A few years ago, one of my Hispanic students, a Catholic, asked me if I had some holy water. "I figured you'd be the only professor on campus who has holy water in their office," she said.

She was right. I have bottles of holy water in my office. I also have water from places of healing, like Lourdes and St. Winifred's Well in Wales.

My student wanted the holy water to bless her computer. I can't recall why, exactly, but she felt it had come under some dark influence. She wanted the water to bless and cleanse it.

Last spring break, Jana, my son Aidan, and I visited the Santuario de Chimayo in New Mexico. My colleague and friend Jon Camp put me onto Chimayo. Chimayo has been a site of pilgrimage for generations and is one of the most visited religious sites in the United States. Chimayo is known for the healing properties of its holy dirt. Next to the church is a small room where visitors and pilgrims line up to gather some of the holy dirt from a hole. In the entryway to the room pictures, written testimonials, and crutches hang on the walls of those who have been healed by the dirt. Aidan and I purchased containers in the gift shop and we stood in line with those waiting to gather dirt. A family in front of us had brought large ziploc bags and took away several full bags. 

On that same trip to New Mexico we visited the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi in Santa Fe. In the left transept of the Cathedral a great many relics were on display, most notably a bone from St. Francis and a splinter of wood from the Holy Cross. Rows of candles were in front of the relics and as we looked at them many people came to pray before the relics and to light candles.

Following from the last post, I wanted to pause here in this series to share some of these stories. In the Catholic tradition, especially in its popular and folk piety, objects can become receptacles of sacred power and energy. Holy water can cleanse a person, space, or object from evil forces. Dirt, water, and relics can possess healing powers. To be sure, for many Protestants these aspects of Catholicism are deemed "magical." And that is precisely the point. Holy water, healing dirt, and the veneration of relics are examples of sacred magic. 

Protestants have their own examples of sacred magic. At my little church Freedom Fellowship, when people come forward for healing prayer, we will often anoint them with oil. True, the oil isn't deemed to have healing properties. And as Protestants we have no way to "bless" or "consecrate" the oil to make it a receptacle of divine power. And yet, there is a tacit conviction that adding the oil to the healing prayer is, in some mystical way, contributing to its efficaciousness. Otherwise, why anoint if the anointing is purely inert? You'd just be making people's foreheads greasy for no reason. There's a difference between going into your pantry and dabbing your forehead with some olive oil you find there versus praying over a supplicant while anointing their forehead with the Sign of the Cross and the words, "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Because of this difference, anointing is a practice of sacred magic.

Also, while Protestants do not use holy water to cleanse or protect a space, they will use prayer rituals to accomplish this. People will walk prayer circles around spaces, petitioning for a hedge of angelic protection. People at my church will, before services, walk the sanctuary touching and praying over every pew. Such a practice is a form of sacred magic as it blesses, cleanses, and protects the space to make it, when the worshippers gather, a receptacle of the divine presence.  

Also, like Catholics, Protestants will pray prayers of exorcism and deliverance. Such prayers will even "command" demons in the name of Jesus to depart. These prayers are also examples of sacred magic. 

Now, of course, I don't expect anyone to begin describing these practices as "sacred magic." All I would suggest here is that the category of "sacred magic" is applicable. Why?

Well, as we've sussed out in our exploration of theurgy, there is something going on in these practices that is different from the moral or symbolic. There is a real encounter with divine energy and power to cleanse, protect, or heal that is being mediated through material objects (e.g., water, dirt, oil, physical touch) and/or ritual (e.g, prayer, making the sign of the cross, commanding demons to depart, invoking the divine presence). The practice is "magical" in that some new potency is being infused into the material realm. The ontological situation is being changed. What, then, are we to call objects or practices that effect ontological change? "Sacred magic" is a label that might be used.

Also, if "material rites effecting an ontological change" is a description of "sacred magic," then the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist can also be described this way. That is to say, baptism and the Eucharist are not mere symbols. They effect ontological changes. Regarding the Eucharist, we can recall Flannery O'Connor's famous quip about the Eucharist being a symbol. "If it's just a symbol," the Catholic novelist observed, "then to hell with it." The same can be said of baptism. If baptism doesn't effect an ontological change, is merely a symbol, then baptism can be left aside as inert and superfluous. Baptism wouldn't "do anything," ontologically speaking. And if baptism doesn't do anything, well, like Flannery O'Connor said, to hell with it.  

Again, I don't expect anyone to start describing baptism or the Eucharist as "magical." But we are seeing, once again in this series, how the category of "sacred magic" is doing some useful theological work for us. For example, in my own congregation and denomination our view of the Eucharist and baptism has become very disenchanted, very moralistic and symbolic. Being a memorialist tradition, our view of the Lord's Supper has always been disenchanted. Our view of baptism, however, has been very magical. The rite had to follow exact requirements: Believer's baptism (credobaptism, not paedobaptism), for the remission of sins, and full immersion. If you were an infant, it didn't count. If you were not fully immersed, it didn't count. And finally, if you believed you were saved prior to or outside of the rite of baptism (like saying the Sinner's Prayer and accepting Jesus into your heart), you were not saved. As a rite of sacred magic baptism had to be done in very particular way. Otherwise, the ontological change would not happen. Stories abound in our tradition about people needing to get re-baptized because some part of their body, like a foot or arm, did not go fully underwater. And if all this sounds a wee bit like magical thinking, well, that's exactly why I'm bringing it up.

But as I said, our denomination has been losing this imagination. Mainly because our rigid, exact, and  magical formulation of baptism created a very sectarian posture. We doubted the salvation of pretty much every Christian denomination, from the Baptists with their Sinner's Prayer to the Catholics with their infant baptisms. Everyone, except us, was going to hell. Over the last two generations, however, many in our tradition have rejected this narrow view. That's the good news. But the bad news is that we've accomplished this by evacuating baptism of any ontological effect at all. Baptism used to be a practice of sacred magic, a rite that ontologically changed you. Today, baptism is largely symbolic, a rite where a (usually young) person publicly declares their faith in Jesus. Which is a lovely thing to do, but when baptism is evacuated of ontological effect, when it is no longer a practice of sacred magic, it becomes superfluous. If baptism doesn't "do anything" it can be ignored. And that's exactly what is happening in our denomination. Fewer and fewer of our young people are getting baptized, even though they identify as Christians. 

Simply put, baptism as mere symbol is empty and discardable as nothing "really happens." But baptism as "sacred magic," as ontological transformation, becomes both necessary and urgent.

In John Milbank and Aaron Riches' Forward to Gregory Shaw's Theurgy and the Soul: The Neoplatonism of Iamblichus they make connections between Iamblician theurgy and the Christian sacramental imagination. 

What we witness in Christ's Incarnation, argue Milbank and Riches, is the divine embrace of material reality. They write:

Iamblichus's non-dualistic sense of the interrelation of the material and the divine, along with his emphasis of rite and "liturgy," found remarkable common cause with orthodox Christianity (as opposed to its Manichean and Gnostic variants).

[For] Iamblichus--in contradistinction to the dualistic and gnostic deprecation of matter which marred so much of non-Christian thought of the era--incarnate being is precisely the vehicle of salvation through theurgy...There is no escape from mediation, from the "sacramental," and from images; indeed it is only via these material facts that the soul receives (as by a quasi-"Grace") the theurgy of the gods, the divine action that transforms the soul into godlikeness. All of this is remarkably akin to the sacramental and liturgical practice of Christianity, which finally understands the ascent of the human soul to God, not so much as a mere ascent of the soul, but rather as a paradoxical ascent of the soul rooted in the Incarnate descent of God from heaven relived and participated in Christian liturgy, which insofar as it is a "work-of-the-people" is finally and most truly a grace imbued by the power and action of the Holy Spirit. 

As an example of this incarnational embrace, matter as mediating grace, Milbank and Riches cite John of Damascus' defense of icons ("which included cloth, metal, ivory, wood, manuscript illustrations, frescoes, mosaics, and statues") against the dualistic and anti-matter sentiments of the iconoclasts. John of Damascus says, "in terms highly reminiscent of Iamblichus":

I do not venerate matter, I venerate the fashioner of matter, who became matter for my sake and accepted to dwell in matter and through matter worked my salvation, and I will not cease from reverencing matter, through which my salvation was worked...[For] if the body of God has become God unchangeably through the hypostatic union, what gives anointing remains, and what was by nature animated with a rational and intellectual soul is formed, it is not uncreated. Therefore I reverence the rest of matter and hold in respect that through which my salvation came, because it is filled with divine energy and grace.

Due to the Incarnation, observe Milbank and Riches, "matter is pregnant with power to communicate what is most radically beyond matter." The imagination tips here toward the magical. Matter is "filled with divine energy and grace." Matter is charged with divine power. Beyond the power of liturgy, then, consider this episode from Acts 19:

And God was doing extraordinary miracles by the hands of Paul, so that even handkerchiefs or aprons that had touched his skin were carried away to the sick, and their diseases left them and the evil spirits came out of them.

Notice in this story the role of mediation. Grace comes through material objects, Paul's handkerchiefs and aprons. Matter becomes a (borderline magical) mediator of divine grace and power. As Milbank and Riches continue:

In John as in Iamblichus, the conviction of matter's worthiness to image the divine origin means that matter itself is receptive of the divine, and can therefore be a vehicle of communication of divine energy. Through rites and prayers, the divine power of matter to be receptive to the divine energy is unlocked, making it thereby a vehicle of the soul's receptivity to the divine energy. 

This is the same vision we saw in Pseudo-Dionysus who wrote, "Using matter, one may be lifted up to the immaterial archetypes." Grace is mediated through sacramental acts, rites, and material objects. 

Lastly, to give a practical example, Milbank and Riches also describe how prayer is theurgic. Prayer is not about changing God's mind. Nor is prayer self-therapy. Prayer is "attunement" with the divine that "will truly allow the divine influence to flow into reality." God is Light and prayer, through attunement with the Light, becomes a window through which the Light "flows" into our material reality to illuminate and transfigure. 

Once again, theurgy is weirding our categories. Instead of prayer being a mere "talking" to God at a distance, prayer is theurgic as it allows a "divine influence to flow" which brings about an ontological transformation, the material uniting with the spiritual. Viewed from this ontological angle, a unitive vision of prayer, prayer could be described as a practice of "sacred magic." Not that anyone would or should so describe prayer, but our perspective about "what happens" in prayer is being deepened and illuminated. 

"pay attention"

Psalm 107 is the start of Book V of the Psalter. Book IV is heavy with exilic themes, and Book V turns to praise, thanksgiving, and hope. Some scholars see Psalm 107 as a direct response to the cry of Psalm 106. The final petition Psalm 106 is:

Save us, Lord our God,
and gather us from the nations,
so that we may give thanks to your holy name
and rejoice in your praise.

And at the very start of Psalm 107 there is a reply:

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
his faithful love endures forever.
Let the redeemed of the Lord proclaim
that he has redeemed them from the power of the foe
and has gathered them from the lands—
from the east and the west,
from the north and the south.

The rest of Psalm 107 continues to meditate upon God's deliverance reflecting a familiar cycle in Scripture: Distress → Cry to the LORD → Deliverance → Thanksgiving. The source of the distress varies through the psalm:

Lost in the wilderness without water or food: "Some wandered in the desolate wilderness, finding no way to a city where they could live. They were hungry and thirsty." (vv. 4-5) 

Imprisoned and oppressed: "Others sat in darkness and gloom—prisoners in cruel chains." (v. 10)

Consequences of sin: "Fools suffered affliction because of their rebellious ways and their iniquities." (v. 17) 

Storms at sea: "Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress. He stilled the storm to a whisper." (v. 28-29)

After this litany of distress and deliverance, the psalm ends with a wisdom-style reflection. Narration turns to moral instruction:

When they are diminished and are humbled
by cruel oppression and sorrow,
he pours contempt on nobles
and makes them wander in a trackless wasteland.
But he lifts the needy out of their suffering
and makes their families multiply like flocks.
The upright see it and rejoice,
and all injustice shuts its mouth.

Let whoever is wise pay attention to these things
and consider the Lord’s acts of faithful love.

The chastisements of the Lord "diminish and humble." Contempt is poured out upon the nobles. By contrast, "the needy" are lifted out of their suffering and flourish. It seems, to my eye, that the punishment Israel suffers is being directed at the ruling elites. Perhaps because it was their unfaithfulness that brought about the calamity. 

Regardless, the poem ends with the call to "pay attention" to the two paths being described. The nobles wander in trackless wasteland versus the flourishing families of the needy. The wise "pay attention to these things" and "consider the Lord's acts of faithful love."

Why is it wise to "pay attention" to this cycle of sin and deliverance of pride and chastisement?

I've been reading Julian of Norwich's Revelations of Divine Love, and toward the end of her "showings" Julian spends significant time discussing how necessary it is to reflect upon our sin and failures. A lot of people miss this in Julian. Given Julian's "all shall be well" optimism and her focus upon God's love, spiritual but not religious types typically turn Julian into a sentimentalist. Julian herself recognized this as a temptation of her visions, how their optimism could take our attention away from our failures. Thus, late in the Revelations God turns Julian away from the rapturous visions and back toward her own sin:

When He showed me that I would sin, because of the joy that I had in beholding Him, I did not readily pay attention to that showing, and our courteous Lord stopped then, and would not teach me further until He gave me grace and the will to pay attention.

From this I was taught that although we are nobly lifted up into contemplation by the particular gift of our Lord, yet it is necessary for us along with that to have knowledge and awareness of our sin and our weakness. Without this knowledge we cannot have true humility, and without this humility we cannot be saved.

That's a concise summary of the conclusion of Psalm 107. For Julian, the Lord halts the positive and happy revelations because she glossed over, understandably so, the showing that pointed out her sin. Consequently, the Lord stops and has Julian go back to "pay attention" to her failures. And just like Psalm 107's call, this need to "pay attention" concerns the cultivation of humility. For without humility, Julian says, we cannot be saved. 

That said, Julian goes on to say that we can become too fixated upon our sin, growing sad, despairing, fearful, and morbid. So, while it is necessary to pay attention to our failures, Julian says "be not much bothered by sin." What we should pay most attention to is the Lord's mercy, grace, and love. Healthy spiritual vision is both bifocal and asymmetrical. Bifocal in that we pay attention to both sin and the Lord's mercy. This bifocal vision keeps us humble. But our sight is also asymmetrical in that we pay much greater attention to the Lord's love and compassion. This  bifocal and asymmetrical vision is precisely what Psalm 107 portrays.

So, pay attention to your sin. Without humility you cannot be saved. But be not much bothered by your sin. Keep your focus upon the Lord's acts of faithful love.

In the last post I introduced the concept of theurgy in the thought of the Neoplatonic philosopher Iamblichus. 

As mentioned, theurgy eventually was incorporated into Christian thought. The critical link here is Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. 

Tradition describes Dionysius the Areopagite as being the convert of Paul from Acts 17.34: "Some of the people became followers of Paul and believed. Among them was Dionysius, a member of the Areopagus." After his conversion, Dionysius became the Bishop of Athens and is recognized as a saint in the Catholic and Orthodox traditions.

In the early sixth century, a collection of mystical writings called the Corpus Areopagiticum or Corpus Dionysiacum appeared which was pseudepigraphically attributed to Dionysius the Areopagite. The author of these works is unknown and thus is called Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite.

Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite is an important figure in Christian theology, generally recognized as a seminal voice in the apophatic theological tradition. One could call him "The Father of Apophatic Theology." 

Pseudo-Dionysius was deeply influenced by Neoplatonism, so much so he is controversial in some theological circles. Martin Luther, for example, felt Pseudo-Dionysius was too Greek, that Platonic philosophy had compromised his theology. But many theologians have been profoundly influenced by Pseudo-Dionysius, from Maximus the Confessor to Bonaventure. For my part, Pseudo-Dionysius' The Divine Names had a profound impact upon me.

Due to his Neoplatonism, it's not surprising that Pseudo-Dionysius describes theurgy, mentioning it twenty-five times in his Corpus, along with other variants of the word.  

Now, how similar is Dionysian theurgy to Iamblichian theurgy? A debate rages about this. Some scholars, wanting to draw a hard line between pagan theurgy and Christian liturgy, see Pseudo-Dionysius as making a break with Iamblichus. Other scholars argue that this hard contrast is being imposed by anxious Christian scholars wanting to quarantine Christian thought from pagan contamination. These scholars see Dionysian theurgy as straightforwardly similar to Iamblichian theurgy only translated into a Christian liturgical context.  

For example, Pseudo-Dionysius describes how the divine light of God descends to earth with the goal of raising us up. Here are the opening lines of The Celestial Hierarchy:

Inspired by the Father, each procession of Light spreads itself generously toward us, and, in its power to unify, it stirs us up by lifting us up. It returns us back to the oneness and deifying simplicity of the Father who gathers us in...However, this divine ray can enlighten us only by being upliftingly concealed in a variety of sacred veils which the providence of the Father adapts to our nature as human beings.

These "sacred veils" are Christian symbols and liturgical practices. As Pseudo-Dionysius writes, human beings need "perceptible things to lift us up" toward God:

For it is quite impossible that we humans should, in any material way, rise up to imitate and to contemplate the heavenly hierarchies without the aid of those material means capable of guiding us as our nature requires. 

Similar to Iamblichian theurgy, Pseudo-Dionysius describes how, through "material means" and "perceptible things," human beings are lifted up toward God and divinized. For Pseudo-Dionysius these "material means" and "perceptible things" are encountered in the Christian liturgy. Pseudo-Dionysius describes how liturgical participation leads to union and communion with the divine. As Pseudo-Dionysius says, Christian liturgy uses "varied symbolism determined from the realm of perception, symbolism by means of which there is a sacred uplifting to the divine." For example, here is Pseudo-Dionysius describing the Eucharist in theurgic terms:

The hierarch [the priest] speaks in praise of the most sacred works of God, sets about the performance of the most divine acts, and lifts into view the things praised through the sacredly displayed symbols. Having thus revealed the kindly gifts of the works of God, he himself comes into communion with them and exhorts the others to follow him.

The priest "sets about the performance of the most divine acts" and presents before the congregation the "sacred symbols." In doing so the priest "comes into communion" with God and exhorts the congregation to "follow him" into that theurgic union. Through the liturgical symbolism and rites there is "a sacred uplifting to the divine."

The point of this union is divinization. As Pseudo-Dionysius says, “the assimilation to, and union with, God, as far as attainable, is deification." The liturgical rites aren't just ceremonial or symbolic. Through the liturgy we are raised by the divine Light and this effects an ontological change upon us. Liturgy is theurgy, a practice of sacred magic.

If that sounds strange, here's how the theologian John Milbank describes liturgy-as-theurgy in Pseudo-Dionysius:

Thus for Dionysius, as for Iamblichus and Proclus, God is ‘there’ for us not when we ‘look’ at him, but rather when we call upon him and perform actions atuned to him. This ‘higher magic’ is not merely automatic...and it is not possible to influence God, but rather it is possible to atune ourselves and the cosmos to a greater receptivity of the divine. How else are we to understand prayer without reducing it either to a mythical attempt to change God’s mind, or else to mere self-therapy? Clearly liturgical prayer is indeed a kind of higher magic.

All this might be a bit too much for some, describing liturgy as "sacred" or "higher" magic. But viewing liturgy as theurgy helps keep worship weird. And by "weird" I mean highlighting an ontological dimension of worship that we've wholly lost track of, or never recognized in the first place. 

For example, for the most part I don't think we know what worship is "for." Worship mainly seems to be a moralistic and therapeutic exercise. We worship God because we are told to do so, we're following the rules, and we also hope to get something out of it by way of insight, inspiration, or social connection. Liturgy as theurgy, however, brings in a spookier, more mystical, more ontological element. Liturgy, as the theurgic work of God, lifts us into the divine presence where we, ourselves, become more godlike in divinization and deification. This is a view of worship ancient Christians would have readily understood which we, by contrast, find pretty weird. 

The theological term for "sacred magic" is theurgy. 

Theurgy has its origins in Neoplatonism. Consequently, before we examine Christian descriptions of theurgy let's back up a bit to survey the thought of the Neoplatonic philosopher Iamblichus (c. 245-325). 

Late in the third century paganism was in decline, dealing with stiff competition from a new religious movement: Christianity. Facing this crisis, Iamblichus, the greatest Platonic philosopher of his time, was called upon to articulate a holistic and compelling vision of Neoplatonic faith and practice. Critical to this task was integrating the philosophically-inflected faith of the Neoplatonic philosophers with the cultic practices of the common folk. In setting about this task, some scholars have suggested that Iamblichus was trying to make paganism more "competitive" with Christianity among the masses. But a deeper analysis of Iamblichus' project is that he was trying to overcome Neoplatonism's dualistic and pessimistic rejection of the material world, a dismissal of material reality that Iamblichus felt was antithetical to Plato's vision. And it's here, with Iamblichus' interest in uniting the spiritual with the material, where our exploration of theurgy begins. 

The book to read about all this is Gregory Shaw's Theurgy and the Soul: The Neoplatonism of Iamblichus (make sure you get the second edition which has a forward by John Milbank and Aaron Riches). 

Again, and as Shaw describes in Theurgy and the Soul, Iamblichus feared that Neoplatonism was losing contact with the material world. In seeking to reconnect the spiritual realm with the material, Iamblichus sought to elevate the role theurgy (literally, "god work") over theologia (literally, "god talk") in Roman cultic life. For Iamblichus, the cultic practices of pagan worship were more important in bringing human life into contact with the gods than was philosophical speculation. For Iamblichus, ritual was central in bringing about divine union. As Shaw observes:

Iamblichus believed the world described by Plato in the Timaeus was being torn apart by a new kind of Platonism that denied the sanctity of the world and elevated the human mind beyond its natural limits. According to Iamblichus such rationalistic hubris threatened to separate man from the activity of the gods, and he presented theurgy as the antidote to restore contact with the divine order...

In theurgy these divine principles were embodied and enacted, not merely contemplated, and in whatever context this occurred it was a "work of the gods," a theourgia in which the human soul participated both as recipient and beneficiary...

With theurgy Iamblichus hoped to recover Plato's positive orientation to the cosmos. At issue was the divinity of the world, and for Iamblichus the most effective means to acknowledge this was the performance of rites that conformed the soul to its sacred order.

According to Iamblichus, cultic rites and rituals allowed the material to participate in the spiritual order. In denigrating the cultic practices of pagan observance, argued Iamblichus, the Neoplatonic philosophers were evacuating the world of its sacred connection and character. Simply put, in despising the material world Neoplatonic philosophy was effecting its disenchantment. As Iamblichus writes in On the Mysteries:

This doctrine spells the ruin of all holy ritual and theurgic communion between gods and men, since it places the presence of superior beings outside the earth. It amounts to saying that the divine is at a distance from the earth and cannot mingle with men, and that this lower region is a desert, without gods.

Due to their spiritualizing and gnostic inclinations, along with denigrating cultic rituals, Neoplatonic philosophers we turning this world into a spiritual "desert," a world devoid of divine presence, a disenchanted place "without gods." Thus, by restoring divine presence and participation in pagan cultic observance Iamblichus sought a re-enchantment of the material world. Here's how Iamblichus describes what is happening in the theurgic rituals:

The whole of theurgy presents a double aspect. One is that it is conducted by men, which preserves our natural rank in the universe; the other is that, being empowered by divine symbols, it is raised up through them to be united with the gods and is led harmoniously into their order. This can rightly be called taking the shape of the gods.

Milbank and Riches summarize Iamblichus' vision of theurgy: 

Through rites and prayers, the divine power of matter to be receptive to the divine energy is unlocked, making it thereby a vehicle of the soul's receptivity to the divine energy.

Here is where the notion of "sacred magic" enters in, with this notion that "through rites and prayers" we can unlock the "divine power of matter to be receptive to the divine energy." 

Let's step back to see how theurgy compares to how we typically think about magic. Generally speaking, magic attempts to control, direct, or compel some supernatural power or potency. Call this sorcery. Sorcery is roundly and consistently condemned in the Bible and Christian tradition. But is Iamblichian theurgy an example of sorcery? To many Christian observers, like Augustine, it appeared so. Pagan rites and rituals looked to be attempts to appease, petition, summon, control, or compel the gods. And it's also important to note that the early Christians described the pagan gods as demons. Which casts theurgy in a very diabolical light.

However, Shaw argues that this was a misunderstanding of Iamblichian theurgy. According to Iamblichus, the goal of theurgy was not manipulation but participation.  As "sacred magic" the goal wasn't control but union. Theurgy lifted human existence toward the divine in a process of divinization. Shaw summarizes Iamblichus's own contrasting of theurgy with sorcery:

Iamblichus argued that theurgy had nothing to do with sorcery or wonder-working. Theurgy employed ritual to subordinate man to the divine will--precisely the opposite of sorcery. For Iamblichus, theurgic rites revealed the vestiges of a divine presence. That presence was ineffable, but what lay beyond man's intellectual grasp could nevertheless be entered and achieved through ritual action...

Sacred magic, therefore, as a theurgic practice, seeks alignment, attunement, and conformity with the sacred realm. Subordination to the divine will, not its manipulation. That these practices are "magical," and not just "moral" or "symbolic," points to how the rites and rituals create "receptivity" to "divine energy." 

Perhaps this simplification will help make the similarities and dissimilarities between sorcerous magic and sacred/theurgic magic more clear:

Sorcerous Magic = Ritual + Intent: Manipulation of Divine Will + Goal: Control of Divine Energy

Sacred/Theurgic Magic = Ritual + Intent: Subordination to Divine Will + Goal: Receptive to Divine Energy

As we'll come to see, the Neoplatonic vision of theurgy will be pulled into the Christian tradition. Theurgy becomes a properly Christian concept. We'll be turning to that part of the story next. But before we leave Neoplatonic theurgy behind, let's pause to reflect on Question 2 from Part 1. Specifically, is this concept of theurgy doing anything new, different, or valuable for us? 

For example, consider describing the Catholic practice of making the Sign of the Cross as theurgy, as a practice of sacred magic. From the Catechism of the Catholic Church:

The Christian begins his day, his prayers, and his activities with the Sign of the Cross: "in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." The baptized person dedicates the day to the glory of God and calls on the Savior's grace which lets him act in the Spirit as a child of the Father. The sign of the cross strengthens us in temptations and difficulties.

Following from what we've described above, the Sign of the Cross can be described as theurgic, as a practice of sacred magic. First, there is a ritual (you physically make the sign). Second, the motivation behind making the sign is not manipulative but participatory, seeking attunement and conformity with the divine will. Third, the ritual makes the individual receptive to and a receptacle of divine energy and power. The sign "calls on the Savior's grace" which empowers the person to "act in the Spirit as a child of the Father" and "strengthens us in temptations and difficulties." The sign isn't a moralistic gesture. Nor is it merely symbolic. The sign is theurgic.  

Now, the rejoinder here is that we don't need the words "theurgic" or "magical" to describe something like the Sign of the Cross. We already have a word for this, and that word is "sacramental." The Catholic church describes sacramentals, like the Sign of the Cross, as prayers, gestures and signs that "prepare us to receive grace and dispose us to cooperate with it." Now, this is a theurgic description, but in being so appears to make the words "theurgy" and "sacred magic" superfluous and unnecessarily complicating. Just call the Sign of the Cross sacramental.   

True enough, this convergence between the theurgic and the sacramental is where this series is going. Which is why I raised Question 2 in the first post: Even if we can come up with an orthodox description of sacred magic (e.g., sacred magic = theurgic = sacramental) is there anything new here? Why come up with new words when the old ones will do?

In reply, let me suggest that my (perhaps too early in the series) connection between the theurgic and the sacramental is allowing the concept of theurgy to weird our notions of "sacrament" and "sacramental." My strong suspicion is that, especially among Protestants, our understanding of "sacrament" is more symbolic than theurgic. Consequently, some sacred magic might be helpful in weirding our views of "the sacramental." A stranger, spookier, and more magical view of the sacraments is closer to their ontological reality.  

Even Catholics need an intervention. Last year, the US Church called for a "Eucharistic Revival" as surveys were showing that the majority of American Catholics no longer believed in the real presence. The Catholic vision of the sacrament had moved away from the theurgic toward the symbolic. 

All that to say, I hope you can see in these last few paragraphs how the concept of theurgy is already doing some useful work for us, if only to highlight how once robustly sacramental imaginations have become increasingly arid and disenchanted. 

I recently mentioned that I had been reading Valentin Tomberg's Meditations on the Tarot: A Journey into Christian Hermeticism. I shared that I entertained doing a series on the book, but feared it would be a bit too much for many readers. A certain degree of cognitive flexibility would be required that I think is pretty rare. For example, I expect merely seeing the word "Tarot" in the title of Tomberg's book is probably too triggering for many. And if you can't make it past the title, there's not much hope in exploring the contents of the book.

Meditations on the Tarot is an exploration of esoteric and Hermetic traditions and how those can be integrated into Christian orthodoxy. Tomberg spent his youth immersed in esoteric traditions, eventually becoming a figure in Rudolf Steiner's Anthroposophical movement, which was Steiner's break from the Theosophy movement. Tomberg eventually left Anthroposophy and converted to Catholicism. In Meditations on the Tarot Tomberg attempts a synthesis between his esoteric knowledge and his Catholic faith. And to be very clear, Meditations on the Tarot has nothing to do with divination. Tomberg approaches the Major Arcana of the Tarot as archetypes, so each chapter is just Tomberg reflecting on the symbolism of the card. For example, what is the symbolism of The Fool card or The Hermit card? And so on. Tomberg does all this within the guardrails of the Catholic faith, though he colors outside the lines here and there. 

As you can imagine, this is a very eclectic brew which demands, especially from traditional and fundamentalist Christians, a more generous and curious posture than what is typically found in these audiences in regards to esoteric traditions. A collective freakout is, rather, the expected response. And it's that freakout that makes me hesitant to do an entire series on Meditations on the Tarot. 

As I pondered the freakout that a series on Meditations on the Tarot would likely engender, I zeroed in on the issue I think is the big sticking point, a place where I think some productive and creative work could be done. Now, this will still be triggering! But I think, on the whole, constructive and edifying. 

The issue concerns the prospect and legitimacy of "sacred magic." Tomberg talks a lot about sacred magic in Meditations on the Tarot, and those references to sacred magic, without some prior theological work, would be too upsetting for many Christian readers. The category of "magic" within Christianity is verboten, illicit, heretical, and taboo. Sorcery and magical practices are condemned in Scripture, and have been throughout the Christian tradition. Magic is, simply, anti-Christian. So how in the world can someone like Valentin Tomberg, and others within the Christian esoteric tradition, carve out a space for something called "sacred magic," a magic that fits within the safe territory of Christian orthodoxy? 

For example, since writing these posts over three months ago, a freakout about sacred magic is currently occurring due to the publication of Sebastian Morello's book Mysticism, Magic, and Monasteries. In a review of Morello's book, Michael Warren Davis sounded the heresy alarm. Morello responded and again here. Others have been pulled into their debate, on both sides. Reading those pieces you can get a sense of how the conversation about sacred magic is taking place online right now.   

Stepping into these contentious and roiling waters is the subject of this series. 

Here are the questions I'd like to explore in this series:

1. Can sacred magic be a legitimate expression of orthodox Christian belief and practice?

2. Even if sacred magic can be integrated into orthodox Christianity, does the category of "sacred magic" add anything new or of value to Christian belief and practice?

3. Even if sacred magic adds something of value to Christian belief and practice, does it bring along temptations, confusions, and potential for abuses that makes its inclusion into Christian belief and practice unwise?

These are different sorts of questions. Much of this series will be an investigation of Question 1, the theological legitimacy and orthodoxy of sacred magic. I'll share in this series a theological description of sacred magic that, I think, is orthodox. And yet, as you'll discover in this series, I'll do so by simply redefining and redescribing the vocabulary of Christian esotericism into more traditional Christian categories. For example, in this series we'll describe (or redescribe) liturgy, the sacraments, and prayer as practices of "sacred magic."

And yet, in offering such a redescription, haven't we just rendered the esoteric vocabulary obsolete? If we already have words and concepts for this stuff why resort to esoteric words and concepts? This is the issue of Question 2 above. Even if sacred magic can be given an orthodox Christian definition does the addition of sacred magic as a theological category add anything new or of value? If it doesn't, why mess with it?

Which brings us to Question 3. Let's say the category of sacred magic is both orthodox and brings some value. We still face the issue of risk. Is the purported value of inclusion worth the risk of misunderstanding, confusion, and abuse? We might conclude that the category of sacred magic is orthodox and valuable, but that its attendant risks are too great, mitigating against its wider introduction into Christian thought. The costs might exceed any benefits. If so, sacred magic might be legitimated but left on the shelf.  

So, here at the start, let me lay my cards on the table. I think it's possible to give sacred magic an orthodox Christian definition (Question 1). I will also suggest that "sacred magic" can be useful in thinking about the spiritual life (Question 2), mainly in how it highlights ontological dynamics in the Christian life that are increasingly overlooked or denied. However, concerning the issue of risk and misuse (Question 3) I am undecided. As recent the social media dustups have illustrated, I cannot say for sure if the value of adding "sacred magic" into our theological conversations is worth the confusions, controversies, and attendant risks. And during this series you'll get to make your own determinations about Questions 1, 2 and 3.

To conclude this introductory post, why am I interested in a conversation about sacred magic?

First, the word "magic" is used in the title of my book Hunting Magic Eels. And in the book I use the words "magic" and "magical" to describe the spiritual life. In the paperback edition I also talk about Brandon Sanderson's theories about hard and soft "magical systems" in fiction to describe Christian enchantment as a "soft magical world." And as you might expect, conservative readers of Hunting Magic Eels have been put off by my use of the word "magic." For the same reason I'm hesitant to do a series about Tomberg's Meditations on the Tarot given its references to magic. In defending my use of the word "magic" and "magical" in Hunting Magic Eels, I've mainly shared that I'm using those words in a allusive, poetic fashion. By "magical" I mean "supernatural," "miraculous," and something that goes beyond material, factual, scientific descriptions. I use "magical" to playfully and provocatively interrupt our default assumptions of causal closure, that the world is a deterministic machine. 

In short, since the publication of Hunting Magic Eels I've spend a lot of time defending the world "magic" in relation to Christian belief and experience. For the most part my defense has been something like this, "By 'magic' I don't really mean 'magic,' I mean 'supernatural' or 'miraculous.'" To which a conservative critic rightfully responds, "Then why don't you just say that? Why flirt with the occult?" Which is a fair point to make, and it's caused me to ponder if there is any orthodox overlap between magic and Christian belief. Consequently, when I discovered Tomberg's vision of sacred magic in Meditations on the Tarot I was intrigued. Maybe sacred magic is a legitimate way to talk about magic from within the Christian tradition.

The other thing that interests me about this conversation concerns post-Christian evangelism and the need for spiritual formation efforts in the church to "Keep Christianity Weird" in order to push back upon the cultural forces of disenchantment. As I describe in Hunting Magic Eels, the Christian imagination, especially in Protestantism, has become excessively materialistic and moralistic. This creates a spiritual aridity that leads to disenchantment and deconversion. Keeping Christianity weird means leaning into the spooky, strange, supernatural, and miraculous in an effort to halt and reverse this drift into a skeptical disenchantment. Because of this, I'm interested in exploring anything that keeps Christianity weird. Which is what drew me to Tomberg's Meditations on the Tarot. Because Christian esotericism is very weird! But weirdness might be valuable, it might be a resource. So that's why I'm interested in thinking about sacred magic. The weirding of Christianity. 

Which is what I hope you'll find in this series, some real Christian weirdness. Not to be weird for its own sake, but weird in thinking outside our settled categories to encounter a Christianity stranger and more capacious than previously imagined. A faith that is enchanted, supernatural, miraculous, and...yes...perhaps even magical.

A few years ago I was beating the drum a great deal about the necessity and unavoidability of metaphysics. (Since 2007 I've gone through many seasons where I've had a particular bee in my bonnet.) During that time, a lot of readers were confused by what I meant by "metaphysics." Generally, people think metaphysics means some supernatural-type proposition. Like "God exists" or "There is life after death." Things of that sort.

True enough, the examples I've just shared are metaphysical beliefs, but they are not quite what I was describing when I would say things like "metaphysics is unavoidable" or "everyone has a metaphysics." People felt that I was saying that everyone had to believe in the supernatural when clearly they didn't. But when I said "metaphysics is unavoidable" I didn't mean supernatural, I meant axiomatic. 

For reasoning and rational reflection to gain any traction at all, some things have to be taken as axiomatic givens. We have to start with definitions and first principles. And critical to the arguments I've made about the unavoidability of metaphysics is that these axioms, in being first principles, are pre-rational, pre-logical, pre-argument, pre-demonstration, pre-factual. pre-empirical, pre-scientific, and pre-evidentiary. They simply have to be assumed. Thus, axiomatic. Givens. Something that has to be accepted as true simply because it is true.  

While everyone espouses a metaphysics, so defined, rarely are we aware of the axioms that govern our thinking, arguments, and judgments. Thus, atheists don't think they have a metaphysics but that Christians have one. Or how humanists think they aren't engaging in metaphysics like religious believers. But everyone, if you investigate and ask diagnostic questions, deploys axioms in their arguments, unstated commitments and values that cannot themselves be proven which sit at the foundation of their arguments and moral judgments. 

I was recently reminded of these posts and discussions in this space by a famous passage from one of John Henry Newman's sermons. Here it is:

Half the controversies in the world are verbal ones; and could they be brought to a plain issue, they would be brought to a prompt termination. Parties engaged in them would then perceive, either that in substance they agreed together, or that their difference was one of first principles. This is the great object to be aimed at in the present age, though confessedly a very arduous one. We need not dispute, we need not prove,—we need but define. At all events, let us, if we can, do this first of all; and then see who are left for us to dispute with, what is left for us to prove. Controversy, at least in this age, does not lie between the hosts of heaven, Michael and his Angels on the one side, and the powers of evil on the other; but it is a sort of night battle, where each fights for himself, and friend and foe stand together. When men understand each other's meaning, they see, for the most part, that controversy is either superfluous or hopeless.

If I'm taking Newman's meaning correctly, half of our controversies, and I'm thinking mainly here of debates between theists and atheists, are verbal, having to do with first principles. That is to say, axiomatic and metaphysical. We either agree on the axioms, or we don't. And if we don't, the conversation is hopeless. We'll never agree. For example, in ethical debate you either believe people possess inviolate worth and value, or you don't. Another example: Moral goodness exists independently of human judgment or not (i.e., moral realism versus moral relativism). 

A lot of arguments between theists and atheists boil down to disagreements about first principles. And as Newman observes, much of this debate is wasted effort, as either superfluous or hopeless. If you're an atheist and believe, say, in human dignity and moral realism, we find ourselves, friend and foe, standing together. We share these non-empirical and pre-scientific metaphysical commitments. We espouse a shared faith in these axioms. But if you deny the worth of human persons or subscribe to moral relativism, well, debate between us will prove hopeless, for we lack a shared faith in the axioms that undergird our respective metaphysical worldviews. 

"we have done wrong and have acted wickedly"

Like Psalm 105, which we talked about last week, Psalm 106 is a narrative poem recounting the story of Israel. But the focus of Psalm 106 is upon the repeated unfaithfulness of God's people which necessitates a recurring grace. Psalm 106 is a litany of rebellion:

"They rebelled by the sea—the Red Sea."

"They were seized with craving in the wilderness
and tested God in the desert."

"At Horeb they made a calf
and worshiped the cast metal image."

"They despised the pleasant land
and did not believe his promise."

"They aligned themselves with Baal of Peor
and ate sacrifices offered to lifeless gods."

"They angered the Lord at the Waters of Meribah."

"They served their idols,
which became a snare to them."

"They sacrificed their sons and daughters to demons."

Not good! As Psalm 106 baldly puts it, "We have done wrong and have acted wickedly."

And yet, Psalm 106 is a story of grace. Time and time again, God saves and rescues. 

The song was written in an exilic context. Oppressed and enslaved in Babylon, God's people look back over their history in the hope that God will, once again, save them:  

Save us, Lord our God,
and gather us from the nations,
so that we may give thanks to your holy name
and rejoice in your praise.

And God answers! We see that turn come in Isaiah 40: 

“Comfort, comfort my people,”
says your God.
“Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and announce to her
that her time of hard service is over, her iniquity has been pardoned,
and she has received from the Lord’s hand
double for all her sins.”

It's depressing to me how the Old Testament gets castigated as grim and legalistic, shadowed by a wrathful and punitive God in contrast to the loving Jesus we behold in the gospels. The heresy of Marcionism haunts many readers of Scripture, especially progressive readers who find the Old Testament so "problematic." 

But grace dawns in the Old Testament, not the New. Psalm 106 is a great illustration of this. The Lord is merciful, over and over again. And this exilic prayer, offered up in hope, is also answered, definitely so in Jesus. As Isaiah 40 continues:

A voice of one crying out:

Prepare the way of the Lord in the wilderness;
make a straight highway for our God in the desert.
Every valley will be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill will be leveled;
the uneven ground will become smooth
and the rough places, a plain.
And the glory of the Lord will appear,
and all humanity together will see it,
for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.

Jesus marks no disruption between the Old Testament and the New, but is, rather, the continuation and culmination of the grace of God we behold in the story of Israel.

In my theological reflections I have described the death of Jesus on the cross as the Theophany of God's Love. Over against pagan visions of God, God does not need to do anything, by way of sacrifice, in order to forgive us. God is love, and mercy pours forth from God as naturally and organically as light from the sun. Our pardon is simply the expression of God's own self. Thus, what we behold in the cross of Christ is a theophany, a visible disclosure, communication, and manifestation of God's nature.

This idea is not new or liberal. It can be traced through the tradition. A lovely example of this comes from Julian of Norwich's Revelations of the Divine Love. 

Here's what Julian says in Chapter 49:

Our Lord God, so far as He is concerned, cannot forgive--because He cannot be angry--it would be impossible.

What could Julian mean that God "cannot forgive"? Isn't that the whole point of grace, that God forgives us?

What Julian is describing here is what I've often pointed out: God is impassive toward human sin. God doesn't have emotional reactions about our sin. This is what Julian means when she says God "cannot be angry." As Julian says elsewhere in Revelations, there is no wrath in God. Because, again, God doesn't have emotional reactions toward our sin. Consequently, in the death of Jesus there is no change in God's emotions toward us, from wrathful to merciful or from angry to pleased. This is what it means to say God is impassive toward sin. God doesn't have triggered or conflicting emotions. Nor are there emotions within God that demand satisfaction or reconciliation. We cannot find a season in the heart of God (like the interval of time between the Fall and Jesus' death) when we were not forgiven. And if we cannot find a season in the heart of God when we were not forgiven that means we've always been forgiven. Ergo, God cannot forgive us.  

More simply put, if by "forgiveness" you mean a change in the heart of God, this is impossible. God cannot "forgive" if you are describing forgiveness as an emotional flip-flop. Forgiveness can only ever name God's eternal posture of mercy toward human sinfulness, something that never wavers or changes. Forgiveness is simply a description of God's character. God doesn't forgive. God is Forgiveness. And Forgiveness does not need to forgive as it was always Forgiveness. 

Regular readers know how I've described the wrath, judgment, and punishment of God as a relational dynamic. God is Infinite Love and Light and is impassive toward human sin. That is to say, God doesn't get "mad" at sin. Nor does God inflict pain upon the lost. Such notions reflect a pagan, anthropomorphized vision of God, God as emotionally and behaviorally triggered and reactive toward creation.

So what are we to do with the language about judgment, punishment, wrath, and hell in the Biblical texts? Again, as I have argued, these are relational terms that describe human distance from God. Or, to flip this, the proximity of human sinfulness to God. The reactive party is us, not God. This is a Johannine idea:

And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. (John 3:19)

Light enters the world, people respond to the light, and that response is the judgment. Judgment is not imposed or inflicted but is, rather, a consequence of one's relationship/reaction to the light. 

This idea is not new or liberal. It is a very old notion that goes back to the church fathers and can be traced though the tradition. A particularly good example comes from St. John of the Cross' The Dark Night of the Soul. In The Dark Night of the Soul John of the Cross describes the dark night as God's purgation of the soul. God's light shines into the soul's darkness. And yet, this light is experienced by the soul as darkness. Why is that? Because the light of God is blinding to eyes accustomed to the darkness of sin. Similar to how we experience blindness when we step from a darkened space into a bright light. Here is John of the Cross describing the blindness and darkness the soul experiences when it encounters God's light:

Divine things in themselves the darker and more hidden are they to the soul naturally; just as, the clearer is the light, the more it blinds and darkens the pupil of the owl, and, the more directly we look at the sun, the greater is the darkness which it causes in our visual faculty, overcoming and overwhelming it through its own weakness. In the same way, when this Divine light of contemplation assails the soul which is not yet wholly enlightened, it causes spiritual darkness in it; for not only does it overcome it, but likewise it overwhelms it and darkens the act of its natural intelligence...the natural strength of the intellect is transcended and overwhelmed by its great supernatural light...

In addition to blindness and darkness, the incursion of light also causes the soul "affliction and torment." This pain is interpreted by the soul as God's wrath, punishment, and rejection. In the passage below John of the Cross describes this. Note how the dismay of the soul (torment and pain) is taken to be evidence that God is "against" the soul (wrath and judgment) and that God has "cast it away" (separated from God, an experience of hell): 

And it is clear that this dark contemplation is in these its beginnings painful likewise to the soul; for, as this Divine infused contemplation has many excellences that are extremely good, and the soul that receives them, not being purged, has many miseries that are likewise extremely bad, hence it follows that, as two contraries cannot coexist in one subject—the soul—it must of necessity have pain and suffering...[B]ecause the light and wisdom of this contemplation is most bright and pure, and the soul which it assails is dark and impure, it follows that the soul suffers great pain when it receives it in itself, just as, when the eyes are dimmed by humours, and become impure and weak, the assault made upon them by a bright light causes them pain. And when the soul suffers the direct assault of this Divine light, its pain, which results from its impurity, is immense; because, when this pure light assails the soul, in order to expel its impurity, the soul feels itself to be so impure and miserable that it believes God to be against it, and thinks that it has set itself up against God. This causes it sore grief and pain, because it now believes that God has cast it away...

This is what I mean when I describe God's wrath, judgment, and punishment as relational terms. God isn't angry at the human person. Nor is God inflicting pain on the person. God is tranquil and impassive toward human sin. There is no reactive agitation on God's side. But the soul, upon encountering God's Love and Light, experiences it as darkness, torment, pain, judgment, wrath, and hell. 

There is a further point John of the Cross makes: the encounter with God is purgative. While blinding and painful at first, the soul is cleansed and purged. Sight is slowly gained as the soul becomes accustomed to the light. As Jesus says, the pure in heart will see God. 

In The Dark Night of the Soul John of the Cross is describing the soul's mystical union with God. But transpose John's vision into an eschatological key and you get the picture I have often tried to describe concerning God's judgement, wrath, and the soul's experience of hell. When the sinful soul encounters the Light and Love of God it is thrown into "outer darkness" where there will be "weeping and gnashing of teeth." The soul experiences hell and feels cast away. And yet, this experience is purgative, a necessary stage on the soul's journey toward God.

In this series I've made the point that free will concerns our consent to God. It struck me after having concluded this series that we have a wonderful example of this in Mary's response to Gabriel. 

From Luke 1:

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. And the virgin's name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!” But she was greatly troubled at the saying, and tried to discern what sort of greeting this might be. And the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

And Mary said to the angel, “How will this be, since I am a virgin?”

And the angel answered her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be called holy—the Son of God. And behold, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son, and this is the sixth month with her who was called barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.” And Mary said, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” And the angel departed from her.

The Catholic tradition has long recognized Mary's consent as the exemplar and epitome of faith. As the Catechism says, "The Virgin Mary most perfectly embodies the obedience of faith. By faith Mary welcomes the tidings and promise brought by the angel Gabriel, believing that 'with God nothing will be impossible' and so giving her assent: 'Behold I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be [done] to me according to your word.'" 

And also: "At the announcement that she would give birth to 'the Son of the Most High' without knowing man, by the power of the Holy Spirit, Mary responded with the obedience of faith, certain that 'with God nothing will be impossible': 'Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be [done] to me according to your word.' Thus, giving her consent to God's word, Mary becomes the mother of Jesus.'"

Notice the words "assent" and "consent." In Mary we have in hand the biblical vision of "free will," our saying "yes" to God. And as I've also pointed out in this series, in regards to capacity, Mary can do nothing to make herself pregnant. But her assent and consent are necessary for the gift to be given. 

God doesn't override or force the human will. God seeks our consent and participation with grace. In this, Mary is the example, model, and forerunner of us all.

The final point I made in my chapel talk with the students was to note that predestination wasn't just Christological, it was also soteriological.

Again, these students were wrestling with predestination because of an encounter with a crude vision of Calvinism, concluding that they had no free will due to their lives being "predestined" by God. They were in the grip of what might be called a metaphysical determinism, akin to the materialistic determinism we see in scientism. The question is simple: Do I have any choice at all, about anything, if God has predestined my every decision?

As I described in the last post, it's critical to understand that Christ is the Predestined One, not us. Our job is simply to be found in Christ. And if we are found in Christ we have access to the soteriological gifts that come through Christ. Focusing on these gifts is what I mean by predestination being soteriological. Consider, for a final time, the passage from Ephesians 1. This time I'll underline the soteriological gifts that are predestined to come through Christ:

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace, which he lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight making known to us the mystery of his will, according to his purpose, which he set forth in Christ as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.

In him we have obtained an inheritance, having been predestined according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will, so that we who were the first to hope in Christ might be to the praise of his glory. In him you also, when you heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and believed in him, were sealed with the promised Holy Spirit, who is the guarantee of our inheritance until we acquire possession of it, to the praise of his glory.

What is being predestined here are gifts, not choices. In Christ we are blessed with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places. We become God's adopted children who are sealed with the Holy Spirit. We are redeemed and forgiven. These are the gifts that have been predestined for those found in Christ. As I pointed out in the last post, predestination isn't about God micromanaging our lives. Predestination concerns gifts made available in Christ. 

Which brings us back to free will and how we must consent to being found in Christ. As Augustine said, God will not save us without our consent. While we did not agree to our first birth, we must agree to our second. And upon that consent we receive the gifts predestined to those who are found in Christ.

Further, this consent doesn't evacuate life of drama. The choices we make in Christ have real existential weight. Perhaps the best articulation of this comes from 1 Corinthians 3, a passage I've reflected on before in this space:

According to the grace of God given to me, like a skilled master builder I laid a foundation, and someone else is building upon it. Let each one take care how he builds upon it. For no one can lay a foundation other than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ. Now if anyone builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw—each one's work will become manifest, for the Day will disclose it, because it will be revealed by fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each one has done. If the work that anyone has built on the foundation survives, he will receive a reward. If anyone's work is burned up, he will suffer loss, though he himself will be saved, but only as through fire.

Here is both security and real drama. Those who are in Christ, the Predestined One, stand on a firm foundation. Soteriological security. Eschatological assurance. But the choices we make have real effects and real consequences. As Paul warns, take care how you build! Why take care? Because the quality of your choices will be tested. For those who make poor choices, they will suffer loss. For those who make good choices, they will receive a reward. This is the drama of the Christian life, a contingency of loss and reward based upon our choices that being found "in Christ" does not eradicate or absolve. Do the choices I make with my life matter? Yes! Which is why Paul exhorts us: "Take care how you build."

Not that we build alone. Again, even the poor builders are standing on the foundation of Christ. And all those found in Christ are filled with the Holy Spirit. Our will partners with God and is empowered by God. The tradition calls this view synergism, our will working dynamically and cooperatively, via our consenting "yes," with God's will. To go back to the first post, synergism keeps both consent and capacity in view. We must consent to being saved, but we cannot save ourselves. This partnership is beautifully captured by Philippians 2:

Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.

This dance between our free "yes" to God and the empowerment God graces us is the drama and adventure of the Christian life.

"Remember"

Psalm 105 is one of those psalms where Israel shares, recounts, and reflects upon her story. The call at the start of the song is to remember:

Remember the wondrous works he has done.

So the song remembers. The promises made to Abraham and Isaac. The story of Joseph. Israel coming to live in Egypt. Moses, the ten plagues, and the Exodus. The Lord's provision in the desert wanderings.

In Hunting Magic Eels I describe enchantment as a discipline of memory. The "wondrous works" of God in our lives are not everyday affairs. Like Israel, many of these moments are in our past. And as time passes our faith begins to dissipate like a mist. God becomes a distant memory.

Given this drift, Psalm 105 sets before us a spiritual practice. Enchantment is a recovery of memory. For small groups who have used Hunting Magic Eels one of the most impactful things they have done is simply telling their stories, revisiting those moments in their lives where God acted wondrously. For many, these events were years, even decades, ago. But in remembering faith is rekindled. 

The story I tell in Hunting Magic Eels to illustrate this relationship between enchantment and memory is from the life of Blaise Pascal.  

Pascal had a profound encounter with God on the evening of November 23, 1654. The experience lasted two hours, beginning at 10:30 p.m. and ending at 12:30 a.m. Pascal wrote an account of the experience, here, in his own words:

The year of grace 1654,
Monday, 23 November, feast of St. Clement, pope and martyr, and others in the martyrology.
Vigil of St. Chrysogonus, martyr, and others.
From about half past ten at night until about half past midnight,
FIRE.
GOD of Abraham, GOD of Isaac, GOD of Jacob not of the philosophers and of the learned.
Certitude. Certitude. Feeling. Joy. Peace.
GOD of Jesus Christ.
My God and your God.
Your GOD will be my God.
Forgetfulness of the world and of everything, except GOD.
He is only found by the ways taught in the Gospel.
Grandeur of the human soul.
Righteous Father, the world has not known you, but I have known you.
Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy.
I have departed from him:
They have forsaken me, the fount of living water.
My God, will you leave me?
Let me not be separated from him forever.
This is eternal life, that they know you, the one true God, and the one that you sent,
Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ.
I left him; I fled him, renounced, crucified.
Let me never be separated from him.
He is only kept securely by the ways taught in the Gospel:
Renunciation, total and sweet.
Complete submission to Jesus Christ and to my director.
Eternally in joy for a day’s exercise on the earth.
May I not forget your words. 

Amen.

We know about this experience because, upon his death, it was discovered that Pascal had pinned this written account to the inside of his coat. He carried it with him, wherever he went. That is a discipline of memory, fidelity to the moments of grace that have been gifted us. 

Just like Psalm 105, Pascal would remember. 

Beyond pointing out how Paul's language of predestination is largely concerned with God's plan to include the Gentile into Israel's story, the other thing I pointed out for my students concerned who, exactly, is being predestined. 

I'm taking my cue here from Karl Barth and his Christological interpretation of election and predestination in the Reformed tradition. 

Simply put, according to Barth Christ is one who is elected and predestined, not us. You see this quite clearly in the same passage from Ephesians referenced in the last post. In resharing, I'll underline all the Christocentric references about election, purposes, promises, and predestination: 

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace, which he lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight making known to us the mystery of his will, according to his purpose, which he set forth in Christ as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.

In him we have obtained an inheritance, having been predestined according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will, so that we who were the first to hope in Christ might be to the praise of his glory. In him you also, when you heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and believed in him, were sealed with the promised Holy Spirit, who is the guarantee of our inheritance until we acquire possession of it, to the praise of his glory.

The point couldn't be clearer. We are blessed in Christ. We were chosen in Christ. We receive the promises in Christ. We were predestined in Christ. 

This is Barth's point. Christ is the Predestined One. Christ is God's plan from before the foundation of the world. And we gain access to salvation by being found in Christ. Phrased somewhat weirdly, Christ is the predestined receptacle of salvation. Our fates are determined by whether or not we are "in" that receptacle. And if we are, all predestined benefits accrue to us. 

All this helps to displace an overly narcissistic understanding of predestination. For example, the question my students are concerned with is, "Are all my actions and choices predestined?" The focus is upon me. But Barth helps us see that we aren't the ones who are predestined. Christ is the Predestined One, and the only one. The question facing my life is whether I am in Christ or not. And if I am, I have been predestined to glory in Christ.