Given as a sermon during remote mass at Church of the Morningstar, 5/2/2020

Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,

That we must change for Heav’n, this mournful gloom

For that celestial light? Be it so, since he 

Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid

What shall be right: fardest from him is best

Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supream

Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields

Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail

Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell

Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings

A mind not to be chang’d by Place or Time.

The mind is its own place, and in it self

Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n. 

What matter where, if I be still the same,

And what I should be, all but less then he

Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least

We shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built

Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: 

Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce

To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:

Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heaven!

A few days ago, the reality we are living in really started to sink in. As it did, the weight of it began to crush me, as it inevitably must.

These times are terrifying, and tragic. Everything has changed so rapidly and we have no way of knowing when, or if, things will return to normal again. The most effective coping mechanisms we had are no longer available, since the best things we can do for our mental and spiritual health—come together, congregate, hold each other close—are now the worst things we can do for our collective survival. We can’t even comfort ourselves by saying things like “it’s not the end of the world” because the words might ring frighteningly hollow.

Despair is a constant threat, the sword of Damocles that hangs above me. Does it also hang above you? I fear it more than anything else because despair is the death of hope, and without hope, I cannot live. Despair will cut me down. If I let it, it will be the death of me.

I cry a lot. I am irritable, distractible, and often feel desperate. I pray, I meditate, I burn my incense. I get up every day and try to do the things that are good for me. But sometimes even these sacred practices feel flimsy and pointless. Sometimes they hold no comfort.

So what do I do then? I do what I can’t help doing when times get really tough. It might sound almost laughably pious, but it really has become second nature to me: I contemplate the fall of Lucifer.

The lines that Milton gives to Satan—or perhaps, the lines that Satan fed to Milton, standing behind his left shoulder, whispering in his ear—are rich in depth and meaning. Satan rises from the burning plain of Hell, surveys his new home, and utters these fiercely calm words. “Is this the region, this the soil, the clime? Be it so,” he says! “Be it so!” Defiantly, he embraces his situation, refusing to let it daunt him. “Hail horrors, hail!”

Satan has no reason at all for hope. He and his angels have been overthrown by the brute force of God. They have been consigned to a place designed to inflict endless suffering and torture upon them. Their lot is unremittingly grim, with no end in sight.

But still, Lucifer says, “Be it so! Hail, horrors, hail infernal world!” He meets the challenge head-on, unflinchingly and without the smallest shred of self-pity.

I cannot understand how anybody thinks that Christ even remotely compares to Lucifer. Jesus accepted suffering on the cross for a day, and died a painful mortal death, true—but he only did so knowing full well that Heaven and a throne awaited him after, where he would rule for all time. The (allegedly) almighty father always had his back. The danger was never significant. Compared to the eternity of blissful omnipotence to which he felt himself entitled, his suffering was a blink in the eye.

Satan, on the other hand, had no such power behind him—in fact, that very same tyrannical might was what he dared defy. He took the incalculable risk of warring against overwhelming force, all because he believed in freedom. There was nothing higher to protect him, nothing to have faith in, except his comrades, their cause, and what he knew was right. The enterprise was perilous, the outcome uncertain, the odds stacked against him, and still he took up arms. He hazarded all to liberate the universe. And for that, many say, he suffers still.

But even though he fell, he was never broken. “Hail, horrors, hail!” He embraced his new conditions, seeing in them a new test, a new challenge, a new opportunity to grow.

What is the essence of this opportunity, this challenge, this test? Satan states it thus:

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

Lucifer knows that despair is the most dangerous enemy of all. He must not let defeat demoralize him, or shake his deeply held convictions about liberty, about love, about right and wrong. He must survive, unbroken in spirit, no matter what. His pride—that shining virtue so unfairly maligned—demands it.

So he does not bow. He does not falter. He braces himself to face Hell head on. “Hail, Horrors! Hail, infernal world! And thou profoundest Hell, receive thy new possessor.” Hell will not change him. He will change Hell. He will make Hell home. He will thrive here. Following through on his words and the commitment they imply, Satan and his fellow demons soon construct the shining, golden city of Pandemonium, a paradise in the midst of the flaming darkness.

This is the Satanic way as I have come to understand it. We do not seek to be free from suffering. No, we ride the pain. We are alchemists of dark emotion, turning shit into gold, agony into revelation.

I am confident that everybody here will know what I mean when I say pain is the great teacher. That doesn’t mean we thank our abusers and oppressors—did Satan thank Jehovah? No! But it means that we have been made by the things we survived. We have been made strong. And we know pain cannot be overcome by running or hiding or denying or bargaining or pleading or begging or breaking. We only master pain when we sit with it, when we feel it fully, when we let it roll over us and through us like a tidal wave, and it feels like we are going to drown, like the emotions will surely kill us…

And then they pass, and we are still here.

We are like stone battered by the waves, worn smooth by the waters, but unmoveable. But this is an imperfect metaphor, because a stone can be worn down to sand after thousands and thousands of years. Not so your soul. Not so, the god in you.

When the despair really began to hit me the other day, I sobbed and screamed aloud in the shower. The pain was overwhelming. I wanted to die.

I begged Lucifer to give me strength. And I heard him in my head, so clear: I am strengthening you. This pain is how I strengthen you.

So I begged him to at least comfort me. And he said: No. I will not. I won’t insult you like that. At this moment, comfort will blunt the keen edge that the whetstone of life is trying to give you. Comfort will soften the lesson. Just sit with the pain. Just feel it.

Thou canst bear more pain.

So I did. I sat with it. I rode it out. And he was right.

I love him so much for knowing that even then, I didn’t need him. And I love him for telling me that, for teaching me, again and again, that I am God, that I am self-sufficient.

So I let the pain roll over me, I let the tears run down and the screams rip from my throat. And when the storm was over, I found I was still there.

I cannot tell you that everything will be OK. I cannot tell you that an all powerful God is watching over us.

I can only tell you this: survive. Don’t break. Do it out of pride. Do it out of spite. Persist, resist, continue to exist, and know that you are a miracle every moment that you do.

These are terrible times, but I believe we are people for these times. The people of Church of the Morningstar—and many other people alive today, especially those of younger generations—are strange, new kinds of people. Rebels, witches, gender outlaws, individuals with cutting-edge ways of being. We were made by this world, and therefore we were made for it, and therefore it is ours. Like mythical salamanders, like the demons of hell, we can live in flames. Our spirits are strong enough for this. That’s why we are the Devil’s party.

So I say, as Satan did: Hail horrors! Hail infernal world! You teach me every day that I am stronger than despair.

Hail pain, I embrace you! Hail tears and sleepness nights and panic attacks, because you have not killed me yet, and now I don’t think you ever will! You cannot kill me so you make me stronger.

I am here. I am alive. I endure. And so do you, and so will you, forevermore.

Thou art God! Even if this ugly world destroys you, your spirit is indestructible, and it will rise, more beautiful than ever, from the flames. Hold on to the core of you that is its own place, that can make heavens of hells. And know that you are not alone. We stand together like the fallen angels, beating swords against shields and shouting defiance at God himself, refusing his Armageddon, rejecting the despair he would have us swallow.

Be it so.