Lady Day = Sophia Day

March 25th, as many people are no doubt aware, is the Feast of the Annunciation, known in much of the Anglosphere as Lady Day. It’s an important feast in the Christian year, marking, as it does, one of the quarters along with St. John’s Day, Michaelmas, and Christmas. The feast is so important that from early on in Christian history (6th century or thereabouts) the calendar year changed at Lady Day (and not on New Year’s Day) since the Annunciation recalibrated both history and time itself. It was sort of a Cosmic Reset Button, when salvation had at last come to the household of mankind. In the Eastern churches, if the Annunciation falls during the Holy Week its observation is not transferred (as it is in most Western churches), even if it falls on Good Friday or Easter. John Donne, a great lover of paradox, wrote of this great paradox in one of his finest poems, “Upon the Annunciation and Passion Falling upon One Day”:

All this, and all between, this day hath shown, Th' abridgement of Christ's story, which makes one— As in plain maps, the furthest west is east— Of th’ angels Ave, and Consummatum est. How well the Church, God’s Court of Faculties, Deals, in sometimes, and seldom joining these. As by the self-fix’d Pole we never do Direct our course, but the next star thereto, Which shows where th’other is, and which we say —Because it strays not far—doth never stray, So God by His Church, nearest to him, we know, And stand firm, if we by her motion go.

As anyone familiar with this blog or my published work knows, the essence of Sophiology is, for me, centered on the recognition of the inherent unity of the natural and supernatural orders; and the metaxological center of that reality is the Virgin Mary, the incarnation of Sophia: she who makes the invisible Godhead manifest to the senses. The Annunciation is the feast celebrating this reality in harmony with the Feast of the Nativity—and it’s no accident that March 25th falls exactly nine months before Christmas. It’s a witness of nature’s marriage to the supernatural. This is spirituality. This is biology.

In the writings of Jacob Boehme, the role of the Virgin in the Incarnation is an office engaged in the regeneration of all things—nature as well as the human soul—an absolute participation in redemption. As he writes in Signatura Rerum:

“God became man and made man to God, the Seed of the Woman, that is, of the Heavenly Virginity, which disappeared in Adam, and also corrupted man’s Seed in the Anger, that is, Mary’s Seed, were formed into one Person, which was Christ; and the Seed of the Woman, that is, of the Virgin of God, understand the Heavenly Essentiality, should bruise the head of the Serpent, understand, the wrath of God in the Corrupted man; the head is the might of God’s Anger; the Divine man, understand the Divine property, should change the earthly into itself & turn the earth to heaven.” [1]

And he explicitly identifies the Mother of Jesus with the Sophia of Proverbs:

“Therefore we set it down here (according to our knowledge) that the pure chaste virgin (in which God was born [or generated]) is the chaste virgin [that is] in the presence of God: and it is an Eternal virgin; before ever Heaven and Earth was created, it was a virgin, and without blemish; and that pure chaste virgin of God put itself into Mary, in her Incarnation, and her new Man, was in the holy Element of God; and therefore she was blessed among all Women, and the Lord was with her, as the Angel said.” [2]

This sensibility is found throughout the sophiological literature—poetry as well as prose, science as well as mysticism—and sweetly phrased in these lines from William Everson’s (aka Brother Antoninus) “Canticle to the Great Mother of God”:

Clearly you are to us as God, who bring God to us.

Not otherwise than of those arms does grace emerge, blessing our birth-blank brow.

Wombed of earth’s wildness, flank darked and void, we have been healed in light,

Traced to the sweet mutation of those hands, a touch closing the anguish-actual stripe,

Whip-flashed the sin, lip-festered on our soul.

So much of our culture and times distances us from the Real that shimmers beneath above and between All Things, as infinity is found at both ends of a number line and between every number, every fraction. Our task, most especially now under the threat of an absolute technocracy, is to participate in the regenerative actuality of Christ and Sophia. This is our Annunciation, our affirmation, our entrance into the Mysterion of the Real.

Michael’s latest books are an edition of The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz and Transfiguration: Notes toward a Radical Catholic Reimagination of Everything. He can be reached at director@thecenterforsophiologicalstudies.com See also The Center for Sophiological Studies' available courses. Also check out the latest volume of Jesus the Imagination: The Garden.

1. Jacob Behmen (Jacob Boehme), Signatura Rerum: Or the Signature of all Things…translated by J. Ellistone (London, 1651), 11.11.

2. Jacob Behmen [Jacob Boehme], The Third Booke of the Author, being The High and Deepe Searching out of The Threefold Life of Man through [or according to] the Three Principles, translated by John Sparrow (London, 1650), 22.31.

Jacob’s Ladder: Sophia and Creation

The following is an excerpt from my forthcoming book, Sophia in Exile.

Jacob named the site of his vision Beth-El, “the House of God,” and there is no reason to believe that every parcel of Creation is not a potential Bethel. Indeed, religious experiences tied to nature are too numerous to count, almost universal in their distribution. I would wager that they are among the most common of human experiences, though many if not most people lack a sufficient language for describing their experiences. Joan of Arc’s initial visionary experiences, for example, occurred at what was know as “The Ladies’ Tree” or “The Faeries’ Tree” in her village of Domremy. Some villagers even claimed to have seen faeries there, but Joan only claimed to have seen saints Catherine and Margaret and the Archangel Michael who “was not alone, but was accompanied by angels from heaven.”[1] Even the (at the time) hardened Marxist economist Sergei Bulgakov was not impervious to the glory shining through the landscape one sunset while traveling through the Caucasus:

“I started to wonder what would happen if the cosmos were not a desert and its beauty not a mask of deception—if nature were not death, but life. If he existed, the merciful and loving Father, if nature was the vesture of his love and glory, and if the pious feelings of my childhood, when I used to live in his presence, when I loved him and trembled because I was weak, were true, then the tears and inspiration of my adolescence, the sweetness of my prayers, my innocence, and all those emotions which I had rejected and trodden down would be vindicated, and my present outlook with its emptiness and deadness would appear nothing more than blindness and lies, and what a transformation it would bring to me!”[2]

But the Glory of the Lord doesn’t only shine through the beauties of nature. Bernadette Soubirous’s first vision of the Virgin Mary came in a small alcove near a garbage dump, and Jacob Boehme’s insight into the nature of God occurred through the reflection of light off a pewter dish. There is no place where grace cannot appear. Beth-El: You are here.

But you are also not here.

One thing that keeps us from the experience of the Real is our pathological drive to control everything from fertility, to illness, to our environments. We regulate fertility through artificial birth control, through abortion, through “waiting until we’ve established our careers.” Fertility, that is, terrifies us, so we treat it as a disease, even, in some cases, by comparing a growing fetus to a parasite. It terrifies us so much that fertility rates have been plummeting for decades though NGOs have nevertheless been advocating for a massive population decrease. If we learned anything through the Covid-19 panic, it has to be that people have fetishized antiseptic living into a demigod. When people used to get the flu, it was just one of those things. You took some over-the-counter medication or homeopathy and let the illness run its course. After Covid illness somehow became evidence of moral turpitude and selfishness. Another thing we learned is that it is “safer” to encounter others through virtual environments, like Zoom, than by interacting, by exchanging genetic information, in the face-to-face of a lived life. This is entirely neurotic.

These phenomena are merely symptomatic of a way of life (bios)completely divorced from Life (zoë). We live lives in which, as John Donne says, “‘Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone,” divorced as we are from the world of clouds, of plants, of animals, and from each other, from the cosmos, and because of these from from God. Indeed, the inverse is also true: we are distanced from the world of clouds, plants, and animals because we are distanced from God. The integral unity of life and purpose that we instinctively feel lacking is really a product of our disengagement from the calendar; and by this I mean from both the calendar of the seasons and the liturgical calendar, both of which reflected each other once upon a time. Enoch I is very clear about the repercussions of our disconnect from the cosmos and God:

“In those days the angel Uriel responded and said to me, ‘Behold, I have shown you everything, Enoch, and I have revealed everything to you [so that] you might see this sun, this moon, and those that guide the stars of heaven as well as those who interchange their activities and their seasons and rotate their processions.

“‘In respect to their days, the sinners and the winter are cut short. Their seeds shall lag behind in their lands and in their fertile fields, and in all their activities upon the earth. He will turn and appear in their time, and withhold rain, and the sky shall stand still at that time. Then the vegetable shall slacken and not grow in its season, and the fruit shall not be born in its season. The moon shall alter its order, and will not be seen according to its cycles.’” (80:1-5)

Surrounded by the scientific hubris that seeks to “improve” seed by genetic engineering and that attempts to dim the sun, the moon, and stars through the dispersal of calcium carbonate through the atmosphere (among many other foolish ideas)—things we have let happen through either ignorance or inertia—is it any wonder that our impact on the Creation grows more and more devastating? We operate not in a cooperative manner with nature, but stick to a paradigm characterized by suppression, dominance, and control, but above all by hubris. We shouldn’t ask why wildfires, droughts, and devastating hurricanes occur so often: we should ask why they don’t happen more.

The reason for this is that the world has a soul, the anima mundi. This is an idea found throughout history. Plato, in the Timaeus, describes it this way: “we may say that the world came into being—a living creature truly endowed with soul and intelligence by the providence of God.” [3]And because the world is a living creature endowed with soul, all things within it participate in this life. As Plotinus writes, “the work of soul is something awake, both that within it and in the same way that which goes out to something else. Soul therefore makes alive all the other things which do not live of themselves, and makes them live the sort of life by which it lives itself.” [4] The Judeo-Christian tradition has a proper name for the bearer of this soul: “Wisdom, the fashioner of all things” (Wisdom 7:22).

To live in accord with Wisdom is to live in accord with both creation and God. The poetic metaphysics of this understanding can be found, among others, in the symbolism of the harmonia mundi and of the tree.

The harmonia mundi, literally “harmonies of the world” but often rendered in English as “the Music of the Spheres” has a rich history in the West, probably stemming from Pythagoras and is alluded to by Plato in the Timaeus. Plotinus provides a very beautiful description:

“The harmonious adjustment of the souls to the order of this All of ours witnesses to this: they are not cut off from it, but fit themselves in in their descents and make one harmony with its circuit, so that their fortunes and their lives and their choices are indicated by the figures made by the heavenly bodies and they sing, as it were, with one voice and are never out of tune. (And this is more properly the hidden meaning of the doctrine that the heavenly spheres move musically and melodically.”[5]

Many Renaissance writers and thinkers touched on the idea, Robert Fludd and Johannes Kepler, for example, and Shakespeare in his play Pericles, Prince of Tyre. It is a very simple concept: to live in harmony with Creation and God is to be at one with All That Is. Conversely, to be out of harmony with Creation and God is to invite corruption, infertility, and desolation upon the world.

The image of the tree, as the Tree of Life, may be the symbol par excellence of Wisdom from antiquity. The Tree, of course, makes its first appearance in Genesis, but it was also a feature of First Temple Judaism as an icon of Wisdom before Her worship was banned under the reforms of Josiah and her devotees driven into exile. The Tree returns in Revelation at the restoration of All Things: “And he showed me a river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding from the throne of God and of the Lamb. In the midst of the street thereof, and on both sides of the river, was the tree of life, bearing twelve fruits, yielding its fruits every month, and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations” (22:1-2). Margaret Barker reads this restoration as the restoration of Wisdom, the Divine Sophia, to her proper place in Christian worship and understanding. For her, “The fate of the tree [is] the fate of Wisdom,” which is why she argues that the earliest Christian communities understood it in precisely this way: “When John saw the woman and the tree in the holy of holies [i.e., Revelation 22], he showed that the Christians were faithful to the older ways. Their temple was the ancient temple, and so the woman and her tree and everything they represented shaped their way of thinking. Wisdom/Miriam was the mother of the Messiah, and that is how the Christians told the story of the birth of Jesus.” [6]

This is the challenge presented to us at this point in history. We find ourselves confronted with a choice between the Real or a simulacra of the Real, what the kabbalah calls the qlipoth, the world of demonic powers. [7] Do we assist in the work of salvation by recognizing Sophia’s place in Creation, thereby calling her out of exile? Or do we follow the trajectory of death that has and will continue to wreak havoc on Creation and on our own souls as they descend into the technological and technocratic abyss of the qlipoth? Too often, Christians or any people of good will, leave the work of salvation to politicians or to an amorphous future event, the Coming of the Messiah. But our actions constitute a call, a summons. As Nikolai Berdyaev so stridently says, “My salvation is bound up with not only other men but also of animals, plants, minerals, of every blade of grass—all must be transfigured and brought into the Kingdom of God. And this depends upon my creative efforts.”[8] Salvation, that is, is not a spectator sport.

Michael’s latest books are an edition of The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz and Transfiguration: Notes toward a Radical Catholic Reimagination of Everything. He can be reached at director@thecenterforsophiologicalstudies.com See also The Center for Sophiological Studies' available courses. Also check out the latest volume of Jesus the Imagination: The Garden.

1. W. S. Scott, trans, and ed., The Trial of Joan of Arc, Being a Verbatim Report of the Proceedings from the Orleans Manuscript (Westport, CT: Associated Booksellers, 1956), 78.

2. Sergius Bulgakov, A Bulgakov Anthology: Sergius Bulgakov 1871 – 1944, trans. Natalie Duddington and James Pain, ed. James Pain and Nicolas Zernov (London: SPCK, 1976), 10–11.

3. 30c.

4. 4.3.36-38.

5. 4.3.20-29.

6. Margaret Barker, Creation: A Biblical Vision for the Environment (London; T & T Clark, 20100), 266, 265.

7. Gershom Scholem, On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism, trans Ralph Manheim (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1965), 114.

8. Nicolas Berdyaev, The Destiny of Man, trans. Natalie Duddington (New York: Harper & Row, 1960), 294.

The War against Sloth: Paul Tyson, Moshe Idel, and the Sleepwalkers

The following is a review essay from Jesus the Imagination: The Garden.

Paul Tyson, Seven Brief Lessons on Magic (Cascade Books, 2019), $13.99 US

Moshe Idel, The Privileged Divine Feminine in Kabbalah (Walter de Gruyter, 2019), $114.99 US

Academia, counter-intuitively perhaps, does not constitute an environment favorable to original thought. This is not necessarily a problem only of our own moment, though it has certainly been exacerbated by the increasing specialization and, at least in the sciences, ungodly sums of money offered in the name of “research.” Ideas confronting the status quo are never welcomed with open arms, still less when they’re correct. As the great Russian philosopher Nicolai Berdyaev observed in 1943, “The highly cultured man of a certain style usually expresses imitative opinions upon every subject: they are average opinions, they belong to a group, though it may well be that this imitativeness belongs to a cultured élite and to a highly select group.”1 Attend any cocktail party of academics for verification.

It is against this backdrop that two recent books—both by academics—offer refreshingly original and innovative explorations at the margins of philosophy and theology. They do so in ways that challenge not only the academic status quo but also challenge the ways non-specialists can think about our ability to understand ourselves and our world and the nature of the Divine.

In Seven Brief Lesson on Magic, Australian philosopher Paul Tyson argues that, despite the totalizing effects of secularization, magical belief persists throughout (post)modernity. In the surprisingly short space of sixty-seven pages, Tyson examines (post)modernity’s scientism fetish and its (apparent but false) dismissal of magic. He proposes four theories of magic he sees at play: the animist theory, which views Nature as a living being; the Platonist theory, which recognizes how “nature is saturated in transcendent meaning beyond herself”; the supernatural theory, which places the magic beyond Nature; and the anti-magical theory, which believes (and “believe” is precisely the correct term) that magic does not exist.2 Tyson digs into each of these proposals to tease out the ways in which human persons and societies have and do actualize these ways of perceiving and acting in the world. As he writes, “To put it bluntly, the primary furnishings of our minds uphold an armed barrier between the way we think about the outer world of factual scientific knowledge and practical technological power and the inner world of imagination, meaning, purpose, and value.”3

Two important historical events and their cultural aftermath haunt Tyson’s little book: the ultimate victory (Pyrrhic, though it be) of natura pura during and after the early modern period; and the disenchantment narrative promoted by Max Weber swallowed (but not digested) by most of those who followed. Also lurking in these Seven Brief Lessons are the ideas of Charles Taylor and Peter Harrison, both who provide jacket endorsements, as well as William Desmond and John Milbank—all thinkers who have each in his own way pushed back against these dominant cultural narratives.

Natura pura (“pure nature”) is the proposition that God could withhold his presence from any aspect of Creation and gave birth to René Descartes’s bifurcation of the world into two parts: that which we can discern and exploit (now ostensibly the domain of “science”) and that which we cannot which lies in the supernatural provenance of God. Tyson never mentions it, but Henri de Lubac’s seminal study Surnaturel (1946)—which has yet to be published in an English translation—informs this part of his argument to a significant degree. The fascinating thing about natura pura, a theological proposition, is its role as ground zero for modern science. Natura pura, as theological dictum, then, shows precisely how science (or, more properly, scientism) is at its foundation a religion. When people say they “believe in science” we need to take that as sincere a faith-based confession as they come. The only problem is that science has developed a kind of armor or amnesia when it comes to its pedigree. As Tyson writes, “scientific modernity has disavowed its medieval parents, and has constructed its origin myth as a triumphant rebellion against its doddering and oppressive elders.”4

When it comes to the Weberian disenchantment narrative, Tyson delightfully shows what a two-dimensional piece of pasteboard it is. For Tyson, the disenchantment narrative bears little relationship to our lived experience of the world. In a disenchantment mindset, “values, meaning, and metaphysical orders are—for all scientific and practical purposes—not real features of objective reality. And yet, in our actual human experience, value, meaning, and purpose are fundamental to our ordinary lives. But are these ‘secondary’ qualities not really real, and is their sense of importance merely a matter of personal or cultural interpretation that has no solid grounding in the way reality is?”5 As a result, Tyson defines the disenchantment narrative as what it really is: a mythos:

“As a mythos at one with the supernaturalist and anti-magical metaphysics of scientific modernity, disenchantment is a powerful life-world defining myth, ordering our understanding and experience of reality. However, this is in important regards a false mythology. For actually, enchantment has not vanished from our ordinary experience of reality. What has really happened is that our understanding of where enchantment is has moved—under the conditions of scientific modernity—entirely out of the categories of knowledge and factual reality, and completely into the categories of imagination and subjectivity.”6

For Tyson, then, magic exists precisely in that domain of meaning, purpose, and imagination that science cannot touch but only speculate (and so unconvincingly). Science may give conveniences to living, but it cannot impart meaning, at least in its various applications, almost all of them tied to some variety of consumerism, capitalism, or control. Natura pura dissolves in the face of meaning, leaving science to measurement and the rest to art and religion. Indeed, as did David Bohm before him, Tyson calls science’s bluff and lays the blame for many of our challenges on science’s very doorstep:

“Cataclysmic global climate destabilization combined with billions of insecure people, hawkish “realist” power, and astonishingly destructive military technologies could not only end our life-world, but could wipe humanity from the face of the earth. Science certainly helped us get into this place, but science itself is powerless to help us. It is not the next technological fix that we should pin our hopes for a future on, it is the cultural acquisition of wisdom that is our only real hope.”7

The invocation of Sophia here, I think, is not accidental. For, as Proverbs has it, Sophia rejoices in the habitable part of his earth; and her delights are with the children of men. For these kinds of reasons, Tyson believes “it is entirely reasonable—and indeed, imperative—to see magic as real.”8 For where is Wisdom to be found?

Seven Brief Lesson on Magic is a book geared toward an informed but general reader interested in philosophy, theology, and the history of ideas. Not so with Moshe Idel’s The Privileged Divine Feminine in Kabbalah,9 a dense scholarly monograph written for the specialist and highly critical of the commonplaces and scholarly groupthink endemic to academia. It’s an inspiration.

Idel’s thesis is that the Divine Feminine and its role in Kabbalah has been seriously ignored despite numerous instances of its presence in the kabbalistic literature, especially that from the late medieval period. He bases his claim on three propositions:

“First and most importantly, the elevated ontological status of the Feminine within the theosophical system [within Kabbalah] in comparison to the classical masculine hypostases, Tiferet or Yesod; second, the dynamic perception of Female in the theosophical realm in comparison to the two main divine masculine powers mentioned above, as She is conceived of as supplying power to other sefirot, including the masculine ones; and third, this divine power’s ruling over the lower worlds, which is overwhelmingly more conspicuous than the Male’s role, despite His being designated as the King and Her being the ultimate aim of the ritual.”10

Idel’s thesis, while radical, is perhaps only incidental to what I take to be his greater project: challenging scholarly groupthink. And in this he pulls no punches. On the first page of the introduction, he explicitly states this: “the ideas addressed below are not in consonance with the rational claims of ‘Enlightened’ Jews or the all-encompassing vision of an androcentric imaginaire put forth in recent decades by scholarly followers of some sort of feminism.”11 Ouch. But he doesn’t stop there. Indeed, he has harsh words for both the purveyors of a “phallocentric” interpretation of Kabbalah as well as those marketing a facile “feminist” approach. The former he accuses of neglecting or suppressing what to him is patently obvious in Kabbalah.12 The latter he laments: “What could have been a fresh approach to Kabbalah, in this case, some fresh questions adopted from feminist theories, has turned into an axiom, actually an academic ahistorical dogma, allowing no exceptions, and speaking openly, and amusingly I must say, about detractors, heresies and obsessions, in publications that are deemed academic.”13

Idel’s method is more in resonant with what I have called elsewhere an “agapeic criticism.”14 His approach resides in a porosity in present to the texts before him:

“Scholars who try to subsume medieval traditions to fashionable but unsuitable modern theories merely obscure texts by inventing harmonizing interpretations. I propose more flexible approaches: a toolbox of methods, in fact, will facilitate a proper understanding of modes of thought on sex and gender that differ so dramatically from the modern ones. As part of a polychromatic approach to this literature, scholarship should pay greater attention to the expressions of ambivalence toward the Female. Moreover, modesty and less aggressive language may also serve as indispensable qualities for sensitive reading of the texts and then interpreting them. By listening only to one melody, scholars are prone to be deaf to other important voices.”15

So much for his method, which is much to be recommended.

Idel’s investigation begins with a simple proposition attributed to Aristotle: “The first in thought is last in action.” Applying this to theosophical Kabbalah, and in particular to the kabbalistic Tree of Life, Idel argue that not only is the Divine Feminine the telos of Kabbalah (and by implication Creation), but is also its source, or, spoken in the idiom of the Tree of Life, Keter as well as Malkhut. As he explains, “The view of the divine Feminine as recipient is connected to Her being the Ruler, namely of allocating power, and the understanding of Her nature solely as recipient would be a distortion.”16 He locates this notion all through the literature, in Moses Cordovero and Isaac Luria to cite the most familiar, and his discoveries bear an unmistakable sophiological imprint. In his discussion of Luria, for example, he touches on language evocative of Revelation 21:

“The preeminence of the Female, Malkhut, is evident, both in the primordial past and in the eschatological future, when She is depicted as even transcending the light of the Sun, namely the Male, as Her Husband. Her description in the eschaton as higher than the sun is indicative of the imaginaire of Her grandeur.”17

What is radical in Idel’s reading of these texts, then, is not that he brings a profoundly idiosyncratic and politically subjective lens to his examination, but that he actually reads what is there, as it is. That such an approach could ever be considered controversial speaks to how compromised the academic project is by ideas superfluous and ephemeral, even if dangerous. In fact, one could argue that the superfluous and ephemeral nature of academic discourse is the root and branch of its estrangement from the supposedly scholarly ethos of truth-seeking. In his dedication to unveiling the truth of his subject, Idel proves himself an almost solitary beacon in the darkworld of academia.

Both of these books, each with its various commitments and intended audiences, offer signs of hope. Tyson’s Seven Brief Lessons on Magic is an ideal text for, among other things, providing undergraduates with an alternative epistemology from the totalizing and banal scientism many of them bring with them to college (I have used it for a course on the history of thought). At a cultural moment when scientism has been vying for absolute hegemony, his book could not have arrived soon enough. Idel’s The Privileged Divine Feminine in Kabbalah, on the other hand, opens a path for scholars not only of religion and philosophy but for any discipline, a path toward integrity and clear-sightedness uncompromised by the excrescences of politics and turf wars.

Finally, these two books participate in a Sophiology that is attentive to the World as It Is, to Things as They Are. Tyson does so implicitly in his method, which, true to his own preference for the Platonist Theory of Magic, avows that “nature is saturated in transcendent meaning beyond herself.” Idel’s latent Sophiology, or at least that of the subjects under his consideration, clearly, is more explicit as it points to a sophiological eschaton hidden since the foundation of the world.

Michael’s latest books are an edition of The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz and Transfiguration: Notes toward a Radical Catholic Reimagination of Everything. He can be reached at director@thecenterforsophiologicalstudies.com See also The Center for Sophiological Studies' available courses. Also check out the latest volume of Jesus the Imagination: The Garden.

1. Nicolai Berdyaev, Slavery and Freedom, trans. R. M. French (New York: Scribner’s, 1944), 123. My emphasis.

2. Paul Tyson, Seven Brief Lessons on Magic (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2019), x.

3. Ibid., 3.

4. Ibid., 26.

5. Ibid., 30–31.

6. Ibid., 31. Tyson’s emphasis.

7. Ibid., 62. Tyson’s emphasis.

8. Ibid., 67.

9. Moshe Idel, The Privileged Divine Feminine in Kabbalah, Perspectives on Jewish Texts and Contexts 10 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2019).

10. Ibid., 12.

11. Ibid., 1.

12. Ibid., 198.

13. Ibid., 206.

14. Michael Martin, “Criticism and Contemplation” in The Incarnation of the Poetic Word: Theological Essays on Poetry and Philosophy / Philosophical Essays on Poetry and Theology (Kettering, OH: Angelico Press, 2017).

15. Idel, 200.

16. Ibid., 38.

17. Ibid., 107.