The Virtue of Cruelty: Musk, 'Suicidal Empathy', and the Fetishisation of Ideology

In a recent interview on Joe Rogan’s podcast, Elon Musk offered a rather jarring sociological diagnosis which has, understandably, caused quite a stir in the public square. “The fundamental weakness of Western civilisation,” he proclaimed, “is empathy”. Not gluttony, lust, greed, sloth, or any of the other so-called ‘deadly sins’ that were once the predominant targets of Christian moralism — but empathy.

Musk is not alone in this line of thinking. His use of the term “suicidal empathy” is taken directly from the work of Gad Saad (another frequent guest on Rogan’s podcast), who rallies against empathic care as a symptom of the “domination of wokeism”. True to form, Musk is not expressing his own original thoughts, but regurgitating the (very worst) ideas of others. Among conservative Christian commentators, a culture war against what is being characterised as a “cult of empathy” is certainly having its moment, with numerous books being published on the topic, including Allie Beth Stuckey’s Toxic Empathy: How Progressives Exploit Christian Compassion and Joe Rigney’s The Sin of Empathy: Compassion and its Counterfeits. Saad himself, author of The Parasitic Mind: How Infectious Ideas are Killing Common Sense, has his own forthcoming book on the topic, which seems to be called (of course) Suicidal Empathy. It appears that Christofascists are finally saying the quiet part out loud.

The ‘Bug’ of Empathy?

Musk refers to empathy as a “bug in Western civilisation” — a kind of virus which has been “weaponised” by left-wing activists to stifle progress and sensibility in a dog-eat-dog world. His own personal lack of empathy is no new revelation — Walter Isaacson wrote about it at length in his recent biography of the billionaire. While Musk may claim that an altruistic love of humanity (or rather a Messiah complex) motivates his entrepreneurial endeavours, it is abundantly clear that he struggles to emotionally relate to the actual sufferings of individual others in his life. In normal times, we would refer to such traits as evidence of a serious personality disorder. But in these dark and regressive times, it appears that, for many, it is the mark of holiness.

Empathy is, quite simply, the ability to understand the experience of others, especially those who may be enduring some form of suffering. In addition to being a standard hallmark of ‘goodness’ in many moral paradigms, it is a tremendously valuable skill which allows us to look out for the common good and temper our more selfish impulses to avoid causing suffering to other members of our community. Notably, empathy responses can be seen in many different kinds of societies — both human and non-human. It appears to be a relatively basic skill among social beings, giving us the ability to perceive the mindedness of others and encourage cooperation. A lack of empathy has long been associated with disorders like psychopathy, and the correlation between a decreased empathy response and the most violent forms of crime is very well attested. It’s ironic that, for centuries, one of the prevailing arguments made by religious zealots to justify the social value of religion is that it pushes humans to be more empathic and compassionate. Many Christians have claimed that pre-Christian Europe was a violent hellhole of barbarism and cruelty, which was only ‘liberated’ by the introduction of Christian ‘love’.

But is this true? Has Christianity, in particular, ever truly been demonstrably committed to empathy? Its semi-mythic founder certainly seems to have spent a great deal of time focusing on the spiritual virtues of love, but in its nearly 2000-year history as a religious order, Christianity has far more frequently been used to dominate and control the behaviours of others. It’s quite unlikely that the millions of humans who have been ruthlessly slaughtered in the name of the Christian ‘God’ over the years would regard Christianity as a particularly compassionate social force. From the Crusades, to the European Witch Trials, to the horrors of colonisation, ‘empathy’ seems to have routinely taken a back seat to other religious values like dominion, control, and cultural homogeneity.

In fact, this was anything but subtle. This is not the first time in history that Christian pundits have warned against the supposed ‘sin’ of empathy. During the Crusades, the Church explicitly warned crusaders against empathising with their Muslim enemies. Likewise, Christians colonists were warned against empathising with ‘savage’ natives, and enslavers were warned against empathising with those whom they had enslaved. Unlike their fellow White Christians, these populations were deemed to be unworthy of empathic mercy. To empathise with them would be to acknowledge their humanity—but as far as the Church was concerned, their ‘humanity’ was fundamentally inferior. To empathise with them would be to lower oneself to their barbarism and heathenry, and ultimately to fall prey to the trickery of the Devil.

Granted, there have always been exceptions to this trend. But even in some notable cases (many might point to “Mother Teresa” as a stalwart of empathic care), expressions of love are often directly tied to theological constructs surrounding the virtues of suffering and perceived links between misery and divine retribution. Mother Teresa famously refused pain relief to sick children under the presupposition that the experience of suffering was necessary for purification. And while Christian missionaries have often taken to providing essential services to communities in need and crisis, this is almost always directly positioned as a method of winning over ‘unsaved’ populations and bolstering their own cultural dominance. A performance of empathy is indeed, in these cases, a ‘manipulation’ tactic — specifically designed to exploit the sufferings of others in order to increase control.

The Empathic Threat

Whether or not empathy can be characterised as a ‘sin’ is ultimately a matter of personal belief, but it is demonstrably evident that it is, at the very least, a significant threat to Christian hegemony. The empathy mechanism allows us to humanise (or perhaps simply to ‘personalise’) the other — to recognise that those outside of our in-groups are indeed persons, even if their values or ways of living differ from our own. This inherent capacity to humanise and validate the experience of others stands in stark opposition to ideologies rooted in exclusion, dominance, and othering. Conservative Christian morality strongly depends upon clearly delineated boundaries between insiders and outsiders—those who are saved and those who are damned. Empathy dissolves these distinctions by urging us to see that the supposed moral superiority of an in-group is largely arbitrary, a cultural construct rather than an objective truth. The ability to empathise with those deemed as other—whether due to religion, sexuality, ethnicity, political belief, etc.—is thus inherently destabilising to ideologies founded upon exclusivity and hierarchy. It challenges the assumed right to dominance that many institutions rely upon for maintaining their authority and control.

Within conservative capitalist frameworks, success often demands a suppression of empathy to justify inequality, exploitation, and injustice. Empathy threatens this justification by making visible the suffering of those who are exploited—those who might otherwise remain invisible within narratives that glorify rugged individualism, competition, and dominance. It forces recognition of collective responsibility and interconnectedness, values which inherently challenge hierarchical and authoritarian structures. Thus, it’s unsurprising that conservative and reactionary figures perceive empathy as an existential threat to their ideological project. To concede to empathy would require acknowledging their complicity in perpetuating systemic injustices. It would undermine the legitimacy of their claims to moral or cultural superiority, exposing their moral frameworks as not only arbitrary but harmful. Empathy poses a fundamental challenge to all forms of authoritarianism precisely because it destabilises rigid boundaries between people, revealing the common humanity that transcends ideological and religious divides.

In a worst case scenario (for theocratic institutions), empathy might even lead folks to question the ‘goodness’ of a god who sanctions eternal suffering for those who fail to worship him sufficiently. Worse still, it might reveal the fundamental cruelty that appears to be hard-wired into a ‘created’ world. It is simple enough to write off someone’s suffering as a consequence of their wickedness or poor choices, or to emotionally distance oneself from suffering by claiming that it’s simply “God’s plan”. But when we actually step into the shoes of those who are dealt a much harsher hand than our own, we may come to recognise that a god who routinely gives bone cancer to children is most likely not a ‘good’ god. Instead, we may begin to see such a god as a cosmic authoritarian whose cruelty mirrors that of the very institutions established to worship him. Empathy, therefore, doesn't just threaten hierarchical religious institutions—it destabilises their theological foundation by exposing the contradictions between their moral claims and the observable reality of suffering. When we allow empathy to truly guide our moral compass, it becomes difficult (if not impossible) to reconcile a compassionate worldview with the harshness and arbitrary cruelty often attributed to divine will.

Vertical vs. Horizontal Morality

In order to fully understand these dynamics, we need to grapple with the differences between vertical and horizontal systems of morality. A vertical system of morality is one in which moral values are prescribed from ‘above’ (usually a divinity), often as a written set of rules recorded in a holy text. Importantly, there needn’t be any direct correlation between these rules and actual experiences of suffering. In a vertical moral system, murder is wrong not because of the pain it causes, but rather because it is against the rules. Likewise, rape, theft, assault, and all manner of violent and non-violent crime are wrong not because of their impact on others, but rather because they are deemed to be wrong by the divinity in charge. Because of this, many actions can be regarded as immoral, even if they fail to cause suffering. They are simply, to use criminological terms, mala prohibita (‘wrongs because they are prohibited’), rather than mala in se (‘wrongs in themselves’).

A horizontal system of morality, by contrast, demands an active negotiation of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ without the aid of a divinity (whether real or imagined). The ethical weight of a behaviour is largely determined based on its impact on oneself and others. If an act causes undue suffering, it can clearly be identified as a moral ‘wrong’. In essence, horizontal systems of morality focus on the ethical responsibility one has towards others on the ‘same level’ (rather than those in positions of divine authority), focusing on interpersonal relationships and mutual respect rather than adherence to divine law.

Naturally, one of the common rebuttals against horizontal systems of morality is “how do you enforce it?” In a world that has become accustomed to following rules out of fear of consequence, it can be difficult to imagine why anyone would adhere to a moral system if there were no threat of existential damnation. In essence, “If rape were to bear no cosmic or legal consequences, why would anyone stop themselves from doing it?” This horrific question is not hypothetical — it is an actual question that I have actually been asked by someone who remains utterly convinced that moral behaviour can only ever be motivated by the promise of reward and threat of punishment.

The answer, of course, would be empathy and basic care. Why not murder your neighbour? Because murder causes suffering. Why not steal money from your cousin? Because theft causes suffering. Why not rape your colleague? Because rape causes suffering. If the only reason you don’t perform these actions is because they are either illegal or offensive to an omniscient divinity, then it is safe to say that you are likely not a ‘good’ person. I suspect that the reason so many religious zealots find horizontal systems of morality to be futile is simply because many of them find it difficult to empathise with others. It is perhaps unsurprising that they would be attracted to a religious ideology that, at least in many popular contexts, focuses far more on divine punishment and cosmic reward than it does on Earthly relationship.

The hatred that many conservative Christians feel against LGBTQIA+ individuals or women who seek abortions is not rooted in empathy or zealous love, but rather simply in detestation for those they deem to be ‘other’. Many of the same folks who rally against abortion are also those who accuse parents of murdered schoolchildren of being “crisis actors”, or who find it perfectly morally permissible to put children in cages if their families attempt to enter the United States as refugees. The same folks who decry homosexuality as a perverse sexual sin see very little issue with donald trump boasting about grabbing women “by the pussy” and cheating on his wife with a porn star, or the hordes of priests, pastors, and youth group leaders who are regularly charged with the sexual abuse of minors. Why is this? It’s simple — Christofascist ‘morality’ is not about action, but identity. Those who do egregious things while adequately performing a (White) Christian identity do not trigger the conservative disgust mechanism. But those who do perfectly innocuous things (like getting married to someone of the same sex) do trigger this mechanism, because they go against the established identity markers that make someone a part of the in-group. It is functionally permissible to transgress against the moral standards of the community, so long as you can do so while adequately performing the correct identity.

This itself calls into the question the efficacy of this ‘vertical’ moral system. If even those who are deemed to be the custodians of such systems (like priests and pastors) are frequently found to be guilty of transgressing against them, then are these rules even effective stop-gaps to begin with? In this case, the unique qualities of Christianity must be pointed out. Since it is believed that even the most severe criminals can successfully be ‘forgiven’ and granted eternal life so long as they repent before their death, there is ultimately very little motivation for those within such a system to behave ethically in life. Even if they genuinely believe what they preach (which is likely true in some cases, though certainly not in all), there is no real reason for them to go out of their way to adjust their own behaviour, since this has virtually no bearing on their ultimate eschatological fate. As long as they believe the right thing and perform the right identity, they can do whatever they wish and enjoy both eternal life in Heaven and broad acceptance among their own Earthly community.

The Fetishisation of Ideology

This brings us to a concept discussed at length by the philosopher Slavoj Žižek: the fetishisation of ideology. In the modern world, ideology is not something that we use to inform our behaviour or conduct in society. Rather, it operates primarily as a symbolic structure that masks and sustains underlying contradictions and power relations. Žižek argues that we no longer consciously believe in ideological narratives—instead, we act as if we believe, performing adherence through rituals and symbolic gestures that allow society’s deeper ideological mechanisms to function unnoticed. This fetishistic engagement lets individuals maintain a comfortable distance from confronting ideological realities directly, enabling them to disavow complicity in oppressive systems while continuing to support and perpetuate them. Ideology becomes something like an accessory or ornament, rather than an earnestly-held ontology. There is no longer any need to put one’s beliefs into practice, or to seek to align one’s values with one’s behaviour. It is enough to simply espouse adherence, and to impose this same adherence upon others.

Notably, this problem is present in both right-wing and left-wing circles. On both ‘sides’ of the cultural divide, so long as you “believe the right things”, you can safely be excused for any number of transgressive or discordant actions. It is perfectly permissible to financially support companies and institutions that are responsible for the destruction of the planet or exploitation of workers, as long as you believe that climate change is an existential threat and that exploitation is unethical. One can easily be an ‘animal lover’ who believes strongly in the ethical treatment of non-human beings, and still enjoy a nice slab of meat with every meal. In a world where identity supersedes behaviour, being a walking contradiction is not only permissible—it’s expected. Perhaps this is a consequence of philosophical liberalism: the freedom to do the wrong thing shall not be infringed. What really matters is that you don’t believe the wrong thing; and if you do, you should at least have the wherewithal to keep it quiet.

Granted, there are many nuances here. Expecting average people to bear the brunt of ethical responsibility while corporations and the bourgeoisie are permitted to do whatever they like is, very clearly, not a winning strategy. Am I really going to save the world by recycling plastic containers and refusing to eat animal products? Is the average consumer personally responsible for the destruction of the Amazon if they order a burger from McDonalds? Of course not. But this kind of reward/punishment-based thinking is itself a direct result of the vertical forms of morality that many of us have been brought up with. We tend to take a very ‘all or nothing’ approach to ethical conduct, especially when approaching more nuanced topics like other-than-human ethics. The average vegan is estimated to prevent the death of approximately one farm animal per day, but compared to the 80,000,000,000+ land animals killed for food every year, this is an infinitesimally small drop in the proverbial bucket. But does that make the exercise futile? If not everybody follows suit, do the well-intentioned actions of a few even matter? Many would argue no—but how would you feel if you happened to be the one animal whose life was spared?

The point is this: true ethical behaviour is not about following the rules to get a reward or avoid punishment. It’s about doing what we can to avoid causing suffering. Helping others to avoid suffering, regardless of the scale, is itself the ‘reward’—but it is one that can only really be enjoyed if we have the capacity for empathy. Without this, the only way to justify ethical behaviour is by offering something far more grandiose. But in our capitalist system, the greatest rewards are specifically reserved for those with the most ruthless forms of ambition. If we are supposed to have a moral system based on reward and punishment, then it is very difficult to see why anyone would actually ‘do the right thing’ when the kinds of actions that we would usually deem to be ‘immoral’ routinely lead to tremendous gains in wealth and power. Not only can you buy influence, you can also buy imperviousness. So why bother with ethics? Well, basic empathic care for the welfare of others might be a compelling motivator. But since that is now apparently a ‘sin’, what’s left?

Nietzsche and the Übermensch

On this, there is one further point that deserves to be made, which subverts Musk’s sociological diagnosis while bringing to the surface a subtle truth that it inadvertently illuminates. In his 1887 book On the Genealogy of Morals, philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche argues that Christian morality—including its supposed commitment to ascetic compassion—is actually a tool used by oppressive forces to keep the downtrodden at bay. He questions the origin of morality and the value of "un-egoistic" instincts such as pity, self-denial and self-sacrifice, arguing that these can actually be dangerous to humankind, ultimately leading to nihilism and existential exhaustion. By shifting the focus from this life to the next, he argues that religious (and, by extension, political) institutions created an ontological framework by which the oppressed not only become complacent with their disenfranchisement, but even come to glorify it. The valuation of ‘meekness’ is, in his view, a tactic used by the powerful to keep commoners in a state of powerlessness. Are you poor and disenfranchised? How wonderful! That means you will receive an even greater reward in Heaven. The old ‘camel through the eye of a needle’ trope here works as a clever tactic to convince the less fortunate to accept their lot in life and take comfort in the spiritual virtue of their suffering. Meanwhile, those with ‘worldly’ power and wealth are permitted to retain it — after all, they will get their just desserts in the afterlife, and it ‘isn’t our place to judge’. While such a worldview may seem to boost up the downtrodden, in truth it merely serves to convince those under the boot of the powerful that they should accept their worldly sufferings in lieu of a promised reward in the afterlife.

Musk himself claims to have been influenced by Nietzsche as a young man, though it is self-evident that he failed to fully understand him. While some might praise Musk as an embodiment of Nietzsche’s Übermensch archetype, he is clearly nothing of the sort. The Übermensch is a figure who, having cast off concerns about an ‘afterlife’ or the will of some supernatural divinity, actively engages with the seeming meaninglessness of the world to create a set of values that affirm life in all its complexity, ambiguity, and struggle. Musk, conversely, embodies the modern capitalist hero who leverages technology and capital primarily to reinforce personal prestige and economic power, not to transcend the prevailing social order but to entrench and expand it. Thus, rather than embodying Nietzsche’s vision, Musk represents precisely the type of person Nietzsche warned about—someone who superficially adopts radical ideas while perpetuating precisely the nihilistic emptiness the Übermensch was meant to overcome.

A fundamental misunderstanding about Nietzsche’s Übermensch is the belief that he represents a cold-hearted figure devoid of empathy or compassion. On the contrary, true embodiment of the Übermensch demands profound emotional maturity and a deep capacity for empathy and altruism. This empathy is not sentimental weakness but rather the strength to courageously affirm life, embracing its suffering, contradictions, and interconnectedness. The Übermensch transcends petty self-interest and resentment precisely because he sees himself deeply connected with the fate of others, acknowledging that authentic power lies in empowering, rather than dominating, those around him. Altruism, then, is not mere moral obligation but an expression of life-affirming values—a creative act by which one asserts meaning against the nihilistic tendencies of isolation and self-obsession. In short, empathy and altruism are essential to truly becoming an Übermensch, for they are the qualities that allow one to affirm and elevate human existence as a whole, rather than merely imposing one’s will upon it.

Musk and the Ring of Power

As a Tolkien scholar, it would be remiss of me not to take this opportunity to point out the centrality of these lessons in Tolkien’s work. Musk may very well perceive himself as some kind of Frodo-esque hero—a selfless saviour who tackles the sufferings of the world head-on, with no concern for conventional social limitations. But Frodo’s success was entirely dependent upon two things: empathy and fellowship. It was not bravery, rugged individualism, or noble ambition that led to the destruction of the Ring—it was love. A desire to dominate the wills of others is precisely what the Ring exploits. Frodo, Sam, and the remaining members of the Fellowship succeeded because they rejected domination and chose mutual support, empathy, and humility over power and control. Musk’s desire is, very clearly, to use the Ring—perhaps he truly believes that he can use it ‘for good’, though this is becoming less and less believable by the day. In any case, it is made abundantly clear in Tolkien’s work that such ambitions are futile. We have no shortage of characters who believe that fascistic control can be wielded to noble ends, from the more sympathetic examples of Boromir and Denethor to the far more pathological examples of Saruman and Sauron himself. But Tolkien’s work teaches us that authentic heroism lies not in exploiting strength for personal gain, but in willingly carrying one another’s burdens with no hope of reward.

It is notable that Frodo never once dedicates his quest to some kind of divinity, nor does he ever anticipate that an otherworldly reward will await him after success. He is, in many ways, a far more authentic example of an Übermensch. He neither succumbs to his seeming powerlessness in a cruel and meaningless world, nor does he allow his existential angst to propel him towards domineering cruelty. He does what he can, with the resources available to him, to live authentically and act in accordance with his own deepest values. But importantly, the power of his ‘will’ was never going to be enough, and it failed him in the end. What allowed for the destruction of the Ring was not ambition, but compassion. True strength is found in solidarity, empathy, and the refusal to perpetuate suffering—especially when confronting injustice, oppression, and exploitation. This is the polar opposite of what folks like Musk espouse.

Ultimately, Musk’s denunciation of empathy reveals a disturbing regression toward a philosophy that valorises power and domination over genuine connection. If Western civilisation indeed suffers from a “fundamental weakness,” it is not empathy—if anything, it is our chronic inability to recognise and value it. Rejecting empathy is not a revolutionary act of strength; rather, it is a retreat into cowardice, a tacit endorsement of cruelty, and an embrace of the nihilistic despair Nietzsche himself feared. Moreover, we must stop glorifying disenfranchisement and suffering as sources of spiritual or moral nobility, which only serve the interests of the powerful by encouraging the vulnerable to accept their oppression passively. Instead, we must commit ourselves to alleviating suffering wherever it exists, especially among those most susceptible to exploitation. We must do so without the expectation of some grand reward—the alleviation of suffering, no matter how small the scale, is a reward in and of itself. To build a society truly worthy of our potential, we need a morality rooted firmly in empathy and authentic care for others—a 'this-life'-centred approach that prioritises collective flourishing over selfish gain, dominance, or hollow ideological performance. Only then can we meaningfully affirm life, resist cruelty, and create a world built on genuine compassion and mutual empowerment.