The First Demon
God meets his prophets on mountaintops, but the devil meets his in caves.
It was in one such cave, a hole in the rock in the middle of barren desert that The Manifest One was waiting.* He had lurked there since the Flood, spinning a thick-layered web of lies from the truths he had witnessed before the Fall and scattered reports of what had happened since his banishment, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
One day a man came into his cave seeking spiritual guidance. He was not seeking The Manifest One himself, but confused with the way of the world, having heard half reports of a prophet who seemed to have died but returned and something about three gods, and frustrated with the tribal conflicts around him, he came to reflect and to meditate. Now was the time.
The Manifest One made himself appear as a man carrying silk. “I am Jibreel,” he lied. The man had heard that name before. It was a good name, the name of an angel of light, the one who had appeared to Mary to prophesy a virgin birth six centuries prior.
“Read,” said The Manifest One.
“I cannot read,” replied the man.
“Read!” he said again, more sternly this time, grabbing the man as he did so.
“I cannot read,” gasped the man, almost undone by the strength of the grasp.
“Read in the name of your Lord, the Creator. He Who created man from a clot. Read!” roared The Manifest One, strangling the man with such a strength as would bring him to the very brink of death. Then changing tone, he added with a warm, comforting smile, “And your Lord is the Most Bounteous. Who taught by the Pen, taught man what he knew not.” His grip, however, did not slacken.
Suddenly the man found he could read, and recited the words appearing in front of him in this vision. He submitted them to memory. Shocked by the experience, he wondered if he had been possessed as he climbed down from the cave, alone. Only he was not alone. The Manifest One walked with him. As they walked together, The Manifest One spoke to him once more, “O Muhammad, you are the Messenger of God, and I am Jibreel.”
Thus the man and The Manifest One started a journey which would see them both grow in power neither could have previously imagined. Fuelled by droning demonic verse, rivers of blood, the rape of innocents, and even by the taking of a six-year-old bride, tribe after tribe and nation after nation was brought under ‘Submission’—‘Islam’—to The Manifest One. Even upon his death, poisoned by a Jewish woman whose family he had killed and whom he had taken for yet another sex-slave ‘bride’, he likely did not pass straight into hell, but instead became a wraith, giving power to his hordes as they called on his name. “Peace be upon him!” was their battle cry.
Their march went on for almost a thousand years, sweeping the Middle East and North Africa, conquering these once Christian lands, killing those who did not comply. They came deep into Europe, capturing Spain from the south as far as the Pyrenees, and from the East they came to the very gates of Vienna. But men with straight swords, carrying the sign of that accursed cross that must have been an illusion (For how could God die and rise? And if God could conquer death, could even The Manifest One himself be conquered?) they were driven back from that faithful continent, left to wait on the northern shores of Africa and behind the walls of Constantinople for a more opportune moment.
But The Manifest One was good at waiting. If Europe could not be conquered from without, it would need to be weakened from within.
The Second Demon
It was centuries later in the city of Manchester, in a very different cave, that another man found himself in a very different sort of meditation. Enlightened moderns were not ones to engage in something so primitive as spiritual meditation, at least, not as they saw it. They would instead do ‘philosophy’ and ‘reason’ their way to their conclusions, rather than expecting anything to reveal itself from without.
Thus a disheveled, filthy man, whose beard was unkempt and whose lack of bathing meant his odor was legendary, found himself working away in the alcove of a library. Enclosed by these walls, his encounter with hell was not so much a revelation as it was a conjuring.
For he was already wicked to the core, fuelled by nothing more than hate. Obsessed with Satan, he despised his parents on whose wealth he relied. His father, whose funeral he did not attend, thought he was “governed by a demon”. “My dear devil,” his son wrote to him. A “monster of ten thousand devils,” said his best friend. A “wicked knave,” was the term his wife used.
He even called on the devil in his writings. Maybe as a modernist he did not actually believe in a literal devil. It does not matter. “And this fool of an Ape, who didn't believe in Tash, will get more than he bargained for! He called for Tash: Tash has come."
As he compiled his ideological screeds, “his son of malnutrition aged eight, three other of his children didn’t last until the age of one, and two children that did live to adulthood committed suicide.” His wife told him daily that she longed for the time when she and her children were safely in their graves. “Blessed is he who has no family,” replied the man.
At war with the world and its Maker, he described his battle as “ruthless criticism of all that exists.” God was no exception. He would write of the plight of the working classes, all the while using his children’s underpaid live-in-nanny as a sex-toy when his wife was ill.
“Workers of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains!” the man named Marx finally wrote, and with it, not The Manifest One, but The Manifesto was released into the world like a gain-of-function virus escaping from a lab, bound to infect every culture across the globe. Less ancient than Islam’s Manifest One, The Communist Manifesto was also less fixed. This demon could adapt to the culture and the times, smooth-talking its way inside the heads of leaders rather than merely cutting them off. That could come later.
And thus, Marx himself having been disposed of, The Manifesto slithered around the globe. Lenin. Stalin. Mao. Castro. Pot. Chavez. And as it went, it churned through bodies on an industrial scale. 100 million of them in a century. All in the name of ‘freedom for the oppressed’. A slogan so good that even the Pope of Rome called those who followed it ‘closet Christians’ - forgetting to mention that Marx’s main objects of ire were God and family, and none had been more crushed by this ruthless ideology than faithful Christians, freezing in Siberian gulags or tortured to death in Cambodian killing fields for the crime of saying that Christ is Lord and the state is not.
Despite a track record that would put even the deadliest plagues to shame, ‘enlightened’ European elites determined that ‘true communism had never been tried’- a statement as ridiculous as saying ‘true syphilis has never been tried’ - and thus through universities, media, education and local governments, its ideas were repackaged rather than rejected. "Not economically oppressed? Well then, maybe you have been sexually oppressed. You haven’t been subject to racism yourself? But maybe your great-grandfather was. Maybe the man hasn’t kept you down, but what about all these systems of oppression, don’t you see them?” Thus The Manifesto continued to sweep the globe long after anyone who had seen the extraordinary advances in the wealth of even the poorest in society, wealth generated by free markets, could reasonably complain about anything like ‘capitalist oppression’.
A Dark Union
Naturally such territorial entities could not exist without some intramural squabbles. But what if these two demonic principalities, The Manifest One and The Manifesto, were to join forces? What great things could be achieved?
1970s Iran was the perfect testing ground. The Shah was a tyrant, ruling illegitimately, but the nation was rapidly modernising and Westernising. A sharp economic dip in the late 1970s, combined with enough of the population following a radical Islamic program and enough others following classical Communist theory, the glycerin to the Muslims’ nitro, and things were ready to explode. The nation collapsed, the insurgents won, and all that modernisation stopped post-haste. Back to burqas you go ladies, and yes, your preteen daughter will marry that old man.
Incidentally, such an unholy matrimony between these spirits could never last, and like praying mantis, the lesser was soon devoured. “We did it!” cried the Communists. “We sure did,” replied Ayatollah Khomeini. “Now face the wall, please.” 30,000 Marxists were executed.
But the test run was a success. Now for that old enemy, Europe. Particularly, Western Europe, who had stood in opposition to Islam’s insurgence centuries prior, and had recently faced down the Communists from across the Berlin Wall. On the latter occasion, backed by American military might and a broadly Christian moral consensus, they had also won.
It was corruption, not confrontation, that would do it. Caught in the claws of avarice, populations willingly joined with centralizing institutions like the European Union, and elected figures like Palme, Blair and Merkel, always voting for ever more submission to The Manifesto. What is the price of a nation’s freedom? It turns out in the UK, for instance, it is about £100 a week in benefits to the right portion of the population, and the illusion of free healthcare (so long as you don’t mind waiting a year or two). Give them that, and they’ll give you everything, down to the children they profess to love and the very soil on which they live. “No thank you, I don’t need to raise them, and no I don’t need to own anything. Just pay my bills.”
Think of Britain in 1997 when the Blairite government, promising centrism and prosperity, advanced the kind of restructuring of British society that even the most ambitious central planner could only dream of. The Bank Of England was placed far beyond the reach of any voting population, putting control of the economy in the safe hands of ‘experts’. On his arrival to power the average income was £15,000 a year, and the average property cost £65,000. A decade later, average pay was up to £20,000, but house prices had surged to £190,000. The economy was transitioned to a ‘knowledge’ economy - or as you and I might call it, deindustrialised - and a million people lost their jobs as manufacturing output fell by 3%, value adjusted for inflation, even as it rose in the US, Germany, and France. The Human Right Acts of 1998 gave unaccountable judges powers over political and social issues never before considered a matter for the courts. Democracy was further undermined by the creation of a UK Supreme Court, since used to impede Brexit and impinge on press freedoms. Ofcom was created to regulate speech across all mainstream outlets. There was a vast expansion of higher education degrees, functionally left-wing indoctrination programs, funded by taking the money from those who had not attended such institutions to pay for those who would, and who would thereby leave with useless qualifications and a head full of The Manifesto’s lies. Indeed, in ten years the Labour party managed to pass a law every three-and-a-quarter hours, and in that time Blair only suffered one defeat in the House of Commons (a stunningly authoritarian proposal to extend police powers of arrest to 90 days without charge).
In spite of all this, the Brits were pacified with welfare - made possible by the ‘80s Thatcherite boom - and voted for him en masse three times.
Oh, and of course, Blair also opened the borders. Mass immigration, hitherto unknown to the United Kingdom, hit like a bomb, with numbers going from around 50,000 net migrants to the country upon his rise to power, to over 200,000 a decade later, setting in place an exponential growth curve that reached up to almost 700,000 last year. And that’s just the net amount; 1.2 million people migrated to the UK in 2023, with 500,000 leaving. How many of that half-million who exited were British natives fleeing for Australia, the US or the European mainland is anyone’s guess, but it’s conceivable that a million total newcomers arrived and the indigenous population declined. Either way, a large English city arrives on its shores annually.
And thus in walked The Manifest One to link arms with The Manifesto. Islam, its adherents numbering perhaps as low as one million in the early ‘90s, all relatively well assimilated, now has at least four million followers in the country today, and perhaps much more, given the extraordinary number of migrants flowing into the UK over the three years since the last census was taken. It is now a dominant feature of many British cities, and seemingly grows more radical with every passing year. One in 12 schoolchildren in England and Wales are now Muslim, and that number is rising. A tipping point will soon be reached from which there will be no return.
Anyone who notices this is called ‘Islamophobic’ by followers of The Manifesto.
Sceva’s Seven Sons
In 53 AD, a Jewish high priest named Sceva had seven sons. These men had found certain techniques, prayers and incantations that could seemingly cast out demons, or at the very least limit the power of such creatures. They were good enough to make a living from such work.
One day, a man called Paul came into town, doing incredible wonders in the name of another Man, Jesus. The latter was something of a prophet, apparently, and Paul viewed himself as a divinely appointed messenger on his behalf. And the proof was in the pudding. Whenever Paul used that name, illnesses, diseases, evil spirits—you name it—all were defeated. Paul didn’t even need to be present with the person for it to work; if he spoke the name over a piece of cloth, and that cloth touched someone afflicted in this way, they would be immediately restored.
So the sons of Sceva decided to try it for themselves. The next time they were called to perform an exorcism, they spoke to the man in whom this demon resided, saying, “Come out, by the Jesus whom Paul proclaims.”
But the demon did not come out. Neither did it respond as though that name meant nothing to it. Rather, it replied with a menacing grin, “Jesus I know, and Paul I know, but who are you?” At that, the demoniac leapt on them with superhuman strength, tearing off their clothes, beating all of them with such savagery that the seven grown men, used to dealing with demons, fled the house naked and in agony.
Fast forward to August 2024, when British men marched the streets in response to a stabbing, suddenly aware that they were in a spiritual battle of some sort, despite not really believing in such things. Failing to fully understand the nature of their opponent, they at least identified that their nation had fallen under the sway of some alien religious power. Or perhaps, two powers, conjoined spirits operating in unison; one an ancient, unmoving religious system grounded in almost 1500 years of subjugation, and another a sly, fast moving, ever-changing, supposedly secular ideology, yet adorned as a cult with its own feast days, truth claims, sacraments and blasphemy laws.
These modern-day sons of Sceva took to the streets to war against such tyranny. They ranted and raved and rioted, smashing windows, burning buildings, uttering threats. But a stand against darkness is impossible without light. Their shouts were loud, but their names could not strike fear into the bowels of hell. They were, after all, still its citizens, despite their protests.
The Manifest One and his followers took back to the streets, often in greater number, definitely with greater force. “Our god is great!” was their cry. No matter whether or not he is great, at least they had a god to call on. Similarly, the followers of The Manifesto went out, armed with dead-eyed litigiousness, a propaganda machine well-used to putting down such petty squabbles, and the power of a state so swollen it was fit to burst. Hand in hand, The Manifest One and The Manifesto smashed these men against the rocks, rounded them up, jailed them, and their objective became a thousand miles further away than before.
Some of Sceva’s reincarnated sons even had the audacity to shout, “Allah, Allah, who the f*** is Allah?” in the midst of their skirmish. But as we have seen, it turns out that Allah is a demon-god from the underworld, empowered by more than a millennium of blood and rape and lies. And his partner, at least for now, is a Communist system that has ground opposition into powder across the globe for generations, and who currently has its tentacles wrapped around every institution of note on the planet.
Those who try to oppose such principalities do not know the measure of evil with which they are dealing. Without Christ, the One who can conquer Hades with a breath and command nations at a whim, they have no answer. Protest against principalities is like fighting the world’s combined military might by sending out children to hurl rocks. And even to call on Christ’s name, without knowing Him, will only end in disaster.
Without the Right Man, the Man of God’s Own Choosing, on our side, these devils of Marx and Muhammad will hear mocking questions asking about their identity, so pompous coming from such tiny foes, and will merely look at one another with a smile. Then they will simply reply, “Who the f*** are you?”
Such battles cannot be won without Christ. Turn to Him now.
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*One of the names of Allah in Islam is The Manifest.
