The Devil You Know: Lucifer and the Burden of Self-Determination
Exploring Lucifer (2016) beyond its procedural trappings, examining its surprising take on redemption, identity, and the very human struggle for meaning, despite critical divisions.
“The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.” — John Green, Looking for Alaska
When Lucifer first graced our screens in 2016, a detective procedural starring the literal Lord of Hell, many critics and viewers met it with a healthy dose of skepticism. Here was a premise brimming with metaphysical potential — a fallen angel, bored with eternal damnation, opening a nightclub in Los Angeles and assisting the LAPD. Yet, early seasons often leaned heavily into a somewhat formulaic “case-of-the-week” structure, leading to Metacritic scores hovering in the mixed 50s and 60s, and Rotten Tomatoes critics often praising Tom Ellis’s charismatic performance more than the plot’s groundbreaking originality. It’s easy to dismiss Lucifer as mere escapism, a lighthearted fantasy romp. But beneath the devilish charm and the procedural trappings, I’ve always felt there’s a surprisingly thoughtful, often poignant, exploration of identity, free will, and the human capacity for change — even for the damned.
The Morningstar’s Existential Crisis
At its core, Lucifer isn’t just a crime drama; it’s a protracted, often comedic, therapy session for the universe’s most infamous rebel. Lucifer Morningstar (Tom Ellis) isn’t simply running from Hell; he’s running from a pre-assigned identity. He despises the notion that he was made to be evil, that his role as the punisher of souls was an inescapable destiny. This rebellion forms the philosophical backbone of the entire series.
Critics often pointed to the series’ reliance on a ‘case-of-the-week’ format, arguing it sometimes diluted the grander mythological stakes and the show’s unique premise. And honestly, it’s a valid point. Some early episodes did feel like they were holding back on the truly cosmic drama. However, viewed through a philosophical lens, even this repetitive structure serves a purpose. Each human criminal Lucifer encounters is a mirror, reflecting a different facet of sin, desire, and choice. He’s not just solving crimes; he’s trying to understand human morality on a micro-level, seeking answers to the very questions that led to his own fall.
Key themes that resonate:
- The Burden of Identity: Lucifer struggles constantly with how others perceive him versus who he believes himself to be. He’s the Devil, yes, but he insists he’s only punishing, not creating evil. His journey is one of self-definition, trying to shed millennia of cosmic branding.
- Free Will vs. Predestination: This is the show’s grandest philosophical debate. Was Lucifer truly destined to fall, or did he choose it? Can he choose to be good now? The show consistently argues for the latter, placing the power of choice squarely on the individual, even when dealing with divine plans.
- The Nature of Evil: Lucifer posits that evil isn’t an external force imposed by a devil, but rather a choice made by individuals, often stemming from pain, fear, or misguided desire. Lucifer’s famous line, “Tell me, what is it you truly desire?” isn’t a temptation; it’s an invitation to confront one’s innermost self.
Lucifer Morningstar, in a moment of introspection, wrestling with his celestial past in the vibrant human world of Los Angeles.
Divine Comedy, Human Drama: The Tonal Tightrope
One of the show’s most frequently cited criticisms, and sometimes its greatest strength, is its often-uneven tone. Lucifer juggles dark mythological drama, lighthearted procedural antics, romantic comedy, and genuine emotional depth. While some critics found the humor occasionally jarring or the dramatic beats underserved by the preceding levity, I’d argue that this tonal tightrope walk is precisely what makes the show so fascinating. It forces us to confront the absurdity and tragedy of existence simultaneously.
Life, even for the Prince of Darkness, is an ongoing negotiation between the profound and the mundane. Our true nature isn’t found in grand pronouncements, but in the quiet, messy, often comical choices we make every single day.
The dynamic between Lucifer and Detective Chloe Decker (Lauren German) is central to this. Chloe, a mortal, acts as Lucifer’s anchor and his unwitting therapist. Their relationship, affectionately dubbed ‘Deckerstar’ by fans, is the engine of the show’s emotional and philosophical growth. Through Chloe, Lucifer learns empathy, vulnerability, and the profound complexity of human love. It’s a testament to the actors’ chemistry that even when the plot occasionally veered into silliness or felt contrived, their connection kept viewers invested. They don’t just solve crimes; they solve each other, slowly chipping away at their respective defenses and preconceived notions. This relational aspect grounds the fantastical elements in a very human, very relatable search for belonging and meaning.
Lucifer and Chloe, in a tense yet intimate moment, their contrasting worlds converging in a shared quest for justice and understanding.
Redefining Damnation and Redemption
Perhaps the most radical philosophical contribution of Lucifer lies in its redefinition of Hell and damnation. The show flips the traditional theological script: Hell isn’t a place of external torture inflicted by a vengeful deity or a gleeful devil. Instead, it’s a self-imposed prison, a loop of one’s deepest guilt and shame, chosen by the damned themselves. Lucifer, as the keeper, merely facilitates this self-punishment. This concept is profoundly existential. It argues that our choices and our internal states are what truly bind or free us.
This narrative move is a powerful philosophical statement: true punishment (and thus, true redemption) comes from within. Lucifer’s own journey mirrors this. His “punishment” in Hell was being forced to witness the endless loops of human guilt, mirroring his own internal torment over his perceived role as the scapegoat for all evil. His eventual path to redemption isn’t about earning God’s forgiveness, but about forgiving himself and accepting the love he felt he never deserved.
While Lucifer certainly had its narrative missteps—some plot holes, an occasionally repetitive formula, and character arcs that could feel rushed in later seasons—its commitment to exploring these deeper questions is what elevates it beyond mere genre fare. It dares to ask: What if the Devil wasn’t evil, but misunderstood? What if the greatest evil isn’t a supernatural entity, but our own inability to choose kindness, empathy, and self-acceptance?
A powerful depiction of Lucifer embracing his true angelic form, symbolizing his internal journey towards self-acceptance and destiny.
The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled wasn’t convincing the world he didn’t exist, but convincing himself he couldn’t change.
Ultimately, Lucifer is a story about the profound, sometimes terrifying, responsibility of self-determination. It’s about how we define ourselves, not by our past or our labels, but by our present choices and our capacity for growth. The series, despite its lighter tone and procedural structure, is a surprisingly heartfelt plea for empathy and a nuanced look at the burden of reputation. It reminds us that even the darkest figures can seek light, and that perhaps, the path to redemption isn’t through divine decree, but through the messy, beautiful, utterly human act of choosing to be better.
Where to Watch
- Netflix
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