"he did not think to show kindness"

Psalm 109 is one of those infamous imprecatory psalms. Curses--quite a lot of them and very detailed!--are called down upon a wicked person. 

Not surprisingly, I find reading through the litany of curses in Psalm 109 uncomfortable. The most famous imprecatory psalm is Psalm 137. Psalm 137 cuts like a knife, slapping you across the face with its final line. Psalm 109 is different. Rather than a sudden punch to the gut, Psalm 109 is a slow cumulative build up. Woe is piled on top of woe, and you find yourself wincing as it goes on and on. 

I do find it helpful, though, to bring the wicked person into view. Here's the description: 

For he did not think to show kindness,
but pursued the suffering, needy, and brokenhearted
in order to put them to death.
He loved cursing—let it fall on him;
he took no delight in blessing—let it be far from him.
He wore cursing like his coat—
let it enter his body like water
and go into his bones like oil.

So, not a nice person. And we've encountered people like this. People like this hold influence in the world, from corporations to politics. And as we've witnessed their impact upon our lives and the world, we curse. 

Well, I curse. I don't know about you, but that's what I do.

I should unpack what I mean by cursing. Cursing is different from profanity. Profanity is uncouth, inappropriate, and vulgar talk. The f-word is an example of profanity. Cursing, by contrast, is an imprecation.  Like "Go to hell" or "God damn you." That's what Psalm 109 does, it curses. 

But while we are emotionally sympathetic to Psalm 109, we have some moral anxieties. Progressive Christians, especially, love to concern troll the Psalms. Which is ironic, this pearl clutching, given their own rage against those who perpetrate oppression and injustice. Apparently, modern victims are allowed to curse. But ancient victims? Not so much. 

The point here is that the Bible is exquisitely attuned to the impact of evil on the world. Noteworthy and particular in this regard, revolutionary and unprecedented in its time and place, the Bible cares what victims experience and feel. 

And most importantly, the Bible lets those victims speak.

Some thoughts about prayer.

The content of prayer is need, gratitude, and praise.

Help, thanksgiving, and doxology.

But the act of prayer is the finite reaching toward the Infinite,

created being seeking the Uncreated,

the temporal touching Eternity,

the mutable and transitory bridging to the Unchanging.

Contemplative prayer turns from content to act.

Ecstatic longing of the heart

desiring its Source and End.

Enstatic awareness of dependency,

attending to the Stability beneath fragility. 

Respiration between intrinsic need and eccentric gift.

The argument I've made in this series is that the empirical research into humility opened up a doorway into the healthy ego, but that positive psychologists conflated health and humility. To be sure, as we've described over the last two posts, the healthy ego is humble, but it's health that is producing these ego effects. 

If that is so, what is the health at the source of humility? What makes an ego quiet, other-oriented, small, self-forgetful, and non-reactive in the face of ego threats? In the last two posts I've pointed toward having a secure, stable, and grounded identity. 

But what does it mean to have a secure and grounded identity? In The Shape of Joy I point to mattering, an unshakeable conviction of our value and worth. This was Brené Brown's big discovery concerning how mattering, feeling oneself to be worth of love and belonging, was the only variable she could find that conferred shame-resiliency. Brown's observation about the link between mattering and shame converges upon what we've reviewed over the last two posts. Shame is triggered by ego threats. We feel unmasked and exposed by our faults and failures. That fear of exposure causes us to hide from others and ourselves. But if one possesses mattering, a durable and unshakable conviction of worth, one can "dare greatly" in allowing our mistakes, faults, imperfections, and fallibilities to show. And it's precisely this willingness to be imperfect before others that gets described as a characteristic of humble people. So you can see the linkages here: Mattering, shame-resiliency in the face of ego threats, and the humility to let others see your faults, failures, and imperfections. It's all connected. 

And yet, isn't this a bit of a chicken and egg problem? 

Mattering is the antidote to shame, but isn't shame the feeling that you don't matter? As Brown describes, shame is the feeling that "I'm bad," the very opposite of mattering. If so, how do I get to mattering in the midst of shame? I highlight the psychological circularity between shame an mattering in The Shape of Joy to raise the crucial question: If not from our self-assessment, what is the source of our mattering? In the face of my shame, where does this conviction that we are worthy of love and belonging come from?

The argument I make in The Shape of Joy, following where the arrows of positive psychology are pointing, is transcendence. Mattering is a metaphysical conviction. Which is why psychologists describe mattering as cosmic significance or existential significance. Mattering is an ontological truth. Which necessarily pushes us into faith and spirituality. Just like it did for Brené Brown. As a transcendent truth, mattering isn't available to material or scientific observation. Our cosmic significance must be simply asserted and claimed in an act of ontological faith. This is what separates mattering from self-regard. Self-regard is subjective, self-generated, and self-referential. This makes self-regard both unstable and exhausting, in constant need of attention, maintenance , and rehabilitation. Mattering, by contrast, is objective, what I call in The Shape of Joy an "invisible fact." As an ontological conviction mattering is constant, stabilizing, and grounding. 

This is the story I tell in The Shape of Joy, how mental health is inherently a spiritual journey, away from self-referentiality toward transcendence. As described in this series, humility flows out of a healthy ego, and a healthy ego is grounded and stabilized by a transcendent source of unconditional value and worth.

In the last post I suggested that what positive psychologists are describing as "humility" is really mental health. For example, in the literature humility is described as having a secure and grounded identity. But this is backwards. It is, rather, that secure and grounded people are humble. 

This is important to get straight, as I described at the end of the last post, as telling insecure and unstable people to be humble isn't going to be helpful. The first thing that needs to happen is to stabilize the ego, and from there capacities for humility with follow.

That said, humility has been a remarkable and fruitful entry window onto mental health. What has the research on humility revealed to us about a healthy ego? In The Shape of Joy I gather the research into a hexagon, six different but related windows that reveal the heath of our egos. Here's that figure from The Shape of Joy:

So, the six windows onto the ego are volume, focus, investment, stability, valuation, and size:

Ego volume: Ego volume concerns if the voice in your head, your self-talk, is "loud" or "quiet." Cycles of negative self-talk create a "loud" ego, what Ethan Kross calls "chatter," where the self is drawn inward by the critical noise of the inner self. By contrast, a "quiet" ego doesn't generate cycles of inner self-criticism.

Ego focus: Ego focus concerns the degree to which the ego is focused inwardly upon the self versus outwardly toward others. Where are the "eyes" and attention of the ego directed? At the self or at others?

Ego investment: Ego investment concerns the degree to which ego is self-absorbed versus self-forgetful. Psychologists describe a self-forgetting ego as "hypo-egoic." As the odd adage goes, humility isn't thinking less of yourself, it is thinking about yourself less.  

Ego Stability: Ego stability concerns how reactive the ego is to ego-threats. Ego-threats are situations or experiences that challenge our self-concept, self-worth, or identity. Examples include failure, criticism, rejection, and social comparison. Ego reactivity concerns our emotional (anger, shame, defensiveness, anxiety), cognitive (rationalizations, denial, blame-shifting, denigration of others), and behavioral (avoidance, argumentation, overcompensation, aggression) reactions toward ego-threats. Healthy egos are stable and non-reactive in the face of ego-threats. Unhealthy egos are unstable and reactive.

Ego Valuation: Ego valuation concerns the conditionality of our value and worth. When the value and worth of the ego is tied to metrics of success or failure ego valuation is conditional. When the value and worth of the ego is cosmic and existential, fixed and constant no matter one's successes and failures, ego valuation is unconditional. 

Ego Size: Ego size concerns the perceived sense of self-importance and the boundaries of the ego in relation to the world. A "large" ego is self-important and stands separately and autonomously in relation to the world. A "small" ego sees itself in relationship with the larger concerns of the world and fits itself into and identifies with those larger concerns. A "large" ego is all about Me. A "small" ego is all about We. 

Stepping back, you can see how the research on humility has provided an excellent entry point into an investigation of mental health and the healthy ego. Humble people have quiet, self-forgetful, and small egos. Humble people are other-focused rather than self-focused. Humble people aren't overly wrapped up in metrics of winning or losing. And yet, when you look at our hexagram tour of the ego the vision we have is larger and deeper than what the word "humility" is capturing. We'll turn toward that issue in the next post.

As I've recently shared here, in The Shape of Joy I recount how positive psychologists have put humility on the map as being integral to mental health. A humble ego is a healthy ego. That may come as a bit of a surprise, especially if you've been raised in conservative Christian spaces. Many of us have internalized the message that "to be humble" means thinking less of yourself. Humility, in this view, is associated with words like "humiliation." 

But as psychologists have taken a closer look at humility that's not what they have found. Humble people are, rather, people who aren't overly wrapped up in themselves, either negatively or positively. That is to say, humble people don't denigrate themselves. Nor do they artificially inflate their egos. As described in the research, humble people are characterized by the following:

• An accurate perception of the self free of distortion (either negatively or positively)
• Being other-focused rather than self-focused
• A willingness to admit mistakes and failures
• Teachable and coachable, open to other viewpoints
• A lack of superiority and an appreciation of the value of others
• A secure, accepting, non-reactive identity

Again, I've shared this list before. But I've recently taught through this material in two different classes, one graduate and the other undergraduate. And in describing this research I've started to have some questions about if "humility" is the right word to describe all this. 

To illustrate my question, imagine I shared the bulleted list above with you and asked, "What one word, or short description, would describe a person like this?" Would "humility" be the word you'd chose? Try reading the list to someone else, asking them to come up with a word or brief description. "This person is very _______." My hunch is that what you'd hear are things like "healthy," "secure," and "well-adjusted." Even "not real." Because what the list seems to capture is the very picture of mental health, a secure and extremely well-adjusted person. If so, this brings me to my question: In the positive psychology research has the word humility come to mean healthy? 

Take, for example, the point that humble people possess a secure, accepting, non-reactive identity. This is backwards. The psychological cart is being put before the horse. It would be more accurate to say that people with secure, accepting, and non-reactive identities are humble. In fact, as I point out in The Shape of Joy, the key to the whole list above is the security and stability of your identity.

So, how did we this get backwards in the positive psychology research? Here's the speculation I floated with my classes. Humility was the door positive psychologists used to enter into the house of the healthy ego. And once they walked through that door they observed all these amazing things. A secure identity. Lack of self-focus. Etc. And since they walked into this house through the door of humility they named the whole house humility. But humility is just a door, one entryway into the healthy ego. Humility isn't the house itself. Which is exactly why direct imperatives to "be humble" tend to go awry. Humility imposed upon an unhealthy ego will backfire. Humility is, rather, a symptom of a secure ego, a downstream effect. Humility flows out of a secure and grounded identity as an expression of that identity and not as something imposed upon that identity. 

"I will wake up the dawn'

Psalm 108 is a curiosity. Some scholars describe Psalm 108 as a "mosaic" psalm as it combines material from two different psalms. Some lines are taken from Psalm 57.7–11:

My heart is confident, God, my heart is confident.
I will sing; I will sing praises.
Wake up, my soul!
Wake up, harp and lyre!
I will wake up the dawn.
I will praise you, Lord, among the peoples;
I will sing praises to you among the nations.
For your faithful love is as high as the heavens;
your faithfulness reaches the clouds.
God, be exalted above the heavens;
let your glory be over the whole earth.

These lines become verses 1–5 of Psalm 108. Other lines are taken from Psalm 60.5–12:

Save with your right hand, and answer me,
so that those you love may be rescued.

God has spoken in his sanctuary:
“I will celebrate!
I will divide up Shechem.
I will apportion the Valley of Succoth.
Gilead is mine, Manasseh is mine,
and Ephraim is my helmet;
Judah is my scepter.
Moab is my washbasin.
I throw my sandal on Edom;
I shout in triumph over Philistia.”

Who will bring me to the fortified city?
Who will lead me to Edom?
God, haven’t you rejected us?
God, you do not march out with our armies.
Give us aid against the foe,
for human help is worthless.
With God we will perform valiantly;
he will trample our foes.

These lines become verses 6–13 of Psalm 108.

So, what's going on with this? 

Scholars think that the lament we find expressed in Psalm 60 is being recast with the more hopeful and confident praise of Psalm 57. Perhaps this is due to historic experience. A lament that had been used to express loss in a liturgical context needs to be updated to reflect a positive change in circumstance. The lament doesn't disappear and remains as the ache of memory. But today is a day of rejoicing. Today is a day to wake up the dawn with music and praise.

I think about the "mosaic" that is my own spiritual life, a lot of which has been in public view. I've been writing online since 2007 and publishing books since 2011. The first decade of my online writing would. today, be described as a season of "deconstruction." I was metaphysically agnostic. I talked a lot about doubt. Attracted to those blog reflections, in 2010 I got an email from a young writer who had a new book coming out about her own spiritual journey with questions and doubts. The book was entitled Evolving in Monkey Town, written by the late Rachel Held Evans. Rachel asked if I wanted an advance copy to review. That started a lovely friendship. Like many of you, I think of Rachel often. We miss her terribly.  

First glimpsed in The Slavery of Death, my writing started to reflect a turn in my spiritual life, toward what today we'd call "reconstruction." Attentive readers of my books should see the connection between The Slavery of Death and my latest book The Shape of Joy. The "eccentric identity" first explored in The Slavery of Death becomes "the outward turn" in The Shape of Joy.

In the chapter "Sunlight or Shadows?" in The Shape of Joy I use Plato's allegory of the cave to describe this "outward turn," how we must leave the "cave" of the self-referential and noisy ego, a self-esteem project exhausted by hero games of significance (long time readers will also notice how Ernest Becker is still showing up in my books), to step out into the sunlight in an encounter with sacred and transcendent reality. Like Psalm 108, the mosaic of my life is on display the concluding passage of this chapter. Once in shadows, I now stand in sunlight. Prior doubts have given way to joy:

Perhaps you have had a transcendent, spiritual experience...You might be a mystic, religious, or a deeply spiritual person. You might believe in God or a Higher Power. If so, you need no convincing that the sun is real. You see the world shining. You experience the wonder and awe looking into the eyes of another human being. You get chills witnessing a random act of kindness. You already know that joy has an eccentric shape, that happiness and wholeness are found in resting outside of yourself. You’ve already left the cave. But some of us continue to need a bit more convincing. I wrote this chapter for you, the doubters and skeptics, those who question the invisible facts of life and have settled for shadows. You think that transcendence is a figment of your imagination. A fairy tale to help us cope with the sadness and tragedy of life.

I sympathize. I once shared those very same doubts. But if the chatter of your mind has gotten too loud, if the bike pump of your superhero complex is exhausting you, if your life has lost resonance, if the world no longer shines for you, if you are exhausted from carrying the weight of your own worthlessness, well, can I suggest that maybe it’s time to get up and leave the cave? The word transcendence comes from Latin words meaning “to go beyond.” Joy starts by going beyond yourself. And that includes your doubts and skepticism. It’s not enough to step back from yourself, as helpful as that is. You have to step outside. The invisible facts of the world are shining around you. 

Sunlight or shadows? 

The choice is yours.

Let's end this series by returning to the three questions we started with. 

First, can sacred magic be given an orthodox Christian description? 

Second, is adding the category of sacred magic to Christian life useful and valuable? 

And, finally, is adding the category of sacred magic worth any attendant risks and abuses that might result?

Regarding Question 1--Can sacred magic be Christian?--I've tried to share what I think is the best case for an affirmative answer. Of course, you don't have to find that case either orthodox or convincing. It's just the best case, I think, that can be made. 

In making that case, I've offered different descriptions of sacred magic. The major one has been theurgy, sacramental practices and rituals that make material reality receptive to divine energy and power with a goal toward union with the divine. Critical to distinguishing sacred magic from sorcerous magic is that the practices and rituals of sacred magic are not an attempt to manipulate or control, they are, rather, practices of attunement and subordination to God's will. In sacred magic, the prerogative and initiative of God is never encroached upon. In rituals of sacred magic, we become passive, expectant, and receptive to the actions of God. The goal of sacred magic is union with the divine and bringing material reality into conformity with God's purposes. "Not my will, but yours" and "Thy kingdom come on earth, as it is in heaven" are its guiding petitions. 

What are these practice of sacred magic? They are the regular practices of the Christian life. Prayer, study, contemplation, liturgy, the sacraments, spiritual disciplines, and righteous action. 

This brings us to Question 2. Of what value it is to describe sacraments, prayer, liturgy, and moral deeds as "magical"? The argument I've made is that describing practices as theurgic is different from describing them as moral or symbolic. To describe an act of kindness as theurgic, for example, is to describe a healing power flowing through a person and into the world, a power that is ontologically repairing the world and changing the person on the journey toward divinization. Kindness isn't merely "good" from a judicial perspective, it's attunement to God and becoming a receptacle of God's power and presence in the world. The same goes for any spiritual practice, from going to church to fasting. 

Simply put, describing Christian practices as theurgic highlights their ontological dynamics, the interaction of the material and spiritual realms. The categories of the "moral" and the "symbolic" keep spiritual reality "at a distance." Theurgy, by contrast, describes how material reality can become interpenetrated and united with spiritual reality in a way that changes, transfigures, and transforms material reality. 

Having said all that, do we need the category of theurgy? For example, what I've described as sacred magic in this series is more generally understood in pneumatological or sacramental terms. 

For example, where I've used terms like "divine power" and "sacred energy" most Christians talk about the indwelling, activity, and power of the Holy Spirit in their lives. I'd suggest that theurgy captures how most pentecostals and charismatics describe their experience of the Holy Spirit. The clearest illustration of this is the laying on of hands in healing prayer in the expectation of a miracle. More extreme examples of this are faith healings. Relatedly, as I described with Kabbalah, we also see evidence of how the sacred magic of pentecostals and charismatics can tip from the sacred to the sorcerous with the Christian prosperity gospel. Instead of attunement and subordination to the divine will, the power of God is called upon to satisfy desires for heath and wealth. 

To be clear, I'm not bringing up pentecostals and charismatics to throw shade on sacred magic. I'm bringing them up because pentecostals and charismatics highlight the overlap between pneumatology and sacred magic, for good and ill. The good part is how the Holy Spirit infuses our material reality with God's presence and power, often in miraculous and magical ways. Pneumatology is often theurgic, the location of sacred magic. And, to turn to the bad outcomes, it's precisely because of this overlap between pneumatology and theurgy that pneumatology is chronically tempted toward the sorcerous. Just like what we observe with the prosperity gospel or Christians who become obsessed with "acts of power" given by the Holy Spirit. This is the temptation of Simon Magus in Acts 8. 

Beyond the pneumatological, the other place where we observe the theurgic is in the sacramental imagination of Catholicism, from holy water to the Eucharist. Does the category of theurgy contribute to this imagination? I'd say not really if your sacramental imagination is truly ontological. That said, as we've discussed, Catholics are losing this imagination. Contra Flannery O'Conner, the sacraments are tipping away from the ontological toward the symbolic. Consequently, introducing and highlighting the theurgic and magical aspects of the sacraments can be a helpful intervention. If the word "sacrament" is coming to mean "symbol" words like "magical" and "theurgic" might do good work in brining the ontological realities of the sacraments back into view. 

In addition, introducing the category of sacred magic might also help explain to Protestants what they find so strange and spooky within Catholicism. From the healing powers of relics to cleansing objects with holy water to warding off dark powers by making the Sign of the Cross to the protective power of the St. Christopher medal hanging from the rearview mirror, much of popular Catholic piety are practices of sacred magic. These practices are generally sneered at by Protestants as being, well, too "magical." But if sacred magic has a proper place within Christian life, some of this Protestant antipathy might be overcome. 

And finally, we come to the burning issue of Question 3. Would it be wise to start describing aspects of Christian life as "magical"? 

In my opinion, no, not widely so. In my estimation, the category of "magic" is just too controversial in Christian circles. Any attempted introduction would be too much of a bother to be worth the effort. I'd never refer to "sacred magic" in my own church context or out at the prison. "Magic" simply means "sorcery" in Christian circles. The idea of "sacred magic" would sound oxymoronic. If Christians can't tolerate reading Harry Potter, just imagine how they'd react if you described prayer as "sacred magic."

That said, as we've seen, theurgy is a term Christian theologians use. And they use it for precisely the same reason I've done this series and wrote Hunting Magic Eels: the re-enchantment of Christianity. I think I've shown in this series how describing something as theurgic, in contrast to moral or symbolic, is illuminating and helpful in the task of re-enchantment. Simply put, "sacred magic" brings the ontological aspects of our spiritual lives--from kindness to prayer to the Eucharist to baptism--into view. When we describe something as "sacred magic" we mean that something is "really happening" right here and right now. Without this theurgic vision, that something is really happening, Christian life becomes sentimental and moralistic. Just vibes and politics. 

To conclude, I think the only place you could speak of "sacred magic" is among a group of fellow-minded Christians. Perhaps a person like you, dear reader, if you've made it this far. Others will elect to take a hard pass. Regardless, I appreciate your willingness to think non-anxiously outside the box during this series as we engaged in a bit of experimental theology. We've hunted for some magical eels and we've done some good work in keeping Christianity weird.

Before turning to wrap up this series with a critical summing up and appraisal, I wanted to step a way from Christianity to make some observations about sacred magic within Judaism. Mainly because I think the Kabbalistic vision of sacred magic creates and expands an ontological imagination that isn't common to Christianity, and it also provides a bit of a proxy for comparison, what it might look like to integrate sacred magic into an Abrahamic religion.

In the Zohar, the seminal text of Kabbalah, and later interpreted by the preeminent teacher of the tradition, Isaac Luria, God creates—and continuously sustains—the world through Divine Light, power, and the emanations of the Ten Sefirot. The Sefirot function as channels of this creative energy, forming a structured blueprint for existence, including the human soul. This divine pattern can be recognized in daily life, guiding both cosmic order and human spiritual growth.

The Ten Sefirot possess relationships among themselves called the Tree of Life. Diagrams of the Tree of Life abound online. Here is one:

I won't get into why Da'at is included in the Tree, but the Ten Sefirot are those in the solid circles. They are:

1. Keter – Crown
2. Chokhmah – Wisdom
3. Binah – Understanding
4. Chesed – Loving-Kindness
5. Gevurah – Discipline
6. Tiferet – Glory
7. Netzach – Victory
8. Hod – Splendor
9. Yesod – Foundation
10. Malkhut – Kingdom

Again, God is continuously creating the world through these divine emanations flowing down and through creation. Think of these as ten channels of power flowing through the world. Kabbalist practice involves bringing these powers into proper balance and expression in the world and within oneself. The balances between the Ten Sefirot are numerous. There are balances between the three vertical lines of the Tree of Life: the right Pillar of Mercy (Chokhmah/Wisdom, Chesed/Loving-Kindness, Netzach/Victory), the left Pillar of Severity (Binah/Understanding, Gevurah/Discipline, Hod/Splendor), and the central Pillar of Balance (Tiferet/Glory, Yesod/Foundation, Malkhut/Kingdom). There are also balances between triads of Sefirot: the Intellectual Triad (Keter/Crown, Chokhmah/Wisdom, Binah/Understanding), the Emotional Triad (Chesed/Loving-Kindness, Gevurah/Discipline, Tiferet/Glory), and the Practical Triad (Netzach/Victory, Hod/Splendor, Yesod/Foundation). These triads are also balanced among themselves from top/higher to bottom/lower.

According to Kabbalistic tradition, when God emanated the Divine Light it flowed into the finite vessel meant to contain it. Since the finite vessel could not hold the infinity of the Divine Light, it shattered, scattering the Light into creation. This is called "the breaking of the vessels." Due to the breaking, the world is comprised of fragments of Light, which are concealed within material existence. The goal of Kabbalistic practice is tikkun olam, the "repair of the world." To repair the world is to gather and restore the scattered fragments of the Divine Light, allowing the Light to shine more fully. The Tree of Life, and the balance it displays, provides the guidelines for this work of repair. Currently, the Divine Light is obscured and fragmented, but through study, contemplation, ritual action, and righteous deeds, the vessel of the world is mended, and the Ten Sefirot are brought into harmony. This allows the Divine Light to shine more clearly in creation.

I bring up Kabbalah in this series, as an example of sacred magic in Judaism, to makes some observations about sacred magic in the Christian tradition. 

First, I want to highlight the ontological vision of Kabbalah, the Ten Sefirot and how these powers create, govern, and flow through the material world. This notion--channels of sacred energy structuring and flowing through the cosmos--isn't common to Christianity. In light of this vision, one of the things I've highlighted in the last few posts is how the word "magical" does something different from "moral" and "symbolic." Kabbalah is a nice illustration of these contrasts. In Kabbalah, moral action in the world isn't simply moral from a juridical perspective—God as a divine judge deeming actions "good" or "bad." Rather, moral action is a practice of sacred magic in that it attunes one to the divine flow within creation (the Ten Sefirot) and helps bring those forces into harmonious balance (the Tree of Life). And it's precisely this ontological aspect of Kabbalah, attuning to flows of sacred power/energy in the world, that can tip Kabbalah away from sacred magic into occult magic. 

Second, related to how Kabbalah gets pulled into occult practices, Kabbalah is a place where we can observe the pros and cons of introducing sacred magic into a religious tradition. Kabbalah, as a practice of sacred magic, is a rich, profound, and integral stream within Jewish life. But Kabbalah can also tip into hokum, self-indulgence, and occult misappropriation. There are a lot of people into Kabbalah who aren't practicing Jews, the same way people practice yoga who aren't Hindu, meditate who aren't Buddhists, or burn sage when they are not Native Americans. For these spiritual-not-religious practitioners of Kabbalah, the magic tips away from the sacred to become sorcerous, a magical technology I use to satisfy my own wants and desires. This would be, we might say, the "Prosperity Gospel According to Kabbalah." Similar to how witchcraft is a version of the prosperity gospel. And yet, and here's the point I want you to appreciate and ponder, when practiced within orthodox Judaism Kabbalah is called the "heart and soul of Judaism," Judaism's mystical and enchanting spirit.

All that to say, Kabbalah within orthodox Judaism is something to look at when it comes to integrating Biblical faith with the category of sacred magic, for both good and ill. We can see how Kabbalah, as sacred magic, vivifies and enchants Judaism, but also how Kabbalah, as sacred magic, can be misappropriated and misused.

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.