‘[G]ave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.” Then he took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the [new] covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.["]‘
-Gospel of Matthew, 26:26-28
It may seem strange that when we last raised our voices, it was to open the Gates of the Underworld, yet now we speak the words of the Christian Eucharist. Yet in contemplation, the spoken words of the Christos carry with them a Mysterious nature.
Great runes were lost when Rome spread the worship of the nailed god, great secrets nested in pagan temples, in the rituals of the folk. Yet, we as sorcerers should not forget that the religion did not spring up ex nihilo. It emerged from a culture and context steeped in paganism – the rites of Mithras and the Unconquered Sun spring to mind.
Yes, it may seem strange indeed to quote from the Book which has enchained many more souls than ever it did free. But strange is our business, our very nature. And so it is that we consider this most feted of texts with eyes and hands which are more daimon than man. Our Art is Power, the power to enact change, in accordance with Desire.
As Christos, the anointed one, was crucified and became the nailed god – a scapegoat par excellence, so we stand in the centre of the Four Wentz Ways. As Christos was a sacrifice to Adonai, so we are the goat for-and-as Azazel.
We are anointed with the shadow cast by the cross. Upon us is visited all blame, all horror, and all darkness. We are cast out, or so it seems. Yet we stand proudly there, accepting all comers, all obscenities heaped upon us. For Azazel is first of the Fallen Watchers. This is the semiotic heritage visited upon us by those embedded in the temporal culture born of Christianity.
We are the horned goat-demon in the dark, the Devil Hirselves.
And as Christos gave in sacrifice, so do we. For those things which are heaped upon us are a great and terrible weight; expectations, erroneous judgements, hatreds and misconceptions, myriad images and thought processes hung about our horns.
The shining moonlight is called false, illusory – wavering insanity. But our sacrifice? Our sacrifice is not to Adonai, Azazel, nor any deity, angel, or being. Our sacrifice is of the self, to the Self. All those sins heaped upon us, and those we have been told we carry from birth – all those images and perceptions, must be regularly set down and made holy.
If there is one thing to be said for the Art, for the blood that flows in our veins, it is this:
All is numinous and noumenal.
Thus, in such sacrifices, these sins, these images of times past, are brought to the altar in the body-sensorium of the sorcerer, and there are freely given to the spirits and allies of the same. For all such things may be devoured.
Behold the maxim: “EAT AND BE EATEN.”
And when the feast is complete, what remains is the Self, that which is not subject to the laws of metabolism and combustion, but is in fact, pure incarnate sorcery. The sins serve not as weight, but as powerful conduits for the expression of Desire, their horrific nature enervated under the gaze of the Self in the face of utmost sorcerous ambivalence.
Even the most antinomian amongst the human will not touch that which he seeks to break free from. The sorcerer realizes that freedom is an impossible strangeness and hence will joyously plunge amidst the mundane.
As Christos once tasked his followers to love their neighbour and enemy both, so we who dance and laugh in shadow seek the carnal gnosis of the world. Our love is the love of sensuality, our Sexuality is New. In churches we sing loudly the praise of the Most High – exultant in the intimacy of the supernal Darkness within the Soul. In forest and field, we sing the Hymns of Pan, and at dark mound and creaking gallows we roar the runes of elder days.
Reyn til Runa.