Turns out, it's not just a modern-day obsession.
Let's travel back in time, to the era of Nebuchadnezzar. We all know Nebuchadnezzar from the Bible, the Babylonian king who conquered Jerusalem. But there was another king walking the earth then, a contemporary who, in some ways, mirrored Nebuchadnezzar's ambitions. This was Hiram, the king of Tyre.
Hiram, according to the legends, harbored a similar desire for deification. He wasn’t content with earthly power; he craved something more, something divine. And he had a rather…unique way of trying to achieve it.
Hiram decided to construct his own heavens. Not in a metaphorical, spiritual sense, but a literal, architectural one. He wanted to create a spectacle so grand, so awe-inspiring, that people would believe in his godhood. He was going to build a new reality, a stage for his own divine performance.
Ginzberg, in Legends of the Jews, paints a vivid picture of this audacious undertaking. Hiram began by erecting four iron pillars in the sea. Upon these pillars, he built his artificial heavens, each one larger than the one below, each one designed to outdo the last in its magnificence.
Imagine this: The first heaven was a plate of glass, a perfect square of five hundred ells. (An ell, by the way, is an old unit of measurement, about 45 inches). Above that, a plate of iron, twice the size at a thousand square ells. Then came lead, separated by canals, and filled with boulders that, when moved, would rumble and echo like thunder against the iron below.
But Hiram wasn’t finished. Oh no, not by a long shot. The fourth heaven was made of brass, followed by copper, then silver, and finally… gold. Each level, separated by canals, a testament to Hiram's hubris. The seventh heaven, the grand finale, spanned thirty-five hundred ells.
And here's where it gets really interesting. In this seventh heaven, Hiram placed diamonds and pearls. He manipulated these precious gems to simulate flashes of lightning, while the rumbling stones beneath mimicked the growling of thunder. He was trying to recreate the natural world, to control the elements, to become the very force he was imitating.
What does this tell us? Perhaps it's a reminder that the desire to control, to dominate, to even become something "more" than human, is a timeless temptation. Hiram's artificial heavens, in all their elaborate grandeur, were ultimately a hollow imitation, a testament to the limitations of human ambition. What do you think? Is the desire for power and recognition a fundamental part of human nature? And at what point does that desire cross the line?