Abjuring the Devil For Fun and Profit

Abjuring the Devil For Fun and Profit

Esoteric knowledge and practical life lessons from a 16th Century German mystic

by Malt Schlitzmann // Illustration by Sam Hindman

Jakob Böhme is one of the most important thinkers you’ve never heard of. William Blake’s metaphysical poetry, Milton’s portrayal of Satan in Paradise Lost, even Phillip K. Dick—all can trace their cosmic weirdness to this one 16th century German cobbler. His ideas are so influential that they’re taken for granted, the literary equivalent of writing the Amen Break. His philosophy was so forward-thinking that he referred to the idea of an entrapping, artificial reality as “the Matrix” as early as 1619, in his treatise The Three Principles of the Divine Essence.

Unlike lesser philosophers, who had to rely on books, Böhme was inducting into the mysteries of knowledge the old-fashioned way: Divine revelation. Shortly after establishing his career as a cobbler, he was struck by a dazzling beam of light while staring into a pewter dish of water. This brought forth a revelation that all of creation was the process of God moving out of an imperfect state of undifferentiated innocence and evolving into an enlightened state where free will and salvation could co-exist. God seeking to understand Godself, “In Yes and No all things exist.”

In Böhme’s unique view of cosmology, God created Lucifer not knowing he would rebel; rather, it was only Lucifer’s attempt to assume the generative power of God the Father, and thus become superior over God, that triggered the creation of the Trinity. In his view, Lucifer represents the spirit of things put out of place, which is Böhme’s primary definition for evil: Good put out of place.

In Böhme’s view, this extends beyond the world of the sacred into the profane. For instance, the impulse to hunt has served humanity well—the impulse to hunt people, considerably less so. Or in sports, you might wind up a kick to deliver a decisive goal, only to have your foot connect with a kneecap instead. A good kick put out of place.

To Böhme’s followers—who were spread throughout Europe, to the great displeasure of his enemies in the clergy—Lucifer / Satan could be identified with that “little voice” that gives rise to stray libidinous thoughts, a sort of persistent self-destructive impulse trying to seize control of one’s body. This serves not only as a conduit for introducing misery into the world, but functions as a metaphorical microcosm of Lucifer’s initial descent out of Heaven.

To Böhme’s followers, Satan was a persistent self-destructive impulse trying to seize control of one’s body.

But whereas in the great light of larger creation this manifests as casting your first-made Angel into eternal darkness, resisting temptation here in the smallness of our own human lives might be as simple as, say, not slapping the bottom of the “EXIT” sign as you walk underneath it, even if it’s very satisfying.

Böhme even goes so far as to openly mock the devil at several points in his assembled bibliography. In Aurora, he asks, “Hearken, Lucifer, Where lies the fault now, that thou art become a devil? Is God in fault, as thou lyingly sayest?” He also commands, “HERE, king Lucifer, pull thy hat down over thy eyes, lest thou shouldst see how man will take off thy crown away from thee, thou canst no more rule in heaven.” But as good as both of those are, in The Four Complexions he penned what is perhaps the most cutting line in contemporary theological debate:

When the devil reminds thee of thy sins, say, ‘Wast thou not once an archangel? Yet now dost thou follow me with thy dung-bag and collect my sins. Thou wouldst have been better to have kept thy first estate. Begone, Satan, and take these my sins with thee.’

Böhme’s focus was on the theological rather than the practical, but this confrontational approach—shouting “Begone, Satan!” at that which plagues you—is no less effective in the far more prosaic matter of dealing with intrusive thoughts: unwanted, repetitive thoughts and impulses, often of a disturbing or repellant nature. A typical intrusive thought might involve harm to loved ones or to oneself, and may be violent, sexual, or otherwise of an upsetting character. And while these occur in almost anyone, they can be especially difficult for individuals prone to anxiety or obsession, where they can function as a self-reinforcing source of stress.

In essence, a person can become so disturbed by the content of their uncontrollable brain that they view it as proof of their own irredeemable moral character—just as philosophers like Böhme grappled with the question of man’s own morality (or lack thereof). To the sufferer of intrusive thoughts, “sane” people wouldn’t think about randomly pushing their thumbs into the grocery store tomatoes, so the fact that they do is taken as evidence of some deep-seated evil. This fixation on the consequence of the thought only deepens the problem: when the sufferer invests time and mental energy trying to chase the root of a moral failing that does not exist, they bestow the initial random thought with a deep, pivotal significance, leading to new and additional anxiety and possibly even a whole new obsession.

Böhme, in his own way, rightly observed that these troubling thoughts are not the product of our own “true” selves, but a manifestation of something beyond our power to control—even if in the modern world we view that source not as a theological devil, but the hobgoblins of our own minds and anxieties. There is nothing hidden in unwanted thoughts that is somehow more true than what happens on the surface, and resistance can only be found in a full dismissal of their source. They are merely ideas that come and go through the subject’s brain without impacting their behavior at all. Nothing happened, nothing was brought into the world—and, just as Böhme dismisses Satan and the sins he collects, so too can we disempower such thoughts by dismissing them and moving on with our lives.

After all, the contents of our brains—the sins we consider, and the impulses that strike us—do not decide our moral value. Only our actions do that. And, as Böhme might phrase it, we ought not let a brain full of regret put our good out of order.