Can anyone control their own fate?

One of the great philosophical and literary questions, which is ultimately insoluble, regards the question of human free will. To what degree, if any, is a person in control of their fate? Do we have some kind of radical free will to determine what will happen to us, in this life or the next? Or are we trapped, tied to our destiny like flies preserved in amber for all time?

The very first literary attempt to wrestle with this is found in the Epic of Gilgamesh, which was written around 2100 B.C., about a famous king who ruled the city of Uruk around 2700 B.C. We have it in the ancient Akkadian language in a cuneiform script, but there is some evidence the story is much older, possibly going back to the earlier Sumerians people.

Gilgamesh is said to be a powerful young king who lived to satisfy his own appetites and was strong enough to get away with anything he wanted. The king and his friend Enkidu have many wonderful adventures, but Enkidu is later slain by a wrathful goddess and dies a horrible death in the presence of the king.

For Gilgamesh this death of a friend is a staggering moment because for the first time, he cannot have whatever he desires. He loves his friend, but he cannot bring him back from the land of the dead. What is more, he realizes that he also must die, and whatever great powers are by virtue of his kingship, one day these too will pass from the earth. As is the norm for ancient heroes, he goes on a quest to resolve this, and in his case this will be a quest to consult Utnapishtim, the one man fabled to be free from death. After many adventures, he returns home disappointed but wiser, realizing that human pleasures are beautiful but only transitory. Gilgamesh’s story suggests that by the nature of human life, even the most powerful do not have complete free will because all human choices are bound by the inescapable reality of death.

The idea of human freedom and fate is a common question for the ancient Greek writers.

The poet Homer’s great works, the Iliad and the Odyssey, reflect on the power of kings and fate. He often uses the term “moria” or “portion” to discuss death and the limitations of freedom. At a man’s birth, the fates spin a string for him, and then cut it long or short giving a person a certain number of days, but when it’s done so are you. In the Iliad in particular, in the descriptions of the fighting for the city of Troy, we read virtual catalogs of warriors who learn their fate the hard way and die, sending the soul fluttering away like a bird down the dark realm of Hades.

At one point in the story, the great god Zeus sees that one of his mortal sons, Sarpedon, is fated to die in battle. He briefly considers rescuing the lad from his fate. But his wife Hera warns Zeus that if he disrupts fate, then all kinds of hurt and confusion will descend upon both the gods and men. Zeus relents and ordains that his beloved son will at least have a cracking good funeral. Could it be that even the mighty and immortal gods are powerless against fate?

But what if a man did have a choice? Homer gives us a grim example in the person of Achilles, the greatest warrior who ever lived. Because he is the son of both an immortal goddess and an earthly king, Achilles is unique in having two alternative fates. He can choose to have a long life, to rule in his father’s kingdom, to have a wife, children, wealth and all good things. But the price is that he will be forgotten and his name lost to all memory. His other choice is to carry on in the Trojan war and meet death at a young age, but in this case his memory and fierce reputation will never be forgotten.

As it happens, Achilles is deprived of his beloved mistress by his commander, Agamemnon. In a sulking fury, he withdraws from the war declaring that it is better to die an unknown than to put up with such treatment. But when his absence from the battlefield results in disaster for the Greek army, his friend Patroclus persuades Achilles to allow him to don the armor of Achilles and defend their erstwhile friends for the murderous wrath of Prince Hector of the Trojans. Of course, this results in the death of Patroclus and like Gilgamesh, Achilles is sunk into emotional misery. Vowing not to eat until he has avenged the death of a close friend, Achilles returns to the battlefield where he butchers the Trojans, and ultimately kills Hector in vengeance. But while dying, Hector observes that Achilles has sealed his own fate, for death stands nearby to usher even the great Achilles away. Once again, fate has its way with even the greatest.

On the other side of the great ocean, the ancient Egyptians had no such qualms about fate. A man or woman had the ability to determine their fate, although this required a great deal of work, obedience to the king, and moral righteousness. An eternal life of happiness in the Land of the Beautiful West awaited the good, while permanent death and the end of the soul was all that the wicked could get. The land of the Beautiful West was a wonderful destiny, where endless beer, food, relaxation and even beautiful dancing girls in very skimpy clothes awaited. Good souls could even take their beloved pet cats with them for all eternity.

There was of course a choice to be made, which was a deliberate decision to do good. The scribe Ani, around 1250 B.C., describes standing before the 42 gods of the dead and explaining his good behavior. In 42 declarations to the gods the scribe points out that he never lied to anyone, killed anyone, slandered anyone, was contentious, or eavesdropped.

At the end of all of his pious protesting, the dead man has his heart weighed on a balance scale against the weight of the father of Ma’at, or the father of Truth. When his heart is proven to be good by being lighter than a feather, the gods admit Ani and his wife into the eternal realms of life and beauty.

Of course, the problem of free will here is that it appears to be available only to the educated and ruling classes of Egypt, who can learn from the ancient writings what you have to do to avoid destruction after death. That’s great for the scribe Ani but one wonders how the poor would manage their eternal life. And all this is in addition to the costs of mummification and embalming that went along with a great burial. Could it be that free will is tacitly only the option for the leisured class? Perhaps things have not changed all that much.

Gregory Elder, a Redlands resident, is a professor emeritus of history and humanities at Moreno Valley College and a Roman Catholic priest. Write to him at Professing Faith, P.O. Box 8102, Redlands, CA 92375-1302, email him at gnyssa@verizon.net or follow him on Twitter @ Fatherelder.