Satan Is First a Word

Unpacking our visceral response to Satan starts not only with the name itself, but with the letters that make up the name. Although, admittedly, it can be hard to see why. A superficial glance at the English alphabet yields few clues as to how the spelling of “Satan” could have any affect on our perception of this wily creature. But, if you look closely, you will see them.

Letters are often referred to as the building blocks of words, only a few having any unique significance unto themselves. While we may regularly employ the letters “A” and “I” on their own, the rest of the alphabet is almost entirely without meaning. Do the letters “B” and “K” hold much significance when disconnected from their comrades? Do “L” and “N” stir up any deep seated emotions? And yet, language as we know it, and especially writing, was not always as far removed from meaning as it is today. Letters once held significance independent of the words in which they were found. While today we may have certain personal associations to letters—R’s evoking growls (grrrr) and fright (“murder” and “terror”), Y’s evoking smiles (“happy,” “joy,” etc)—on a technical level the modern English alphabet requires no relationship to the natural, and inherently meaningful, world the way its precursors once did. So, how does a word like “Satan,” which is made up of tiny benign graphics, come to feel so sinister?

Beginning in primitive Semitic writing, the S that begins the word “Satan” began as a flattened soft and curvy 𐤔 , a pictogram scholars believe referred to a “bow.”[1] From there the Phoenicians took this symbol and divided its wiggling semiotics into four definitive sounds with their own respective names: samek /s/, zayin /z/, tsade /ts/, and shin /sh/, shin retaining some of the earlier 𐤔 shape of the Semites. The Phoenicians reinterpreted the letter shin to mean “tooth,” the shape bearing a resemblance to two upper teeth or fangs. This meaning was maintained by the Hebrews who acquired the alphabet along with the letter shin, written as ש, keeping it in the same place as the Phoenicians in the twenty-first position. So, for at least a thousand years this letter, shin, was associated with bone-like organs in the mouths of creatures who had the ability to mash, tear, and shred matter. In other words, our letter S once had bite.

Then something changed. When the Greeks appropriated the same alphabet, they turned the 𐤔 on its side, at which point the letter shin became sigma ( ∑ ). This seemingly benign act, probably done out of convenience and convention, had a profound effect on how language was to be used, initiating the process whereby the symbols became detached from their environmental origin. Rather than being a pictogram, a symbol tied to something in the natural world, sigma now referred only to itself. Sigma became a building block, something to be employed with other building blocks for the use of making words. Words, not letters, became the source of meaning, and by the time sigma passed from the Etruscans to the Romans in 600 BC, the symbol which would become our letter S had, literally, lost its teeth.

This neutering of what eventually became the letter S, along with most every other letter in the English alphabet, meant that these letters no longer referred back to the natural world, the effects of which are still felt today. For example, we no longer associate the words “ma,” “mama,” “mom” or “mother” with fluids, rivers, and seas even though the roots of our letter M come from the Phoenician mem, or “water,” depicted graphically as a series of waves 𐤌.[2]  We no longer see any significance in a word like “antler,” which begins with the letter A, a letter that comes from the Phoenician alep meaning “ox,” itself depicted as a horned animal 𐤀.[3]

Even without these referrents, we still have feelings about certain letters, but none more so than toward our nefarious S. It is not accidental that this letter is at the beginning of words like “Satan,” “sin,” “sinister,” “sly,” “snickering,” and “serpentine.” Without direct links to the natural world, we have had to rely on subjective associations, many of which having strong roots in our religious traditions. Commonly used for all sorts of negative purposes—i.e. cat-calling and head-shaking disapproval—the letter S has come to be rather suspect. Elongated, the sounded letter S evokes the hiss of a snake, associations to which go back hundreds of years. Dubbed “the serpent’s letter” in Ben Jonson’s 17th century text, The English Grammar, the letter S has had a hard time shaking its serpentine relationship despite it having no historical connection to the slithering creature. In fact, it’s the letter N, the last letter in the word “Satan,” coming from the Phoenician nun (𐤍), which traces its roots back to snake. However, it’s not hard to see why we associate snakes with the letter S, especially when we take into consideration its shape. To propel itself forward a snake uses its many curves in a combination of rectilinear, lateral undulation, sidewinding, and concertina locomotion. Drawing the two curves of the letter S are all you need to depict these movements. A single curve would have a snake slithering about endlessly (and pathetically) in a circle, which is probably why the letter C—another letter with a snake-like shape and, at times, similar sound—has never been a contender, being more circular than slithering. Instead, the letter S has claimed all rights to the serpent, and ironically is the letter with which most English words begin, giving credence to the old Rastafarian sentiment that the English language is both trickstery and wicked.[4]

All of these historical and contemporary influences swirl around in the present. The flexibility of the ancient Semitic “bow” gives the singular S its ability to bend from the sound of s in “slippery” to z in “girls” to j in “confusion.” The fanged shin represented as a W gives us the fear of being bitten, while the serpentine hsss reminds us of the cunning of those who wish to cause us harm. So, before we even engage with the word itself, the S in Satan has already tainted our experience.

What’s in a name?

A person could spend years exploring the semiotics of the word “Satan,” unpacking the ways in which the letters have been arranged, taking special note of how the “t,” or the cross, seems hemmed in, even imprisoned or threatened, by the snake-like S and N around it. This position holds true etymologically as well. The name “Satan” comes from the trilateral Semitic root “S-T-N” meaning “accuser” or “adversary,” and it is in this capacity that we see the early Satan being described. Initially, in the Bible the word “satan” was used as both a generic noun (as in “to be a satan”)[5] and as a verb (“to satanize”).[6] However, it didn’t take long for the term to be employed as a proper noun, as in Satan, the Lying Spirit.[7]

In fact, Satan is given a number of colorful descriptors in the Bible, most of which have become titles describing a particular function. At different times we read about Satan, Father of Lies;[8] Lucifer, the Son of the Morning;[9] and Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies.[10] There is Satan, the Piercing Serpent;[11] Satan, the Ruler of the World;[12] and the many descriptors in the Book of Revelation. Like the sounds embedded in the name “Satan,” these nefarious honorifics give us pause. Many are clearly intended to frighten us. After all, Satan’s titles are nothing if not terrifying.

What has often surprised me about Satan’s names, however, is not so much the names themselves, but the fact that one particular name is not present. Curiously, there is no place in the Bible where Satan is explicitly given the name “Death.” Paul has written that “the wages of sin” are “death,” and seeing how many people associate sin with Satan, one might think that Satan is the cause of death by proxy. But, this is not the case. God is the one who doles out death sentences. It is God who threatens people with death. In the Bible, it is God who kills people. It is God who tells Adam and Eve that they will die if they eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. And, it is actually Satan who rejects this claim, giving a more measured forecast of Adam and Eve’s immediate fate, telling the two woefully curious beings that not only will they not die, but that they will become like God.[13] In the end this turned out to be true, as God later states, “[They have] now become like one of us, knowing good and evil.”[14]

As we call into question Satan’s role as a psychopomp, so too may we call into question his being associated with the serpent. In the Garden of Eden story there is no mention of Satan or the devil. The serpent is described as crafty, cunning, or subtle (depending on your translation), but ultimately the serpent is simply one of God’s creations. Conniving to be sure, but no less an integral part of God’s pantheon of creatures. Instead, commentators must read Satan back onto the serpent. In other words, Satan is an interpretation of the serpent.

In some ways it’s understandable why Christians would interpret the serpent as Satan. Satan has been so universally reviled that for many Christians it’s become almost impossible to not associate Satan with any form of challenge or temptation. Satan is not only seen as an adversary, but has become adversity itself. While there’s a part of me that wants to reject this interpretation, I find that this is mostly due to the level of revulsion projected onto Satan by fearful Christians, as it seems highly counterproductive to associate every trial with the greatest of evil forces. Doing so leads to a life lived in a state of constant defence. It leads to a level of othering that allows for very little difference of opinion.

Satan’s adversarial role is a major aspect of what makes this character so suspect. Associated exclusively with negative experiences, Satan’s role seems to be none other than to disrupt an otherwise peaceful existence. And yet, despite our dislike of negative experiences, when we think of the experiences we’ve had that have caused us to be our most introspective, they are the times when we’ve veered from our highest self. In other words, we grew both emotionally and spiritually when we learned from our mistakes. Personal suffering, while undesirable in the moment, is a major catalyst for growth. Sadness at a breakup can lead to insights into what a person wants out of a relationship. The loss of a parent can propel an older child into a leadership role and a greater feeling of independence. And yet, most of us would neither will suffering upon ourselves, nor wish it on others. But, we do want to grow, and growth requires some sort of rub or friction to create the spark that ignites the flame of inspiration. 🌴