A Secular Sangha

Printed in the  Fall 2024  issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Trull, David, "A Secular Sangha"  Quest 112:4, pg 17-19

By David Trull

David TrullEvery Sunday growing up, I walked to Catholic church with my family. On the way, we passed a Masonic temple. It was made of glittering white stone, and over the entrance hung a strange symbol that often caught my eye: a compass with what looked like a face in the middle. When I asked my parents what went on there, they shrugged. When I pressed further, my Dad said, “Some people say mysterious rituals, but I think it’s mostly just spaghetti dinners and canned-goods drives.”

At the start of summer, our church hosted a carnival, kicked off by a raucous parade. As a little kid, I would join my siblings, who would rush out in bare feet and watch as the cars full of marching bands and pickup trucks decked in streamers blared past.

Our favorite part was the fleet of minicars, piloted by old guys in Vietnam vet or Navy baseball caps. They would zip between the floats and toss out Tootsie Rolls. When I asked who the heck those guys were, my mom told me they were Shriners and were part of the Masonic temple. I wasn’t sure how to reconcile the silly cars and Tootsie Rolls with that imposing edifice.

I later learned that Freemasonry grew out of the crafts guilds formed in the 1500s. While initially intended to facilitate and regulate the practice of stonemasonry, over time it transcended its initial function and became a fraternal order dedicated to service and self-improvement. Members advance through three degrees, which mirror the ranks of a craftsman: Apprentice, Fellowcraft, and Master Mason.

Freemasons keep their rituals and teachings secret, but their public face is one of community service. They often fund and run children’s hospitals and burn units. Although I came across plenty of online chatter about bizarre rituals and schemes for world domination, it seems much of this talk stems from works of fantasy like Dan Brown’s novel The Lost Symbol. There is nothing people love more than a secret society to blame for all the world’s problems, I suppose.

The Masons and their communal self-improvement efforts came to mind when I read the book Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community, by Robert Putnam, while living in a Tibetan Buddhist community. Bowling Alone, published in 2000, traces the decline of American social capital since the 1950s (an era of robust civic and social participation). The book describes how Americans once filled their free time with bowling leagues, public clubs like Elks Lodges and the Freemasons, church and charity organizations, and informal gatherings like Sunday dinners or poker nights. It asserts that this civic and neighborhood participation cements social ties, fosters a safe and trusting society, and facilitates generational transfer. To the cosmopolitan eye, church bake sales and Elks Club suppers might appear painfully provincial, but they are the brick and mortar of society, Putnam insists.

I couldn’t help but feel that Putnam had a point. My formative years unfolded over a strange period in history: born early enough to experience the last gasp of the postwar American high, ripe with community and togetherness, and late enough to watch that wave recede from shore. When I was small, our neighborhood was vibrant and active, we knew many of our neighbors, and there was a palpable sense of local pride. By the time I left for college, however, the local church had closed, the parades were no more, the Shriners and their wacky cars had vanished, and people were becoming enamored with novel online communities like Facebook and MySpace. The whole nation felt sadder and more pointless, just a collection of houses, their windows flickering with TV light.

At the time I was reflecting on this, I was introduced to the concepts of Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. Buddha is the teacher, Dharma the teachings, and Sangha the community of Buddhist practitioners. The rinpoche (meaning precious one, an honorific name for a lama) under whom I studied placed special emphasis on Sangha. Even within a tradition as focused on the individual mind as Buddhism, he said, participation in a community oriented toward enlightenment was critical.

This came as a bit of shock, as I had sought out Buddhism during a somewhat misanthropic stage of my life. I had become fed up with the rat race and had grown pessimistic about the possibilities of friendship and relationships, which seemed to lead only to trouble and disappointment. When I told Rinpoche that I felt I needed less community, not more, he told me that Sangha is the antidote for individualism. Too much focus on the self, even when well-intentioned, engenders suffering. More pain awaited me, he warned, if I sought to make myself an island.

Long story short: I ultimately learned the lesson Rinpoche meant to teach, first through a Buddhist Sangha and then through a circle of new friends. The experience humbled me and showed me the inestimable value of simple togetherness. I could not spend my life alone in meditation or esoteric ritual and expect to find happiness. That was part of it, but I needed others to serve and be served by.

Though they are not Buddhist, I realized that organizations like the Freemasons offer a form of secular Sangha. One of the Mason mottos is, “Making good men better,” as succinct a summary of Sangha as you are likely to find. It leaves room for individual effort (it implies one must be a “good man” to begin with: it does not promise to build one from scratch) yet acknowledges that personal and spiritual growth requires mutual support and a community in which to serve.

While most of the social clubs and community organizations described in Bowling Alone have withered and died, the Masons have demonstrated a particular resilience (they currently have six million members worldwide) that makes me think they will survive (and perhaps thrive) in the years ahead. One reason, I think, is that they incorporate a greater spiritual depth than organizations like the Elks Lodge, but another reason is that they carefully thread the needle between modern and premodern wisdom in two ways.

First, belief in a higher power is a precondition for membership. The applicant does not have to believe in a specific manifestation of God (Jesus or Allah), but the door is closed to atheists. While Freemasonry is modern (or even postmodern) in its flexibility as to the particular form of the higher power, it harks back to an earlier age in insisting that there is something beyond us and the harsh gaze of scientific reductionism. The toughest stretch of my spiritual path came when I realized that I could not live without God. Sure, I could do without the angry, shaming patriarch of my traditional Catholic upbringing and the vanilla prosperity gospel God of the megachurches, but I required something beyond myself, a force driving evolution that offers me a role in its unfolding. The Masons understand that we cannot just “move on” from God.

Second: male-only membership. It feels almost dirty, in these postmodern times, to mention a rule like this. Everything ought to be open to all genders, we profess. While I would almost always agree with this, I think it is wise to recognize the value of single-sex spaces. After all, we observe the polarity of masculine and feminine at work in the unfolding of the universe: how can we deny these forces exist? And if these are polarized powers, perhaps they need space to grow and replenish away from the pressure of their opposite. It is a heartbreaking phenomenon of our time that even a hint of male-oriented spirituality is considered inherently toxic and cancerous, something to snuff out.

While the limitations of the old paradigm are clear, I think we, in our haste, stand to lose much of what was good in the traditional paradigm. The Masons are not afraid to incorporate aspects of the traditional worldview into their modern pursuits while refusing to engage in the destructive “us versus them” arguments so common in the past, and I think this is a sterling example that other spiritual communities should follow. Freemasonry is about becoming better humans, not about feeling better by shoving others out of the circle.

This capacity for integration makes me wonder if the Freemasons, although they have ancient roots, might serve as a model for the type of Sangha we ought to form in this “time between worlds,” as educational theorist Zak Stein calls it. We are bidding farewell to a universe governed by traditional religion and hierarchy and stepping into an uncertain spiritual future. The journey will be painful and the end result unclear. To ease the agony of transition, one of our most urgent tasks is to construct communities of practice in which we can collectively level up.

To be alive now is oftentimes to be lonely. We are either competing against others for scarce resources or fighting for dominance in the space of ideas, struggling for the right to dictate the new paradigm. Much public rhetoric now revolves around crushing the “enemy,” whoever that might be. Self-development often appeals to selfishness (“make tons of money and leave the losers in the dust”) and nets handsome profits for those who peddle it. There is little sense that we are in this thing together, or that we need each other, and the glaring absence of community only exacerbates this feeling. It is unclear where we are meant to go, and whom we should go there with. We need sangha now more than ever.

The Freemason motto is “Ordo ab chao,” Latin for “Order from chaos.” In the beginning, this applied to stonemasons as they laid a foundation and transformed a pile of bricks into a home or a church; now it applies to society. How to bring order from chaos? Service, commitment to self-improvement, and community. While spiritual quests and lofty philosophy hold wild appeal (and the Masons have that too), I’ve come to realize that without Sangha, they are insufficient. To build something that will last, something that will stand, we need the esoteric things, of course, but beforehand, the foundation must be laid, sometimes with things as simple as spaghetti dinners and canned-goods drives.

David Trull has worked as a fireworks salesman, forensic tax researcher, railroad logistician, teacher, songwriter, and musician. He studied philosophy through a Great Books immersion program at Thomas Aquinas College in Ojai, California. A lifelong autodidact, he has advanced his explorations through a self-designed curriculum focused on the intersection of philosophy and theology. Raised in St. Louis, Trull now orbits between Santa Barbara, California, and the San Francisco Bay Area.


The Masonic Enigma: An Interview with Jay Kinney

Printed in the  Fall 2024  issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Smoley, Richard, "The Masonic Enigma: An Interview with Jay Kinney"  Quest 112:4, pg 10-14

 By Richard Smoley

Jay Kinney and I go back a long way. I met him in the mid-eighties, when he had just started a new magazine called Gnosis: Journal of the Western Inner Traditions, which attracted a great deal of attention in occult circles. I began to write regularly for it, and in late 1990, I came on as editor, with Jay as publisher and editor in chief.

Gnosis was always a tiny magazine, with a maximum circulation of 16,000. Its full-time staff never consisted of more than four people. Yet it had and continues to have an outsized impact. I have been editor of Quest for sixteen years and have published thirteen books of my own, but when I run into people in the esoteric milieu, the most common thing they still tell me is how much they loved and miss Gnosis.

Gnosis was published between 1985 and 1999, which was a golden age for small magazines. Desktop publishing (though still in its infancy) made it possible to produce a great deal more with slender resources. And many independent distributors were catering to niche markets like ours.

This changed in the late nineties. Book and magazine distributors began to consolidate or go out of business entirely, making what was already a marginal enterprise unsustainable. In those days, Quest was a competitor of Gnosis on newsstands, but it too became unsustainable. Although the magazine was obviously not discontinued, in 1998 its scale was pulled back, and it became what it is now is: a journal for members of the TSA.

In 1999, Gnosis ceased publication, and Jay and I went on to different enterprises. Jay was strongly drawn to Freemasonry, about which we had published an issue in 1996, and he became heavily involved in it. This culminated in (among other things) his 2009 book, The Masonic Myth: Unlocking the Truth about the Symbols, the Secret Rites, and the History of Freemasonry (HarperOne), which remains the best single introduction to the subject.

In the spring of 2024, Jay and I conducted an email interview about his thoughts on Masonry.

 

Jay KinneyRichard Smoley: What were your first impressions of Masonry, going back to childhood?

Jay Kinney: To be honest, I don’t recall being very aware of Masonry at all when I was young. My family lived in Ohio until I turned twelve, and Masonry was pretty widespread there historically, but I didn’t cross paths with it much at all. Though, when my family would go on summer road trips and we drove into small towns, it was common to see signs on the outskirts promoting the local Rotary Club, the Lions Club, the Elks, and the local Masonic lodge. But they were all an equal mystery to me.

It wasn’t until I was in my later teenage years in Illinois and I came across dusty old occult bookshops in Chicago and the TS headquarters out in Wheaton, with its marvelous Olcott Library, that I became more aware of Masonry, which seemed to have some vague relationship to esotericism and ancient myths of temple builders. So that rather intrigued me.

Smoley: What drew you to Masonry at first?

Kinney: I suppose, over the years, it was that it kept popping up in writings by metaphysical authors such as Manly Palmer Hall, Max Heindel, A.E. Waite, and Dion Fortune. They seemed to imply that Masonry was intertwined with the Western esoteric tradition in some fashion, either as an expression of that tradition or as a repository of esoteric lore. And of course I became aware that during Annie Besant’s and Charles Leadbeater’s leadership of the TS, they encouraged a Theosophical variant of the Craft, Co-Masonry, which accepted both men and women as members.

At the same time, there were critics of Masonry who spread murky conspiracy theories about it being some sort of powerful secret society ruling the world from behind the scenes. That struck me as extremely far-fetched, but it also prodded me to seek out reliable sources discussing Masonry in down-to-earth terms. I researched it as best I could and actually met some Masons, both in person, and over the Internet in its early years.

I came away from those contacts with the strong impression that it was a fraternal brotherhood going back centuries that emphasized honesty and charitable works, and that it wasn’t diabolical or scary at all. If anything, it seemed kind of square and stuffy, but it was beginning to attract a younger generation who were taken with the legends of Masons building the great Gothic cathedrals of Europe and who were fascinated by all the symbolism and rituals that were part of it.

Smoley: What led you to decide to become a Mason?

Kinney: As I said before, I met some Masons and was favorably impressed by them. Also, we published an issue of Gnosis on Freemasonry, and doing that brought me into further contacts with Masons and a lot of its history. When Gnosis had one financial crisis too many (one of our major newsstand distributors declared bankruptcy, owing us tens of thousands of dollars), I suddenly had more time on my hands, and I figured that it might be a good time to explore the Craft, and, who knows? I might find an editing niche within its publishing networks that would appreciate my talents and knowledge.

Smoley: Could you say a little about your personal history and journey with Masonry?

Kinney: As it turned out, I discovered that a good number of Masons I met were familiar with Gnosis and had read it regularly. I felt very welcomed and became quite active, both at the local lodge I had joined, and on a more national level. I edited a monthly newsletter for my lodge and wrote research articles for the Scottish Rite Research Society’s newsletter and annual research volume. I served as librarian for the San Francisco Scottish Rite’s extensive archive and also wrote a long historical paper on one of the founders of the Oakland Scottish Rite, Edwin A. Sherman, who was quite a character, to put it mildly. I was honored with an Albert Gallatin Mackey Award for excellence in Masonic research for that paper. I eventually wrote a book on Masonic history and lore, The Masonic Myth, which ruffled some feathers of the old guard, but proved very popular with younger Masons and the curious public.

Smoley: What is your current status as a Mason?

Kinney: I remain a member in good standing of my two Craft lodges, as well as with the York Rite and the Scottish Rite, and was honored with the 33rd degree by the latter. I still attend some meetings and functions, but am not as active as I was in my busiest years.

Smoley: Could you talk about your views of Masonry as a collective institution?

Kinney: Many people do not realize that Masonry is not one big international institution, but a complicated network of local grand lodges (by states and countries), as well as local lodges, side orders, youth groups, affinity groups, and many charitable groups. Some are in close relations with each other, but not all of them necessarily work together or even recognize each other’s validity.

Nevertheless, many Masons enjoy meeting other Masons when they travel around the world, and I think there is a shared sense of brotherhood and fraternity between individual Masons that transcends the differences or formal gaps between some Masonic organizations.

Smoley: What did you feel was most beneficial to you about your involvement with Masonry?

Kinney: There is a passage in the early eighteenth-century Constitutions of the Grand Lodge in London to the effect that Masonry brings together men who might have otherwise remained at a distance. And it has certainly been my experience that I’ve met many Masons and their families who I would not have met or socialized with were it not for Masonry.

I think the thing that has impressed me the most is that Masonry has enabled me to meet all sorts of people from all walks of life, and sometimes with the most differing perspectives and opinions, but to meet them in a context and a frame of mind that has enabled us to get along with each other and share in a sense of friendship and brotherhood.

Smoley: What did you find most frustrating and dissatisfying?

Kinney: I will admit that when I first joined Masonry, I came in with a very idealized view of its members and its values. Masons are taught that, in Masonic parlance, we are all “on the level,” that there is no station higher than that of a Master Mason (of the third degree), and that we are all to treat each other as brothers and equals. And I think that most of the time, that is true.

But, you know, people are people, and whatever we might intend, some people just don’t get along, or they rub each other the wrong way. Cliques form. Officers in positions of power, particularly those who have devoted decades of hard work to helping maintain Masonic institutions, can feel underappreciated or like they are carrying more of a load than others. That may even be true. So let me just say that Masonry gives all its members plenty of opportunities to try to be better men, and everyone does what they can.

Furthermore, Masonry dates back to earlier times, when memorization was a much more common skill, and its rituals have been handed down over the centuries in remarkably well-preserved forms. Much of that was passed along by mouth-to-ear transmission: the wording of rituals and lectures was not supposed to be written down. The rules on that have loosened over the years, but still, performing Masonic rituals demands a lot of memorization, which is not everyone’s cup of tea. I found that my own capacity for memorization is pretty limited, as I have a strong visual memory, but oral memory? Not so much. So I found myself limited in the roles I might play in degree rituals or even just the rituals of opening the lodge. That was a bit frustrating.

Smoley: What is your impression of the current direction in which Masonry as a whole is headed?

Kinney: My impression is that Masonry—at least in America—is headed in several different directions at once. On the one hand, based on membership statistics, the Craft has been slowly but surely shrinking since its peak in the 1950s. This has meant that many lodges across the country, especially in sparsely populated areas, have had to sell off their buildings and shut down or merge with other lodges. As our society shifted, and the stable patterns of working fathers and stay at home moms began to change, Masonry, as a men’s fraternal order, became out of step with the times and seemed anachronistic.

But if you hang on long enough, the pendulum begins to swing back, and a new wave of younger men have been attracted to Masonry, often precisely because it seems to be a living monument of the past, from when men came together to give each other mutual support (both moral and emotional). While many social institutions have almost disappeared, Masonry is doing its best to accommodate new generations who have been brought up feeling adrift and with a lack of roots. If the present leadership rises to the challenge, Masonry has the potential to start growing again and find a new role in civil society.

Smoley: One of the most evident aspects of Masonry is its rich symbolism. Could you say something about this in general and how it affected you personally?

Kinney: Symbols are one means by which humans convey ideas and feelings which are often quite deep but hard to express with mere words. One can run into this when trying to understand dreams. The same goes for myths, which are populated with characters or animals who act out stories that seem to convey some truths about existence that are also elusive and many-layered.

Many Masonic symbols are visual reminders of ideas or myths that are shared in Masonic degree rituals, which are compact dramas acted out in the lodge room. Others are a kind of geometric shorthand for lessons that convey certain values and principles. For instance, the workman’s tool of a level can symbolize being balanced in one’s approach to life as well as upholding that all Masons are “on the level” and to be treated equally.

For better or for worse, I would say that symbols as a kind of coded visual language played a larger role in Masonry in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries than at present. But there too, it might be a part of the Masonic heritage that the new generations of Masons may pull out of the storage closet and polish up and use anew.

Smoley: What effect did the Masonic rites have on you?

Kinney: I was lucky to join a lodge whose members took pride in performing the degree rituals with sincerity and considerable skill, so I had the wonderful experience of feeling like I was being initiated into a tradition with a lot of depth and meaning. They had a great impact on me, and they remain alive in my memory to this very day.

Smoley: Could you offer some reflections on Masonic origins and history?

Kinney: I think it is safe to say that in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, much of what passed for Masonic history and origins was a mix of legends, hearsay, horn tooting, and speculation. Masonry claimed a lineage going back to the workmen who designed and built Solomon’s Temple, and even those who built the Egyptian Pyramids, but such claims were “traditional” and without any concrete proof. Some legends associated the Masons with the Knights Templar, the famous warrior monks of medieval times who protected pilgrims to the Holy Land and who were associated with the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. The evidence for this is extremely slim and circumstantial, but a lot of people will believe what they want to believe.

Luckily, beginning roughly in the mid-1800s, Masonic historians began to be more serious in their research and tried to find actual evidence for their theories. Later historians built upon this, and today we find serious academic scholars paying increasing attention to Freemasonry, both as a historical phenomenon and as a sociological and anthropological subject of interest.

Needless to say, most depictions of Masonry in novels and movies bear little resemblance to actual Freemasonry. I’m sure that some readers will be disappointed to hear that.

Smoley: As you mentioned, some popular theories link the origins of the Masons to the medieval Knights Templar. Could you explain a bit more why you dismiss those theories?

Kinney: Dating back to the 1980s and 1990s, there was a flood of “alternative history” books, including Michael Baigent’s and Richard Leigh’s Temple and the Lodge, Christopher Knight’s and Robert Lomas’s Hiram Key, and John J. Robinson’s Born in Blood: The Lost Secrets of Freemasonry, among many others. To one degree or another, many of these books alleged that the Knights Templar, who fell out of favor with the papacy and the French monarchy and were put to the torch or otherwise disbanded, escaped to Scotland, where they survived within the Masonic lodges there.

There are many variations on these themes. One of the most popular is that the privately built Rosslyn Chapel outside of Edinburgh was decorated with secret Templar and Masonic symbols and motifs. An excellent debunking of these claims and many others can be found in books such as The Rosslyn Hoax? by Robert L.D. Cooper, the curator of the Grand Lodge of Scotland Museum and Library in Edinburgh.

Smoley: What would you say are the most common and most harmful errors people at large make about Masonry?

Kinney: I think the number one error is to attribute far more political and esoteric significance to Masonry than it has ever really had. There are many anti-Masonic conspiracy buffs out there, including many sincere Christians, who string together misinterpretations, long-disproved hoaxes, rumors, and fantasies about Masonry and end up convincing themselves that Masons are pawns of some sinister secret order or worse.

The Nazis in the 1930s and 40s were convinced that the Masons were in cahoots with the Jews and the Communists, and 80,000 German Masons were sent off to concentration camps, along with the Gypsies and everyone else that the Nazis deplored. Earlier, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Vatican condemned Freemasonry and considered it a threat to Catholicism. To be honest, there were Masons who did oppose Nazism and who did wish to trim back the political influence of the Vatican, especially in France and Italy. The Grand Orient variant of Masonry, which is predominant in France and Italy, did play a role in promoting democracy and secularism in those societies. It is often confused with the Masonic variants in the English-speaking countries, which have minimized their involvement in politics or religious controversies.

In The Masonic Myth, I share my research into the complicated reasons for the accusations and struggles affecting Masonry, and I must say that Masonry’s penchant for secrecy has done the Craft no favors. If people feel you are keeping secrets from them, it’s not surprising if they conclude that you have something to hide.

Now the case can be made that Masonic initiations have more impact if the candidate doesn’t know what will happen in the ritual ahead of time. That was certainly my experience. But, I think that a lot of the traditional secrecy in Masonry has been overdone. Luckily, the United Grand Lodge of England and various Grand Lodges in the United States have been making efforts to be more open and inviting. I find that encouraging.

At a time when so much of our political landscape has become polarized, with different groups projecting the worst onto each other, I think it is refreshing and helpful to have an organization that emphasizes fraternal good will, fellowship, honesty, and equality.

 


Theurgy, Theory and Practice: The Mysteries of the Ascent to the Divine, Homeric Epics, the Chaldean Oracles, and Neoplatonic Ritual/Hellenic Tantra: The Theurgic Platonism of Iamblichus

Theurgy, Theory and Practice: The Mysteries of the Ascent to the Divine, Homeric Epics, the Chaldean Oracles, and Neoplatonic Ritual

P.D. Newman
Rochester, Vt.: Inner Traditions, 2023. xiv + 210 pp., hardcover, $40.

Hellenic Tantra: The Theurgic Platonism of Iamblichus

Gregory Shaw
Brooklyn, N.Y.: Angelico, 2024. xvii + 259 pp., paper, $22.95.

Theurgy comes from the Greek theourgia, meaning divine working. A term used by the Neoplatonic philosophers Plotinus, Porphyry, and Iamblichus in late classical antiquity, it was defined thus by Iamblichus: “Theurgy works through the divine love and providence of the gods who bestow their presence upon human beings through divine illumination.”

A present-day scholarly source defines theurgy as “religious ritual demonstrating supernatural power” which “both symbolised and encapsulated the extraordinary miracle of the soul’s conversion back to its divine cause.”

The practical aspects of theurgy are mysterious. Some have contended that the Neoplatonists did not employ any ritual but merely thought of theurgy as a contemplation of the divine. P.D. Newman disagrees, citing Iamblichus, who writes, it “is not pure thought that unites the theurgists to the gods . . . it is the accomplishment of acts not to be divulged and beyond all conception, and the power of unutterable symbols, understood solely by the gods, which establishes theurgic union.”

Newman’s book traces theurgy back to the beginnings of Greek philosophy. Following the classical scholar Peter Kingsley, he contends that the earliest philosophers, the Presocratics of the sixth and fifth centuries BC, practiced a kind of shamanic descent called a katabasis. “By the time we get to Plato and his successors,” Newman adds, “ritual descents to the underworld will be largely abandoned in favor of dialectical anabasis, theia mania or divine madness, and, eventually, theourgia or theurgy.”

In short, the Platonic and Neoplationic traditions replaced descent to the underworld with ascent to the realm of the gods, which would culminate in a divinization of the adept. “Theurgy is a veritable reversal of the soul’s emergence or ontology,” writes Newman.

The ancient mysteries envisioned incarnation into human form as a descent from the heavenly realm through the seven spheres of the planets as then known (Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the sun, Venus, Mercury, and the moon), absorbing the characteristics of each sphere in turn. Theurgy, as Newman indicates, is the opposite: an ascent through those seven spheres in reverse and shedding oneself from these characteristics—usually seen as vices—before returning to the pure realm of the gods. A similar process is described in the Hermetic text known as the Poimandres.

To illustrate what this process might have been like, Newman points to a text from the Nag Hammadi Library called the Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth as a “technical instruction on the ritualized ascent of the soul into the Ogdoad [the pure heavenly realm] and beyond.” He also discusses a description in Contra Celsum (“Against Celsus”) by the Christian church father Origen, who describes a similar practice by a Gnostic sect known as the Ophites.

Even these short comments indicate that the thought and practice of the Neoplatonists, Hermeticists, and Gnostics, despite very real differences, shared remarkable similarities and may not be as easily distinguished as academics might like.

 Newman’s fascinating book delves into other topics, including uses of the Homeric epics as allegorical guides to the soul’s ascent and even the practice of calling down divine powers into statues. All in all, this work is a useful glimpse into the mysteries of theurgy and what it may have meant to its practitioners.

Gregory Shaw’s book is another matter. It does not immediately inspire confidence to see a book about the Neoplatonists titled Hellenic Tantra: Tantra, the diverse and obscure mystical tradition of India, would appear to have little to do with the Platonic philosophy of late antiquity. In this case, the lack of confidence is justified.

Shaw has written scholarly works on Neoplatonism, notably Theurgy and the Soul: The Neoplatonism of Iamblichus (1995). In this new work, he attempts to characterize the theurgy of Iamblichus as an ancient Greek version of Tantra.

Shaw contends that Iamblichus differs from his predecessors, Plotinus and Porphyry, in one key respect: for the latter, in Shaw’s view, “the soul does not descend into a body; it only seems to be in a body. Its confusion can therefore be eliminated by cleansing the soul of the illusion that it is embodied.”

For Iamblichus, by contrast, “the soul descends fully into the body, and this alienates it from divinity. The immortal soul, as embodied, identifies with a mortal self, our ego. For Iamblichus, no cleansing of the ego would allow it to recover its divinity, for its very structure prevents this. One’s identification as an individual effects one’s self-alienation. The solution to this existential problem is that the soul somehow be released from its self-fixation in order to receive and recover its divinity. An experience of ekstasis, ‘standing outside’ one’s habitual state, is required for the soul to become divine” (Emphasis here and in other quotes is Shaw’s). Theurgy generates such experience.

For Plotinus and Porphyry, the divinization of the soul involves an ascent from the defiled material world of the body. For Iamblichus (according to Shaw), theurgy entails a descent: the full embodiment of the soul in the body so that the individual becomes a god in the flesh, complete with divine powers: “the soul needs matter in order to unite with the divine,” he tells us.

Shaw argues that Iamblichus’s theurgy is identical to Tantra. He cites one Western scholar’s definition of the latter, saying that it applies equally well to theurgy: “that body of belief and practices which, working from the principle that the universe we experience is nothing other than the concrete manifestation of the divine energy of the godhead that creates and maintains the universe, seeks to ritually appropriate and channel that energy, within the human microcosm, in creative and emancipatory ways.”

But the theurgy of Iamblichus does not seem to resemble Tantra at all. The latter embraces a radical nondualism: there is no ultimate difference between Shiva, the divine consciousness, and his manifold manifestations; hence there is no ultimately real distinction between “pure” and “impure” substances and acts. One Tantra practice to demonstrate this truth is panchamakara, involving use of the five M’s, the initial of each of which stands for a forbidden and defiling substance: madya (wine), mamsa (meat), matsya (fish), mudra (grain), and maithuna (sexual intercourse).

Shaw does not, and cannot, show that the theurgy of the Neoplatonists involved any such practices. Here is Iamblichus’s own characterization of theurgy: “The Gods . . . shed their light upon theurgists, calling their souls back to themselves and orchestrating their union with them, accustoming them, even while still in the body, to detach themselves from their bodies and turn themselves towards their eternal and intelligible first principle” (emphasis Shaw’s). This is far not only from the five M’s but from the nondualism of Tantra (although Shaw, like many authors today, tosses around the word nonduality rather promiscuously).

Note two points here: (1) theurgy, even as described by Shaw, bears little resemblance to Tantra in any recognizable form, and (2) Iamblichus’s views do not differ from those of Plotinus and Porphyry to nearly the extent that Shaw claims.

All this apart from the question of whether Shaw, or even the Western scholarly sources that he relies on, understand Tantra at all. It does not help that he at times speaks of yoga and Tantra as more or less interchangeable, although they are radically different and in many ways contradictory.

I would not trust Shaw’s book to give anything like an accurate picture of Tantra. Even its treatment of Neoplatonism, despite his expertise in the area, seems unreliable in some respects. Readers wanting some knowledge of Neoplatonic theurgy would do better to go back to his earlier work Theurgy and the Soul—or to Newman’s.

Richard Smoley


Embodied Imaginations: Fictional Characters Making Experiential Crossings into Real Life: An Unusual Phenomenon

Embodied Imaginations: Fictional Characters Making Experiential Crossings into Real Life: An Unusual Phenomenon

Chidambaram Ramesh
New Delhi, India: New Age Publishing, 2023. 247 pp., hardcover, $41.

In the field of metaphysical and spiritual book publishing, there is a certain category of books that are seemingly popular with readers, but which present a challenge to reviewers. A case in point is the volume before me: Embodied Imaginations. It is published by New Age Publishing, an imprint of Motilal Banarsidass Publishing House, in New Delhi, India, in a beautifully printed and bound hardcover edition, which is proof positive that the publishing industry in the subcontinent has achieved a level of production and design quality fully equal to that of North America, Europe, and China.

Make no mistake. This is a handsome book that is a pleasure to hold in one’s hands and read from page to page of crisply printed text on high-quality paper stock.

Moreover, the book’s subject—the phenomenon of fictional or imaginary characters taking on a life of their own (although usually relegated to the marginal realm of the paranormal)—can be fascinating, as the many reports and anecdotes collected here demonstrate.

So what exactly is the problem that so many books like this present? It is, sadly, that heaps of anecdotal incidents and brief quotes from hundreds of other authors or writers do not result in a sum that is greater than its parts. Instead, with a minimum of connective threading, one is led from one odd tale to another, as if the sheer agglomeration of these tidbits amounts to conclusive proof of . . . something.

In the case of Ramesh’s Embodied Imaginations, I was enticed by the many accounts of authors experiencing the apparent autonomy of their characters and the sensation of their books being written by a creative power greater than themselves. Having experienced this uncanny feeling myself, I was eager for an intelligent discussion of what might lie behind it. But the structure of the book seemed to consist of the adding on of example upon example, from this angle and that, without a deeper consideration of their ultimate meaning or implications about our universe and human consciousness. To quote from one representative passage from the book at hand

"In her spiritualist work, There is No Death (1892), Florence Marryat often alludes to mediums and spirit manifestations regarding artistic talent. Similarly, during Victor Hugo’s exile in Jersey, he reportedly talked with Shakespeare, Plato, Hannibal, Rousseau, Galileo, Sir Walter Scott, and Jesus, gaining insights he felt obligated to share with humanity. Machiavelli is said to have had imaginary dinner conversations with ancient poets and historical figures such as Moses, Romulus, and Theseus. Oliver Napoleon Hill, an American self-help author, admitted to having received his inspiration from a council of 33 ‘invisible masters’. Blavatsky distinguished between her own works and the few parts ascribed to spirits. For almost twenty years, [Jane] Roberts channeled an entity [calling] himself “Seth” and produced an extensive body of writings comprising more than 30 volumes collectively known as the Seth material.”

There is nothing wrong with such a succession of examples, I suppose, but to have chapter after chapter packed with them, without much of a building argument or an inclusive theory, is more like an anthology of “Ripley’s Believe It or Not!” cartoons than a serious consideration of parapsychological phenomena.    

Ramesh drew upon a wide variety of sources and religious traditions, but the book ultimately seemed to be a compendium of anecdotes and not a whole lot more. Rather than drawing me into a stream of thought that seemed to build upon itself and move me forward toward an insightful conclusion, I felt that all the researched material was more or less of the same second- and third-hand quality, and treated as of equal weight.

In the book’s brief conclusion, the following passage illustrates the shortcomings of what is surveyed and learned:

“We saw enough evidence to believe that the repeated and concentrated mental images develop hologram-like three-dimensional replicas that hover above our heads. While they are not discernible to the human eye, mystics and psychics with trained senses may see them. These thought forms comprise what Henri Corbin referred to as immaterial matter. In the Intermediate Realm of the Imagination, these portrayals are as real as the earth itself. When one’s creative energy reaches a critical level, their thoughts and ideas materialise into the physical world, where their forms may be seen with the naked eye. This mental-to-physical transfer may occur through a mechanism that modern science has not yet discovered.”

To this reviewer, this reads like a heaping portion of assumptions that are taken to be true because they appeared in print, while their plausibility is left to scientific discoveries not yet made.

Colin Wilson, the prolific author who wrote numerous overviews of occult and psychological topics, at least felt obliged to draft plausible explanations for the mysteries he considered. I just wish that more writers in this vein would do the same.

Despite my initial high hopes, I came away from Embodied Imaginations with the feeling that the book, though well researched and clearly written, was no better (although no worse) than too many other New Age books from any number of American publishers. It was a mile wide and an inch deep.

Jay Kinney


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