and will someday die out of.

This is not to say that I believe God is useless, because as a theist I believe in God and find my relationship with God a great comfort and ultimately sustaining.  However, this great comfort and sustenance cannot save me or you from pain and loss, from being human, from dying, just as the gods can not save Gilgamesh from pain and loss.  I treasure this story because it does not attempt to skirt this issue, to mask the suffering of humanity with faith.  Instead it wades directly to the center of the worst grief imaginable, and shows us why this grief is worthy and true, valiant, and of ultimate meaning.

In January and February I facilitated a discussion group at First Church on The Epic of Gilgamesh.  I had read Gilgamesh several times before the class, but the opportunity to read in a small group, to work through the difficult passages together, brought a new depth to the story for me.  The story begins with Gilgamesh as the spoiled king and as Enkidu the formerly wild, now tamed man, tamed through sexual initiation with a woman (the role of women as civilizing, sexual characters appears multiple times-this was a source of great conversation and debate in our class). 

When Gilgamesh and Enkidu meet they engage in a wrestling match fit for an epic.  The story tells us that they "danced the dance of life which hovers close to death."[5]  Even in all their masculine might, Gilgamesh and Enkidu are never far from death.  After their fight they become immediate friends, for they complement one another.

Interestingly, Gilgamesh is part divine, but this only makes him more volatile and self-centered.  Enkidu who has lived with the animals has more insight and humility.  Shortly after becoming friends Gilgamesh decides that they must go on an adventure to kill The Evil One, Humbaba, to prove their might.  Gilgamesh insists that the people have become soft and restless.  Enkidu is uncertain.  Gilgamesh says:

Why are you worried about death?
Only the gods are immortal anyway,
Sighed Gilgamesh.
What men do is nothing, so fear is never
Justified.  What happened to your power
That once could challenge and equal mine?
I will go ahead of you, and if I die
I will at least have the reward
Of having people say:  He died in war . . . 
the boundaries set up by gods
Are not unbreakable . . . [6]

          The story continues:

The old men leaned a little forward 
Remembering old wars.  A flush burned on
Their cheeks.  It seemed a little dangerous
And yet they saw their king
Was seized with passion for this fight.[7]

One classmate admitted to penciling in the words "George W." by this last passage.  This was the struggle of people 4,500 years ago, and it is also our struggle today.  Gilgamesh wants to kill the "Evil One," Humbaba, servant of the gods and protected by them.  Gilgamesh wants to challenge death and the gods.  He wants to press against the limits of mortality.  "Why are you worried about death?/ Only the gods are immortal anyway,/Sighed Gilgamesh./  What men do is nothing, so fear is never/ Justified."

Fear is never justified.  And the great warrior Enkidu's response?  He is afraid.

Enkidu could not speak.  He held his tears
Back.  Barely audibly he said:
It is a road which you have never traveled.[8]

Over and over the story tells us that Enkidu is afraid.  Living on the steppe he has seen life and death.  He also knows about the wrath and death of those who cross Humbaba.  ("I learned that there is death in Humbaba.  Why do you want to raise his anger?")  Gilgamesh dreams of glory.  Enkidu dreams of death, yet, agrees to lead his friend because Gilgamesh does not know where he is going (physically and literally).

Gilgamesh and Enkidu kill Humbaba, and the gods, especially the goddess Ishtar become angry.  Enkidu is wounded, and as the days pass and his wound festers, the gods demand retribution for the dead Humbaba, and Enkidu begins to die.

Enkidu's death is one of the most beautiful passages in literature:

Everything had life to me, he heard Enkidu murmur,
The sky, the storm, the earth, water, wandering,
The moon and its three children, salt, even my hand
Had life.  It's gone.  It's gone.  I have seen death,
As a total stranger sees another persons world.[9]

 And Enkidu's last words to Gilgamesh:

You are crying.  You never cried before.
It's not like you.
Why am I to die
You to wander on alone?
Is that the way it is with friends?[10]

 At this point we have reached the depth of the story.  At the start it is an adventure story about the wild man of the forest who frees animals, about wrestling matches, and forays to kill evil and knock down cedar trees, potshots at the gods.  But after the death of Enkidu, the adventure stops and the journey begins.  "Why am I to die/You to wander on alone?/Is that the way it is with friends?"

Is this the way it is with friends, to love and to lose the ones we love?  This is the question of Gilgamesh.  The ultimate answer is "yes", this is the way it is with friends, one to die and the other to wander on alone. 

After Enkidu's death Gilgamesh's grief is bottomless.  He stops praying to the gods.  He dresses in rags.  He cries when he sees beautiful things because Enkidu is not there to share them with him.  He has no peace and there is no peace in his presence.  He is enraged when a women tells him the truth "The gods gave death to man and kept life to themselves."[11]  Eventually he sets sail on the sea of death in an attempt to find Utnapishtim, a man who is reputed to know the secret of immortality, and may possibly help him bring Enkidu back to life.

When he had used each pole but one
He pulled his clothes off his body
And with this last remaining pole
He made a mast, his clothes as sail,
And drifted on the sea of death.[12]

 Gilgamesh's journey of grief is the majority of the epic, which I find so interesting.  Not his adventures, not his conquest, but very humanly, his grief.  This epic is like a pastoral care notebook on how to survive loss.  I even find the stages of his grief accurate - anger, denial, depression, bargaining, and acceptance.  It's all in there.

As a class, we spent a lot of time discussing loss and death.  One of the class members had the insight that "We don't fear death.  We don't want to end our lives.  But what we really fear is leaving our loved ones." (or being left alone).  This discussion reminded me of two things; mourning is for the living, and also that unbearable sensation we experience when we realize our relationships are finite. 

I remember Steve Olden standing up here last fall, talking about the death of his father.  After his father's death he had to ask himself, would he be with his father again.  As someone who doesn't believe in heaven, he had to accept that he would not.  The love and the memories were real, but the touch and presence will not come again. 

Gilgamesh finds Utnapishtim, the human who is immortal, but even Utnapishtim who survived the Great Flood can not help him.  He tells Gilgamesh, "You must return and bury your own loss and build your world anew with your hands."[13]  Before Gilgamesh leaves though, Utnapishtim tells him of a secret plant that restores youth.  Gilgamesh successfully retrieves the plant, and happily begins his journey home.  He stops to wash, and while busy, a serpent slithers out of the water, takes the precious plant, sloughs its skin, and goes back underwater.  Gilgamesh is once again alone with mortality and he grieves one last time.  Just as in the Bible, the serpent knows the secret of life and death, but unlike the Bible, the serpent is not malevolent, deceitful, nor evil, just natural, like death.

The version of Gilgamesh discovered at Nineveh ends with the return of Gilgamesh to Uruk:

He entered the city and asked a blind man
If he had ever heard the name Enkidu,
And the old man shrugged and shook his head,
Then turned away,
As if to say it is impossible
To keep the names of friends 
Whom we have lost.
Gilgamesh said nothing more
To force his sorrow on another.
He looked at the walls,
Awed at the heights
His people had achieved
And for a moment - just a moment
All that lay behind him
Passed from view.[14]

A striking end.  Life goes on, even with sorrow.  We must build our world anew with our hands.  Other versions of the epic contain a final chapter on all that Gilgamesh achieved as king.  We are told he was just, fair, strong, wise, and built a great city.  A far different king from the one introduced at the beginning of the story.  I also find this final chapter interesting.  Gilgamesh is not remembered for his children or his money, but for his wisdom, his fairness, and because he helped build a city for the people.  I've always thought that he learned these qualities through his sorrow.

One modern reviewer notes that Gilgamesh ends on a "jeering, unhappy, unsatisfying note."  I disagree.  Gilgamesh comforts me because it faces human issues and ends on a human note.  Within its pages I find the faces of so many people I have counseled; parents wondering why their 30 year old daughter was killed in a car accident, a child wondering why his father died from cancer, a husband wondering why his wife died before she could meet her first grandchild.  I know you know these people too.  They are family, our friends, and neighbors.  They are us.

Grief is only one part of life, but it is a true and powerful part of life that we will all face, if we haven't already faced many times.  And the same things that bring us joy bring us sorrow.  The poet Kahlil Gibran wrote in just the last century:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be? . .

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

I often use this reading for memorial services because it helps people understand their own pain.  We grieve because we love.  The alternative is to never risk love or friendship at all.  But then there would be the pain of constant loneliness and a precious life lived in isolation.  Gilgamesh was too self-centered and lonely when we first meet him to mourn over anybody.  Only when his friendship to Enkidu humanizes him, does he have the ability to grieve, only after he has truly loved.  This same love transforms him into a better person and king.  This is why I don't find Gilgamesh jeering or unhappy.  The grief is real, but so is the transformative love. 

Gilgamesh even makes a case that the secret of the gods, immortality, is not the gift we initially think it would be.  Utnapishtim, who was made immortal by the gods after surviving the flood, is resentful of Gilgamesh's youth and freedom, the freedom to both live and die.  Immortality is its own prison.  Most of us would like to live longer, ten, twenty, thirty years (if we were healthy), but two thousand years might be lonely, tedious, a prison of endless repetition.  Life is valuable because it is finite. 

The Mason version contains this passage:

It is enough for one who loves
To find his Only One singled in Himself.
and that is the cup of immortality.[15]

The Only One is both the divine within oneself and our best friends and partners.  Friendship is as close to immortality as we can come, which answers the final lingering question of Gilgamesh, "Is it worth it?"  Is it worth it to love and to lose love.  The answer is "Yes", and that this is the way of life.  There are no guarantees but love and friendship are blessings that we are wise to remember with gratitude.

Four thousand years ago, before antibiotics and weapons of mass destructions, our ancestors too struggled with illness, war, old age, natural disasters, and death.  Four thousand years ago some person or group of people sat down to write a story about what it means to become human, to live in an uncertain world, to know only what is in the present, to fall in love and change, to watch loved ones die, to mourn and rebuild life anew. 

In what must have been a superstitious and tenuous age, the author or authors of Gilgamesh did not rely on platitudes or the gods as divine fixers.  Instead, the author had the courage to face pain and find answers and value within human life.   We do not know the secret of mortality, but we can learn the secret of life, "Your joy is your sorrow unmasked."  Live and fall in love and build friendships like walls of a great city.  And when you mourn, mourn the full extent of your love, and when you can bear it, begin to build your life anew.  This is the only immortality we can know, and it is brave, free, and priceless.

Reading: The History of the Epic

 The epic of Gilgamesh, the renowned king of Uruk in Mesopotamia, comes from an age which had been wholly forgotten, until in the last century archaeologists began uncovering the buried cities of the Middle East.  Till then the entire history of the long period which separated Abraham from Noah was contained in two of the most forbiddingly genealogical chapters of the Book of Genesis.  From these chapters only two names survived in common parlance, those of the hunter Nimrud and the tower of Babel; but in the cycle of poems which are collected round the character of Gilgamesh we are carried back into the middle of that age.

These poems have a right to a place in the world’s literature, not only because they antedate Homeric epic by at least one and a half thousand years, but mainly because of the quality and character of the story that they tell.  It is a mixture of pure adventure, of morality, and of tragedy.  Through the action we are shown a very human concern with mortality, the search for knowledge, and for an escape from the common lot of man.  The gods, who do not die, cannot be tragic.  If Gilgamesh is not the first human hero, he is the first tragic hero of whom anything is known.  He is at once the most sympathetic to us, and most typical of individual man in his search for life and understanding, and of this search the conclusion must be tragic.  It is perhaps surprising that anything so old as a story of the third millennium B.C. should still have power to move, and still attract readers in the twentieth century A.D., and yet it does.  The narrative is incomplete and may remain so; nevertheless it is today the finest surviving epic poem from any period until the appearance of Homer’s Iliad; and it is immeasurably older.

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