Preparing for the class on Celtic Christianity I recently taught in Ireland, I spent some time looking around online for a map and timeline that I could use to introduce my students to the history of Irish monasticism. I couldn't find any that worked for me, so I made my own.

Here's the map I made (PDF download here):

Some of the specific sites and events noted in the map are peculiar to the outings and visits we made as a part of the class. And other things have been left off. But most of the map gives you a nice timeline and visual about the rise and decline of what is called "Celtic Christianity." 

To start with some pre-Celtic history, we visited the burial mounds at the Hills of Tara and Newgrange, neolithic sites that pre-date the Celts in Ireland or, rather, the rise of Celtic culture in Ireland. 

The origin of the Celts in Ireland is a matter of scholarly dispute. The original Celts were from Gaul (modern-day France, Belgium, parts of western Germany, and northern Italy). The Celts of Ireland and Britain are connected to these European Celts for two reasons. First, the languages of Scotland, Cornwall, Wales, and Ireland are in the Celtic language group. Also, the artifacts of the Celts from the Isles show influences of the La Tène culture of the European Celts. For these two reasons, language and La Tène influence, we describe the peoples encountered by the Romans in the British Isles as "Celtic." These linguistic and cultural features show up in the British Isles between 800-100 BC. So, the neolithic sites of the Isles, like Stonehenge or the burial mounds at Newgrange, pre-date the Celts. 

There is some debate about this Celtic "arrival." Was it a migration or invasion of the Isles by the European Celts? Or was it a case of cultural transfusion and change? Historically, the migration/invasion hypothesis was favored. But recent genetic evidence has cast doubt on that theory, pushing scholars toward the cultural change hypothesis. And if that is true, then the peoples of the British Isles were not genetically "Celtic" but became, rather, culturally "Celtic." Either way, the British Isles are recognizably "Celtic" by about 100 BC.

Rome makes it first invasion in 55 BC and eventually comes to establish itself in Britain for a little over four centuries. The Roman impact on Britain remains to this day, from the Roman baths at Bath (shout out to all Jane Austin fans) to the fact that the Brits still drive upon roads laid by the Romans. 

Christianity follows those Roman roads to the Isles, making its way to Britain around 200 AD. The faith soon starts to spread. In 300 AD St. Alban dies as the first Christian martyr in Roman Briton. 

Roman and Christian influence never fully penetrates to the edges of Briton. Cornwall, Wales, and Scotland remain largely pre-Christian and Celtic. The Romans never invade Ireland, leaving its Celtic culture wholly untouched by Roman culture and the Christian faith.

The Romans leave in 410 AD. After the Roman departure, the Anglo-Saxons begin their migration into East and Southern Briton, effectively taking over the same areas once controlled by the Romans. The Anglo-Saxons arrive as pagans, but they are evangelized by the Christians they encounter. In the Northern parts of Briton, many of these Christians will be the Irish monastics who come from Ireland.

 

The dawn of Celtic Christianity happens when St. Patrick, around 400 AD, goes back to Ireland to begin his missionary work among the Celts. I say "goes back" because, as a young boy, Patrick had been abducted and taken as a slave to Ireland. Patrick's mission is wildly successful. Christianity spreads through Ireland, and Irish monasticism takes hold in places like Glendalough with St. Kevin, Clonmacnoise with St. Ciarán, and Kildare with St. Brigid. As I noted above, the Irish monks become missionaries themselves. St. Columba establishes the monastery at Iona in 563 AD. In Iona the Book of Kells begins to be created. St. Aidan goes from Iona to Lindisfarne in 634 AD. St. Columbanus goes to France in 600 AD, establishing monasteries throughout Europe. As he travels, Columbanus brings with him the peculiar invention of the Irish monks, the illuminated codex. This impact of Columbanus upon medieval Europe, the monasteries he established with their illuminated manuscripts, is how, in the words of Thomas Cahill, the Irish "saved civilization" after the fall of Rome.

The decline of Celtic Christianity was slow and marked by three main historical events. The first was the Synod of Whitby in 664 AD. One of the aims of the Synod of Whitby was to bring the Irish monasteries under Roman Catholic control. Next, the Vikings began to raid the British Isles around 800 AD. Both Iona and Lindisfarne were eventually abandoned due to Viking plundering. Because of the Viking threat, the Book of Kells was taken away from Iona and brought to Ireland, where it remans to this day. Finally, the Norman invasion of Britain in 1066 AD and Ireland in 1169 AD brought significant Irish influence upon Western Christianity to a close. Given all this, "peak Celtic Christianity" lasted from St. Patrick to the Synod of Whitby, about 250 years. Though distinctive aspects of Celtic Christianity persisted in Cornwall, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland for another 500 years. 

So that's the story, told in a single map I made for my students. For more about my take on Celtic Christianity check out Hunting Magic Eels and the chapter on "Celtic Enchantments."

In the last post I described how acquiring emotional dispositions involves narrative. The stories we tell shape our meaning-making processes, how we construe the world and where we locate our concerns. Dispositions are formed through a top-down process that directs how we see the world and where we place our values. 

These observations can be sharpened through what is known in the psychological literature as sanctification theory. Sanctification theory, developed by Kenneth Pargament and Annette Mahoney, concerns how aspects of life—such as relationships, roles, activities, objects, or events—can be perceived as sacred and imbued with divine significance. My favorite example of sanctification theory comes from the volumes of Every Moment Holy published by Rabbit Room Press. 

A perusal of the contents of the volumes of Every Moment Holy reveals how the prayers are directed toward a host of mundane and daily activities, jobs, experiences, and chores:

• For Domestic Days
• For One Who Is Employed
• For Those Who Employ Others
• For Laundering
• For the Preparation of a Meal
• For the Washing of Windows
• For Home Repairs
• For Students & Scholars
• For Waiters & Waitresses
• For the Changing of Diapers
• For Those Employed in Manual Labor
• For One Who Cares for an Infirm Parent
• For Mechanical Repairs
• For Unseen Labors
• For One Who Works the Nightshift
• For Yard Work
• For Getting Dressed
• For Dropping Off a Child at School
• For Those Anxious About Air Travel
• For Nursing Mothers
• Before Shopping
• For the Paying of Bills
• For Those Who Cannot Sleep
• For the Ritual of Morning Coffee
• For a Sick Day
• Before Teaching
• Before a Job Interview

Most of these activities don't feel very holy or sacred. These are moments in our lives were we experience fatigue, apathy, boredom, dread, anxiety, irritation, or dissatisfaction. But if we sanctify these moments, if we can connect them to sacred and divine concerns, we begin to infuse life with transcendent emotions. Boredom or anxiety is replaced with gratitude, hope, joy, wonder, and love. Consider, for example, the Liturgy for Changing Diapers (free download here):

Heavenly Father,
in such menial moments as this—
the changing of a diaper—
I would remember this truth:
My unseen labors are not lost,
for it is these repeated acts of small sacrifice that—
like bright, ragged patches—
are slowly being sewn into a quilt of
lovingkindness that swaddles this child.

I am not just changing a diaper.
By love and service
I am tending a budding heart that,
rooted early in such grace-filled devotion,
might one day be more readily-inclined
to bow to your compassionate conviction—
knowing itself then as both a receptacle
and a reservoir of heavenly grace.

So this little act of diapering—
though in form sometimes felt
as base drudgery—might be
better described as one of ten thousand acts
by which I am actively creating a culture of
compassionate service and selfless love to shape
the life of this family and this beloved child.

So take this unremarkable act of necessary
service, O Christ, and in your economy
let it be multiplied into
that greater outworking of worship and of faith,
a true investment in the incremental
advance of your kingdom across generations.

Open my eyes that I might see this act
for what it is from the fixed vantage of eternity, O Lord—
how the changing of a diaper might
sit upstream of the changing of a heart;
how the changing of a heart might
sit upstream of the changing of the world.

Amen.

This prayer is a profound and moving illustration of sanctification theory, how an unpleasant chore can become suffused with transcendent wonder, beauty, and grace. Following from the last post, notice how the prayer is engaged in shaping, in a top-down process, our concern-based construals. In the act of changing a diaper a perceptual stance is being adopted that brings sacred concerns into view and thereby imbues the mundane with divine significance. The act of changing diapers is re-narrated and this story allows holy affections to flow. 

Now, if sanctification can be done on a case by case basis, every moment becoming holy, step back and take a wider view. We can sanctify our entire life story. Given that our identities and self-conceptions are narrative in nature, we can sanctify that story. As I describe in The Shape of Joy, Pamela King calls this a "transcendent narrative identity." Acquiring a transcendent narrative identity involves telling a sacred story about your life, construing your life from a sacred perspective and locating your concerns in the divine. 

When we sanctify our lives our treasures are located in heaven and not on earth. And as Jesus said, wherever we place our treasure, there our heart will be also.

The point I made in the last post is that spiritual formation must involve moving from emotions to dispositions. Rather than waiting on external, situational, and environmental events to bring about or elicit emotions of gratitude, hope, joy, wonder, or love we must work at becoming more grateful, hopeful, joyful, wonder-filled, and loving. Acquiring dispositional gratitude, for example, brings more thankfulness into our lives. Transformed into dispositions emotions become virtues. 

How does this happen?

It happens at the level of meaning-making, how we construe, interpret, and make sense of the world. Cognitively, dispositions are controlled in a top-down fashion. Dispositions, we might say, dictate our emotional responses to external events rather than our being reactive to and triggered by circumstance. 

For example, in The Shape of Joy I use Robert Robert's description of joy as a "concern-based construal." Joy can be a positive emotion, an experience of gladness and delight in response to some happy event. But dispositional joy, joy as a virtue, is more consistent, stable, and enduring. And most importantly, dispositional joy creates capacities for joy even in difficult circumstances. In The Shape of Joy I make a contrast between triggered joy (joy as emotion) versus transcendent joy (joy as disposition). This triggered-to-transcending shift happens, following Roberts, by noting how joy is a construal, a way of seeing and perceiving the world. Joy as a process of meaning-making. And continuing with Roberts, this meaning-making process is "concern-based," having to do with our cares, values, and investments. As I put it in The Shape of Joy, joy is seeing the world through what you care about.

Knowing this about joy we have two levers to pull. First, there is perceptual work, how we see and interpret the world. We can change or alter our perspective. We can reframe and reconsider. Second, we have control over our concerns, where we invest and place the weight of our lives. We can locate our concerns in places that provide deeper and more constant anchorage in the storms of life. As Jesus says: 

Don’t store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves don’t break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Summarizing, we can gain greater emotional autonomy through perspective-taking and the considered allocation of our concerns. How does that happen?

It happens at the level of narrative. Meaning-making is a storying-telling process, how we plot and narrate our lives. Our story is what dictates how we construe the world and our story expresses where we place our concerns. In telling our stories, we give shape to our emotions, forming them into dispositions. You can tell a story about your life that makes you more grateful. You can tell a story about your life that makes you more hopeful. You can tell a story about your life that makes you more loving. You can tell a story about your life that makes you more hopeful. And you can tell a story about your life that makes you more open to wonder and awe. 

To conclude, meaning-making is crucial to cultivating holy affections and virtuous emotional dispositions. Your story--how you construe the world and where you locate your concerns--creates capacities for emotional autonomy and transcendence.

One of the biggest research questions in positive psychology concerns the contrast between emotions and dispositions. Sometimes this is described as a state versus trait distinction.

For example, my doctoral research concerned anger management. And in the anger literature there's a contrast between state anger and trait anger. State anger is the emotion of anger and is triggered by angering events. Something happens, like someone cutting you off in traffic, and your anger flashes out. Trait anger is your predisposition to anger, sometimes called hostility. If you have hostility toward someone or something you might not be feeling state anger at the moment, but your hostility will make you quick to anger when you are exposed to or think about that to which your hostility is directed. 

State experiences, like emotions, are temporary and situational. Traits are more consistent and enduring. Anger can come and go throughout the day, but hostility can persist for years, decades, and a lifetime.

Closely related to the state/trait contrast is the distinction between emotions and dispositions. Emotions are transitory affective states. Dispositions are habitual tendencies that create a proneness toward certain emotional experiences. Where "trait" can refer to genetic tendencies, like with the Big Five personality traits, dispositions highlight volitional and attitudinal aspects, like what we see with virtues. You might be born with given traits but you can work on changing your disposition. 

Of course, the lines here get blurry. Is hostility, for example, a genetic trait or an acquired disposition? Obviously, it can be a bit of both. All of us possess innate emotional tendencies and those tendencies are affected by how we live our lives, pushing against these tendencies or allowing them to etch deeper grooves into our attitudes and emotions. 

Okay, back to positive psychology. Many of the things positive psychologists study can be examined as either a state or a trait, as an emotional response or an enduring disposition. Some of the big emotions psychologists have looked at are gratitude, awe, hope, and joy. We can feel grateful, hopeful, joyful, and struck with wonder and awe. As emotions, psychologists study the environmental and situational triggers of these states. For example, what triggers gratitude (receiving a positive benefit from another) is different from what triggers awe (an encounter with something vast, a reality larger than oneself). Psychologists also study the phenomenological content of these emotions, making distinctions between them. For example, sometimes awe can be elating and wondrous, but sometimes awe can be tinged with terror and fear. Joy can feel peaceful, calm, and serene but also exhilarating, exuberant, and ecstatic. 

Lots of research is devoted to these sorts of emotional investigations. But given positive psychology's interest in virtues, attention has also been devoted toward how these emotions can become dispositions. For example, what about dispositional gratitude, dispositional joy, dispositional hope, and dispositional awe? That is, who are those people who are predisposed to feeling grateful, joyful, hopeful, and interrupted by wonder? And the critical piece to note here, like with my example of anger and hostility, is how dispositions bring more of the emotion into you life. You feel more grateful, more joyful, more hopeful, and more interrupted by wonder. 

And so it's here, with this question of emotional dispositions, where a conversation shows up about virtue and spiritual formation. Spiritual formation needs to focus upon this emotion-to-disposition shift. Spiritual formation must engage with our emotional lives, helping us make holy affections less fleeting and situational and more stable, constant, and enduring. 

Gratitude, joy, hope, and awe, to name a few examples, must become habits of the heart.

"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.