Western occultism has an idiosyncratic relationship with the notion of sacrifice. On one hand we come from the Abrahamitic tradition, and especially the Christian one, where sacrifice plays a central doctrinal role (God sacrifices himself) and where the concept of sacrifice has often been used as a club against dissent or to elicit guilt and compliance.
On the other hand, the occult revival of the XIX century, especially but not only in its Crowleian branch, was incapable of integrating this concept in a positive way, largely as a form of juvenile reaction against the previous tradition. If the universe is pure and blind bliss there can be little place for sacrifice except in the most illusory sense. As long as occultism remains largely the occupation of misfits and oddballs, it must retain this juvenile attitude toward sacrifice (which largely explains the philosophical paucity of so much of the occult world).
But sacrifice comes from the Latin ‘sacer facere’, ‘to render sacred’. As such, there can be no spiritual path without sacrifice. Even the most atheistic and chaotic paths must render something sacred, whether it’s themselves and their ego or some abstract philosophical concept. Once something is made sacred, the rest is sacrificed to it as a means to an end, and thus also rendered sacred as a consequence.
In magic (and in religion as well), power can come from two sources: from formulas that have been solidified into a metaphysical building over the years (or centuries) or from contact with a direct source. In reality even the former path, if it is functional, must have had some direct contact at least at the beginning.
Therefore, much of one’s magical training consists in bridging the gap that exists between oneself and the source, that is, between micro- and macrocosm, between individual and universal. The aim is always to be able to embody the universal within oneself. To do so, we must necessarily sacrifice our singular nature, that is, we must empty ourselves of the decades of junk that have been filling our individual vessel since we were born, so that a higher power may come down and occupy it: after all, a pitcher must be emptied of muk before it can be filled with water.
This process necessarily implies sacrifice. As we grow up, we accumulate big and small vices, big and small dysfunctions and illusions, and anyone who has lived long enough and has developed enough self-reflection can probably recognize at least some of them as they keep reemerging.
All this needs to be purged from the system. In other words, it needs to be sacrificed, to be rendered sacred. One of my teachers’ mantras was “Offer it to the Divine“. It took me some years to understand what she meant. Whenever some of my vices, some of my illusions, pains, dysfunctions presented themselves, it was easy to simply abandon myself to them, to live them out in the solitary confinement of my individuality as a sort of chosen doom.
But “Offer it to the Divine” was the key to leaving that solitary confinement, of bridging the gap between the small world and the large world. It went beyond despair and guilt and all the typical associations of the word ‘sacrifice’. It required no judgement. It only required for me to stand back, allowing the sun to shine on that lower part of me.
This, I later learned, is the inner equivalent of what happens during rituals, when we sacrifice something to whatever power we are working with. It is part of what allows that apple offered to that spirit to be more than just a tip of the hat to a recipe found in a dusty grimoire.
MQS
