Social justice DOES have a place within Luciferianism

I don’t even know why this needs to be discussed, but clearly it does. I’ve heard one too many renditions of “Get your social justice bullshit out of -insert belief system here-“, and I honestly cannot understand why someone would think that civil rights and human dignity would sully a religion or spirituality, Luciferianism in particular.

The statement that social justice does not belong within Luciferianism implies that religion and spirituality are free from intersectionality. It implies that my experiences as a woman, as a person of color, as a Latina, as a daughter of refugees should not impact my beliefs. It implies that these experiences have no place within my spirituality—that my hopes and dreams, my memories, my fears, my identity does not belong here. What then am I left with? What should my conception of Luciferianism consist of, if not this? For a belief system which is so often defended by others as being based on personal perspectives and experiences, I find it ridiculous that this would be denied to me. I will not apologize for integrating my identity and experiences within my faith, nor will I apologize for applying the mythos and values I hold so dear within Luciferianism to the world I live in. On that same vein, I do not believe it is a valid excuse for someone to claim disinterest or wholly detach themselves from matters of social justice due to a lack of personal experience—social disparity affects everyone, and often we are unaware of our part within the system because we are not the ones affected negatively.

I stand by my previous statement: Any version of Luciferianism that shuns the promotion and advancement of social justice, or fails to incorporate even the barest minimum of it (which includes introspective critique of problematic learned behaviors and perspectives) is a version that I do not want to associate myself with. If that makes me ‘exclusionary’ or what have you, then so be it. I have no time or patience for a form of Luciferianism that deems humanity to be irrelevant (or is complacent with the treatment of certain human lives as less deserving than others), despite the use of mythos and deities who fall within the roles of Champions of Mankind. I have no wish to align myself with a form that preaches “freedom and enlightenment”, all the while supporting and enjoying the benefits of systems built from the subjugation of others. A Lightbringer who sheds no light or truth on matters of worldly inequality and injustice is not one I consider worthy of my devotion. Why would I hold any respect for a Lightbearer who challenges and defies an unjust ‘divine’ hierarchy or authority figure, yet does not stand for the same values when faced with human issues?

I do believe that the majority of luciferians want to have an impact on this world. There is a desire to initiate change for the better, even if that change begins and ends only within ourselves—but this cannot happen unless we acknowledge that there are things that need changing or developing. We need to talk about the flaws and faults that exist, to examine them at every angle, before we can even consider how to go about working on them.

Windows and Mirrors

This past week I’ve found myself rereading parts of Milton’s Paradise Lost on a whim, and today I happened to come across a very thought-provoking discussion regarding Satan’s characterization within this work. What struck me in particular was the deceptive nature of this figure that so many Luciferians tend to shy away from or deny—we defend him against the title of ‘Father of Lies’ and we instead place him on a pedestal as an illuminator of truth.

But what I’ve come to realize is that Light is capable of both revealing and concealing truths (in that it can illuminate but also blind), and I think Luciferianism itself portrays this extremely well. Too often we may fool ourselves into thinking that we couldn’t possibly be wrong about something because our faith is so deeply rooted in seeking enlightenment. It is nearly unfathomable that we might willingly blind ourselves to truth in our endeavors to better ourselves, but it happens so often and with such ease that we don’t even think about it.

Speaking from experience, it is very easy to fall into a state where you think you are putting so much effort into learning and growing within this belief system that you really believe your faith and practice are showing you something new but in reality it’s just a more ornate version of the same old thing. I don’t say this to discourage people or to point fingers (like I said, I fell trap to this very mindset myself for a fairly long time), but as a reminder that we need to frequently take a step back and critically examine ourselves and the work we’re doing.

We tend to look to these luciferian figures we admire so highly and try to rebuild ourselves in their image while forgetting that we were first drawn to them because they appealed to our own values. We have projected our own ideals onto them and now seek to emulate and develop them within ourselves—these lightbearer figures represent everything we want for ourselves because we have made them in our romanticized image. This is NOT necessarily a bad thing, particularly if we recognize that this is what we are doing and are thus knowingly giving these symbols a human voice—our voice. When we uphold humanity as having its own sort of divinity, and we acknowledge mankind as being capable of initiating enlightenment and growth within ourselves and creating our own gods within ourselves, this methodology is brilliant.

But with Lucifer figures who not only act as Lightbearers but Seducers as well, it is incredibly important that we recognize when they are merely holding up mirrors so that we may see our own reflections. They are meant to tempt us by appealing to what we think we already understand and accept, the challenge lies behind that mirror. This is where all those difficult questions come into play, where we must shatter those comfortable ideas and perceptions we have held onto so tightly and rebuild anew so that we see through windows instead of mirrors.

The Mountain


I want to thank wanderinglistener for their most recent piece of artwork which reminded me of The Mountain, a timelapse video that has become more like a religious experience for me.

Without fail, The Mountain makes me tear up every single time I watch it. I’ve often said that finding this faith was akin to falling in love, and that description is still the best I can give—but The Mountain acts as a reminder that I fell in love with far more than a set of ideals, I fell in love with humanity and the world around me. So it only makes sense that my understanding of my faith, and my preferred visualization of my god would not be confined to a particular shape or form.

Instead, he is a sky that should be dark and empty (for what could arise from Godlessness except darkness?), but instead has become a canvas on which he paints to honor his Lord. He paints to remember, to resemble, to reflect—to become more like God in all his ways (for He must increase, and I must decrease). It is a paltry likeness, but what do we know of God anyways—for humanity it is breathtaking and awe-inspiring all the same. Unsuccessful though his attempts may be, he has brought us a bit closer to knowing an unfathomable God, and to bringing the divine to earth.

He has starlight for eyes, countless burning suns shining all the brighter despite (or perhaps because of) the eternal separation from his God. Crowned in his broken glory, he announces a Dawn that will nevermore grace him with its light. Wrapped in shadow though he may be, his steps leave sunbeams in his wake.

I see him as an exile in a world where flowers bloom at his feet only to wither and fade, but endure despite the destructive expanse of humanity. A world where the depths of the sea lure the relentless curiosity and greed of mankind, who see opportunity in place of beauty. A world where it becomes less about him and less about God (despite his attempts to paint the sky and remind us of The One who loved us enough to denounce his beloved prince for the sin of failing to love us with the same fervor), and more about us, with all our faults and imperfections. A world where amidst all the death and suffering and darkness there is also life and joy and hope. A world where we have made ourselves imitations of the divine, stumbling in our quest to become our own flawed gods.

And because not unlike him, wherein our divinity is seen best when we are rising from our darkest moments, he gives us the opportunity to be refined by fire, to become more like God. If that means having to become the monster of our nightmares, an adversary that is as horrible as we can conceive ourselves to be, then so be it. If it means forsaking the pearls and jewels that once adorned his being, replacing them with a mask reflecting our own doubts and fears (for that which is holy is hidden and veiled), it will be done. If it means becoming hated rather than revered for his trials, then he will serve in the only way he knows how. He will test and illuminate and burn if he must, but in the end we must make that choice for ourselves, and craft ourselves into divinity.

My faith resembles a kiss between earth and sky, where humanity and divinity become so entwined that it is impossible to tell the two apart. Instead, they become something far more radiant in their unity.

How do you oath yourself to Lucifer?

This question has been asked of me quite a few times.

The simple answer, often the answer that those posing the question don’t want to hear, is: You don’t. The greatest oath you can make is a vow not to bind yourself to him.

Regardless of whether you’re approaching Lucifer and Luciferianism through atheism, theism, or agnosticism, there are a couple different reasons why being oathbound would prove to be a problem.

The first would be the goal of apotheosis. If you are seeking to become your own god, why would you make a vow to follow another god for the rest of your days? Even if you are only seeing him as a means of support for your own growth, the goal is to not need that support.

Additionally, depending on your level of faithfulness to keeping that oath, it may later prove to be a self-imposed restriction on your own free will—a restriction that Lucifer as a god would not want in the first place.

You should ask yourself, what is the point of making an oath to a god of change, a god who finds beauty in the ephemeral? What use would a sworn oath be to a god who recoils from absolute fealty and worship directed towards him?

Even if you did make an oath, he would find a way to make you go back on your word, along with the faith that fueled its initiation. As Adversary and Destroyer, it is what he does best. He will make you question all that you thought you loved about him, all that you held dear, because a resolve to remain steadfast and loyal to him as you believe him to be is a resolve to never embrace change or doubt, a resolve to be stagnant in your faith.

Take it from someone who once made such a vow—the only acceptable binding oath made to him is a broken one.

The ‘What-If’ Game

I love playing the ‘what-if’ game when it comes to my faith. I will find any excuse to poke holes in the carefully woven fabric of belief that I’ve spun for myself, and then try to patch it up with questions and ideas that challenge the pattern and structure I had initially created. Some patched up bits have remained and grown into their own works of art. Others have not been able to withstand the constant destruction and renewal.

This has resulted in a vastly different faith than the one I started with—and yet, it’s not really all that different at its core. Perceptions have changed, paradigms have shifted, but what began with the radical idea of embracing doubt rather than fearing it has remained fairly constant throughout the years.

One particular version of the ‘what-if’ game that persists even today began when I started to let go of my grudge with my birth religion, when I stopped shying away from the love my god had for his Father. When I stopped trying to make my god fit the mold I had imagined for him, so too did the tapestry of my faith expand from the limits I had imposed on it.

This new game dared to ask: What if everyone else is seeing what I keep myself blind to? What if I’ve been trying to fit his Father and the risen Son into molds that supported my preconceptions, rather than just letting myself try to learn and understand what they were rather than what I thought they must be?

As time went on, new questions developed. If I have come to terms with Lucifer as being a mere spark from the fire that is God, as a small reflection (albeit profaned) of God, and I love him and all that he represents, what if I were to seek to love the son who was found worthy, he who resides in the Father and has won his favor, instead of Lucifer?

Lucifer, after all, is limited. He is the exiled son who was found lacking. His is the ruin and loss to Christ’s victory. How much stronger then, would my devotion be to the Morningstar who was crowned in his place?

Perhaps I’ve just heard renditions of “you follow the wrong god” one too many times. I prefer to think that this is the case, because the alternative is too heartbreaking to bear—that it is not my own skepticism speaking, but rather my god; that along with finding himself unworthy of seeking forgiveness from his God, he would also find himself unworthy of my own reverence and love.

And objectively, my studies have led to me finding far more parallels between them than differences. If I love Lucifer for his vision for humanity, it should be simple to lose myself to that proclaimed love and hope that Christ has for mankind. If I love Lucifer for his flawed nature, my love should grow tenfold for Christ’s human and mortalstate. If Lucifer’s sense of justice is mirrored and strengthened within Christ, I should be head-over-heels in love already.

So my doubting heart, that very same doubting heart which I cherish for having led me to my god in the first place, has risen to this challenge to lead me away from my god. I am no stranger to having my faith tested and tried, or threatened with destruction so that it may be built anew—that is what I expected from this endeavor. I think I may have even wished for it, subconsciously. After all, the previous times that my faith has been shattered have also been the times that I’ve come into greater understanding and love. If I’ve learned to trust anything throughout the years, it has been to trust in my doubt, to trust that the breaking down of one’s faith is not necessarily a bad thing, regardless of whether it is shattered by my own hands or by someone else’s.

But while I have thus far found a deep sense of respect for Christ, and perhaps some love has sprouted from that respect, it isn’t the kind of love and devotion that I feel for my god. I cannot force myself to love another. I cannot uproot my devotion and replace it with another and automatically feel the same for it as I did its predecessor, because no matter what the similarities, there are also deviances. Maybe, one day, that small tendril of reverence will grow into something that rivals or surpasses my current faith, but not without as much study and work as I have put into what I have now.

For now, although it isn’t quite over, this ‘what-if’ game has shown me that I don’t need a victorious king at the forefront of my faith, not when I find my strength in one who still finds hope despite defeat. Perhaps he is a flawed and lesser god, but I love him all the more for those imperfections. My god may have been rejected as an inferior and dissident son, but I find him worthy of honor, and for me that is enough.

Adorations 2014

I Adore You, of ruin and restoration. As an abandoned temple for your God, whose ceilings have crumbled and whose windows lay scattered as bright jeweled shards. As the ashes from which new life emerges, where flowers blossom from cracks in the floor and leafy vines seek to overtake bare white walls. As the echoes of canticles once sung resurrect into birdsong, and as the scent of incense has faded, carried off by the wind. As sunbeams which chase away shadows and dance upon empty pews, as warmth which adorns the expectant altar in gold. As a testament of devotion which has not lost its grace or fire, but rather has been transfigured into a different sort of majesty.

 

I Adore You, of broken hymns and whispered alleluias, upon whose lips rest traces of holiness and grace. As sighs transformed into song. As a pulse which races and calms, set in time with the beat of one’s heart. As melodies that flow like a breath into lungs starved for air, and as cadences that resonate in one’s own bones. As bells in the wind, which cannot help but respond to the gentlest touch.

I Adore You, who crafts humanity into divinity. As laughter and sorrow, as joy and as pain. As the clench in one’s heart, and the overwhelming awe that softly, gently, steals your breath away. As the uncontrollable hysterics of delight which bring prickling tears to the corners of your eyes, and as the catharsis that that comes about from shedding tears of heartache.  As the moments of hope that renew one’s faith in the world, leaving you bright-eyed and eager to do more and be more, to pass along that hope to others, and to transform it into something substantial and brilliant and almost unfathomable. As the moments of despair where everything is hollow, and you are once again breathless but for the grief lodged in your throat and you wonder why we do the things we do, and how hope could ever possibly survive amongst such brute creatures.

I Adore You, as sacred fury and relentless ambition. As teeth bared in defiance, willing to sacrifice one’s self for a world reborn. As a flame-licked skyline that turns night into day, where the light of golden-veined stars is obscured but voices once silenced make themselves known. As murmurs of dissent, quiet but clear, and as screams of outrage. As unhesitant bites into forbidden fruits, staring down the consequences with an unwavering gaze. As life where it was said there should only be death, and as joy where there should only be misery.

I Adore You, as an anointed prince now exiled, as a king crowned in sorrow. As a sun meant for glory, but a star who chose suffering.

“Always be Lilith, Never Eve”

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I was first made aware of the title quote through a reblog of an argument in support of Eve, which makes some good points despite its somewhat derogatory and belittling remarks directed toward Lucifer/Satan/the Serpent in Genesis (the OP changed their blog name and thus the original post isn’t available, but I found a copy here). It wasn’t as though I was entirely unaware of the bias against Eve—it’s quite difficult to not notice the blame that is often put on her, when it is so similar to the accusations aimed at Lucifer.

But that phrase in particular made me angry, angrier than any remark against Lucifer has ever made me. I suppose it has a lot to do with the fact that anti-Lucifer remarks are so frequently heard that I’ve become pretty much desensitized to them. Depending on one’s interpretation of mythos, it could also be said that Lucifer willingly accepted the burden of the world’s blame and hatred. But I don’t believe Eve deserves that sort of shaming, especially not when it is used as a tool to elevate another equally flawed entity. And not when she has so much to offer us in terms of what she represents.

Eve is incredibly important within my belief system and practice as a Luciferian. She is one of the central figures in the Augustine phrase that has shaped my approach to Luciferianism—Felix Culpa, the happy fault, the fortunate fall. Lilith, on the other hand, is entirely absent from my personal faith. She is not a figure I particularly admire, and though there are Luciferians who incorporate her into their own paths, I don’t quite see her or the role she plays as relevant to my faith. The title quotation is thus unsettling for me—why shouldn’t I aspire to be Eve? Why should she be considered lesser than Lilith, as unworthy of respect, as an unfit role model?

It should be mentioned that Lucifer never called me to worship him. He never even asked me to follow him. He asked me to be him, to reflect his values, to take up the title of Lightbearer for myself. But I was not the first—Eve has that honor. And if my god found her worthy of being the first to undertake such a task, how can I not honor her and aspire to be Eve, regardless of whether or not I seek to be Lilith as well?

Eve was the first to be challenged, to be offered the chance to prove her worth as one of God’s finest creations. She was the first to choose the harsh light of knowledge, complete with all its pains and sorrows. She was the first to want for more, the first to be dissatisfied with the limitations of Eden and the limitations placed on herself.

It could be argued that Eve plays a role of equal significance within Luciferianism as Lucifer, and one that is far more relatable to us because unlike Lucifer, she was human. While I believe he sees a part of himself and of his God reflected within humanity, Eve understands mortality and the price that came along with our Fall better than he ever could, simply because she was the one that had to live with those consequences. While there are many parallels within our experiences and those of Lucifer, I don’t believe Lucifer will ever know death, or the sorrows that are intrisically human in nature. But Eve knew all that only too well, all the while taking on the once-divine role of Lightbearer and intertwining divinity and mortality.But she also represents the acceptance of responsibility in shaping her own fate. It was ultimately her choice to give into temptation, to face unknown consequences, for the chance to become as a god herself. 

I’ve always been fascinated by her character in Milton’s work. In Paradise Lost, Eve initially rejects Adam, having first seen her own reflection and been captivated. She finds her own reflection to be far more pleasing to the eye than Adam’s visage, but she is chastised by God for her vanity, and eventually grows to love Adam as well. I believe that through this, she represents the love of the self, which many might consider to be a flaw rather than a virtue. But isn’t it often said that one must learn to love themselves before they can love or be loved by another? It was much the same for me—before I could fully commit myself to this path, which elevates humanity to the level of the divine, I had to acknowledge my own capabilities. Before I could see the good in others, I had to first see the good in myself.

 Eve represents the courage necessary to face the unknown, to take risks for the sake of higher ideals. She represents the pursuit of wisdom, and the desire to rise above limitations. She represents the love of the self, of seeing and accepting our own qualities and flaws. She’s a reminder of our own free will, of our ability to take control of our own lives. She reminds us that its okay to question things, that we should not take everything at face value, but rather search for deeper truths. 

Eve also reminds us that it’s okay to make mistakes along the way—sometimes those mistakes prove to be of greater value than we ever thought possible