Against the Light: The Philosophy of the Left-Hand Path by Denys Spirin - HTML preview
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Christians use the idea of "love" (agape) to mask the mechanism of annihilation. To the secular mind, love implies an emotional bond between two distinct subjects. In the vertical path love is the acid that dissolves the person so that only God remains.
The hierarchy of love is anti-human, demanding the devaluation of all earthly attachments, including the self.
"If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters — yes, even their own life — such a person cannot be my disciple." (Luke 14:26)
This is a command for emotional scorched earth, not a metaphor for "prioritization". To love God "perfectly" is to view all human relationships — and one's own existence — with a detachment that borders on hostility. The "neighbor" is not loved for their own sake, but as a placeholder for God. You do not love the person; you love the "divine image" within them, a fellow "vessel," a piece of biomaterial owned by the same master.
The New Testament frequently uses agricultural metaphors that reveal the true status of the human being: they are crops, not agents.
"...he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire." (Matthew 3:12)
The love of the gardener for the wheat is entirely conditional on the wheat's utility. He loves the harvest, not the plant. The "chaff" — the individuals that cannot be assimilated — is destroyed with "unquenchable" violence.
This is reinforced by the Parable of the Talents. When the master returns and finds that one servant preserved what he was given instead of expanding the master's capital, the reaction is not "mercy" but violence:
"And throw that worthless servant outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth." (Matthew 25:30)
The servant is "worthless" (achreion) because he ceased to be a productive tool. In the eyes of the master, the individual has no intrinsic value; he is valued only as an investment vehicle. If the "biomaterial" does not grow to the master's benefit, it is discarded into the void.
The predatory essence of this love is most apparent in the story of Job. The most telling detail of this story is the nature of the "bet." God does not consult his angels, nor does he address the humans. The only entity God deems worthy of a wager — the only one with whom there is a reason to argue — is the adversary, Satan.
The dialogue occurs between two Sovereigns. Job, described by God himself as "blameless and upright" (Job 1:8), is the currency used in their transaction. God allows the destruction of Job's life, the slaughter of his children, and the disease just to win an argument about the limits of human endurance.
When Job finally demands an explanation, asserting his right as a subject to understand the "why" of his agony, the divine response is a crushing reminder of ontological scale:
"Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand." (Job 38:4)
God does not justify the suffering. He reminds Job that Job is a non-entity, a creature of the dust with no standing to question the Creator. The love shown to Job at the end is the most chilling part: God gives him new children and new wealth, as if the first ones were interchangeable equipment.
Suffering is a tool of calibration. It breaks the Will until it reaches a state of absolute, unblinking resignation. Job is "blessed" when he finally collapses into the dust and says:
"Therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes" (Job 42:6).
The love of God is the love of the architect for the bricks. The brick is "loved" insofar as it fits the wall. If it has a unique shape that prevents it from fitting, it is chipped away or thrown into the fire.
The goal of this love is to turn the human into a transparent conduit — a biological substrate for the divine presence. You are loved as a "vessel of mercy" (Romans 9:23), but a vessel is only useful when it is hollow. Any internal content of your own — your specific desires, your "I" — is the "tattered garment" that must be torn off. The most devastating formulation of this appears in the Epistle to the Romans, where Paul defines the essence of true worship and then, within the same doctrinal sequence, defines love itself.
"Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God — this is your true and proper worship." (Romans 12:1)
A chapter later he delivers the conclusion:
"Love does no harm to a neighbor. Therefore love is the fulfillment of the law." (Romans 13:10)
The sequence is merciless. The highest act of love (agape) is identified with the act of becoming a living sacrifice. You are not just encouraged to practice self-denial out of love; you are commanded to transform yourself into combustible material placed upon the altar. The "love" that Christianity exalts is not a reciprocal bond between Sovereign subjects. It is the controlled incineration of the subject so that the flame may rise purely to the divine. The warm glow that believers experience is the heat of their own slow burning.
The love of the Christian God is the trap: it invites you into an embrace that is designed to crush your ribs until you can no longer breathe on your own, forcing you to use the lungs of the master.