A friend, “Julian,” asked me how sacraments are different from magic. Being from a non-sacramental tradition himself, the sacramentalist view of the Eucharist struck him as, well, magical. — A priest performs a ritual that involves prescribed actions, words, and elements, and the ritual affects a supernatural change. — He wondered if I agreed that sacramentalism is a form of magic and, if not, what differentiates sacraments from magic. The following is my reply. To all my subscribers, thank you for subscribing. To my paid subscribers, thank you for your support. And to any visitors, please consider subscribing and supporting my work. Enjoy!
Dear “Julian,”
Thank you for your inquiry. Your question is an interesting one. What discernible difference is there between the sacraments, or mysteries,1 and magic? After all, if one accepts, as Christians historically have, that there is a change in the elements during the Eucharistic liturgy and that change communicates spiritual energy to its recipients,2 then the priest does seem to be more of a wizard than a pastor.
I recall a letter of C. S. Lewis in which he said something along the lines that his view of the Eucharist is rather close to what some might consider magic. I don’t recall Lewis fleshing out the point, but I would say something similar.
I suppose the first question we should ask is what one means by the word “magic”? If one simply means any ritual in which prescribed words are spoken, actions are taken, and elements are used to affect a spiritual result, then I suppose the Eucharist and other mysteries are “magic.” However, I think this is a poor way of defining the term.
Admittedly, the etymology of the word is broad enough to permit this use. The Greek word magos was used not only for magicians and sorcerers but for priests as well, and the etymology of “magic” literally translates to “the art of a magos.” So, strictly speaking, we could translate the word as “priestcraft.” But this rigid application of the etymology fails to recognize that, while both ancient Judaism and Christianity engaged in priestcraft, both religions prohibited magic. Hence, they distinguished the priestcraft we call “magic” from the priestcraft practiced in their own religions. So what is the difference?
I do not believe the difference lies in the superficial elements you mention — the role of a priest, the act of ritual, the use of prescibed words or gestures or elements. On this superficial level, you are right to see overlap between Christian priestcraft and sorcerer priestcraft. But there is an irreconcilable difference between the two, and it is rooted in what is being attempted.
A useful clue to this difference can be found in the 18th century (claimed to be 16th century) magic text, Grimorium verum. If you read the Grimorium — and I recommend you do not3 — you’ll find that some of the spells invoke the name of Christ and the Holy Trinity. Yet, such invocations are used when summoning a demon. Why? The reason is evident in the spells themselves. The caster threatens the demon with these invocations, threatening to torment it with the name of Christ unless the demon does what he wants.
Here, we see a critical feature of magic — manipulation and control. Magic presumes that there are laws that govern the spiritual world just as there are laws that govern the fleshly world. Spiritual realities are not random happenstance. Like fleshly beings, spirits have a nature and structure; they have operative powers reflective of that nature; they occupy a specific place and role in the cosmos; they are made for specific ends. And so, the ancient thinking goes, just as one can learn the rules of fleshly things and manipulate them by that knowledge, so one can learn the rules of spiritual things and manipulate them. This is why the ancient world does not strictly differentiate “science” from “magic” as we do today, as if they are two categorically different things. In the book of Enoch, for example, the manipulation of metals was secret knowledge taught to men by the fallen watchers (demons), no different than the secret knowledge those same fallen ones passed on about magic. In the one case, metal is manipulated; in the other, spiritual realities are manipulated, but in both cases, the knowledge of the nature of things is used to manipulate and control those things.
Magic, in this light, aims at manipulating and controling the spiritual world by ritual. In the case of the Grimorium verum, this control is asserted by coercion, using the power of the name of Jesus Christ over demons to manipulate them. To be sure, the spells that invoke Christ neither presume nor require that one is a follower of Christ. Rather, the spells presume that Christ’s name has power in the spiritual world in and of itself and that demons fear that name, whether the one invoking it is a follower of Christ or not — a fact attested to by both the Gospels (Luke 9:49; Mark 9:38) and the book of Acts (19:13-6). Hence, these spells use spiritual insight into the power of this name as means of manipulating spiritual entities.
Such mentality is par for the course in the syncretisms of the ancient world. Well known is the fact that mystery cults, like the Gnostics, tended to borrow elements from various religions and philosophies, combining them into a new syncretistic whole. While the practice may strike us today as strange, the approach reflects an experimental way of thinking about spirituality, common amongst ancient cults. These ancient practitioners had no loyalty to any particular religious sect. If something worked, they used it. Why abandon all competing religious and philosophical ideas and practices just because one discovers that the name of Jesus Christ has spiritual power? Syncretism was the natural result, piecemealing together beliefs and practices from any number of sources.
Forgive the “lowbrow” illustration, but we see a popular embodiment of this way of thinking in the show, Supernatural. In case you’re unfamiliar with the premise, in the world of the show, all religions, urban legends, myths, and the like have some seed of truth. Vampires are real; werewolves are real; angels are real; gods are real, and so on. But most ordinary folks have no idea thanks to a subculture of “hunters” — people who are aware of these supernatural threats in our world and are dedicated to tracking them down and destroying them. Throughout the series, we follow a pair of brothers, Sam and Dean, who are both hunters. They live on the road, searching for supernatural beings. When they find one, they research whatever the villain is they’re hunting, and they’ll try any number of things to stop it. Christian tools, such as exorcism rites or holy water or crosses, are sometimes used, but they’ll also try spells, occult rituals, superstitions, or whatever their research digs up. Nothing is out of bounds.
As the show progresses, it becomes apparent that neither brother has a set worldview on spiritual matters. This comes out rather comically the first time they encounter what seems to be an angel. For one brother, the existence of angels is a bridge too far, while the other brother has no trouble believing that angels exist, given all that they’ve already seen. This prompts a conversation about prayer and God, which brings to the surface that these two hunters have never talked worldview. Their spiritual experimentation is precisely that — experimentation. If it works, it works. And if it works, they don’t have metaphysical commitments on the reasons why it works. They are simply operating by trial and error to find ways of manipulating the spiritual realm. The result is all that matters.
Such a disposition is not terribly far from ancient forms of syncretism. If the name of Jesus is effective in controlling demons, the sorcerer is happy to use it; he feels no need to swear off competing religious practices or beliefs and become a Christian. The end result is all he seeks.
I trust the consistent theme in magic is evident — coercion or manipulation of spiritual realities. And here we find the stark contrast with the Judeo-Christian religions generally and with sacramentalism specifically. In Judaism and Christianity, priestcraft is never a means of coercing or controlling or manipulating God. Quite the contrary, the terms are set by the deity, and the two parties — God and man — engage freely, the people trusting that if they are faithful in their part, God will be faithful in his. But they are strictly prohibited from practices aimed at controlling Yahweh — the very practices of surrounding peoples aimed at controlling the other “gods” and demons.
The Old Testament prohibitions on foreign cult practices are helpful in drawing this contrast. I’ll begin with the prohibitions on idols.
In the Ancient Near East (ANE), idols were seen not as mere representations of gods but as bodies for the gods. More importantly for our purposes, the creation of an idol was thought to be a means of localizing that god — and something similar was thought about names and symbols. Now, it may be difficult to understand why, given our more Modern (or post-Modern) ways of thinking. After all, folks today tend to be natural born empiricists, who think of “the real” as that which is concrete, and thus a real connection between two things requires a concrete or physical tether between them. We can entertain psychological associations between names or symbols or images and the thing they name symbolize or image, but we have trouble thinking of that association as “real,” as opposed to purely mental. Given this tendency, an aside on symbology may be helpful.
In Plato, we find a discussion of the difference between non-substantial images (e.g., shadows) and substantial images (e.g., a reflection). When considering the nature of a substantial image, Plato notices something rather interesting. An essential feature of an image is that it is referential: This is the image of (name the archetype). In other words, an essential property of image is its connection with that which it images — its archetype. The relationship is one sided, of course; the image is dependent upon its archetype, not vice versa, but the connection is real nonetheless.
As I’ve discussed in articles about iconography, the OT recognizes this connection.4 The exposition of the second commandment in Deuteronomy (here using the Septuagint, as the fathers did) does not use the word “idol” (eidōlo) when talking about the prohibition on images but “likeness” (homoiōma). The evident concern in the passage is that because God is invisible and thus has no likeness, to worship the likeness of something — be it a celestial body, an animal, or a man — is to fall into idolatry. For the worshipper will be offering worship, not to God — since the image is not his likeness — but to the archetype of the likeness — be it a celestial body, an animal, or a man. Hence, the connection between image and archetype is presumed in the OT prohibitions on idolatry.
Idols, however, are not the only “images” for which the OT presumes such a connection. Names display the same type of connection. A name, like a likeness, is essentially referential, being the name of something. Georges Berguer has made the case that amongst ancient religions generally, names were seen as an image or replica of sorts, substantially distinct from that which they name but nonetheless connected to the archetype — very much in line with the image-archetype connection.5 We can see this theme throughout the Old Testament in both positive and negative ways. In the positive sense, if the name of God is invoked upon a country or person, then that place or person belongs to Yahweh; the name itself creates a connection with God whose name is upon that person or place (e.g., Gen 48:16; Dt 28:10; Am 9:12). In the negative sense, we see this in the OT prohibitions on the names of the “gods.” The Israelites are strictly warned to not invoke the names of other deities. In fact, they are not even to utter such names (e.g., Ex 23:13). The prohibition is reflected in the scribal tendency to veil the names of foreign gods. For example, the OT vocalization ’aštōreth (“Ashtoreth” in English translations) is a distortion of the real name of the goddess, ’aštart (“Astarte”) — where the vowels of the Hebrew word bōšet (“shame”) are inserted into the consonants of Astarte.
Symbols provide yet another ancient example of a representation of a being who is not represented according to likeness, strictly speaking. We might think, for example, of the Ankh, for the goddess Isis, or the scarab, which symbolized not only recreation or resurrection but also the god Khepri. (Positively, we can think of the sign of the cross in the case of Christ.) In neither case is the god depicted. Nonetheless, the symbol is an indicator of that god. And just as the OT prohibits the utterance of the names of the gods, it also prohibits the use of such symbols in its prohibitions on talacements and magic (Lev 19:26; 20:27).
Worth noting is that there is a growing body of literature on demonology in the ANE generally and the Old Testament specifically. In the light of such scholarship, it is increasingly clear that the OT names (albeit in veiled ways) a great many demons and tends to see the gods, not as imaginative figments of human invention, but as fallen angels. Hence, the concern about using their names, their symbols, and their images is because these names, symbols, and images are connected to real beings. And this Jewish tradition is carried on by the early Christians, who taught that the gods are demons who demanded worship under specific names and images.6
Now, returning to the ANE concept of idols, this connection between images and the being imaged allowed for the sort of mentality that we find in magic, namely, that one can somehow manipulate, coerce, or control an entity by using its likeness — our name or symbol. By crafting an idol, one localizes that deity. Contrast this practice with Yahweh, who prohibits images of himself. He does, of course, provide an image, but not of himself; rather, the image is of the things around him, namely, the angels who refuse to look upon him — appearing atop the Ark of the Covenant. Such an image is not his body but his seat — the Mercy Seat. He, then, dictates to the people when and on what terms he will appear there: Only one day per year, and the high priest must enter with blood and veiling incense.
While we may be accustomed to this sorts of OT ordinance, we should not miss how distinctive this mode of interaction is in the ANE. The people cannot control their deity; they cannot localize him; they cannot manipulate him; they cannot coerce him. He dictates terms on how and when he will appear, how they must approach him, and even when the people are faithful, God’s reciprocity is a free will exchange. None of their rituals coerce or manipulate Yahweh — evident in his rejection of their rituals in times of unfaithfulness.
The point is extremely relevant to the sacraments and to what I would identify as the essential difference between magic and mysteries. Yes, both magic and Christian priestcraft involve priests who engage in ritual involving words and elements and that ritual has as its end a spiritual effect. However, the Christian presumption is not that the words or gestures or elements manipulate or coerce God into action, whether he wills it or not. Rather, these rituals are done in faith that God himself will be faithful to do what he has promise — to enact the graces offered in baptism, in chrismation, in confession, in the Eucharist. Far from seeing these as magic words and gestures that necessitates certain effects, the way laws of chemistry tell us how certain activities produce certain results indifferent to the chemist’s beliefs or life, sacramental rituals are enacted knowing that the results hang wholly upon God’s faithfulness.
To be sure, Christians doggedly cling to divine faithfulness. So it is inappropriate, for example, to wonder whether one’s baptism really “took” because, though we did our part, maybe God didn’t do his. Divine faithfulness to his Church is always presumed. Having done what he commanded, we trust he will do what he has promised. Yet, the defining trait on both sides — man’s and God’s — is free will.
In sum, while sacrament and magic — the sorcerer’s priestcraft and the Christian’s priestcraft — have superficial similarities, the essential difference between the two is that one is a free-will exchange while the other is not. In magic, the use of words, of symbols, of names, of images, of elements and gestures is meant to manipulate spiritual realities and affect a change at the sorcerer’s behest. In sacrament, the words and rituals and elements are done at the behest of God, who has promised to affect certain graces through his Church to the faithful. Hence, these sacraments are performed in faith in God’s faithfulness to those promises, not according to a formulaic spiritual law that binds him to these rituals.
I hope that helps clarify things. We’ll talk soon.
Sincerely,
Dr. Jacobs
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Nathan A. Jacobs, Ph.D.
Scholar in Residence of Philosophy and Religion in the Religion in the Arts and Contemporary Culture Program (RACC)
Vanderbilt University, Divinity School
http://nathanajacobs.com
https://vanderbilt.academia.edu/NathanAJacobs
The term “sacrament,” from the Latin sacrementum, “a solemn oath,” is common in the West, due to our Latin heritage. In Eastern Orthodoxy, the more common term is “mystery,” from the Greek mysterion. The word “mystery” is often misunderstood to mean something that is beyond knowing. Hence, many use the word as a way of punting on a theological topic they feel unable to explain. The ancient use of the word, however, is quite different. Plato uses the word mystikos, “mysterious or secret one,” to refer to the initiated — such as those initiated into a mystery cult. The term mystikos comes from the verb, myein, which means “to shut.” The reason is that many such initiations into the “secret knowledge” of mystery cults involved the shutting of the eyes or the mouth. The early Christian use is similar. Clement of Alexandria uses the term specifically to refer Christian “gnostics,” here not using this word for the Gnostic cults but for Christians who have been initiated into the true faith and knowledge of God through Christ. Clement speaks specifically about the ways in which the Old Testament is cryptic and veiled in its true meaning, but Christians, having been initiated, are able to see the real meaning of the OT in the light of Christ — here echoing the Alexandrian tendency to read the OT in typological and allegorical ways, which unveil its true meaning. Origen speaks about this point when interpreting the Transfiguration. He suggests that the spiritual meaning of the story is that Moses and Elijah represent the OT — law and prophets — that do not have any light in themselves; they illumine only when bathed in the light of Christ. Hence, the Apostles who witnessed the Transfiguration represent the initiated who behold the light of Christ and thereby come to properly understand the OT. Hence, those means of initiation — confession, baptism, chrismation, and Eucharist — and other graces for the initiated — unction, marriage, ordination — became known as “mysteries.” And, of course, the early Church took its cues from St. Paul in this terminology, since he refered to the union enacted by God between a man and a woman in marriage as a great “mystery.”
For a discussion of Eucharistic models, East and West, see my letter, “Eucharistic Models & Christology.”
Black magic and other occult texts and objects have spiritual attachments, as I will explain. Handling them, reading them, and other modes of engaging them is inherently dangerous. As one who has spent a good deal of time dealing in demonology, I can attest to the ways in which such research carries negative spiritual effects, opening oneself up to demonic energy, oppression, and attacks.
See “John of Damascus’ Defense of Icons,” Christian Research, vol. 42, no. 3-4, 2019. See also my letters “John of Damascus’ Defense of Icons (Reply 3 of 3).”
G. Berguer, “La puissance du nom,” (Brussels: Communication at the Sixth International Congress of the History of Religions, 1935).
See, e.g., Justin Martyr, The First Apology of Justin, 5; Second Apology, 5; and Tertullian, Apology, 23. Mark Minucius Felix says that demons not only take these names and images for themselves but lurk under the statues, energize their prophets, and move entrails (during haruspicy practices). The Octavius, 27. Lactatnius suggests that the demons admit this (i.e., that they chose these names and images for themselves, presenting themselves to men as gods) when adjured by the name of the true God (presumably during exorcism). Lactantius, The Divine Institutes, 27.