Raising Hell: A Concise History of the Black Arts and Those Who Dared to Practice Them

by Robert Masello

  One of the impediments to this spiritual breakthrough—and this held true for many magicians as well as mystics—was the strong hold that the things of this world could exert. Even the alchemist, who bent his every effort to transmuting base metals to gold and silver, was advised to live an everyday life of austerity. His home was usually a hovel, in a back alley of the town, where he could perform his experiments in obscurity; his poverty was seen as a sign of his seriousness of purpose. Magicians, too, often led meager and barren lives, presumably because they were bound up in the pursuit of higher things, oblivious to the baser needs of human nature.

  The mystic, however, often took this asceticism to new heights, purposefully ignoring the ordinary human needs and even performing grisly mortifications of the flesh (Origen, on whose writings much of later mysticism drew, castrated himself in order to get rid of the distractions of lust and sensuality). Other Christian mystics, such as Catherine of Siena and Padre Pio, displayed the stigmata—the wounds of the crucified Christ. Though differing in degree, and even in their espoused aim, the mystic and the magus shared a rejection of conventional wisdom while embracing an otherworldly outlook.

  Over the centuries, many different mystic sects were formed—the Waldenses, the Cathari, the Beguines, to name a few—and many influential mystic teachers emerged, including Emanuel Swedenborg, Meister Eckhart, and Jan van Ruysbroeck. In the Middle Ages, there was a strong reaction to the seeming coldness and formality of the Catholic Church; people were suffering greatly from war, poverty, and, in the fourteenth century, the absolute devastation of the Black Death. They needed comfort, they needed answers, they needed a sense that they were not so far removed from God. They also needed to know that there was no immense bulwark (as the church must have sometimes seemed to be) standing implacably between them and the Divine.

  Mysticism, in its many strains, provided that reassurance and gave them, as St. Bernard observed in his De Diligendo Deo (c. 1126), a feeling of being included, forever and always, in some greater providential plan:

  As the little water-drop poured into a large measure of wine seems to lose its own nature entirely and to take on both the taste and the colour of the wine; or as iron heated red-hot loses its own appearance and glows like fire; or as air filled with sunlight is transformed into the same brightness so that it does not so much appear to be illuminated as to be itself light—so must all human feeling towards the Holy One be self-dissolved in unspeakable wise, and wholly transfused into the will of God. For how shall God be all in all if anything of man remains in man? The substance will indeed remain, but in another form, another glory, another power.

  This was welcome news—the universe was in us, and we were, forever, a part of the universe—that many at the time felt an overwhelming need to believe. And, if we are to judge from the popularity of many New Age beliefs that are so similar to earlier mystic teachings, there is a great and growing number of people who feel that same need today.

  THE GNOSTICS

  Although the Gnostics by no means created Satan, many of their beliefs, most notably the idea that there are opposing gods of good and evil, and two worlds, one of light and one of darkness, certainly offered him room to grow and take hold in the imagination of mankind.

  The Gnostic sects, which proliferated in the early centuries A.D., in and around the Middle East, offered rival views to the Judaic and early Christian theologies. The very word “Gnostic” meant “one who knows,” and what the Gnostics knew, the secret knowledge that they possessed, wasn’t something easily demonstrated or proved. What the Gnostics knew was that the world, as they saw it, was unmitigatedly evil and that no supreme deity could possibly have made it that way. Consequently, they argued, the supreme deity must be far, far away, pretty much existing on his own in a heaven of his own making. What we were left with here was something created by proxy, a world fashioned by lesser deities, known as archons (rulers), who had made a hash of the job.

  It was the archons, for instance, who had created man. They’d seen a brilliant vision of a man flash above them, but they’d been unable to hold the image fast. What exactly was it that they’d seen? Working from memory, they tried to re-create the image, but the man they made was so badly built, according to some of the Gnostic teachings, that he couldn’t even stand up on his own; he squirmed around like a giant earthworm until God caught a glimpse of him and flicked the divine spark his way. This, at least, got man onto his own two feet.

  In the view of some of the Gnostic teachers, these archons were in fact rebel angels; in the second century A.D., Satuminus of Antioch taught his followers that the world had been created by seven of these fallen angels, whose leader was the God of the Jews. These seven had deliberately misled Moses and the Old Testament prophets so that they in turn would lead mankind down the garden path. In the opinion of many Gnostic followers, the God of the Old Testament was a brutal, evil deity; some of them even equated Jehovah with the Devil. They praised his enemies, condemned the prophets and patriarchs, and made some other, equally incendiary arguments. In some Gnostic sects, the serpent was worshiped, and the serpent in the Garden of Eden was proclaimed a friend to Adam and Eve. Why? Because, by Gnostic lights, the serpent was just doing its level best to open Adam and Eve’s eyes to the difference between good and evil. And when it came to Cain and Abel, the Gnostics, predictably, sided with Cain; only an evil deity would prefer Abel’s blood sacrifice to Cain’s nonviolent fruits and berries.

  All in all, the Gnostics could be counted on to turn upside down nearly every traditional Judeo-Christian value. In a world created and governed by evil, you might just as well throw caution to the wind and do as you pleased; after all, you didn’t get to Heaven by following the rules laid down by archons. You got there by possessing within yourself the gnosis, or true knowledge, of the way things were. Some of the Gnostics interpreted this as a virtual license to steal, embarking on wild lives of sexual profligacy and forbidden magical practices. But normal heterosexual sex was frowned on, because there was such a good chance it would wind up creating another human being who would only add one more slave to the archons’ battalions.

  Other Gnostics, however, went in the opposite direction, freeing themselves of the worldly snares by leading the lives of hermits and ascetics, focusing themselves on the purification they would need to undergo if they ever hoped to transport themselves above this muck and mire. (In this particular view, it’s easy to hear an echo of the Greek Platonists, who believed that the wise soul must work its way back toward the higher world of light, arriving at last at its heavenly home.) For the Gnostic, home was a long way off, and the soul had to undergo lots of trials before getting there. It had to lead a life on earth that was almost wholly unconnected to the earth, free of the worldly appetites, and it also had to rise up through the spheres of Heaven ruled by the seven angels. That was the only way to get to the Heaven of the supreme deity.

  To get past these seven angels, however, the soul had to know their respective names and powers; it also had to know how to address them and what symbols had to be shown to them in order to move on to the next level. There were hostile spirits to contend with, too, who might try to waylay the rising soul. All in all, the road to individual salvation, which the Gnostic movement, like so many other mystical religions, was finally all about, was long and difficult, and anyone setting out on it had to pack his bag full of holy secrets, sacraments, and signs.

  SIMON MAGUS

  No one had a kit bag more packed with miracles and revelations than the magician who came to be known as Simon Magus. In the first century A.D., Simon built up such a following of believers, from his native Samaria all the way to Rome, that he gave the fledgling Christianity a run for its money.

  But it was a race that Simon lost, quite overwhelmingly, in the end.

  Sometimes credited with having been the founder of Gnosticism, Simon was in fact only one of many who promulgated Gnostic principles and, from the Christian perspective, un
forgivable heresies. He claimed to be, at various times and various places, the Son of God, the Redeemer, the transcendent God of the Gnostic universe. He was said to have been born, like Jesus, from a virgin mother. Among the miracles he purportedly performed were the raising of the dead, the healing of the sick, and the magical creation of pure spirits. He could marshal and control legions of demons, make himself invisible, or take on any shape he wished. He could walk unscathed through walls of fire, bore his way through mountains, or animate statues so that they laughed and danced. The list of his credits went on and on, but when his magic ran up against the greater powers of Christ’s disciples, Simon Magus came up short time and again.

  He’d received his early training in Egypt, from a man named Dositheus, who claimed to be the living incarnation of something called the Standing One, or supreme principle. One day, in front of Dositheus’s own disciples, Simon challenged him to a battle of the wizards. When Simon won, Dositheus took a swipe at him with his staff, but the staff passed right through Simon’s body. That’s when Dositheus knew the jig was up—Simon must in fact be the true Standing One. Dositheus handed over the leadership to Simon and a short time later died.

  Wherever Simon went, he performed miraculous feats, and according to the biblical account left in Acts, it wasn’t long before he was being venerated as a god—which he strongly encouraged the public to do. There was only one thorn in his side. These Christian evangelists were also traveling around the region performing miracles, and their miracles were getting even better notices than his. The one called Philip had cured palsies, made the lame to walk, plucked unclean spirits out of many who were possessed. Two of the apostles, Peter and John, had come from Jerusalem and laid hands on people, infusing them with the Holy Spirit.

  Simon was impressed not only with their works but with the relative ease they displayed doing them; he confessed that his own effects took lots of preparations, incantations, and such. In fact, he was so anxious to learn the magic words the apostles were using that he offered Peter some money (from which we derive the word “simony") if he’d only share the secret of such powers. Peter refused him in no uncertain terms: “Thy money perish with thee, because thou hast thought that the gift of God may be purchased with money. Thou hast neither part nor lot in this matter: for thy heart is not right in the sight of God” (Acts of the Apostles 8:20-21).

  From that time forward, Peter became his archenemy, repeatedly foiling his attempts to win over converts and make a dishonest living. Afraid that Peter might even accuse him of sorcery, Simon took his books of magic and threw them into the sea, then set off for Rome, where he was sure the emperor Nero and his citizens would still give him a warm welcome.

  He was right; in Rome, his stock was still high. And it grew higher when Simon faked his own resurrection. After somehow bewitching a ram into taking on his appearance, the ram was beheaded—and three days later, Simon reappeared, with his head back on his shoulders, seemingly unaffected by the recent decapitation. This made a great impression.

  But, like a bad penny, Peter turned up again, this time accompanied by Paul. The emperor saw the opportunity for a marvelous face-off between Simon, who claimed to be a deity, and Peter, who was merely, as it were, representing one. Peter readily agreed, and proposed a simple test. He said he’d whisper something in Nero’s ear, and Simon, reading their thoughts, should tell them what it was. Simon, who was always rattled the moment he came up against Peter, started hurling imprecations and instead summoned up savage dogs to attack and devour Peter. The dogs dutifully appeared and raced full bore at the apostle, who suddenly stretched out his hands in prayer; in his hands, he held a loaf which he had blessed. At the sight of it, the snarling dogs vanished.

  Nero had to admit, Peter looked like the winner.

  But Simon had another, and much bigger, trick up his sleeve. He asked the emperor to give him one day to prepare, and in front of the multitudes he would fly off toward Heaven. Nero ordered his servants to build a high tower in the Campus Martius so that everyone would be able to witness the feat, and the next day, as promised, Simon ascended to its peak. Then he stepped off and sailed unharmed through the air. Nero asked Peter what he thought of that, and Peter simply prayed; he prayed in the name of the God who had created all things, in the name of Jesus, who had truly risen from the dead, that the invisible angels of Satan, who were keeping Simon aloft, should loose their hold and let the great deceiver fall to earth.

  The powerful prayer worked. The chastened demons dropped Simon like a hot coal. He plummeted to the earth, landing in the Via Sacra (Holy Way) so hard that he broke into four pieces.

  Simon Magus, suspended by devils, Lucas Cranach. Schedel, Nuremberg Chronicle (1493).**

  Which pretty much settled the contest once and for all.

  THE CABBALA

  Although many Christian mystics in the Middle Ages and Renaissance ardently embraced it, the Cabbala was of ancient Jewish origin. A body of mysticism and theosophy ("knowledge of God"), handed down to the patriarchs and prophets since the creation of Adam himself, the Cabbala was presumed to hold in cryptic form the secrets of the universe. The very word meant “the doctrines received by tradition.” Mystics, alchemists, sorcerers, and the like were drawn to the Cabbala for obvious reasons: mastering it might yield them the answers they needed to uncover the philosophers’ stone, or the elixir of life. Agrippa, Paracelsus, Robert Fludd, and many others all combed over these obscure Hebrew scriptures searching for clues and guidance.

  Although the Cabbala was extraordinarily difficult to explicate and comprehend (which made it all the more enticing to the magical fraternity), it was in essence a vast cosmogony, dealing with everything from the nature of God to the creation of man, angels, and demons. In one section, called “The Mansions and Abodes,” it laid out the structure of Heaven and Hell; in another, entitled “The Book of Secrets,” it offered an investigation of demonology.

  Overall, the Cabbala argued that God—denoted as En Soph—was a boundless and incomprehensible space in the universe, infinite and above all thinking and being as we know it. No matter how hard you tried to envision or imagine the En Soph, no matter how many times you hit your head against the wall, you wouldn’t even be able to come close.

  But the En Soph did have a problem (if, that is, it were capable of having problems). To make itself known in any way, the En Soph had to act, it had to create something. To do that, however, required such things as intentions and desires, not to mention some rolling-up-the-sleeves, old-fashioned work, and nothing so limitless and inscrutable as the En Soph was about to gets its hands dirty (again, if it had had hands, as we know them).

  So, instead, it employed ten intelligences, or Sephiroth, which emanated from it like beams from the sun, each one emanating in turn from the one before it. In order, starting with the first, these Sephiroth were denominated the Crown, Wisdom, Intelligence, Love, Justice, Beauty, Firmness, Splendor, Foundation, and Kingdom. And while they did good work, the universe they created was by no means perfect or uncircumscribable. Which just proved En Soph wasn’t handling everything directly, for how could boundless perfection create a limited imperfection?

  If all of this is beginning to sound a little strange, you’re starting to get the hang of the Cabbala.

  But this newly created universe could not be called complete until the very acme of creation, mankind, had been added to it. As expressed in the Zohar, one of the Cabbala’s most important texts, “Man is both the import and the highest degree of creation, for which reason he was formed on the sixth day. As soon as man was created everything was complete, including the upper and nether worlds, for everything is comprised in man. He unites in himself all forms.”

  The very shape of a human being was thought to be a physical representation of the four letters that make up the Tetragrammaton, the Hebrew word for God, and each part of the human body was thought to correspond to some part of the known and seeable universe. “Just as we see in the firma
ment above, covering all things, different signs which are formed of the stars and the planets, and which contain secret things and profound mysteries studied by those who are wise and expert in these things; so there are in the skin, which is the cover of the body of the son of man, and which is like the sky that covers all things above, signs and features which are the stars and planets of the skin, indicating secret things and profound mysteries whereby the wise are attracted who understand the reading of the mysteries in the human face” (Zohar).

  As for the human soul, it was thought to preexist, long before it went to inhabit a human body, in the World of Emanations. And in that original state it was thought to unite both male and female in one; it was only after it descended to this world that the soul was split up into two parts and made to animate two separate bodies. (Now you know why we’re said to be looking for our “soulmate.”) A marriage was the reuniting of the two parts of the original soul—but that’s only if things went according to plan. As the Zohar makes plain, “This union, however, is influenced by the deeds of the man and by the ways in which he walks. If the man is pure and his conduct is pleasing in the sight of God, he is united with that female part of the soul which was his component part prior to his birth.”

  And if he hasn’t been pure and pleasing in the sight of God? Then he enters a kind of spiritual reform program, where his soul is allowed to work toward its own inborn perfection three more times, inhabiting a new human body each time around. If even that doesn’t work, if the soul is still too weak to resist sin and worldly corruption, then more drastic measures are taken: the soul is joined to another soul altogether, on the theory that working in unison they’ll be able to return, finally purified, to the World of Emanations.