Preamble
The rings in the image were my constant companions in my youth when I was an active participant in a bike riding fraternity. I was cleaning out some of my long forgotten treasures in storage and these made themselves known. On seeing them Susan exclaimed “they look seriously evil”. Susan’s statement got me thinking about the true nature of evil.
Let’s Tango With The Devil
In the expansive chronicle of human existence, evil has perpetually shadowed our steps, emerging through acts of brutality, betrayal and devastation inflicted by individuals among us. Nevertheless, amid the profusion of “human devils”, those whose deeds encapsulate the most shadowy urges of humankind, societies worldwide continue to fabricate supernatural devils, ranging from the cloven-hoofed Lucifer in Christian narratives to the mischievous entities in ancient folktales. The inquiry persists: why fabricate these spectral icons of wickedness when earthly despots, swindlers and exploiters furnish sufficient infernal intrigue to quench our intrigue with the abysmal? As one historical commentary posits,
“All peoples, more or less, find him a useful adjunct in giving pregnancy and weight to their sayings; but the English have surpassed all others verbally though not in literature, and in the eyes of foreigners have gained a character of intense demoniacal fraternity.”
This insight underscores the devil’s function as a rhetorical and societal instrument, one that intensifies discourse far beyond the confines of human transgressions. Referencing a 14th-century miracle play:
“The Passion of St. Quentin”, performed in the collegiate church of St. Quentin, France, Lucifer rallies an array of devils: “Smooth Devils, Horned Devils, Sullen Devils, Playful Devils, Shorn Devils, Hairy Devils, Bushy Devils, Cursed Devils, Foolish Devils, Devils, Devilesses, and Young Devils, All the progeny of devildom, Come from your devilish tricks Quicker than light. Satan. What do you want with all the devils – To teach you devilry herein? Say what the devil is the matter, And what the devil you would have.”
This dramatic summons illustrates how these contrived beings not only rationalise malevolence but also externalise, ethicise, and amuse our engagements with it. This essay delves into the reasons supernatural devils prove essential, even amid a realm overflowing with human counterparts, examining psychological, cultural, philosophical and contemporary dimensions, while addressing counter-perspectives. To fully appreciate this phenomenon, we must explore its roots in ancient myths and its evolution through time, revealing how these inventions have shaped human thought across eras.
The origins of such inventions trace back to medieval Europe, where miracle plays like “The Passion of St. Quentin” served as communal spectacles blending piety and entertainment. These performances, often staged in churches or public squares, dramatised saints’ lives and biblical events for largely unlettered audiences. Rooted in compilations of hagiographies that circulated widely during the Middle Ages, the story of St. Quentin involves themes of martyrdom, divine intervention, and the triumph of faith over adversity, with Lucifer’s role amplifying the moral stakes through vivid theatricality. In this context, the devil’s invocation wasn’t mere theatrics; it mirrored societal anxieties about sin and salvation during the plagues, wars and social upheavals of the 14th century, a time when Europe grappled with the Black Death, which decimated populations and fuelled apocalyptic fears. By summoning a diverse infernal host, the play personified evil’s multifaceted nature, making abstract concepts tangible and relatable to everyday folk who might otherwise struggle to grasp theological nuances.
This tradition of miracle plays, evolving from earlier liturgical dramas performed during religious services, underscores humanity’s longstanding reliance on supernatural figures to navigate moral complexities, a practice that predates Christianity and spans global cultures. For instance, in ancient Mesopotamian epics like the Epic of Gilgamesh, demonic beings such as Humbaba represent chaos and the unknown, serving similar roles in explaining worldly perils. Similarly, in Greek mythology, figures like Hades or the Erinyes embody underworld vengeance, providing frameworks for understanding death and justice. These early manifestations highlight how supernatural devils have always been tools for interpreting the human experience, adapting to the fears and values of each society. As civilisations advanced, these figures became more elaborate, incorporating elements from philosophy, art and politics, ensuring their relevance across centuries.
Psychologically, the creation of supernatural devils addresses a fundamental human imperative: to displace and organise the malevolence inherent in ourselves. Human devils, such as infamous dictators like Joseph Stalin, whose purges claimed millions in the name of ideological purity, or contemporary scammers exploiting vulnerabilities in digital eras through elaborate schemes that ruin lives and economies, are concrete manifestations of our kind’s darker potentials. They compel us to acknowledge evil’s ordinariness, as termed in analyses of historical trials where bureaucratic indifference facilitated genocide without overt monstrosity, revealing how everyday people can enable horror through complacency. This closeness disturbs, implying that anyone might succumb under pressure, whether through societal conditioning, personal trauma, or environmental factors that erode moral barriers.Supernatural devils, conversely, afford psychological respite by projecting blame outward, creating a buffer against the harsh reality of self-inflicted woes. Attributing misdeeds to demonic influence, “the devil tempted me” mitigates personal culpability, preserving self-image and allowing individuals to reconcile their actions with their ideals.
Research in psychology has shown that belief in supernatural evil correlates with heightened stress and poorer mental health in some cases, as it fosters a worldview where external forces perpetually threaten well-being, leading to chronic anxiety or paranoia. A deeper look reveals that individuals endorsing demonic entities often report increased anxiety, viewing misfortunes as orchestrated by invisible foes rather than random or self-induced events, which can perpetuate a cycle of fear. Yet, this belief also serves adaptive functions that cannot be overlooked. Evolutionary psychologists argue that supernatural explanations fill cognitive gaps, providing coherence in unpredictable environments where survival depends on quick pattern recognition. For instance, in cultures plagued by natural disasters, devils explain chaos, reducing helplessness and enabling communal responses like rituals that foster solidarity. Attachment theory further illuminates this dynamic: secure attachments to divine figures can buffer the negative mental health impacts of evil beliefs, offering comfort akin to a protective parent, but insecure ones exacerbate paranoia, turning the devil into a perpetual stalker in the mind.
In “The Passion of St. Quentin,” Lucifer’s catalogue of devils – smooth, horned, sullen – mirrors this categorisation impulse, allowing humans to dissect evil into manageable archetypes that align with personal experiences of temptation or regret. Psychoanalyst Carl Jung’s concept of the shadow archetype posits that devils represent repressed aspects of the psyche, the integration of which promotes psychological wholeness and prevents destructive outbursts. Without such projections, unacknowledged impulses might manifest destructively, as seen in historical witch hunts where societal fears were displaced onto accused “devil-worshippers,” resulting in mass hysteria and injustice. Thus, invented devils act as psychic valves, releasing internal pressures while human ones starkly remind us of our vulnerabilities, creating a balanced approach to mental resilience.
Expanding on this psychological foundation, we can consider how these beliefs interact with modern mental health practices. In therapeutic settings, narratives involving supernatural evil often emerge in discussions of trauma, where survivors might describe abusers as “demonic” to distance themselves from the pain. Cognitive-behavioural therapy challenges such attributions by encouraging personal agency, reframing events as human failings rather than cosmic battles. However, in some cultural contexts, integrating these beliefs into treatment, such as through spiritually sensitive counselling, yields better outcomes, respecting the client’s worldview while gently shifting perspectives. Psychological literature also explores how exposure to devil imagery in media influences cognition; for children, it can spark imagination but also nightmares, while for adults, it might reinforce biases or inspire ethical reflection. Beliefs in supernatural evil often intertwine with cultural upbringing; in religious communities, they correlate with lower depression when paired with benevolent divine views, but isolated, they heighten distress and isolation. For example, a cross-cultural comparison between Western and non-Western samples might reveal that attributing mental illness to demonic possession, common in some African and Asian traditions, delays professional help-seeking, perpetuating suffering through reliance on exorcisms or charms. Yet, these beliefs foster community cohesion through shared rituals, like group prayers or ceremonies, which provide catharsis and social support networks. In modern therapy, approaches like acceptance and commitment therapy encourage viewing “demonic” thoughts as transient, reducing their power. The devil’s psychological utility, then, lies in its duality: a source of fear that motivates vigilance, yet a tool for meaning-making in an otherwise indifferent universe, helping individuals navigate existential dread.
Culturally, supernatural devils function as vital mechanisms for narrative, ethical guidance, and societal regulation, roles that isolated human devils cannot wholly fulfil. Throughout history, devils have permeated folklore and religion to convey teachings and uphold standards, evolving with each era’s artistic expressions. In medieval Europe, miracle plays such as “The Passion of St. Quentin” animated scriptural tales, employing devils as flamboyant villains to dramatise vice’s repercussions and engage audiences on multiple levels. Lucifer’s query in the play, “What do you want with all the devils, To teach you devilry herein?”, epitomises the devil’s ambivalent position as both corrupter and educator, invoked to escalate tension and affirm righteousness in a way that resonates emotionally. These enactments transcended amusement; they solidified collective ethos, cautioning against “devilish tricks” leading to perdition, while also serving as social events that brought communities together. Human devils, though authentic, lack this timeless universality that allows for broad application across generations.
A figure like Jack the Ripper horrifies in specificity, capturing the imagination through real crimes, but fails to symbolise perpetual allure like Lucifer, who can be reinterpreted in countless ways. Moreover, devils linguistically enhance expression, imparting “pregnancy and weight,” as the prompt notes, adding layers of meaning to everyday communication. The English excel here, embedding devils in idioms like “the devil is in the details,” denoting overlooked complexities that can derail plans; “speak of the devil,” for sudden appearances that evoke surprise; or “better the devil you know,” preferring familiar ills over unknown risks, which reflects a pragmatic worldview. This verbal abundance, outstripping literary equivalents, earns England a repute for “intense demoniacal fraternity” abroad, reflecting a cultural flair for infernal irony that permeates literature, theatre, and conversation. Other cultures boast parallels: in Japanese folklore, oni demons embody greed and violence, serving as cautionary tales in kabuki theatre where exaggerated masks and movements heighten moral lessons; in African Yoruba traditions, Eshu the trickster tests morality through mischief, appearing in stories that blend humour with wisdom to teach about life’s ambiguities.
Delving deeper into cultural manifestations, medieval literature abounds with devil figures evolving from anonymous legions to personalised antagonists, adapting to artistic trends. In Old English texts, Satan appears as a fallen angel, unbound and scheming, inspiring awe and fear through poetic descriptions. By the late Middle Ages, depictions shifted to beastly forms – hairy, horned, dragon-like – to evoke visceral dread, as seen in illuminated manuscripts where devils torment sinners in hellish scenes. Islamic folklore features djinn and shayatin, free-willed beings akin to devils, often linked to Iblis, the refuser of prostration before Adam, illustrating themes of pride and rebellion. These cultural variants underscore devils’ adaptability, moulding to societal needs – enforcing taboos in conservative eras or satirising authority in progressive ones, such as during the Renaissance when devils mocked corrupt clergy in plays. In literature, from Dante’s Inferno, where Satan chews traitors in a frozen lake symbolising ultimate betrayal, to Milton’s Paradise Lost, portraying him as a charismatic rebel who declares “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,” devils humanise evil, making it relatable yet condemnable through eloquent speeches and tragic flaws. Without them, cultural discourse would diminish, confined to prosaic allusions to mortals, lacking the mythic depth that inspires art, music and festivals like Mexico’s Day of the Dead, where devilish figures blend with ancestors in celebrations of life and death.
Philosophically, supernatural devils’ endurance exposes humanity’s wrestle with the unfathomable and existential questions that have puzzled thinkers for millennia. Why endure innocents’ agony in a world that seems capricious? Why does wickedness flourish unchecked, defying notions of justice? Human devils offer incomplete resolutions; avarice, dominance, insanity, but falter against suffering’s vastness, like pandemics or senseless calamities that strike without rhyme. Supernatural devils bridge this, framing evil within a cosmic schema, a faith trial or light-darkness clash that provides purpose amid despair. Existentially, Friedrich Nietzsche deemed God and devil human constructs to endure life’s nonsense; absent them, nihilism looms, leaving individuals adrift in meaninglessness. Yet, he valued the devil’s provocation of stagnation, urging self-overcoming through confrontation with inner demons.
Immanuel Kant’s “diabolical evil” concept posits acts wrong purely for wrongness, beyond self-interest, attributable only to devils as embodiments of pure malice. René Descartes’ “evil demon” hypothesis questions reality, suggesting a deceiver manipulating senses to doubt all knowledge, foundational to scepticism. In theodicy, the problem of evil queries how an omnipotent, benevolent God permits suffering; Augustine attributed it to free will’s corruption by Satan, preserving divine goodness while explaining human fallibility. The play’s Lucifer, assembling his varied legion, embodies evil’s polymorphism: not uniform but diverse, “Playful” or “Cursed,” echoing philosophical debates on evil’s essence – privation of good (Aquinas) or positive force (Manichaeism), influencing ethics and law.
Further philosophical scrutiny reveals devils’ role in moral psychology and broader metaphysics. Søren Kierkegaard viewed demonic evil as defiant isolation, a self-defeating choice that rejects relational existence. Contemporary thinkers trace devils from antiquity, arguing they personify chaos against order, essential for defining harmony. In non-Western philosophies, Hindu asuras represent disruptive forces, balanced by devas in a cosmic dance illustrating duality’s necessity for progress. Buddhist traditions feature Mara, the tempter who assails Siddhartha with illusions, symbolising internal obstacles to enlightenment. These perspectives affirm that devils, though invented, underpin ethical frameworks, challenging humans to define good via opposition and fostering virtues like courage and compassion. In political philosophy, devils metaphorise tyranny, as in Hobbes’ Leviathan where unchecked human nature requires sovereign control to prevent devilish anarchy.
In modern contexts, supernatural devils thrive in media and culture, adapting to secular landscapes while fulfilling enduring needs in an increasingly digital world. From streaming series like Lucifer, humanising the devil as a charming antihero navigating human emotions, to graphic novels like The Sandman with dreamlike demons exploring existential themes, portrayals blend terror with allure, reflecting contemporary ambiguities. Horror films like The Conjuring franchise depict possession based on real claims, tapping primal fears while sparking debates on belief. Video games such as “Doom” cast players against hellish hordes, providing interactive catharsis. Pop culture commodifies Satan – artists like Lil Nas X use infernal imagery in music videos to challenge norms, sparking cultural conversations on identity and rebellion. Politically, conspiracy theories invoke “deep state devils” to externalise societal woes, echoing medieval scapegoating in times of uncertainty. These representations evolve: early cinema’s horned fiends yield to nuanced figures, as in The Devil’s Advocate, where Satan embodies corporate greed amid moral dilemmas. In literature, authors like Neil Gaiman portray devils as complex, reflecting postmodern ambiguity where good and evil blur. This persistence amid science underscores devils’ utility: entertaining while probing ethics in a disenchanted world, from Halloween costumes to philosophical podcasts.
Counterarguments posit human devils suffice, deeming supernatural one’s archaic superstitions in an enlightened era. History brims with exemplars eclipsing fictions: Pol Pot’s killing fields that erased generations, or Elizabeth Báthory’s alleged bloodbaths rooted in legend but terrifying in implication. These satiate devilry’s spectrum – ruthless, sadistic, manipulative, sans mythical embellishments, explained by psychology or sociology. In a rational age, neuroscience illuminates evil via brain anomalies in psychopaths, obviating demons through empirical understanding. Yet, this overlooks devils’ resurgence in crises; during global pandemics, some invoke demonic origins, mirroring historical attributions and revealing persistent human needs for narrative. English idioms’ proliferation suggests cultural embeddedness, not obsolescence, as they evolve in slang and memes. Humans crave devils not despite our evil, but to transcend it, offering redemption narratives absent in mortal tales, where forgiveness seems impossible.
In summation, humanity’s fabrication of supernatural devils arises from an intrinsic compulsion to surpass human evil’s bounds, deploying them as mental bulwarks, societal pillars, intellectual frameworks, and cultural icons that enrich our collective experience. As Lucifer’s summons in “The Passion of St. Quentin” potently demonstrates, these devils, in their manifold guises, surge “Quicker than light” to our summons, not solely to deprave, but to illuminate existence’s intricacies across history and psyche. Though human devils proliferate, appeasing our grim fascinations with tangible horrors, supernatural variants persist for they bestow shape to the shapeless, gravity to utterances, and intent to adversities in ways that evolve with society. In an infernal realm, both are imperative: the tangible to underscore fragility and motivate change, the fabricated to kindle endurance and inspire hope amid eternal struggles.
