Wednesday, May 25, 2016

The Druid’s Sacred Tools

Ancient Druidic historical site
An ancient Druidic historical site


Magick (Druidic) :: The Three Commonmost Tools


by Race MoChridhe
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One of the topics which invariably receives the most interest from students of magickal arts is that of tools. Many inquiries received by a teacher in this vein are entirely sincere, and reflect their pupils’ earnest desires to align themselves with the tradition and to “get things right.” Many, however, suggest a measure of what cyclists call “shiny helmet syndrome”—attraction to an activity simply out of a desire for fancy kit. At the risk of contributing to this phenomenon, it may be well to speak somewhat of the matter nonetheless.

No one post can do justice to the topic’s breadth, since there are as many sets of magickal tools as there are traditions of magickal practice (indeed, somewhat more), but to begin a series I might start with the tools of the Druid, partly because I am one, but more because the tools are very simple, and make very clear the origins of their power. The first thing to be noted in that regard is that, strictly speaking, no tools of any kind are required to practice Druidic magick. Much could be done by a single Druid in sensory deprivation; everything could be done by a Druid standing naked and unarmed in a field. A small number of tools are commonly used, however, for a few compelling reasons:
  1. Focus, focus, focus. Magickal ritual has been aptly described by any number of authors as “moving meditation.” Just as, in purely mental meditation, one is greatly assisted by the use of an image or a mantra to anchor attention and keep the mind from wandering, so, too, a moving meditation draws strength of focus from physical objects that can fix attention in the same way.
  2. Sacred space and sacred time. While the above aim can be achieved by a focus on, say, specific points on the ground, or specific parts of the body in motion (as when one casts a circle using only one’s fingertips), ritual tools, like ritual clothing, send a powerful signal to the mind that one has stepped outside the flow of everyday activities and undertaken something special and specialized. This is the greater part of what is meant when magicians speak of tools becoming “charged” or “imbued” with energy over the course of years working with them—the more hours one spends with a tool while consciously focused on spiritual work, the more powerful a trigger that tool becomes for putting the mind back into that same state with which it has become unconsciously associated.
  3. Symbol, story, and narrative. The tools in your garage vary by what they move or adjust. The tools on your altar vary by what part of a story they tell. That story differs depending on the magickal tradition; a Druid’s tools tell a slightly different story about how the cosmos is structured, whence a magician draws his or her power, and how the acolyte becomes an adept, than do the tools of a Wiccan, a Cochranian, or a Thelemite, but they all tell stories. In this respect, they might be compared to the stained glass in a church; one can certainly offer prayer and worship without any, but many find the experience enhanced by having the sacred stories of the tradition immediately before them, and being surrounded by them in a physical sense.

Though Druids of different traditions have slightly different customs, and though various kinds of specialized work may occasion the use of more unusual devices, the three most common items in a Druid’s grove are a wand, a cauldron, and a crane bag.

The wand and the cauldron are nearly ubiquitous magickal tools, and almost every tradition employs either them or some close approximation thereof. At their most fundamental level, they represent the masculine and feminine principles within both the macrocosmic universe and the microcosmic self. In the Celtic traditions from which Druidry draws, the spear (as a close symbolic relative of the wand) is a tool intimately associated with figures representing divine masculinity, ranging from the god Lugh to the hero Cuchulainn. The cauldron, on the other hand, is linked throughout a range of stories to goddess figures, from Danu to Cerridwen. The wand/spear asserts will and brings death, while the cauldron receives all and gives rebirth. Witches, ceremonial magicians, and many others will have no difficulty in recognizing these basic archetypes.

The crane bag, on the other hand, is more peculiar, and therefore more mysterious. It is a sewn or woven pouch, similar to a Native American medicine bag, which various practitioners use to hold herbs and oils, runic sets for casting, or a variety of other tools. Why it should be considered a magickal item in and of itself, let alone be part of a triplicity with such powerful artifacts as the wand and the cauldron, is not readily apparent. But this is where point number three from our list comes into play. Much of modern Druidic lore comes from Welsh legends, and particularly the story of Taliesin. Taliesin was the most famous and powerful of the Welsh bards, but his story began as the tale of a humble youth named Gwion Bach. Gwion was tasked by the goddess Cerridwen to mind a cauldron for a year and a day, in which she was preparing a magickal elixir from which the first three drops would grant Awen—divine, poetic inspiration—to her own son, Afagddu.

When the brew was ready, however, three drops leapt out and singed Gwion’s thumb. Without thinking, he stuck it in his mouth, and thus drank the three drops intended for Afagddu, gaining the power of Awen in the process. Enraged, Cerridwen chased him, and both ran through a series of shape-shiftings before Cerridwen, in the form of a hen, caught Gwion, in the form of a grain of wheat, and swallowed him. Cerridwen soon discovered that she was pregnant, and nine months later she gave birth to Gwion again, who was now too beautiful for her to have the heart to destroy. She sewed him up, instead, in a leather sack and cast him on the water, where he was discovered by a fisherman who raised him as his own son, and named him Taliesin, meaning “radiant brow.”

It is only in the context of the aforementioned story that the crane bag can take on a magickal dimension. In its light, we perceive that there are two incubations in Druidic tradition where many other traditions have only one. Cerridwen’s cauldron, like the Witch’s cauldron and many other cauldrons like them, is a symbol of the womb and of rebirth, but the Welsh story makes the rebirth from Cerridwen’s womb only the first part of a greater process. By that means, Gwion escapes death to come into the world again, but his true life does not begin until he is sewn into a bag—another symbol of the womb—and reborn from it under a new name, to make manifest in the world the powers of wisdom and inspiration which he had received.

Just as the Hindu brahmins called themselves the “twice-born”, and Jesus spoke of being born again (John 3:6–7), so, likewise, modern Druids make a distinction between the macrocosmic sense in which the world is constituted of cycles of life, death, and rebirth witnessed by the seasons, and the microcosmic sense in which one seeking enlightenment is reborn into an illuminated life of the spirit. Out of the story of Taliesin is drawn a distinct doctrine, and out of that doctrine comes a symbolism reflected in a choice of tools that, in any other context, might be perceived as a redundancy, or even an overstressing, of the feminine divine, when, in actuality, it is a representation of the divine child of the wand and the cauldron—the Druid herself.

In my next installment (on the athame), we will use this understanding of the link between traditional story and ritual kit to enter more deeply into the symbolic world of the Witch’s altar.


Other articles in this series include:
Bells as Ritual Tools
The Chalice's Gender Status

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Of Mormonism and Magickal Virtue



Editor's Introduction

Within this piece, of which the underlying premise is the uniting of humanity with divinity in will, author Race MoChridhe touches upon a few interesting points, including how Mormonism differs from other religions in how it regards "the Holy Trinity," Eliphas Lévi's "magickal virtues", and Crowley's improvement on said magickal virtues, and more.
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a magician


Mormonism vs. Other Religions :: Rationalizing the Trinity


By Race MoChridhe


One of the most interesting (from a Pagan perspective) and troubling (from most other perspectives) aspects of religion is the extreme fungibility between heroes and gods. The Classical pantheon is well-stocked in apotheosed mortals, from Orpheus to Empedocles. The Celtic epics, with maddening inconsistency, often make the same figure an immortal god and a long-deceased noble. Even today, at the edges of the great Abrahamic religions, lurk shadowy sects and rogue mystics who find divinity in Ezra, Ali, or the Blessed Virgin. Pagans rarely feel a need to rationalize these apparent inconsistencies, and most Abrahamicists simply dismiss them as heresy, but there are some who keep an interest in the mechanics of such things. Two who would do well to talk to each other more are Mormons and ceremonial magicians.

Mormon theology is non-trinitarian, insofar as they do not believe that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are ontologically identical, as most Christian groups do. They rescue monotheism, however, in a fascinatingly magickal way—by claiming that, although the three are not united in their nature, they are united in their will, and because their wills are in perfect accord, they are functionally one God. To place one’s will in perfect accord with the Heavenly Father, of course, is a very difficult thing to do. Even the greatest of the medieval mystics regarded this more as a theoretical ideal than a thing achievable (in this lifetime, at any rate). The linking of mortality and divinity on Earth is therefore seen in Mormonism as something miraculous—outside the natural course of events and attributable solely to the grace of God.

book of mormon
The ceremonial magician Eliphas Lévi, on the other hand, saw the process as quite natural—a product not of divine grace, but of human initiative, which requires more than will alone (will suffices, of course, in all matters for God, but not always for men). In what is perhaps his most popular work, Transcendental Magic, Lévi enumerated four magickal virtues (sometimes called the “Powers of the Sphinx”) which make the link between humanity and divinity possible. Customarily named in Latin, they are scire (to know), audere (to dare), velle (to will), and tacere (to keep silence).

Though now only one of four components, will, remained the keystone of Lévi’s conception when he wrote in The Great Secret that “magic ... has for its purpose the placing of supernatural power at the service of the human will in some way. To attain such an achievement it is necessary to KNOW what has to be done, to WILL what is required, to DARE what must be attempted and to KEEP SILENT with discernment.” In essence, this was simply a reversal of the Mormon concept; while it speaks of man joined with God by the alignment of human will to the divine power, Lévi spoke of divinity yoked to man by the alignment of the divine power to human will. Using Odysseus as an example, Lévi spoke of how he used these virtues to “sway the gods”, and wrote to his students that “You are called to be king of air, water, earth and fire; but to reign over these four living creatures of symbolism, it is necessary to conquer and enchain them … be the heir and despoiler of the sphinx”.

Our old friend Aleister Crowley (of whom we have lately written so much), could no more leave this system unimproved than he could any other, especially since he claimed to be, himself, the reincarnation of Lévi. Feeling that the elements of spirit, which had come into common use among kabbalists since Lévi’s time, required a corresponding virtue, he added ire (to go). Where Lévi, steeped in Western occult tradition, thought in terms of spiritual domination and the harnessing of supernatural powers, Crowley, an avid student of Eastern spirituality as well as Western, dreamt of the transcendence of such dualities.

For him, the cultivation of the magickal virtues was not about wielding divine power as a tool, but about realizing one’s own identity with and in that power. “[A]s Spirit is the Origin, the Essence, and the Sum of the other four [elements],” he wrote in Magick Without Tears, “so is to Go in relation to those powers. And to Go is the very meaning of the name God … the means whereby we demonstrate the Godhead of our Nature.” For Crowley, one’s mastery over the elements arose not from “conquering” and “enchaining”, but from finding oneself in the heart of that from which the elements flow. It is not a matter of reducing them to an extension of one’s will, but of realizing them as emanations of one’s own nature, and hence of one’s True Will:
[T]he four Virtues of the Adept …  enable him to overcome the resistance of the elements; they are: to Will, to Dare, to Know and to Keep Silence. By the harmonious exercise of these, the fifth Element of Spirit is formulated in the being of the Adept. It is the god within, the sun, which is the centre of the Universe from the human point of view, with its own particular virtue, which is to Go." (Book of Thoth)

In effect, by proper application of the magickal virtues, one becomes actus purus (pure act), which is one of the defining traits of God in the Christian theological tradition. The sacred center is imagined as the perpetual activity of divinity, ceaselessly creating and recreating the cosmos, and the adept who wills, dares, knows, and keeps silence is returned to this stream of activity from which she or he was once birthed into manifestation. By thus returning in a willed and purposeful way, however, the adept retains a paradoxical measure of his or her independence. Like the Mormon Christ, the adept is both God and man—creator and creature. Like Lévi, the adept is in command, but like any good Thelemite, is also commanded by her or his True Will.

Concerning the above, we have an altogether fresh take on Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, praying that the cup may be taken from Him, but that the Lord’s will be done in all matters. In traditional Christian thought, this text (Matthew 26:39; Luke 22:42) has been deeply troubling, with its suggestion of a rift between Jesus’ human desires and God’s immutable will. In Crowley’s concept, however, we find a possibility that these two wills can be identical not only by a gift of divine grace, such that Jesus’ prayer would be read as an interruption of that grace, but by the active effort of the one who prays, such that Jesus’ words in that moment become not a sign of wavering, but an affirmation of persistence. Human and divine initiative stand reconciled, in Crowley’s model, and the fusion of the human and the divine is seen to be both mundane (as in Lévi) and miraculous (as in Mormonism).

If we return, then, to Lévi’s example of Odysseus as a true magician in mastery of the four virtues, we are truthfully hard-pressed to decide if he is a man or a god. In Crowley’s terms, he is both, and we might well say the same of Empedocles, Lleu Llaw Gyffes, or Mary. For too much of the history of Christian thought, virtue has been a means by which one comes to God. Virtue is, though, as they say, its own reward, and in magick we find it not as a means, but as a recognition. The adept does not tread a narrow path of virtue to reach the Kingdom of God; the adept, by the practice of virtue, recognizes it within.

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