Returning to Animism for Enchantment, Part 1
This is a study of the occult. I approach it as a professor of religious studies, examining the occult (also known as the esoteric or Hermetic tradition) as one of the world’s enduring religions. Far from being a relic of the past, it continues to shape thought and culture today.
Some Christians regard the occult as the “flip side,” “dark side,” or “left hand” of Christianity—accepting the occultist’s own teaching about demons and magic, and then positioning Christianity as the antidote. This is a mistake. The truth is that the occult is its own religion, a deliberate rejection of both general revelation (God’s truth made known in creation and providence) and special revelation (God’s truth made known in Scripture and in Christ). The claims it makes about magic and spirits are false.
In this study, I will argue that the epistemology of the occult—the way it claims to know truth—is now the most influential epistemology in our culture, particularly within the humanities departments of our universities. Whether that is coincidence or intentional, I’ll let you decide. This epistemology shapes the mind so as to prevent it from making deductions and instead thinking in terms of impressions—it is a darkened mind. Understanding what this means is, in a sense, the “hidden teaching” of this essay, which I will keep from you until the end.
The work will be divided into three parts, each centered on an influential occult figure, and ending with a look at the occult and AI. Through them, we will examine what the occult teaches, what its aims are, and how it maintains influence—even among some Christians today. This is not a “satanic panic” but a serious study of a religion that has persisted in many forms and takes pride in “hiding in plain sight,” often persuading Christians to adopt its symbols and language without realizing it. That is why I am also using the term “animism,” because while Christians would probably recoil at the idea of including the occult, we can find places where Christians are adventuring into the restoration of animism through elementals, fauns, talking animals, and interdimensional travel.
The occult’s version of magic and spiritual power is false. Christians should not, in effect, convert to occultism on its own terms. Instead, they must be equipped to counter its falsehoods with the clear truth of God revealed in His Word and works. The occult promises that one can peer into secret mysteries in order to “become a god.” But the true and living God is known only as He reveals Himself—and He has spoken.
Re-enchanting the World: Charles Taylor
Charles Taylor poses a well-known question: Why did atheism increase after the Reformation? In A Secular Age (2007), his famous answer is that the Reformation “disenchanted” the world. In the medieval imagination, Christians inhabited a cosmos crowded with spirits; prayers to the dead and the veneration of relics were common; narratives of angels and demons in combat were pervasive; and God was often conceived as mediated through a spiritual hierarchy separating “natural” from “supernatural.” Earthly life could be treated as lower, with ultimate hope cast as a disembodied spiritual existence after death. As a Roman Catholic, Taylor’s is a “just so” story about why we should all return to medieval Christianity. It is one of the many popular conservative declension stories of our day.
The Reformation—especially in its Calvinist strands—contested these accretions. The priesthood of all believers restored the believer’s direct access to God through the sole mediation of Christ (1 Tim 2:5), displacing the need for specialized rites that resembled Christianized paganism. Reformation theology placed God at the center once again: God created the world by his Word, not via lesser spirits; he rules the world providentially for his glory; and he offers redemption through faith in Christ.
This doctrinal recovery also reaffirmed the world’s intelligibility as God’s ordered creation. Early modern natural philosophers—many shaped by Reformation convictions—pursued knowledge in order to “think God’s thoughts after him,” as Johannes Kepler famously put it. Humans were called to observe, test, and describe creation systematically. Although alchemical and astrological ideas lingered among some early moderns, they were increasingly subjected to empirical scrutiny and discarded when they failed those tests.
Just as God’s moral law directs human choices toward our chief end, so creation is ordered by natural law. Matter has a nature that can be understood. Much of the medieval church’s syncretism—what is aptly called “Christianized paganism”—was both unbiblical and, where it made testable claims, empirically falsifiable. The “secular” realm itself gained dignity precisely because it, too, reveals the glory of God. The Reformation helped cultivate a renewed work ethic, love for God’s world, and desire to “fill the earth with the knowledge of the Lord.”
Taylor argues that this very shift created the conditions for a merely secular outlook—what he calls exclusive humanism—and fostered the rise of philosophical materialism. But that account is more descriptive than explanatory, and even as a description, it is contestable.
First, modern people are far freer to avow unbelief than medieval Europeans were. In the medieval world, the unbeliever may simply have kept his paganism secret and joined the church, seeking to change it from within. Second, if by “atheism” we mean practical atheism—living as if the Lord were not real—then medieval patterns that treated God as distant while populating the world with intermediary powers arguably encouraged more practical atheism. By contrast, since the Reformation, the number and geographic spread of those who confess the living God have grown to unprecedented levels.
In short, Taylor’s analysis—shaped by a Roman Catholic lens—tends to underread the theological gains of the Reformation and overread “disenchantment.” Nevertheless, it has resonated widely, including among some who identify as Reformed, fueling calls for “re-enchantment” that flirt with fairies, elementals, and other medieval tropes. René Descartes is often blamed for bequeathing a “mechanistic” view of matter that supposedly evacuated the world of spiritual significance.
Such nostalgia is selective, however. It abstracts the “enchantment” from the realities of the medieval world: low life expectancy, widespread illiteracy, limited access to education for all but a small elite, recurring violent feudal conflicts, recurrent plagues, and pervasive superstition that bred fear and anxiety. The long neglect of humanity’s mandate to exercise wise dominion by understanding and cultivating God’s creation had severe natural consequences—as well as, in Biblical terms, providential judgments.
Why raise all this? Because in the West, there is a noticeable and growing interest in the occult and paganism. A 2025 Pew Research poll shows that 30% of Americans engage in an occult ritual annually. Others show this increase among college students. This trend is not confined to non-Christians. Increasingly, you find professing Christians leaving the faith for occult practices—or attempting to accommodate occultism within Christianity.
Some of the favorite fiction and pop culture of Christians is steeped in occult imagery and serves as a missionary tool for those beliefs. Where some atheists look to the night sky, hoping for extraterrestrials to bring help, such Christians peer into forests for “elementals” to make life feel enchanted again. At a time when Biblical illiteracy among Christians is soaring, their knowledge of the occult, and sometimes even mistaking it as Christian belief, is growing.
In what follows, I will define the “occult” as a system of beliefs and contrast it with the Biblical system. Along the way, I will describe the “occult thought process” and the darkened mind it encourages to act by impressions rather than propositions and inferences. My aim is to highlight the significant presence it has in our day so as to faithfully call it out and present the Gospel to those who are lost in what amounts to a vain imagination. Fathers should teach their children to recognize the symbols and beliefs of this system in the culture around them. The cure for the emptiness of godless modernity is not a medieval-style re-enchantment, but learning to recognize God’s providential rule in all things—and to see how this fills life with meaning and displays the glory of God.
Crowley’s Rise
Aleister Crowley (1875–1947) was born into a devout Plymouth Brethren household. This branch of Christianity, emerging in the early 19th century, emphasized personal holiness, separation from “the world,” and an expectation of Christ’s imminent return in a premillennial dispensational framework. I am not claiming there is a simple cause-and-effect relationship between this upbringing and Crowley’s later occultism—children from any background, including atheism, can reject the worldview of their parents. But Crowley’s life does give the impression of someone deliberately taking the opposite side of his father’s holiness teaching, embracing instead an “unholy” antinomy.
Crowley developed an interest in the occult and secret societies while studying at Trinity College, Cambridge, in the mid-1890s. He joined the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, an esoteric society that blended ritual magic, astrology, and Kabbalah. Understanding the appeal of such systems begins with defining our terms: in this context, occult and esoteric are virtually synonymous, meaning “private,” “hidden,” or “secret.” The claim is that a body of spiritual knowledge has been passed down through select societies and can only be accessed by the initiated.
This stands in stark contrast to Biblical teaching. Scripture affirms that what can be known about God and his moral law is made clearly known to all humanity (Romans 1:19–20). God is not hidden or distant—He personally rules the world he created. The Bible is open to all—unlike the medieval church, which often kept the Scriptures inaccessible through the exclusive use of Latin, the mediation of priests, and the suppression of general literacy. The only barrier to accessing the content of Scripture is the human need to learn to listen, read, and think. No initiation into a secret society is required.
The Hermetic Tradition
The “hermetic” tradition takes its name from Hermes Trismegistus (Hermes thrice great), a legendary fusion of the Greek god Hermes (messenger of the gods) and the Egyptian god Thoth (associated with writing, magic, and the dead). He is “thrice great” because he is a philosopher, a priest, and a king. The body of writings known as the Corpus Hermeticum contains the core ideas of this tradition:
Core Beliefs in the Hermetica
- God: A single, supreme deity exists beyond the material world. He is absent and uninvolved and appoints lesser spirits to rule for him.
- Cosmos: The universe is a living, divine being animated by the Nous (Mind).
- Humanity: Humans possess a divine spark that can be awakened, enabling a return to God.
- Life: Material existence is the lowest form of being; the goal is to remember one’s divinity and escape bodily life.
- Salvation: Achieved through gnosis—direct, mystical knowledge—rather than Biblical faith. “Salvation” means learning that you are a god in potential.
- Magic and Alchemy: Later Hermeticism absorbed astrology, alchemy, and magical correspondences, though the earliest Hermetic texts are more philosophical.
- Greek Philosophy: Egyptians were admired, and in many cases, philosophers sought to study with Egyptian priests and systematize their teaching into analytic philosophical expression (see Plato’s Timaeus).
In the Renaissance, Christian humanists such as Marsilio Ficino translated the Corpus Hermeticum into Latin (1463) and revered its teachings, believing they predated Moses and thus carried immense authority. This prestige collapsed when the Swiss philologist Isaac Casaubon demonstrated in 1614 that the texts were written in the early centuries of the Christian era, not in the time of ancient Egypt. Nevertheless, Hermetic thought profoundly influenced Western esotericism, Rosicrucianism, and some branches of Freemasonry.
The Hermetic tradition claimed that Moses gave the public version of divine truth, while Hermes preserved the deeper, hidden truths that only a few could understand—truths about what “really” happened. At the core of this teaching is the idea that the material world, including bodily existence, is ruled by an evil deity. Those initiated into Hermetic wisdom can learn how to escape this cosmic prison and be restored to their own godhood.
One of the most sought-after prizes in this system was the Philosopher’s Stone. This legendary object was said to allow its possessor to transmute base metals into gold and to grant immortality, along with other powers. For medieval alchemists, it represented the ultimate goal. The word “alchemy” comes to English via Old French (alquemie, alchimie) from the Arabic al-kīmiyāʾ, which itself derives from the ancient Egyptian name for their land, Kemet (“black land”), referring to the fertile soil of the Nile. The Egyptians—like the Babylonians—were revered by later Greeks and Europeans for their supposed mastery of the magical arts, and the alchemists claimed to be heirs to that ancient wisdom.
The symbolism is clear when viewed through the lens of Genesis 3. The Philosopher’s Stone promised two things: endless wealth (freedom from the “toil” imposed after the Fall) and immortality (freedom from the death God pronounced after sin). In short, it promised freedom from God’s rule. According to Scripture, God imposed death as a call to repentance. The Bible teaches that there will be a resurrection of both the just and the unjust—physical death is not permanent. The dead will be raised bodily to stand before God for judgment.
Unbelievers rejected this Biblical view of death from the beginning. Instead, they offered their own reinterpretation: bodily existence is bad, so death is good because it frees the soul. In this telling, death is not a summons to repent, and the last thing one would want is to be raised from the dead to live bodily forever. The goal is to escape God’s creation entirely and call it evil. In much of the Hermetic tradition, the serpent in Genesis is reimagined as the hero—the one who opened humanity’s eyes to their potential divinity. Lucifer appears in many forms in Hermetic lore, but consistently as the savior who frees humanity from the “bondage” of bodily life imposed by God, and who teaches the initiated how to navigate the afterlife to become gods themselves.
Crowley and the Definition of Magic
Returning to Aleister Crowley, we can define “magic” as he did: the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with the will. Crowley’s invented religion, Thelema (from the Greek for “will”), has as its only law: Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. A secondary maxim clarifies that one’s “True Will” should be guided by “love,” though in Crowley’s usage “love” meant self-realization—each person striving to be their own god.
Magic, then, is the attempt to change the world directly by one’s will. Science and magic are often confused in popular imagination, thanks in part to Arthur C. Clarke’s famous observation: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” But Clarke was speaking about appearances. In reality, science and magic are opposites.
Science is the systematic study of the created order through empirical investigation, guided by hypotheses that can be tested and falsified. It assumes a rational, ordered universe governed by consistent laws—laws that Christians historically understood as established by God. By studying these laws, we can understand and harness the powers of nature (e.g., using the expansion of steam to turn a wheel). In this way, human will is exercised through God’s creation, respecting the natures He has given to things.
Magic, by contrast, promises that the will can affect change directly, bypassing the created order. Crowley practiced things such as attempting to materialize objects through mental concentration, reading minds by staring at people, and bringing about desired outcomes simply by thinking them into being. In this worldview, the human will is effectively deified. Instead of submitting to God’s created order, the magician claims the godlike power to reshape reality by sheer intent—secret, esoteric knowledge supposedly making this possible.
A related term, and the one I use in my title, is “animism.” The evolutionary theory of religious development tells us this was the first religion, as primitive man heard noises in the jungle he could not explain and attributed them to invisible spirits. It is nature worship that explains rivers, forests, animals, weather, fertility, and all else in terms of finite spirits and their wills. I believe the Biblical theory of religious development teaches an original monotheism that humanity rejected in favor of nature worship and idolatry. Animism is that system. It often has a supreme deity or “father spirit” who is distant and uninvolved.
Crowley was clear that the question “How does it work?” was irrelevant. What mattered was whether it did work. Was it truly the god Mars who spoke through his assistant? Was it psychological suggestion? Was it psychedelic drugs slipped into the wine? Crowley would say it didn’t matter—the only important factor was that the will was accomplished.
One of his most famous “operations” took place at Boleskine House in 1909, when he claimed to have conjured Bartzabel, the “Spirit of Mars.” Crowley reported that Bartzabel predicted a great war within five years, to be initiated by Germany and Turkey. In hindsight, this was hardly a risky prediction for someone watching the political tensions of the early 20th century. Yet for Crowley, the point wasn’t whether Bartzabel existed or not—it was that the event matched his will, and that was sufficient.
A central theme in much of the occult is the idea that life is a dream. Just as dreams can seem beyond our control, so life appears to move according to forces we cannot master. But, according to occult teaching, once you learn the secret of liminal dreaming—the state between waking and sleeping—you can learn to gain control over your dream. Whether the dream is “in your brain,” caused by the body, or something else entirely does not matter to the occultist. The goal is to use your will to control your reality. “True” and “false” are irrelevant, because they assume a stable, objective reality—and the occult insists there is no such thing.
From a Biblical perspective, this is a direct denial of God’s creation and, therefore, of the work of God. Creation belongs to God, not to us. We live in it as His creatures and are commanded to understand how it works and to rule as faithful stewards. The occultist does not necessarily say, “There is no God.” Rather, he ignores Him as a distant, uninvolved figure, or he recasts Him as an evil tyrant. The initiated are taught to reject His creation and “reality” altogether, seeking instead to become their own god and create their own reality.
Aleister Crowley’s life illustrates this point well. Crowley did not develop a belief system—such a system would require a commitment to truth, logic, and reality. Instead, he improvised his doctrines as he went along, guided largely by his appetites. He had a particular fascination with sexual pleasure, and shocked even some members of the occult world by introducing what he called “sex magic.” This ritual practice sought to channel the energy of sexual climax toward magical ends, bringing about whatever the will desired.
Crowley referred to his various female partners as the “Scarlet Woman,” a title taken from Revelation 17, while he styled himself “The Great Beast 666.” His first wife, Rose Edith Crowley, accompanied him on a trip to Egypt in 1904, where they spent a night in the King’s Chamber of the Great Pyramid. There, Rose claimed to have contacted the Egyptian god Horus, who announced that Crowley would usher in the Aeon of Horus—a new age of human spiritual evolution. Crowley took this seriously, insisting it must be genuine because Rose had no prior knowledge of Egyptian religion. The result was The Book of the Law, the foundational text of his religion, Thelema.
Crowley and Rose had two children—Lilith (b. 1907) and Lola Zaza (b. 1909). Lilith died of typhoid fever at the age of two in Rangoon, and Lola was later placed in foster care when Rose was committed to a mental institution in 1911 due to alcoholism and mental illness. Crowley moved on to other relationships and continued his esoteric pursuits.
Here is where magic proves useless. Magic—understood as the use of the will to change reality—is either an appeal to spirits to act on one’s behalf or an attempt to discover secret laws of nature. The latter is easily disproven and leaves the practitioner without the desired result. When uttering imitation Latin and waving a wand fails to bring about the intended outcome, one is bound to give up and move on. Thus, more often than not, magic involves conjuring a spirit and asking it to perform some task.
The problem is that such alleged spirits have their own will and no inherent reason to help you. Conjuring, therefore, often requires bargaining or binding. In the first case, the magician offers something—such as a sacrificial victim—in exchange for the spirit’s aid. In the second, the magician attempts to trap the spirit, compelling it to act in order to secure its release. In Crowley’s case, there were indeed rumors of human sacrifice.
But why would anyone seek help from such a spirit? If the spirit were good, it would never bypass God’s revelation to humanity. Crowley suggested that such spirits know the future because they exist outside of time and space. Yet he did not seem to understand what “time” means. Time is simply the sequence of change—the very thing Crowley sought to alter by his will. The spirits he describes are themselves subject to change. The “future” is the change that has not yet occurred. If a spirit can “see” the future because, in its “dimension,” it has already happened, then nothing Crowley wills can alter it. Conversely, if it can be altered, then the spirit does not truly know what will happen. In that case, learning the future is merely a matter of curiosity and serves no practical purpose for the present.
Even granting them that level of insight elevates them into something they are not. Their knowledge of the future is, at best, limited to educated guesses. More likely, they seek to manipulate the magician by means of their supposed foresight. This is why the pronouncements of pagan “oracles” are invariably vague and cryptic. The secret knowledge is…they don’t know.
If Crowley is an example of a person who sold his soul to get the blessings of this life, he won’t be earning any commissions on sales. His life was marked by near-constant financial ruin, accusations of espionage for Germany during World War I, public revulsion for his sexual practices, and yet a curious fascination from certain cultural circles. In the 1960s, figures such as the Beatles (who placed his image on the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band) and the counterculture embraced him as a symbol of rebellion against traditional morality.
In the United States, American rocket scientist Jack Parsons claimed Crowley as a spiritual mentor. Parsons, in turn, became connected to L. Ron Hubbard, founder of Scientology. In 1946, Hubbard and Parsons conducted the Babalon Working, a ritual intended to invoke an incarnation of the goddess Babalon. Some occultists have speculated—without evidence—that the modern wave of UFO sightings began as an unintended consequence of this ritual, as if a “portal” had been opened to otherworldly entities. Whether or not one accepts such claims, the connection between these men is historically verifiable: Hubbard later betrayed Parsons, running off with both his common-law wife, Sara Northrup, and much of his money. When Crowley learned of this, he was furious with Parsons and severed ties.
Conclusion for Part 1
This overview of Crowley helps us clarify the meanings of terms like “occult,” “esoteric,” “Hermetic,” and “magic.” It also reminds us that these movements thrive on secrecy—the hidden is part of their allure. This secrecy makes it difficult for scholars of religion to determine exactly how many people actively practice these beliefs or how influential they are. Yet, if you pay attention to popular culture—film, music, celebrity symbolism, fashion, and even the staging of certain rock concerts—you may recognize the unmistakable fingerprints of occult beliefs.
In the next part of this series, I will look at Stanley J. Crombie and his influence on 20th and 21st-century imagination.
