In the Late Bronze Age (1600-1200 BCE), Egypt had been the single most powerful actor in the Near East. Its wealth, manpower, and administrative reach made it a natural hegemon, and the famous Late Bronze Age balance of power can be read, at least in part, as a mechanism designed to prevent Egypt from expanding permanently beyond the Levant. Great powers such as Hatti, Mitanni, Babylonia, and Assyria negotiated, intermarried, and threatened one another in a system that implicitly acknowledged Egypt’s strength while limiting its freedom of action.
That system collapsed around 1200 BCE. Egypt survived, but it emerged diminished, inward-looking, and divided. When Assyria rose to dominance in the eighth century BCE, Egypt was no longer the stabilizing pole it had once been. Its eventual return to Near Eastern politics would come too late and under very different conditions.
In the previous installments of this series, we examined rivals that clearly shaped Assyria’s rise: Urartu on Assyria’s northern frontier, Babylonia at its ideological and political core, and Elam as a persistent eastern menace. Phrygia is a more ambiguous case. It is rarely treated as a serious rival to Assyria, and even within this series its inclusion is not self-evident. I hesitated to include it.
And yet Phrygia deserves a place here precisely because of its ambiguity. It was an independent regional power that maintained diplomatic relations with Assyria without becoming a vassal. For a time, it shared a frontier with Assyria in the Taurus Mountains. Its rulers chose alliance rather than resistance. And it was the only Anatolian polity that came close to replacing the Hittite Empire. Its disappearance was not the result of Assyrian conquest, but of an external shock. Phrygia did not fail to balance Assyria. I t never had the time to become a balancer at all.
Ashurbanipal and his queen Libbali-sharrat depicted dining in Nineveh. The severed head of Elamite King Teumman is hanging in a tree to the left, and his hand holding a royal wand is fixed in the tree to the right. British Museum.
In the previous installments of this series, we saw how Urartu failed to restrain Assyria from the outside and how Babylonia — older, richer, and more prestigious — challenged it from within. In this episode, we turn eastward to a very different kind of rival. For over a century, Elam repeatedly intervened in Mesopotamian affairs, shaping the political order of the Near East. Yet unlike Assyria, it never sought to build an empire of its own.
In Mesopotamian sources, Elam often appears as a familiar villain: ruled by treacherous kings, threatening Mesopotamian kingdoms with sudden raids and inconvenient interventions. But this image obscures a deeper reality. Elam was not a marginal spoiler, but one of the oldest and most enduring great powers of the ancient Near East, with its own imperial traditions, strategic culture, and long experience in managing Mesopotamian politics. If Elam never produced balance, it was not because it lacked power. It was because it never sought hegemony — only security.
Babylonia was not a peripheral power. It was older than Assyria, culturally prestigious, economically vital, and ideologically indispensable. Its kingship carried a legitimacy Assyrian rulers could not simply override. Control of Babylon meant access to southern Mesopotamia’s wealth, but also submission to its religious and political traditions. For that reason, Babylonia would prove to be Assyria’s most formidable rival. Even, and especially, during periods when it was formally ruled by Assyrian kings.
In the previous installment of this series, we saw how the Late Bronze Age balance of power collapsed and why the Iron Age Near East proved unable to regenerate a comparable system of restraint. The central question was straightforward but unsettling: why did no new balance of power emerge in the eighth century BCE, even though Assyria faced multiple strong rivals?
Urartu is the obvious place to begin. Of all Assyria’s challengers, it was the most immediate, the most persistent, and — at moments — the most dangerous. Its armies operated close to the Assyrian heartland. Its kings openly challenged Assyrian claims to universal rule. And its rise coincided almost perfectly with Assyria’s renewed expansion in the ninth and early eighth centuries BCE.
And yet Urartu never became the nucleus of a counterbalancing system. It could hurt Assyria. It could destabilize Assyria’s periphery. But it could never replace Assyria, nor organize the wider Near Eastern world against it. The reasons lie not in a lack of ambition or competence, but in Urartu’s structural limits.
In the Late Bronze Age (1600-1200 BCE), the Near East was governed by something remarkably rare in world history: a stable balance of power. Egypt, Hatti, Babylonia, Mitanni, and Assyria recognized one another as peers. They fought wars, but cautiously. They married into each other’s dynasties, exchanged lavish gifts, and corresponded in a diplomatic language that assumed rough equality. No single power could impose its will on the others without provoking a collective response. The result was stability and a lasting peace.
This system not only limited violence, but also actively prevented the emergence of a world empire. The costs of domination were prohibitive. Any state that grew too strong risked isolation, coalition warfare, and eventual exhaustion. Power was acceptable only as long as it remained proportional.
By the eighth century BCE, however, this world was gone. In its place stood an Assyria that increasingly dominated the Near East, facing a range of rivals — Urartu, Babylonia, Elam, Phrygia, and Egypt — yet never encountering a stable counterweight comparable to the Late Bronze Age balance. The paradox is striking. Where the Late Bronze Age produced equilibrium, the Iron Age produced hegemony. Why?
To answer that question, we must begin with the collapse of the old order and with the rise of Assyria before it became the centralized imperial machine we often imagine.
Christ Pantokrator in the apse of the Cathedral of Cefalù, Sicily, Italy. Mosaic in Byzantine style. Gun Powder Ma, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Psalm 2 occupies a peculiar place in Jewish and Christian tradition. It is one of the classic Messianic psalms: in Judaism often read as a prophecy of the coming anointed king, and in Christianity reinterpreted as a vision of Christ’s ultimate victory at the Second Coming. Its language is confident, absolute, and unapologetically violent. Kings are smashed, rebels annihilated, and divine laughter rings out over futile resistance.
That tone sits uneasily with the image of Christ many modern readers prefer: gentle, pacifist, turning the other cheek. Psalm 2 offers no such comfort. It is triumphalist, confrontational, and steeped in the logic of domination. Precisely for that reason, it has often been spiritualized, allegorized, or pushed toward the edges of liturgical attention.
I first became acutely aware of this tension during my university years. I was sitting in the Royal Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, listening to Händel’s Messiah, while at the same time studying the ancient Near East and the ideology of kingship and empire. When the baritone began to sing “Why do the nations so furiously rage together?”, I was supposed to hear biblical prophecy set to magnificent music. Instead, something else leapt out at me immediately.
It sounded oddly Assyrian.
The impression was instant. As the music unfolded, the choir hurling out “Let us break their bonds asunder,” and later the tenor proclaiming “Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron”, I could not shake the feeling that Psalm 2 was not merely religious poetry. It was speaking the language of empire.
In what follows, I want to explain why Psalm 2 sounds so “Assyrian,” line by line, and to suggest — carefully, but deliberately — that it may have been composed as a theological response to Neo-Assyrian royal propaganda.
St. Nicholas “Lipensky” (Russian icon from Lipnya Church of St. Nicholas in Novgorod)
If we could step into a time machine and set the date to 24 December, AD 325, we would find ourselves in a world where Christmas existed, but only in a very rudimentary form. There would be no decorated trees, no carols, no nativity scenes, no exchange of gifts. Instead, in the coastal city of Myra (in modern-day Turkey), a small Christian community gathered in a basilica to take part in a modest liturgical service marking the birth of Jesus.
Presiding over that service may well have been Nicholas, bishop of Myra, a historical figure who would later inspire one of the most enduring characters of Western folklore. This imagined Christ’s Mass offers a useful lens through which to explore both early Christian worship and the dramatic transformation Christianity had undergone in the early fourth century.
Every winter, Hanukkah is celebrated as a story of resilience. A small religious community, threatened by persecution, refuses to abandon its faith. An empire tries to suppress Jewish law and worship, a priestly family rises in revolt, the Temple is reclaimed and rededicated. A single day’s worth of lamp oil burns for eight. Light triumphs over darkness.
It is a powerful story, and not an untrue one. But historically speaking, the reality behind the Maccabean Revolt was more complex — and more unsettling — than a simple tale of good versus evil. What unfolded in the 2nd century BCE was not just a clash between Judaism and foreign oppression, but a crisis produced by cultural globalization, internal division, and imperial interference in the very heart of Jewish religious life.
In the early 20th century German archaeologists transported the original Ishtar Gate from Babylon, Iraq, to the Pergamon Museum in Berlin. In the 1980s the Saddam Hussein regime reconstructed this two-thirds size replica at the entrance to the site. David Stanley, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
On the evening of 9 November 1989, a mid-ranking East German border officer named Harald Jäger made a decision that changed the world.
Jäger had no authority to open the Berlin border. No one in the East German leadership intended it. But when thousands of citizens pressed against the Bornholmer Straße checkpoint, demanding to cross into West Berlin after a muddled government announcement, he found himself trapped between orders from above and a volatile crowd below. His superiors refused to take responsibility. The situation grew dangerous. And so, under immense psychological pressure, he did the unthinkable: he ordered the gates open.
Historians often explain the fall of the Berlin Wall by pointing to long-term structural forces: economic decline, political paralysis, popular dissatisfaction, the bankruptcy of the state. Yet in the end, the decisive moment came down to one man, at one gate, making one choice. And like all of us, Jäger acted according to his worldview: his sense of authority, safety, duty, human dignity, and the limits of obedience.
Macro-history meets micro-history in moments like this.
