In much of today’s fiction, the figure once known as the tempter, accuser, and destroyer has been reimagined. No longer the adversary of all that is good, Satan now often appears as a suave antihero—witty, wounded, misunderstood. He’s not evil; he’s just complicated. Maybe he had a bad childhood. Maybe God was unfair. Maybe he’s just doing his best.
This psychologising of evil is part of a larger cultural shift. We’ve grown hesitant to speak of spiritual deception and corruption. We prefer therapy to theology. So the devil becomes just another character in a morally grey universe. Flawed, yes, but perhaps no worse than the rest of us.
But Scripture paints a different picture. The New Testament is clear: Satan is not a tragic victim. He is a deceiver. A manipulator. A liar from the beginning. His actions are marked not by wounded love but by consuming pride and a hunger for domination. He craves worship, not relationship. He offers power in exchange for allegiance. He twists truth to isolate, accuse, and divide.
These aren’t the traits of a loveable rogue. They are the marks of narcissism—grandiosity, deceit, exploitation, and a profound lack of empathy. Where Christ empties himself for others, Satan elevates himself at their expense.
This matters, because how we imagine evil shapes how we resist it. When we reduce Satan to a complex personality in need of compassion, we risk excusing what must be exposed. We forget that spiritual struggle isn’t about hating people, it’s about naming powers that harm, and refusing their logic.
We live in an age of subtle seductions, where manipulation often masquerades as charm. The call, then, is to discern. Not with suspicion, but with clarity. Not all that glitters is gold. And not every rebel deserves our sympathy.
Some spirits are not misunderstood. They are opposed to love itself.
