One of humanity’s oldest insights is this: we become attuned to whatever we turn ourselves toward. The human being is, by nature, an orienting and aligning creature, we resonate with the principles we choose. In the language of Sufism, a person comes into harmony with the truth he opens himself to; the direction of the heart gradually shapes the form of one’s existence. For this reason, spiritual transformation is understood not as something external, but as an inner work, a process of purification.
In Sufi thought, aligning oneself with the Divine Will begins with an inner refinement of being. It involves turning away from sin, disciplining the lower self, loosening the grip of the ego, expanding one’s capacity for compassion, and bringing clarity to consciousness. Each of these marks a kind of ontological lightening, a gradual unburdening of the soul. As a person lets go of what weighs him down, pride, greed, the need to possess, the impulse to dominate, his inner life grows clearer, more transparent, more at peace. In this state of purification, one is said to come into harmony with what the tradition calls the angelic: not as a literal energy, but as a symbol of pure responsiveness, pure orientation toward the good, pure being.
The culmination of this path is a state of radical innocence, not naivety, but a condition in which the human will no longer sets itself up as a rival to the Divine, and instead begins to move in harmony with it. The ego loosens its hold, the self becomes transparent, and consciousness is quietly cleansed. In this sense, genuine spiritual ascent is less about acquiring something new than about letting go of what is excessive. The more one is emptied of self, the more one is elevated.
This pattern is one of humanity’s oldest spiritual intuitions: strength gained through purification.
If it is possible to align with the Divine through refinement, then the reverse must also be possible. One may, in principle, align with what is destructive through a process of inner coarsening, through immersion in the merely material and a gradual hardening of the self. If goodness refines our being, evil thickens it. If compassion softens the ego, cruelty stiffens it. If innocence draws a person closer to what is sacred, the violation of innocence pulls him toward its opposite.
In mythologies, magical narratives, and accounts of diabolical rituals, one frequently encounters a fundamental structure: the violation of the greatest taboo produces the most intense ontological rupture. For taboo marks the boundary of existence; to transgress it is to shatter order itself.
For this reason, the human imagination has always depicted ultimate evil as an assault directed at the most innocent. Innocence symbolizes that which must be protected; its destruction represents the conscious rejection of order. In symbolic narratives, therefore, evil is not ordinary violence but a deliberate rebellion against the very principle that safeguards existence.
Academy Award–winning director and screenwriter Roger Avary, speaking with Joe Rogan after the Epstein revelations, claimed that elites consume infants and that sacrificial rituals occur daily in Los Angeles:
“They eat babies, man. I think sacrifices are happening every day in Los Angeles. Supposed high-level female musicians are doing ritual sacrifices every day. I don’t want to name names because I don’t want to get sued, and I don’t want to die.”
On another front, Jeffrey Epstein’s correspondence regarding the establishment of a “baby-producing laboratory” at his ranch offers a chilling glimpse into the gravity of the matter. In a message dated July 21, 2018, sent by Bryan Bishop, a presentation file outlining the scope of the project is mentioned; it further stresses the need to clarify how seriously the initiative would be pursued, the requirements of secrecy and privacy, reputational risks, and possible financial participation.
In a related exchange, Epstein is seen requesting that a painting themed “The Massacre of the Innocents” be sent to his ranch. In a message signed “Sarah,” the large 9-by-9-foot canvas depicting the killing of infants and displayed in the entrance hall is requested to be shipped via FedEx.
Roseanne Barr likewise stated that she had tried to warn people about what had emerged from the Epstein files, declaring:
“You know they eat babies. This is not bullshit. This is true.”
It also emerged that on the very day in 2018 when the FBI launched its child sex trafficking investigation into Jeffrey Epstein, half a dozen 55-gallon containers of sulfuric acid were ordered to his private island.
Sulfuric acid is known to be an extremely powerful chemical capable of rapidly decomposing organic tissue. The purpose of acquiring such quantities therefore naturally became a matter of public debate. The procurement of large amounts of such a substance—especially in conjunction with grave accusations—inevitably evokes, in the public conscience, the possibility of “destruction of evidence.”
Accounts of child sacrifice appear in ancient societies; similar motifs surface in medieval accusations directed at rival groups; and in the modern era, within certain dark cultic or “satanic” practices, the deliberate selection of innocence is not accidental.
Symbolic thought, therefore, envisions two opposing paths:
one approaches God through purification and ascent,
the other approaches Satan through violation and descent.
This polarity lies deep within the structure of religious narrative. It is precisely here that the story of Abraham takes on renewed significance.
For that story represents a decisive transformation in the very idea of sacrifice. Abraham’s initial movement toward sacrificing his son reflects the sacrificial logic of the pagan world, in which the highest offering is human life itself. Yet the substitution of an animal at the final moment announces a profound reversal: the human being cannot belong to the category of sacrifice. The notion that he could is exposed as a remnant of pagan consciousness.
In this sense, the Abrahamic moment rejects what might be called the “demonic resonance model,” the belief that the greatest violation yields the greatest power. The Abrahamic rupture declares the opposite: violation does not generate power; it leads only to ruin. True strength and salvation arise solely from alignment with the Divine Will and from the consciousness of surrender.
Within the metaphysics of tawḥīd, then, evil is not a path to ontological elevation. Oppression does not expand awareness. The destruction of innocence does not exalt being. These acts merely hasten the disintegration of what is human.
The Sufi perspective is unambiguous on this point. To draw near to the Divine, a person must undergo purification—refining the self, loosening the domination of the lower impulses, clarifying consciousness, and bringing the will into harmony with the Divine. The imagined alignment with Satan is simply the inversion of this process. Instead of purification, there is corruption; instead of surrender, the unchecked sovereignty of the ego; instead of clarity, the limitless rule of appetite. In such a condition, a person yields entirely to the demands of the lower self, growing inwardly dense and rigid, until he becomes capable of identifying with darkness itself. Metaphorically speaking, he turns into a surface upon which the demonic can be reflected a mirror, a site of manifestation.
The Qur’an itself suggests that such influence is never arbitrary but requires a particular moral and existential disposition:
“Shall I inform you upon whom the devils descend?
They descend upon every sinful liar…” (Qur’an 26:221–223).
Satanic influence, in this view, is not a random intrusion but a form of alignment, an attunement shaped by a persistent inclination toward falsehood and a rupture from truth.
One may call the first pattern the prophetic model and the second the demonic model. Yet there is no true symmetry between them. Ascent corresponds to reality; descent, for the human being, yields only destruction.
Ultimately, the issue is not power but being. A person gradually takes on the form of whatever principle he turns toward. One who turns toward compassion becomes compassionate. One who turns toward violence becomes violent. One who turns toward purity grows transparent. One who turns toward violation becomes inwardly fractured.
Nor is the demonic realm imagined as uniform. Just as angelic beings are described as existing in degrees and hierarchies, so too the domain of destructive influence is understood to possess its own gradations of intensity and effect. Not every influence is equal; not every suggestion penetrates to the same depth. Contact with what is more encompassing and destructive requires a corresponding descent within the self. Alignment occurs only where resemblance has already been formed. As one refines oneself to approach the Divine, so one must coarsen oneself to approach its opposite.
From this perspective, alignment with the gravest evil would demand acts of comparable gravity. Alignment follows likeness: being unites with what it comes to resemble. To reach the most extreme darkness would require the deliberate breaking of the deepest moral boundaries. Ordinary wrongdoing would not suffice; only radical violation would. Such a stance entails a conscious rebellion against the very principles that sustain existence. In this logic, the imagined rituals of demonic alignment are tied to the perceived weight of the transgression: the greater the violation, the deeper the supposed resonance with darkness.
The inner structure of this idea is clear. Just as purification makes the human being more transparent to what transcends him, extreme wrongdoing is imagined to make him heavier, more opaque, more closed in upon himself—until he becomes a bearer of the very darkness he has chosen. The claim of alignment with ultimate evil thus presupposes ultimate violation, for within this symbolic framework the deepest darkness can be invoked only through the most extreme acts of negation.
