Draw near, O thou great god Thoth! O Djeḥuti! O ⲐⲞⲨⲦ!
Divine Architect who comes to those who call upon him Build in my heart and mind thy glorious Temple Wer-Hekau, Thou who art Great in Heka Thou Silver Sun, thou Beautiful One who shines in the night Reflect the rays of Tiphereth into my willing heart Thou who drives away evil Preserve me against the Evil Triad as I persevere through the Mysteries
Lord of Heka, thou who fashioned the Magical Current Lord of Judging, husband of Ma’at Thou Orderer of Fate who peers into the heart of the Candidate Superintend my judgement against the Feather of Ma’at in the Hall of Two Truths Advocate for me and write my name in the Book of Life Thrice-Great One who came to be at the beginning Bestow your blessings upon me And on the day of judgement, record that my heart is pure
Lord of Books and Lord of Script Thou who sets forth by writing Lover and Scribe of Ma’at who fashioned all things As I sit myself down to dip my reed in ink May your ḥeka flow through my hand May my heart be made ma’at And may I serve as a sacred scribe to your honor and glory
Every so often, I hear from students who say that they don’t feel anything when doing ritual. Invariably they worry that this is a problem: that not experiencing tangible results from their ritual practice is an indication of failure or of the practice not working. And it’s easy to see why. There are certainly many people who do get those results and can clearly articulate them. Pat Zalewski talks at length about the astral dynamics of ritual that were perceived psychically by Jack Taylor in Golden Dawn Rituals and Commentaries. Descriptions of bodily sensations and changes in the surrounding environment and whatnot abound. When you don’t experience any of these things in your own practice, it’s hard not to feel like a “squib” (to borrow a term from Harry Potter) who simply has no magical ability.
I have been doing Golden Dawn work for more than 20 years now, and magical work for longer than that, and I still don’t feel anything at all from ritual in most cases other than a generalized sense of peace and groundedness. The exceptions are with spirit work: I’ve had some subtle but quite distinct experiences when assuming godforms, and I’ve had some quite powerful ones when doing evocations. But do I feel much of anything from the LBRP, or the Middle Pillar, or the like? Nope. Forget about it.
And indeed, forgetting about it may be the single best thing that a student can do in this situation. Some people sense astral dynamics, some people feel energy changes. I am not one of them. And I believe this is simply innate to one degree or another. Just like there’s a normal spectrum of human variation when it comes to phantasia, with some people being entirely aphantasic, some hyperphantasic, and most in between, I have come to believe that the same is true of the type of senses we’re talking about here as well. And all appearances are that where each of us ends up on that spectrum is an inborn neurological trait. Similarly, different people experience psychometry in different ways, with information presenting itself in different sensory impressions, and to different degrees of intensity.
Similarly, I am convinced that to some degree the ability to feel ritual, to sense actual change as a result of it or to receive sensory impressions from it, is a faculty that each of us possesses to a greater or lesser degree but which may seem largely or entirely absent in some people such as myself. At this point in my magical journey, if I were going to experience that sort of thing, I expect I would have done so already. It seems unlikely that this will change any time in the foreseeable future. So I forget about it, and move on with doing my work.
Now that said, do I wish I could feel the astral dynamics of ritual, or sense the subtle changes in energy, or differentiate between the feeling of the banishing and invoking Ritual of the Pentagram? Absolutely. And would it be cool to experience that? Hell yeah. And to be sure, there are ways of developing those senses, just as there are techniques and exercises for working with your visualization and improving your dream recall and things like that. But it’s not necessary, and it’s not something you should expect to experience–because everyone’s experience is different.
And don’t think because you don’t feel anything that the rituals aren’t working. I’ve certainly seen results from my ritual work, and those haven’t been impaired by not feeling the subtle workings of the energies of a given ritual in the moment. You simply learn to measure your magic by different yardsticks, and have to focus on its efficacy rather than on your feels. And you’ve got to remember that just because you aren’t feeling it, that doesn’t mean anything is inherently amiss, or that you’re doing anything wrong.
Welcome to the latest video in my Golden Dawn ritual series. This work represents the most complete and comprehensive treatment of the Rose Cross Ritual I have seen in print or elsewhere, and I hope it serves you well. As usual, I have posted the full script below for those of you who prefer to consume your information via text. Thanks for watching and/or reading!
The Rose Cross Ritual is an Adept ritual of the Golden Dawn, which serves to create an astral sanctuary around you—with all of the meanings that word implies. It’s intended to serve as a refuge that veils and protects you against outside influences, and also finds application in healing magic. When you first see the Rose Cross Ritual written out and attempt to read through it, it can seem a bit confusing. But in reality, this is one of the easiest Adept rituals you can do—and when you see it performed, it becomes much clearer and easier to wrap your head around. So as you’ve come to expect from my other videos, I’m going to give you just enough preface to understand what actions to take before launching into a demonstration of the ritual, and afterwards I’ll catch you up on the theory. By the time we’re done, you’ll know how to perform the Rose Cross Ritual correctly and competently in the Golden Dawn tradition.
The key symbol here is of course that of the Rose Cross, which you’ll be tracing in each direction. This should be visualized as a golden Calvary Cross with a rose-red circle. The cross corresponds to the four Elements and the four Rivers of the Garden of Eden, whereas the circle signifies Spirit or Quintessence. Together, these symbolize the same forces represented in the Rose Cross Lamen of the Adept. The circle always starts and ends at the right arm of the cross, at the point symbolized by Chesed.
Unlike the Pentagram Ritual, where you have to learn four different divine names for the four directions, along with the four corresponding Archangels, here there’s only a single name: Yeheshuah. This name is vibrated in each of the four directions, as well as above and below. As long as you can remember which direction to turn in (hint: it’s always clockwise), you’ve already got most of the basics down for the first part of the ritual. First you’ll circumambulate around the space, making the sign of a Rose Cross and vibrating YEHESHUAH in each quarter as you go. Then when you get back to where you started, you’ll trace a line above your head to the opposite side, vibrating YEHESHUAH toward the ceiling; and you’ll carry that line downward and back to the original point, vibrating YEHESHUAH again toward the floor. Then you’ll trace those same lines from a different angle, making a cross or an X with the intersecting lines. Finally you’ll trace a larger Rose Cross in the same quarter you started in, sealing it with the words YEHESHUAH YEHOVASHAH. And the first part of the ritual is done. Don’t worry if it sounds confusing, it’s way easier to wrap your head around it once you see it.
The second part of the ritual is the Analysis of the Keyword, and this will be familiar to anyone who’s done the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Hexagram. Ah, but wait, you say! I’ve done the Analysis of the Keyword many times and I have that down, you say! Well, think again! It wouldn’t be a Golden Dawn ritual if there weren’t some kind of gotcha, would it? And unfortunately there is. As it turns out, there are two formulas for the Analysis of the Keyword: the regular version that one finds in the Hexagram Ritual and in the Consecration of the Vault of the Adepti, and the Roseate Analysis of the Keyword, which only appears in the Rose Cross Ritual. The difference between the two is minor but significant. After saying INRI and vibrating Yod Nun Resh Yod, there are two components to the Analysis of the Keyword. In the regular formula, the first component begins with “Virgo, Isis, Mighty Mother” and ends with “Isis, Apophis, Osiris, IAO”. The second component begins with “The Sign of Osiris Slain” and ends with “L.V.X., the Light of the Cross.” In the Roseate formula of the Analysis of the Keyword, these two components are in reverse order. If you’re already familiar with the Analysis of the Keyword, you’ll see what I mean here shortly—and I guarantee you it will trip you up if you aren’t careful. If you aren’t already familiar with it, don’t worry about it too much—just know that when you encounter the Analysis of the Keyword elsewhere, you’ll need to be cognizant of that difference.
The Roseate formula of the Keyword also adds two lines: at the end of the Analysis you’ll vibrate the four names from the Enochian Tablet of Union—EXARP, HCOMA, NANTA, and BITOM—and say “Let the Divine Light descend”.
Now, unlike almost every other Golden Dawn ritual, the Rose Cross Ritual does not need to be prefaced with the LBRP or the LBRH, or even the Qabalistic Cross. You’re welcome to do so, and in fact I rarely perform the Rose Cross Ritual without all of these since I incorporate the ritual into a larger daily practice; but this is not necessary.
A few final notes before we begin:
When you do trace the crosses, make them a couple feet or so tall; there’s no need to go huge with it. As you trace the cross and circle for each Rose Cross except for the final one, time it so that you finish tracing the figure on the last syllable of Yeheshuah. When you’ve finished tracing all of the crosses around the circle and have come back to where you started, prior to proceeding with the Analysis of the Keyword, you’ll retrace the first Rose Cross you drew; except this one you’ll draw larger—and as mentioned before, this time you’ll vibrate YEHESHUAH YEHOVAHSHAH. YEHESHUAH while drawing the top part of the circle around the cross, YEHOVAHSHAH while drawing the bottom part of the circle.
And with that, you know all that you need to know. So let me show you how it’s done.
Incense and Implements
Traditionally, the Rose Cross Ritual is performed using a stick of incense. But you don’t need to be limited to this; feel free to use your fingers or any suitable implement. The Ciceros have come up with a specific Rose Cross Wand to be used with this ritual, and if a tool like that enhances your practice, more power to you. At the end of the day, the tool is merely a focus for and an extension of your Will, and as long as you don’t use a tool that clashes in meaning with the ritual itself, it’s hard to go particularly wrong. You wouldn’t want to use the Magic Sword of Gevurah here, for example, in a ritual of Tiphereth which is supposed to instill peace and grant refuge. But as for myself, while I used an incense stick to demonstrate, I find that I most commonly perform the Rose Cross Ritual using my Lotus Wand. I’m generally already using it for other work, and it’s easy enough to hold the wand by the white band and trace the Rose Crosses using the head of the Lotus. But again, feel free to use whatever you like.
Now the first thing you’re likely to notice about the Rose Cross Ritual, and its biggest point of departure from other Golden Dawn ceremonies, is that it’s performed in the cross quarters rather than in the cardinal directions. If you’re anything like me, you’ve probably wondered why that is. Unfortunately this question isn’t addressed anywhere in the existing material, but I have a theory. When directionality is used in the Golden Dawn system, it always refers to specific types of symbolism. You have the spatial language of the Elements—as you can see in the LBRP for example—and you have the spatial language of the Sephiroth on the Tree of Life, which you can see in the initiation ceremonies and the Ceremony of the Equinox.
Within the Outer Order, the only time the cross-quarters hold any significance is in the invisible station of the four Sons of Horus in the Hall of the Neophytes: Imsety, Hapy, Duamutef, and Kebehsenuef are all placed in the ordinal directions—which is to say northeast, southeast, northwest, and southwest. Yet the Sons of Horus are fairly minor bit players in this ceremony, and do not connect to any larger nexus of meaning within the spatial geometry of the Temple, as far as I can discern.
But we must remember that the Rose Cross Ritual is not an Outer Order ritual: it is an Adept ritual, which means it is using a different language. Now more so than anything else, the Rose Cross Ritual anchors itself and the operator to the Sephirah of Tiphereth. It’s especially worth pointing out here the instructions which state that after the Analysis of the Keyword, “EXARP HCOMA NANTA BITOM” is only vibrated when you are NOT performing the ritual in the Vault of the Adepti. Since I’m guessing none of you has your own Vault just sitting in a corner of your house—I certainly don’t—this probably won’t be an issue 🙂 But it does tell us something very important about the ritual: as it was originally written, the Rose Cross Ritual was primarily intended to be performed within the Vault of the Adepti. This is also one reason why the LBRP is not performed as a preliminary to the Rose Cross Ritual: banishing is never performed within the Vault, since the Vault is a permanently consecrated space that requires no banishing. The Vault is also housed within the sphere of Tiphereth, as its geometry and symbolism shows.
What this means is that in order to decipher the energy dynamics inherent in the Rose Cross Ritual, we can’t look to the geometry of the Neophyte Hall for our answer. Instead we look at the geometry of the Vault, and of the Tree of Life from the reference point of Tiphereth. And if we orient our perspective here, we quickly see why the cross-quarters are significant: this places us squarely in the center of the Tree of Life, surrounded by four Sephiroth, one in each corner: Chesed, Gevurah, Netzach, and Hod. Kether as the source of Light and Life remains situated in the East, as it has in the astral dynamics of the Tree of Life throughout the Outer Order grades. Chesed and Gevurah are in the Southeast and Northeast respectively, and Netzach and Hod are in the Southwest and Northwest. When we trace the Rose Crosses in the four corners, we are situating ourselves within Tiphereth and essentially sealing and consecrating the Paths which lead from Tiphereth to the adjacent Sephiroth.
This arrangement also holds the key to understanding why we begin and end the Rose Cross Ritual in the Southeast. Remember that just as we begin by invoking the Highest in all that we do and then working our way downwards, from divine names through to archangels and the angels, so too do we begin and end our rituals by orienting ourselves towards the Highest. This is why the LBRP and other rituals begin and end in the East, the Source of Light and Life—and in the Outer Order, the direction of Tiphereth. In the case of the Rose Cross Ritual, we begin and end in the Southeast, orienting ourselves toward the Sephirah of Chesed. As Tiphereth is the loftiest peak represented to the Outer Order, so too does Chesed represent the point of greatest attainment in the Inner Order. As Israel Regardie said, “The Qabalah is the means whereby we may unlock the closed doors of the veiled intimations which abound in the Order rituals.”
Now that we’ve unpacked one of the biggest mysteries of the underlying theory behind the Rose Cross Ritual, let’s spend a moment talking about the Divine Name that the ritual utilizes. Yeheshuah is the Hebraicized form of the name Jesus, and is also called the Pentagrammaton. Note that I say it’s the Hebraicized form, and not the Hebrew form. The actual Hebrew name of Jesus is Yehoshuah, which means “the Lord is salvation”; or more commonly Yeshua, the shortened form of Yehoshuah, which is spelled yod shin vav ayin. Both of these forms were used during the Second Temple period in which Jesus lived, and they were often used interchangeably in the same way one might call someone either Joshua or Josh today. I go into this historical digression to point out that while Yeheshuah is not the actual Hebrew name of the historical Jesus, it serves that mythic function in the magic we perform. The Pentagrammaton that we know today, the Yod Heh Shin Vav Heh, is first attested in Athanasius Kircher and other Renaissance occultists in the 17th century, and was later popularized by Eliphas Lévi, whence it entered the Golden Dawn tradition.
The Pentagrammaton is significant to this ritual, however. In the grades through Portal, the initiate experiences the Elemental energies which are then stabilized and equilibrated by sealing them with the Shin of Yod Heh Shin Vav Heh, the descending Spirit interpenetrating the material world of the elements represented by the Tetragrammaton. In the Rose Cross Ritual you have the same symbolism, with the cross of the elements surrounded by the rose circle of Spirit, sealing and consecrating it.
After tracing the final Rose Cross, the operator vibrates “YEHESHUAH YEHOVASHAH” to seal the whole matrix of interconnected Rose Crosses that has been created within the ritual. The “Yeheshuah Yehovashah” formula is not used frequently within the Golden Dawn system, occurring primarily here in the Rose Cross Ritual. It is also used in the License to Depart, at least in the modern Regardie-derived tradition, in which spirits are told to depart in peace unto their abodes and habitations with the blessings of Yeheshuah Yehovashah.
This formula uses two permutations of the Pentagrammaton: the first, Yeheshuah, places the Shin of Spirit between the Yod-Heh of Fire and Water and the Vav-Heh of Earth and Air, as we’ve already noted. The second, Yehovashah, inserts the Shin before the final Heh of Earth. This has the consequence of placing the letters Yod, Heh, and Vav together. These collectively correspond to the three Qabalistic elements, which in turn are represented by the three Mother Letters of the Hebrew Alphabet, Alef (Air), Mem (Water), and Shin (Fire). Thus whereas the name “Yeheshuah” emphasizes the immanence of Spirit in the microcosmic world of the Elements, the name “Yehovashah” places its emphasis on Spirit mediating the three Qabalistic Elements which are the building blocks of all terrestrial things, and coming into final manifestation in the Heh of Earth. The name Yeheshuah connects to Spirit; the name Yehovashah brings Spirit into manifestation in Matter.
The Roseate Analysis of the Keyword
As I mentioned in the preface to the ritual demonstration, the Roseate version of the Analysis of the Keyword is different from that found in the Hexagram Ritual and in the Consecration of the Vault of the Adepti. Apart from the presence of the phrases “Let the Divine Light descend” and the vibration of “EXARP HCOMA NANTA BITOM”, the Roseate formula transposes the portion beginning “Virgo, Isis, Mighty Mother” and that beginning “L, the Sign of the Mourning of Isis”. Why is this different? Why is the formula used in the Rose Cross Ritual different from that used elsewhere?
Well, the truth of the matter is that I have absolutely no idea, and neither as far as I can tell does anyone else. Or if they do, they aren’t telling. So for the time being, this is one of those little eccentricities that you simply have to accept and play along with. If you have any idea why the Analysis of the Keyword differs here, please let me know.
The Enochian angelic names, “EXARP HCOMA NANTA BITOM”, are vibrated immediately before the end of the ritual provided that the operator is not performing the ritual within the Vault of the Adepti. The use of the Enochian names here operates similarly to the Qabalistic Cross and the invocation of the Archangels in the LBRP, in that it expresses an equilibration of the Elemental energies through the angelic names corresponding to those elements. They are only used outside of the Vault firstly because Enochian is not used within the Vault, and secondly because the Vault is already a carefully equilibrated space and therefore this step is rendered unnecessary when performing the ritual within it.
We briefly touched on the purpose of the Rose Cross Ritual at the beginning of this video, but knowing how to perform a ritual doesn’t help you much if you don’t know what to do with it—so I always like to make sure I cover the use cases before I wrap up.
The canonical use of the Rose Cross Ritual is as an astral sanctuary and veil for the operator. With respect to sanctuary, this ritual can protect you from astral entities and influences by concealing you from them and providing you with a sphere of refuge. While this function overlaps somewhat with that of the banishing rituals with which you are no doubt familiar, the two rituals operate in different ways. Banishing forcibly clears the air, as it were, sweeping away unwanted influences from a space or from your consciousness. Westcott wrote that the Rose Cross Ritual is “like a veil”, and contrasts it with the Pentagram Ritual by saying that “the Pentagrams protect, but they also light up the astral and make entities aware of you”. The Ciceros have said that the ritual is “more like a blessing than a banishing”, in that it instead consecrates the space and the operator, raising them to the state of Tiphereth, and rendering them impervious to, and to some extent invisible from, outside influence. This property of the ritual is responsible for much of its efficacy in the use cases that are generally discussed, such as protection against psychic invasion or disturbed psychic conditions, maintaining inner calm, and the like. The Ciceros have also contrasted the Rose Cross Ritual with the Pentagram Ritual by saying that “the Pentagram and the Rose Cross are both symbols of protection, but while the Pentagram is well suited for summoning and dismissing specific energies, the Rose Cross is particularly suited for meditation, protection, balancing, blessing, and healing.”
Now I just said a moment ago that the Rose Cross Ritual raises the operator and the working space to the state of Tiphereth, and to my mind the importance of this function can’t be overstated. Tiphereth consciousness, or “Christ consciousness” if you prefer, is the state which the Adeptus Minor is attempting to cultivate through this ritual. This state of consciousness aligns the human will to the Divine Will, and better enables the magician to serve as a vessel or conduit through which the divine energy can flow. Describing this state, Regardie says that it should result “in the acquisition of some degree of peace and quiet”, and that “a sense of well being and inner assurance will arise from within”. He continues, saying “it is the tranquility and calmness now developed that permits, as it were, the mind to open up and receive the influx of the Holy Spirit”.
Working from this state and in this ritual context also facilitates healing magic. This entails building up an astral image of the afflicted person within the center of the circle, and calling down the Light upon them just as it is called upon to fill the working sphere and the operator.
That wraps up the theory and practice of the Rose Cross Ritual. Thanks for watching. If you have any comments or questions, please leave them in the comments or feel free to contact me. For more of my work, check out my blog at Hermeticulture.org, or find me on Discord; links are below. Until next time, keep making magic!
I recently finished reading Alison Butler’s excellent work Victorian Occultism and the Making of Modern Magic: Invoking Tradition, which is largely about the Golden Dawn and the historical and cultural context of the order and its predecessors. While the book stands as a valuable work of scholarship in its field, it was its particular focus on “invented tradition” that most stood out to me.
I’ve been interested for many years in how different religions and esoteric traditions construct the idea of legitimacy. All paths subscribe to some underlying theory of legitimacy, which must be shone forth by new entrants to the field in order to be accepted as a part of the established tradition. For the Golden Dawn, this legitimacy came in the form of the temple warrant for Isis-Urania, as well as the communication the Chiefs of the order supposedly had with Secret Chiefs or inner plane contacts. Of course, we now know that the temple warrant and the surrounding communications with Fräulein Sprengel were at best received astrally via automatic writing, and at worst forgeries invented from whole cloth. But before this revelation, the Golden Dawn had the time to establish itself and prove its worth–and to situate itself firmly within the traditions of Hermeticism and western esotericism. In order to buy itself that time, the origins of the order were enshrouded in an invented mythic history. This may seem fraudulent to some, but according to Alison Butler this is in fact how legitimacy within western esotericism inherently functions.
As Butler explains the concept, “Invented tradition refers to a set of practices of a ritual or symbolic nature governed by rules that seeks to establish certain values and standards of behavior through repetition of these practices. This repetition also serves to solidify continuity with a suitable historical past.”1 She observes that “the process of inventing tradition frequently involves drawing on a social storehouse of historical ritual, symbolism, religion and folklore.”2 Contrary to certain academic views which hold that occultism is a modern phenomenon, Butler argues that it arises out of a longstanding tradition, even as it invents and innovates to extend and transform that tradition.
To unpack this idea of invented tradition a bit more, we must appreciate the fact that it fundamentally revolves around the idea of synthesis. The evolution of occultism relies not on divergence from tradition, but rather upon the incorporation of new material into the existing body of work. Butler refers to this “reliance on the method of synthesis” as “the most striking characteristic of Western magic” and traces it back through the Hermetic revival of the Renaissance in her study.3
Even the merest glance backward at the history of Western occultism bears out Butler’s thesis. The great synthesizers of the Renaissance contributed droves to the newly rediscovered Hermeticism of antiquity, but remained anchored to the texts and traditions out of which these arose. And while, as Butler observes, “the various strands that formed this synthesis, such as Hermeticism, Neoplatonism, cabala, demonic magic and natural magic, predate the Renaissance, it was during this particular era that they were brought together to form an influential system of magic, the effect of which has continued to influence Western magic to the present day.”4 This was the same process by which Éliphas Lévi introduced the magical tarot into the landscape of occultism, and through which the Golden Dawn introduced the structures of Freemasonry and various other innovations.
These innovations, however, always take place within the context of what has come before. The Latin traditio means that which is handed over or handed down, and this inherited body of work must remain not merely intact but enhanced by the synthetic process. We can see in this view a striking similarity with the genre theory lens to which I was introduced by Grier Conley, and which we have discussed previously. Just as in genre theory one must confront the “horizon of expectations” set forth by the existing corpus of the genre, it is impossible to speak of inherited tradition without addressing the tradition inherent in the term.
To some extent, the amenability of an idea to synthesis therefore becomes inherent to that idea’s potential legitimacy within the sphere of Western occultism. This is the measure of the idea’s “fit” within the genre. The other component of legitimacy in this schema is the invented portion of the tradition, in finding roots for the invention which dovetail with the tradition itself. Lévi’s tarot blended almost seamlessly with the existing body of esotericism, but also purported to be an ancient hieroglyphic key of wisdom passed down from the sages of antiquity. The Golden Dawn claimed to inherit the spirit of the Eleusinian Mysteries and of Rosicrucianism in its own fictional history. The invented tradition must not only invent that which is to be incorporated into the existing genre: it must invent its own plausible origin story in order to be accepted.
And this is perhaps the stickiest point regarding occultism, and the one that most gives me pause. As Alison Butler observes with respect to the Victorian incorporations of Freemasonry, Rosicrucianism, and Egyptian magic into occultism, all three “have both a solid historical origin as well as nineteenth-century adaptations which were made in the spirit of the century, a spirit of invented traditions and appropriated histories.”5 It is scarcely possible to speak of occult history without talking about appropriation. Whether we’re speaking of the Christian appropriation of Jewish Kabbalah during the Renaissance, English appropriation of Hinduism in Theosophy, or Greek appropriation of the Egyptian gods in the time of Alexander the Great, our traditions have always been invented and spread through cultural appropriation and imperialism.
Today, we live in a time where both our historical records and our access to those resources are much better than in generations past. And to some extent, the invention of tradition has historically depended upon gaps in the historic record and in access to historical resources, because it’s the attempt to connect those dots and fill in the blanks that results in the invention of new traditions–or at least makes the invention of new traditions feasible.
What will the next tectonic change in occultism look like, now that we take a very different view of cultural appropriation in today’s society, and have a much more rigorously set view of history? The ways in which tradition has been invented are no longer available to us in the same way. Only time will tell, of course–but these are the questions that keep me up at night.
Butler, Alison. Victorian Occultism and the Making of Modern Magic: Invoking Tradition. Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. pp. 173-174.
Last year I gave a talk on magic and cryptography at CypherCon, a regional hacker conference in Milwaukee, WI. I’d been wanting to give this talk for quite some time, so I’m especially delighted that the video has gone up on CypherCon’s YouTube page. Click below to watch, and read past the video for the presentation abstract!
Long before it became an infosec capture-the-flag staple, steganography had its birth in the Steganographia of Johannes Trithemius, an early 16th century book of magic and secret writing. Though it remains perhaps the most widely known, this is but one among countless examples of cryptography from the Renaissance and early modern eras used by alchemists, magicians, and dissidents to conceal their hidden knowledge from the prying eyes of the uninitiated. By applying the lens of cyber threat intelligence to the Steganographia and other examples of Renaissance and early modern cryptography, we can give ourselves greater insight into the motivations and threat models that drove subversive actors centuries before PGP was a gleam in Phil Zimmerman’s eyes. As we explore these historical examples through a threat intel lens, I will show how modern-day incident responders and other infosec practitioners can enrich their investigations by applying this same approach to their daily work.
I originally constructed my Lotus Wand back in 2016 as a part of my Neophyte Adeptus Minor work. Coming into it without much experience either creating or using such a tool, however, there were mistakes I made along the way–as one inevitably does. The standard reference for instructions on how to create the Lotus Wand is still the Ciceros’ Creating Magical Tools, provided of course that you’re fortunate enough to find a copy. That book lays out basic instructions for crafting the wand, but it becomes apparent that the text was written by a carpenter and an artist when one notices the near absence of instruction when it comes to basic techniques that are nonetheless essential for the construction of a quality piece of work.
As a novice to either woodworking or painting, one is going to be seriously hindered by that lack of instruction–as I myself was. When I first created a Lotus Wand I managed to nail the construction the first time, but in crafting a new one for myself I had to take three attempts, learning a bit more about technique each time. This post attempts to fill in some of the blanks that the Ciceros left, and to walk you through the fundamental information you need to know in order to create a professional looking and aesthetically pleasing Lotus Wand while hopefully avoiding the pitfalls of such a project.
The single biggest mistake I made the first time I crafted the Lotus Wand was making the wand way too long. The Adept is intended to hold the wand by the colored band which corresponds to the Zodiacal sign being worked with, and I wanted to make each band large enough to hold without having to touch the adjacent bands at the same time. In order to get this length on each colored band, I ended up making the shaft of the wand a full 36 inches. This was a bad idea. As one who had never used a Lotus Wand before, I did not realize or consider how this length would feel in practice, or how much clearance would be necessary in order to wield it at all. It’s difficult to overstate how awkward that length ended up being. Pro tip: if your Magic Sword is easier to wield in ritual than your Lotus Wand, you’ve probably gone astray.
This time around, I stuck to the rule of thumb that the ideal length is around the distance from your elbow to the tip of your middle finger. In my case this ended up being approximately 20 inches, which I believe is a perfect length: this allows for making the colored bands one inch wide each, with four inches left over each for the black and the white bands. The colored bands can be gripped by thumb and forefinger, while the black and white bands can be held a bit more comfortably. The Ciceros recommend a length of 26 inches, which is about as long as I would go with the shaft of the Lotus Wand. If you aim for longer than that, you’re likely to find the tradeoff an unproductive one.
A Word About Materials
The materials list follows, but first a few words about the items on the list.
All of the paints that you will need are listed below, and can be found in my post Painting the Golden Dawn Colors. Liquitex has all of the colors available except as noted.
I used only flat head paintbrushes for this project, from a set ranging in brush size from 1 to 12. I found that the smallest and largest brushes in this range were the most useful to me, but you’ll likely be washing and swapping out brushes frequently enough that you’ll probably want at least two small brushes and 2-4 larger ones to allow your paintbrushes sufficient drying time.
I recommend using a standard dowel from any hardware store for your wood blank. During one of my attempts I chose to use an oak hardwood dowel, but I found that the slight texture of the wood grain increased the paint bleed I got between the colored sections of the wand. Feel free to use oak or another wood if you wish, but consider applying an additional coat of gesso (remember to sand it down afterwards!) and be aware that the tape sealing technique discussed below will be especially important in such a case to offset the additional risk of bleeding paint.
Sheet copper is the recommended material for the lotus petals due to the magical correspondences of the wand. The Lotus Wand is sacred to Isis, and by extension to Venus. The lotus petals are accordingly made of copper as the metal of Venus. I was able to find a suitable sheet of copper at my local Home Depot.
Be sure to choose a gloss varnish that is intended for use in painting! As a total noob to painting and woodworking the first time around, I chose a clear gloss wood varnish. Predictably, the varnish yellowed over time, leaving the white band and the white petals of the lotus looking dingy and aged. Combined with the unwieldy length of my original, this provided the impetus for crafting a new Lotus Wand in the first place.
Materials & Equipment Needed
Wood dowel, 3/4″ diameter and 20 inches in length
Gesso (I used Liquitex Basics Acrylic)
Paints (all Liquitex Heavy Body Acrylic unless otherwise specified)
Naphthol Red Light
Cadmium Orange Hue
Yellow Orange Azo
Cadmium Yellow Light
Vivid Lime Green
Light Green Permanent
Golden Artist Colors Light Turquois (Phthalo)
Cerulean Blue Hue
Phthalocyanine Blue (Green Shade)
Folk Art 449 Olive Green
Liquid Leaf 6110 Classic Gold
Liquitex Professional Matte Gel Medium or other matte gel medium
Liquitex Professional Gloss Varnish or other gloss varnish
Flat head brushes
Paintbrush soap (e.g. The Masters Brush Cleaner and Preserver)
Masking tape or painter’s tape
Sheet copper (an 8″ x 10″ sheet will suffice)
Fine sandpaper (240-400 grit)
Sharpie or other permanent marker (optional)
Brass locknut to fit on hanger bolt
Drill and drill bit (to match diameter of hanger bolt)
Hex driver (to match size of locknut)
Jigsaw with metal-cutting blade (or tin snips if you enjoy a challenge)
Now if you’ve gotten this far and you’re thinking to yourself “my god, this list of materials is humongous!” then I’ve got news for you: you’re right. There are a lot of materials for this project, and every single one of them is absolutely necessary. Creating a Lotus Wand is a laborious process, and an expensive one if you’re purchasing all of these materials for the first time. But if you’re crafting a Lotus Wand, then my assumption is that you are an Adept in the Golden Dawn tradition, which means you’ve likely already put a great deal of time and monetary investment into your work and studies. And fortunately, the paints–altogether the most expensive component of this project–will serve you well in creating all of your other Adept tools as well as any other wands or tools you might choose to craft going forward.
There are two separate portions to the construction of the wand, these being the shaft and the lotus flower. These can be tackled in any order.
Creating the shaft involves cutting the dowel to size, giving it a base coat of gesso, and sequentially painting the color bands from white through the rainbow to black, assiduously masking the bands along the way to guard against your biggest enemy during this part of the project: paint bleed. Once the shaft is painted you’ll mask narrow bands at the transition points between the colored sections and use liquid leaf to create an elegant gold band separating each section. Finally you’ll cover the shaft of the wand in gloss varnish to seal it.
Constructing the lotus flower entails making paper stencils of your lotus petals, roughing down the sheet copper with emery cloth, affixing the stencils to the sheet copper, then cutting out the lotus shapes. The rough edges from the metal cuts are sanded smooth, then the petals are painted. Finally the wheels of petals are placed onto the hanger bolt and capped with the locknut, and the individual petals are bent up into position so they resemble the nested petals of the lotus flower. A hole is then drilled into the end of the shaft to accommodate the hanger bolt, which is screwed in to affix the lotus to the shaft and complete the wand.
Painting the Wand
First, cut your dowel rod to size. A power saw is ideal for this, but a hand saw is perfectly serviceable. As mentioned above I chose a length of 20″ for my wand, which is approximately the distance from my elbow to my fingertips. Any shorter a length is likely to be relatively unusable, whereas going much longer will make the colored bands somewhat easier to hold but the wand will become more unwieldy the longer you make it. If you choose a length of 20″ you end up with 4″ each for the black and white bands, with twelve colored bands each of 1″ in width. If you go for a total length of 26″ you can enlarge the colored bands to 1.5″ each while maintaining the same 4″ length on the black and white bands. Ultimately the decision comes down to your own practical and aesthetic considerations.
Once you have cut the dowel to the appropriate length, sand off any rough edges from the cut and then cover the dowel with a coat of gesso. Let the gesso dry and give it a light sanding, then wipe the dust off with a dry cloth. If using an oak dowel or another type of dowel that shows any wood grain, I would add an additional coat of gesso, sanding after both the first and the second coat.
Take a pencil and make markings at the points where your bands will be located. For a 20″ dowel you’ll make a mark at the 4″ point, then again each inch thereafter until you reach the 16″ mark, leaving a 4″ width on either side for the black and white bands. As previously mentioned, if using a 26″ dowel your marks will be at 1.5″ intervals instead.
Next, use the masking tape or painter’s tape to mask off one of the 4″ end sections. This will be your white end. You’ll wrap the tape around what will be the red band, then paint the end section with Titanium White. Allow about 30 minutes drying time, then put on another coat of white. Once this dries, remove the tape and you should have a fairly neat band of white with crisp edges where the paint met the tape.
Now that the first band is done, it’s time to learn the most essential technique you will use during this portion of the wand’s construction: sealing the masking tape. First, you’re going to wrap a band of masking tape around the very end of the white band, lining up the edge of the tape with the edge of the paint and leaving a blank space next to it where we will be painting our first colored band. Put another band of tape on the other side of the unpainted band, lining it up with the mark you previously made in pencil. You should now have a 1″ unpainted band with masking tape on either side of it.
With the band masked off, take a small flat brush and pick up a bit of the color you just used on the previous band (in this case Titanium White). Brush a small amount of the color up against and onto the tape that covers your already-painted band. This ensures that if any paint bleeds under the tape (and it will!), it’s paint of the color that we actually want on that side of the tape. Having red paint bleed onto your white is a real pain, but if we bleed white under the tape instead then once it’s dry we can paint over that, and the tape will remain sufficiently sealed that the new colors will not bleed. Make sure to really push the paint up against the tape in order to seal it properly. The pictures below show the transition from the red band to the red-orange band, but the principle remains the same regardless of which color you’re using.
You will need to use two coats of paint on each band in order to get sufficient depth of color and to adequately cover the color that was used to seal the tape on each given band before overpainting. Allow approximately 30 minutes of drying time between each coat, and between painting a coat and removing the masking tape.
You will develop a particular rhythm for this portion of the wand creation. You’ll unwrap the masking tape from the previous band, then mask off the next band. Seal the tape using a small flat brush and the previous color, let dry for 30 minutes. Paint on a coat of the current color and let dry. Paint another coat and let it dry. Unmask the current band and mask off the next one. Repeat until done, and don’t forget to clean your brushes after each use.
When painting the bands, paint the colors in spectrum order as follows:
Naphthol Red Light
Cadmium Orange Hue
Yellow Orange Azo
Cadmium Yellow Light
Vivid Lime Green
Light Green Permanent
Light Turquois (Phthalo)
Cerulean Blue Hue
Once you finish painting the black band and have a lovely rainbow colored wand, you can add narrow gold bands between the colored sections to highlight them and accentuate the wand with an elegant touch. To do this, first mask off all but a very narrow band centered over the line where one color transitions to the next. The bands should be small, approximately one or two millimeters in thickness. You can mask off multiple bands at once, but my experience with a 20″ wand was that it was easiest to mask off every other band, paint on the gold, and then do the other half of the bands in a second batch.
Now here’s where you need to be careful, lest you run into the same problem I did. The technique of sealing the masking tape with the previous color works great when you’re working your way down the wand–but what happens when you need to seal the tape at the junction of two colors? We can’t use either color of paint, because bleed of either color into the other would be bad. And as much difficulty as bleeding paint may cause, the Liquid Leaf we’re using for the gold bands is less viscous than paint and will assuredly bleed even worse if we don’t guard against it.
This is where the gel acrylic medium comes in. Gel medium effectively gives the body of paint without any pigment, which means that it dries entirely transparent. Paint two generous coats of gel medium over the area masked off for the gold bands, letting dry in between coats. Then use a small flat brush to apply the Liquid Leaf. The paint will have a bit of a dull appearance when it first goes on, but will dry to an attractive gold color. Let the Liquid Leaf dry for 30 minutes before removing the masking tape. Repeat the process for any additional bands.
Congratulations! You’ve finished painting the rainbow shaft, which in my experience was the hardest part of crafting the Lotus Wand. Now it’s time to turn our attention to the lotus flower itself.
Crafting the Lotus Flower
Because I reused the flower from my previous Lotus Wand, merely touching up the paint and the varnish, I don’t have any construction pictures to show (at least not yet–if I end up recrafting the lotus, I’ll be sure to update the post). This part of the construction is less fussy than the shaft, however, so hopefully your efforts won’t be hindered by the lack of visual references.
Begin by taking a piece of paper and creating stencils for the three petal sections and the calyx. The diagram of the Lotus Wand from the Ciceros’ Creating Magical Tools is reproduced below, and illustrates the proper form and size of the petals. You’ll end up creating a 10-petal circle of 3.25″ diameter, two 8-petal circles of 3.75″ and 4.25″ respectively, and finally a 4-petal calyx with a 2″ diameter, as shown. This diagram also serves as a helpful visual reference for the color ordering on the painting of the shaft if one is needed.
You may choose to freehand the lotus petals or to use a compass and protractor, but the easiest method may be to scale the diagram above to 1:1 size, print it out, and trace the stencils from the diagram images. Either way, once you have the stencils created, cut them out and set them aside.
Next, take the sheet copper and block out where you’re going to put the stencils. Before proceeding, grab your emery cloth and rough up both sides of the copper sheet. Your goal here is to give the metal some texture in order to enable the acrylic paint to stick to the copper, in much the same way that a coat of gesso provides a bit of “tooth” to help paint adhere better. While it is possible to perform this step after the petals are cut out, you will have a much easier time getting an even rough on the surface if you do so at this juncture.
Once the sheet copper is appropriately roughed, tape the stencils to the sheet. Double-sided tape is recommended, as otherwise the stencil will begin to move around as the pieces of tape holding it in place are severed during the cutting process.
Using a jigsaw equipped with a metal-cutting blade, make rough cuts around your four petal stencils, leaving you with four separate square pieces each containing one of your stencils. Then take each piece and carefully cut along the lines of the stencil around the outside, and finally cut the long straight lines that lead toward the center of the three non-calyx pieces. Now take the drill bit which you have selected to match the diameter of your hanger bolt, and drill center holes through each of the pieces (use a bit of sacrificial wood as a backstop for the drill bit). Remove the stencil paper. At this point you should have four pieces of sheet copper shaped like the petal and calyx sections in the diagram above.
You will eventually need to fold the petals up around the locknut in order to achieve the shape of the lotus flower, and in order to do so the petals must be able to slide past each other. I found that it was best to take each petal and twist it slightly so it somewhat resembles the blades of a fan. Choose a direction, either clockwise or counterclockwise, and twist all of the petals on the 8- and 10-petalled sections about 20-30 degrees in that direction. This also has the benefit of exposing the cut sides of the petals, which you will now want to clean up. Sand down all of the cut edges until they are reasonably smooth (though painting will also make the edges smoother to the touch, so don’t worry too much about getting it perfect). It’s perfectly fine to use the same medium grit sandpaper for this purpose that you used for sanding down your wood and gesso.
Now it’s time to paint your petals. You may coat the copper with gesso first, though I chose to paint directly on the metal. Paint the calyx with Cadmium Orange Hue on both sides, and paint the small 10-petalled section with Titanium White. For the two 8-petalled sections, paint one side with Titanium White and the other side with Olive Green. Choose one of the two to be your outermost section, and paint leaf lines on the petals with Mars Black or simply use a Sharpie to create the lines. Once the paint dries on all the pieces, apply a coat of clear gloss varnish to finish.
Now that all of the separate sections are completed, assemble them together on the hanger bolt. I found it easiest to attach the locknut to the bolt, then screw on the pieces from innermost to outermost: the white 10-petalled section, the middle 8-petalled section, the outer 8-petalled section with the painted leaf lines, and finally the orange 4-petalled calyx. Make sure that the olive sides of the 8-petalled pieces are facing away from the locknut when attached to the bolt. You will probably need to begin bending the petals upward during this process, in order to allow all of the pieces to screw on fully.
At this point your rainbow shaft and your lotus flower are both complete, and all that remains is to affix them together. Using the same drill bit you used previously, carefully drill a hole into the top of the white end of the shaft. You will want to drill almost the full length of your hanger bolt (not just the length of the screw threading!), because you will need to screw the bolt in sufficiently far to keep the lotus flower from rattling around on top. As a rule of thumb, I’d say to drill in to approximately the length of your hanger bolt, minus half a centimeter.
Using a hex driver that matches the size of your locknut, take your fully assembled lotus flower and screw it into the shaft. If you think you’ve tightened it sufficiently, give the wand a shake and see if the lotus rattles around. If it does, tighten further and continue until the lotus stays firmly in place when jostled. Fold the petals up around the locknut until they look suitably angled: there’s no rule of thumb here, you’ll just have to eyeball it.
It is traditional to place the Lotus Wand in a pouch or cloth made of white linen or silk. The consecration of the wand is beyond the scope of this post, but look out for a future blog post on the subject!
I hope this tutorial has given you the information that you need to create your own professional quality Lotus Wand. If you have any questions or feedback, or any tips to share, please don’t hesitate to let me know!
As I’ve worked with more people who are freshly into the elemental grades or are working their way through them, I’ve consistently seen certain questions and themes pop up as people experience the energies of those grades and find themselves perplexed. Even when the theory behind the rituals is laid out, you aren’t really told what to expect going into the experience, and as a result students are less prepared for the impact of those energies than one would hope. This blog post is an attempt to remedy that, at least in part.
One thing to bear in mind about the elemental grades in the Golden Dawn tradition is that they are intentionally designed to throw you off balance in very specific ways. Because there’s no such thing as a free lunch, the way these grades work is by giving you a themed set of challenges to overcome. In overcoming them, you bring those energies to greater perfection within yourself. In the Portal grade, these energies are re-integrated and balanced further. But in the meantime, it can be quite a ride. You’re more likely to see challenges to your material and home life in Zelator, for example. People in Theoricus can often become “air-headed”, becoming more forgetful and spacey than usual. Practicus turns on the “water works”, making one more emotionally sensitive. Philosophus may ignite both passions and anger alike. This is all a normal and expected part of the path.
The way this unbalancing takes place is different for each person. For me, apart from the themed challenges in each grade, I consistently found that whenever I had a good routine of daily practice going the initiation ceremony would knock me right back off that horse and completely disrupt my ability to be consistent in that work. I often had to pursue the inner alchemy of the grade and let that do its job before the consistency could return. Your mileage may vary, but be aware that ebbs and flows in the energy that you have available for the practical and meditative work are normal, and don’t give yourself too hard a time if your work suffers because you’re busy doing the Work of balancing out those grade energies.
I’ve also consistently seen that a given elemental grade will affect a person in proportion to the number of planets that individual possesses in their birth chart within signs that correspond to the same element. I’m a Capricorn, and have a three planet stellium in Virgo, so Zelator kicked my ass hard. Same with Zelator Adeptus Minor. By contrast, I only have one planet in an Air sign, and I “breezed through” Theoricus faster than any of the other grades. This is also something to be aware of as you go into the elemental grades, so you can be prepared for which ones are likely to be the most challenging for you.
When those challenges do arise, the best advice I can give is to roll with it, do what you can to recognize any out of the ordinary reactions you might have, and sit with them rather than letting them influence your behavior. Take the challenges as they come, do what you can to surmount them, and know that there’s no way out but through–but that you will get through it.
A phenomenon I’ve noticed in my own journey, and one which I’ve heard echoed by a number of other students, is that when you’re ready to progress to the next grade the themes of that grade will begin coming to the fore even before the initiation ceremony. This is usually a pretty good indication that the themes of your current grade are drawing to a close and that you’re ready to take the next step on the path.
Make no mistake, the Golden Dawn system isn’t an easy path to walk. But it’s a very rewarding one. If you have any questions or find yourself wondering what’s going on with your own experience of the grades, please feel free to reach out and contact me. I can be reached by email at firstname.lastname@example.org, but be forewarned that I’m terrible at responding to emails. The best way to find me is on Discord: my username is McCryptoFace#0519, and I hang out on the Hermetic House of Life and the Qabalah Self Initiation servers. Hope to see you there!
The Mystical Words—Khabs Am Pekht—are ancient Egyptian, and are the origin of the Greek “Konx Om Pax” which was uttered at the Eleusinian Mysteries. A literal translation would be “Light Rushing Out in One Ray” and they signify the same form of Light as that symbolized by the Staff of the Keryx.
Golden Dawn Neophyte Ceremony
For about as long as I’ve been studying and practicing within the Golden Dawn tradition, I’ve been curious about the words Khabs Am Pekht, Konx Om Pax, Light in Extension. These words are first encountered in the Neophyte Ceremony, and establish a mythic link connecting the strands of Ancient Egypt, the Eleusinian Mysteries, and the modern Golden Dawn system. When I first began delving into a study of these phrases back in the early 2000s, I found precious little material to draw from–though I was left with the impression that the connection between the Egyptian, Greek, and English phrases was more a mythic one than an historical one. I recently decided to revisit this study, and am happy to say that far more resources are now available to the online scholar in order to facilitate such an investigation.
In the Neophyte Ceremony, “Konx Om Pax” and “Khabs Am Pekht” are presented as sayings with identical meanings in Greek and Egyptian respectively, translating to something akin to “Light in Extension” in English. These terms originated in the Golden Dawn tradition with the Cipher Manuscripts (folios 4, 5, 7; “Pekht” also appears on folio 39).1 This series of phrases therefore predates Mathers and Westcott.
To those of us who follow the Golden Dawn tradition, myself most certainly included, these words are sacred. They establish a mythic link between the Greek, the Egyptian, and the Victorian eras embodied within the Golden Dawn itself. But we must be careful not to conflate our mythos with our logos; or more to the point, we should not cross the streams of our mythic and literal histories. To borrow the phrasing of my friend Chelydoreus, the saying Khabs Am Pekht, Konx Om Pax, Light in Extension involves “pseudo-mythical ideas and a new interpretation of historical data”, but is “meant as a mythic/spiritual connection to the ancient mysteries, not a historical continuation or…reconstructing or unearthing any historical facts”.2 We must therefore distinguish between the mythic, which is True in the spiritual and mystic sense; and the historical, which is true in the literal and mundane sense.
The reason I preface this treatment of the phrases in question with this distinction between mythic and historical truth is that, to be blunt, almost everything you think you know about the phrases is probably wrong. Konx Om Pax derives from a fundamental misreading of an historical source and a connection to the Eleusinian Mysteries that is conjured out of thin air. Khabs Am Pekht shows no evidence of existing as a phrase at all, apart from attempts to justify a connection from Konx Om Pax to the Egyptian in hindsight. We’ll begin by investigating the actual history of the Greek phrase, and then move on to a treatment of the even more troublesome Egyptian. Along the way we’ll take a look at what others have had to say about these phrases, and examine how close (or how far) these sources were to an accurate read on the subject.
Konx Om Pax
The earliest attestation for Konx Om Pax comes from the Greek grammarian Hesychius of Alexandria, who compiled his famous lexicon, “Alphabetical Collection of All Words”, circa the 5th or 6th century CE. A complete version of this lexicon was published in 1514 by Aldus Manutius, with another edition by Schmidt in the middle of the 19th century. This is what Hesychius has to say on the subject, in his own words:
Translated by Chelydoreus, the above reads loosely as follows: “Konx, similarly pax. Exclamation of completion. Also the sound of the judicial vote (lit. pebble), like that of the clepsydra (water clock). For the Attics ‘blops’.” Note that the Greek reads κόγξ ὁμοίως πάξ (konx homoios pax) and not konx ompax. Hesychius was not repeating a phrase here, but was instead saying that the word konx was similar in meaning to the Greek word pax.
Unfortunately, when Johannes Meursius wrote Eleusinia, sive, de Cereris Eleusinæsacro, ac festo in 1619, he made two critical errors. The first was misreading Hesychius’ entry as “Κόγξ, Ὃμπαξ” rather than “κόγξ ὁμοίως πάξ”, turning the two separate words into a single unified phrase. The second mistake was associating the words with the Eleusinian Mysteries. Meursius’ own synopsis for chapter XI of his work reads “Post initiationem acclamari solitum, Κόγξ, Ὃμπαξ“, and he further elaborates in the chapter itself: “Atque hunc in modum initiatis acclamatum mox; Κόγξ, Ὃμπαξ. Hesychius. Κόγξ, Ὃμπαξ. Ἐπιφώνημα τοῖς τετελεσμένοις. Eâque acclamatione quasi dimissi, discedebant; aliisque, itidem initiari cupientibus, locum dabant.”4 It is uncertain why Meursius references Hesychius in conjunction with the Eleusinian Mysteries, as this was not a connection drawn in the latter’s Lexicon. That said, given the nature of Meursius’ misreading, we should perhaps simply be thankful that we didn’t end up with the phrase “Konx Om Blops” instead.
To be clear, it is implausible that the phrase Konx Ompax was uttered during the Eleusinian Mysteries. Martiana, who runs the excellent SARTRIX blog, holds that “Greek pax is unrelated [to the Latin] and [is] more like ‘shush’, absolutely an undignified word unsuitable to mysteries. … [K]onx and pax are exclamations related to completion – not ‘of initiation’… Incidentally, albeit ‘konx‘ as such doesn’t turn up elsewhere, another lexicographer (pseudo-Photius) mentions ‘kyx‘ as the sound of the voting pebble in the entry on ‘blops‘. So there can really be no doubt at all that [the] emendation from “konx ompax” to “konx, likewise pax” is correct.”5 This further agrees with the information provided in Liddell-Scott’s Greek–English Lexicon for ὄμπαξ, which refers the reader to the entry on πάξ. The latter entry states that the word is an “exclam[ation] to end a discussion”, roughly translating to “enough!“, and notes that the entry in Hesychius is probably conjecture.6
Once Meursius seized upon Konx Ompax as a phrase uttered in connection with the Eleusinian Mysteries, the two became united in the cultural consciousness. In 1788 Jean-Jacques Barthélemy published Travels of Anacharsis the Younger in Greece, a fictional travelogue set in the 4th century BCE, in which he repeated Meursius’ connection between the Mysteries and this curious set of words. It appears to be Barthélemy who first proposed an Egyptian origin for the phrase: opining that the words are not Greek, he states, “I should be inclined to think [the words konx ompax] are Egyptian, because the Eleusinian Mysteries appear to me to have been brought from Egypt”.7 Barthélemy references Le Clerc, who “tells us that [the words] signified watch and abstain from evil” [emphasis in original], but with respect to an Egyptian origin he acknowledges the great difficulty of finding an etymological antecedent as it would be necessary “that we should be better acquainted with the ancient Egyptian language, of which we have only some small remains in the Coptic” in addition to the potential issues of pronunciation and orthography that result when words migrate from one language into another.8
After Barthélemy brought the phrase konx ompax into the popular mind of the late 18th century, it appears to have become something of a lexical Rorschach test for those who came after, onto which a number of meanings were imposed. Perhaps most notably, Immanuel Kant referenced the phrase by way of Barthélemy in his essay On Perpetual Peace; here he attempts to find a Tibetan origin for the phrase, concluding that “Konx Ompax probably should mean the holy (Konx), blessed (Om), and wise (Pax) Supreme Being permeating the entire world (the personification of nature), and it was used in the Greek mysteries probably to designate monotheism for the Epoptes [those with repeated experience of the mysteries], in contrast to the polytheism of the people.”9 Nor were Egypt and Tibet the only origins sought for this mysterious phrase. Nikos Sarantakos notes that the antiquarian G. Georgalas argues for a Greek origin of konx ompax, repeating however Meursius’ error when he stated, “At the Eleusinian Mysteries foreigners were driven out with the sacramental phrase ‘Konx Om Panx’ [sic]. The Maya said ‘Konex Omon Panex’. The Brahmins in the Indies said ‘Kanska Om Pakscha’. These words they tried unsuccessfully to interpret as Phoenician, Hebrew, Egyptian , Sanskrit.”10
Perhaps the most detailed study of Konx Ompax prior to this article is the entry by Arthur Edward Waite in his New Encyclopædia of Freemasonry. Waite similarly traces the origin of the phrase back to Hesychius by way of Meursius, and notes as well that the connection to the Eleusinian Mysteries is not attested by the former, observing that this problematic conclusion by Meursius “has no evidence to support it, on the part of any writer by whom it has been cited and explained”.11 He goes on to relate the opinions of Lobeck, who echoes Hesychius’ original intention of “κόγξ ὁμοίως πάξ” as equivalent to the Latin “konx similiter pax”, or put differently “whatever is understood by konx is comparable to whatever is signified by pax“.12 Lobeck also correctly notes that the word κόγξη signifies “a bivalve or shellfish of the oyster kind”, lending strength to Hesychius’ assertion that the word is onomatopoeic in nature. LSJ specifically refers to κόγξη as a mussel shell, and indeed all of the related words beginning with κόγξ are closely connected with this meaning. Lobeck proceeds to state quite incorrectly however that Liddell holds πάξ as being equivalent to the Latin pax, meaning “Peace, be still, etc., the equivalent precisely of our colloquial: ‘Shut up'”.13 In point of fact LSJ makes no such equation. Waite provides somewhat of an apologia for Lobeck’s take on the term, relying on the Latin meaning to salvage it as pertains to its applicability to the Eleusinian Mysteries; but as noted by Martiana above, while the word may indeed be translated as “shut up”, it does not have the more genteel meaning of the Latin homophone and would be considered an unsuitable colloquialism for use in this context. Waite continues on to provide several other explanations for the phrase Konx Ompax, including origins in the Phoenician, Sanskrit, and Maya languages; but he puts little credence in these explanations. Given Waite’s involvement in the Order of the Golden Dawn, it is especially noteworthy that he rejects the “alleged Egyptian derivation…Khobs am Pekht [sic]” as “a preposterous invention”. Waite concludes, perhaps uncharitably, that “the meaning of Konx Ompax can matter to no one, but least of all to the students of the Mysteries”.14
By the middle of the 19th century, it was a matter of common belief that the epoptae or initiates of the Eleusinian Mysteries were “dismissed with two barbarous words, κογξ ομπαξ, konx ompax, of which perhaps the hierophants themselves did not comprehend the import,” and that these words “had been introduced by the first Egyptian missionaries, and retained after their signification was lost”.15 In the post-Napoleonic period in Britain, after Champollion pioneered modern Egyptology and the Rosetta Stone facilitated the first translations of the Egyptian hieroglyphs (Athanasius Kircher’s earlier but unsuccessful attempt aside), new possibilities opened up for those interested in the Mysteries to explore what they viewed as the possible Egyptian antecedents for the phrase Konx Ompax. It is here that we turn our attention to the results of that exploration.
Khabs Am Pekht
It should perhaps be obvious by this point that the phrase Khabs Am Pekht is but one of many attempts at a back-formation of Konx Ompax into one among equally many languages speculated to be its historical predecessor. These attempts are often a stretch at best, and hopelessly corrupt at worst. We shall take a tour through these various attempts, highlight their relative merits and flaws, and examine how we may best make linguistic lemonade out of a particularly sour batch of lemons by rendering the most correct (or perhaps more accurately the least incorrect) versions of this phrase.
In contrast with the section on Konx Ompax, which investigates the history and cultural transmission of the phrase from its apparent inception, the investigation into Khabs Am Pekht must by nature begin with the recognition that the phrase is an artificially derived one, and seek to compare the various hypothesized sources and hieroglyphic renderings through a more linguistic lens. The measure of success here is not accuracy per se–as there is no “legitimate” or “accurate” Egyptian antecedent to be found. Most of the attention we will devote to Khabs Am Pekht consequently involves examining the various hieroglyphic forms presented in connection with the phrase and assessing their linguistic accuracy and implications of meaning, and an examination of potential sources from which the phrase may have been drawn contemporaneous with the production of the Golden Dawn Cipher Manuscripts.
When it comes to hieroglyphic interpretations of Khabs Am Pekht, few specifically Golden Dawn sources seem to exist. Cygnus, on the Servitor Ludi blog, presents the only version I was able to find which claims to be from “a scan of a hand-copied version from the 1890s” provided by “a private Golden Dawn Scholar”, thus:16
The first thing that stood out to me is that the Coptic is absolutely atrocious, which is unfortunately in keeping with much of what we know about the use of Coptic in the original Golden Dawn. Specifically, the Coptic letters read “chaubs am pathti“, which should be a clear indication that something is not quite right here. Surprisingly, the hieroglyphic characters make significantly more sense. The phonetic hieroglyphs largely line up with the sounds of the phrase, though it must be pointed out that the hieroglyph 𓇼 (Gardiner N14) is misplaced, and serves as a determinative sign rather than possessing phonetic value in many versions of khabs attested in Egyptian dictionaries.17 Because 𓇼 when used other than as a determinative possesses the value of dwꜣ, as written this would read ḫꜣdwꜣbs m pḫṭ, or khaduebs m-pekht. Similarly, the hieroglyph that is in the shape of a cross is not listed among the Gardiner hieroglyphs at all, and appears to have been invented out of whole cloth. By moving the 𓇼 to the end of khabs and eliminating the spurious hieroglyph, however, we wind up with a fairly reasonable spelling which is indeed attested in Budge.18
Turning to a different source, Perdurabo ST presents a hieroglyphic rendering not of Khabs Am Pekht but only of khabs; but this still gives us a hook for investigation:19
While the ḫꜣbꜣśtransliteration is decidedly spurious–the correct transliteration is in fact ḫꜣbs or khebs–this hieroglyphic rendering is otherwise entirely accurate, being attested in Budge with the meaning of “lamp, light”; and equated with the Coptic ϩⲃⲥ (Sahidic), ϩⲏⲃⲥ (Bohairic), ϩⲏⲃⲉⲥ (Fayyumic), and ϩⲏⲃⲥ (Akhmimic).20,21 This is also the single hieroglyphic rendering given by Wiktionary for Coptic ϩⲏⲃⲥ, which may help to explain the selection of this particular spelling by the author.22
The preceding examples highlight two important considerations, each of which we must treat somewhat separately. The first is linguistic in nature. There are many possible spellings of khabs in Egyptian hieroglyphs; and there are multiple Egyptian words corresponding to the transliteration khabs which carry related but distinct meanings, depending significantly on the determinative signs used at the end of the words’ construction. Thus also with pekht. So while it is an interesting exercise to render the word in hieroglyphs, and while we can (and shall) provide a more exhaustive display of the variety of ways in which the word can be spelled, the question of spelling glosses over the question of whether this is authentic Egyptian. And we already know that it is not. There is no attestation of any Egyptian text containing the phrase ḫꜣbs m-pḫt, no occurrence of it “in the wild” as it were. But as we have seen in our investigations into Konx Ompax, there are no genuine historical antecedents; and thus we already knew that the phrase Khabs Am Pekht was a pious invention–or perhaps a curious synchronicity. But while we can uncover poor spellings and provide correct ones, this much is trivial. The more interesting consideration in my opinion is the question of provenance.
Armed with far fewer resources than we have at our disposal today, the author of the Cipher Manuscript plumbed the newly available Egyptological resources looking for an antecedent to Konx Ompax in that language. Consequently, while we can ask whether the author did a good job of translating the English into Egyptian, this to me misses the point. But it is noteworthy that there were far fewer resources available during the period that the Cipher Manuscript was written; and this at least begs us to ask the question of whether we might be able to trace the Khabs Am Pekht verbiage to any specific source or sources of the time, or at least to formulate a hypothesis as to whence the author might have conjured the particular phrasing and meaning of Light in Extension.
If we accept R.A. Gilbert’s assertion that Kenneth Mackenzie was the author of the Cipher Manuscript, and that it entered Westcott’s hands in 1886 (the same year that Mackenzie died)23, we have an end date on the time window of Egyptological resources to which he would have had disposal. With respect to a beginning date, given that the “Golden Age of English Fringe Masonry” began “circa 1860”24, this seems like a reasonable place to fix the early date of our inquiry. The terminal date is of course more significant than the beginning date, as this is the parameter that allows us to exclude a vast swath of resources that arose after that time; and as Champollion had only deciphered the hieroglyphs in 1822 this still leaves us with a span of 64 years to consider. If we hypothesize that Mackenzie derived the phrase Khabs Am Pekht; that he did so during the height of English Fringe Masonry; that he was more likely to use recent sources and those of topical interest to Fringe Masonry; and that he was most inclined to draw from sources in English, French, and German (as these were the languages in which he was fluent)25, we have a fairly targeted 26-year span of time at which we are looking most closely. This seems like a viable set of possibilities to investigate.
Perdurabo ST states that “‘Pekht’ is not found as a transliteration of an ancient Egyptian word with the meaning of ‘extension’ or the like neither in old literature nor in modern translation”26, an assertion that seems a bit of a stretch to me unless one looks only for the specific word “extension” among the dictionary definitions, given that he presents a dictionary definition which includes the word “extend” almost immediately thereafter. Perdurabo ST does note, however, that pekht had “turned up in 1881 as an ancient Egyptian word in a work by…Gerald Massey” entitled A Book of the Beginnings.27 This source ticks all of the boxes when it comes to the aforementioned parameters of our investigation, and it seems an excellent place to begin. Massey does indeed list pekht among his definitions, with one of the meanings being “to stretch out”; he additionally lists pekh with a meaning of “to extend”.28 This seems promising, especially given the “extend” translation; but while pekht is attested in this source, the word khabs is obscure at best: it is listed as meaning “star” as a definition ancillary to Kheb, “Typhon”, which in turn is given as the Egyptian equivalent of Hebrew kokav (“star”, also used as the Hebrew name of the planet Mercury). One would thus not expect the author of the Cypher Manuscript to translate the same word as “light”. Perdurabo ST conjectures based on the discovery of an 1877 essay on a Persian dialect whose vocabulary lists “Pekht-am” as the past form of the verb meaning “to ripen” that Khabs Am Pekht was a construction using artistic license from both Egyptian and Persian, but this seems a stretch to me. Having plundered the available linguistic sources, he further asserts that pekht may be Massey’s own original construction, pointing out that his work appeared approximately seven years before the founding of the Order of the Golden Dawn. If we hypothesize a single source for the origin of the phrase, however, we must rule Massey out based on the preceding evidence (or lack thereof). Perdurabo ST examines several other sources which have various words with similar meanings such as peṭ, peḳ, and peḳa, but if Mackenzie had found his word in these sources then one would expect to find that word, and not pekht, in the phrase. We must therefore look to other sources.
We get somewhat closer to the mark by turning our attention to another text, Bunsen’s massive five-volume 1867 work Egypt’s Place in Universal History. Specifically, if we turn our attention to the Egyptian vocabulary in the final volume of that work, we can clearly see the word khabs defined as “lamp, light, star”; but in the opposite of the problem we encountered in Massey, here in Bunsen we find that the closest thing to the word pekht is the word peka, which is defined as “extend”.29 We may be closer, but we still miss the mark.
In truth, I have been able to find no single source prior to 1886 which offers up both definitions of khabs and pekht, much less one which gives definitions of both consistent with the English translation of Light in Extension. By the time of Budge’s famous Egyptian hieroglyphic dictionary both are clearly present and attested, but Budge did not publish this work until 1926. It is possible that Mackenzie drew from multiple sources in locating these terms, but this is a relatively unsatisfying conjecture. Perhaps future research into the dictionary resources available in the mid-19th century will yield more satisfactory results. For the time being, however, the original source of these terms remains veiled in obscurity.
Extending the Light
So what are we to make of all this mess? We’ve seen that the words Konx Om Pax have no connection to the Eleusinian Mysteries; that the phrase konx ompax itself is spurious, being a misunderstanding of the Greek of Hesychius; that it can bear nothing but a superficial similarity of sound to the phrase Khabs Am Pekht; and that while the phrase Khabs Am Pekht may or may not be a good translation of “Light in Extension” into Egyptian (spoiler alert: it is not), we know that it was indeed a translation of an English phrase into Egyptian rather than vice-versa. Well, this is where we must return to the distinction between mythic and literal history that I emphasized at the start of this essay. Viewed from the perspective of literal history, the entirety of the mythos surrounding the words Khabs Am Pekht, Konx Om Pax, Light in Extension is devoid of historical fact. But this history was never intended to be taken as factually true. Like much within the Golden Dawn tradition, it is intended as mythic history: it established and forged the magical connection between the Order of the Golden Dawn and the Mysteries it sought to draw from, embody, and carry forward into a new era.
If we can’t take the history as factually true, then, what can we do with it? We can treat it in the same way as all the other Mysteries within the Golden Dawn tradition: we meditate upon it, reflect upon it, seek the Hidden Wisdom contained within it. We treat it as a cypher of meaning–because this is precisely how it was constructed in the first place.
The distinction between mythic and literal history becomes problematic for us primarily when the curtain of the literal gets pulled back to reveal the cracks in the veneer. We must remember that in the Victorian era there was far less access to linguistic research and scholarship than there is today, especially in the area of Egyptian language and cultural history. Much of the mythic history of the Golden Dawn was made possible by the relative lack of scrutiny given to historical claims at the time, and the ability to read (or invent) fanciful origins into areas that were not well-understood. As the cultural forces of modernity have increasingly taken hold, it becomes more of a challenge for us to embrace our mythos while recognizing its appropriate place. We have an obligation to be true to ourselves while also not being unfaithful to our history–both mythic and literal. This can be quite a tightrope to walk at times. But by embracing the mythic, rather than devaluing it as secondary to the literal, we have the opportunity to become co-creators of that myth, or conduits of it if you prefer, extending the Light rather than lamenting its diminution.
One way we can do this is by patching up those cracks in the veneer, and updating our understandings of the mythic elements to conform more to what modern scholarship has to teach us. Because it is not a literal truth but a deeper and more subtle kind of meaning which undergirds our myths, we have some latitude to change the outward forms of those myths without doing violence to the underlying meanings behind those forms. Now, the phrase Khabs Am Pekht, Konx Om Pax, Light in Extension forms the core of that form, the unalterable presentation with which we must engage, come what may. What has been done with those terms, however, is another question entirely. We see attempts to find Egyptian hieroglyphs to represent the words Khabs Am Pekht, as well as at least one Coptic rendering–in addition to the Hebrew of Crowley’s Sepher Sephiroth, which we shall address momentarily. The creative part of this endeavor then becomes asking the question, how can we do these things in a way that does line up as best as possible with the modern scholarship to which we have access? We have seen attempts to engage with the meaning of the terms based on their definitions and the signs used in the various hieroglyphs. What can we learn from a studied examination of these meanings? My own attempts to answer these questions constitute the remainder of this essay.
The mystery of Konx Ompax since Meursius, and the mystery of Khabs Am Pekht in the latter day, is largely due to the ambiguity within the phrases. Konx Ompax is a phrase which contains a connection (however invented) to the Eleusinian Mysteries, which have themselves largely been lost to the sands of time, as well as an ambiguity in that the words translate to nothing especially meaningful in the Egyptian–and thus linguistic antecedents to this ostensibly magical phrase were sought in a variety of potential source languages. The phrase consequently outgrew itself and became a symbol of something more. On this front it seems to me that little more can be said, but the phrase Khabs Am Pekht is more ripe for the picking. The linguistic ambiguity created by rendering the phrase in English characters and with an English definition allows us to read into the sources, and to discover the serendipitous elements of meaning that may emerge from such an exercise.
Aleister Crowley attempted one such reading in Sepher Sephiroth, when he represented Khabs Am Pekht in Hebrew with the translation אור בפאהה, possessing a value of 300.30 Here Crowley translates “Light” into the Hebrew אור (aur), substitutes the Hebrew preposition ב (“in”) for the Egyptian preposition m with the same meaning, and transliterates pekht into Hebrew as פאהה rather than seeking a translation for extension. The problem with this rendering of course, for anyone possessing even a smattering of Hebrew, is that the letter ה is flatly unable to take either the sounds kh or t. While a superficial similarity of sound and spelling may be sufficient for a case of ostensible linguistic evolution, as in Khabs Am Pekht to Konx Om Pax, it does not suffice in this case–and the attempt to render pekht into Hebrew with characters that are fundamentally unable to replicate the phonology of the original makes it transparent that Crowley derived this spelling without genuine fidelity to the Hebrew language but as an attempt to fit the rendering to the gematric value of 300 instead.
So how should we render Khabs Am Pekht into Hebrew, if we should be inclined to do so? The easiest option is simply to finish the job of translation rather than leaving it half done. While translation is an art and there are frequently multiple words that a translator can select as candidates to translate the same meaning (such as “extension”), one possible rendering would be אוֹר הַרחָבָה, aur be-harchavah. This would give us a gematric value of 629, a value shared according to Crowley with the phrase “the great trumpet”31 (שופר גדול). Another approach, though to my mind a less satisfactory one, would be to follow in Crowley’s footsteps and transliterate pekht with a ח/כ to represent the kh and a ט/ת to represent the t. This leads us to spellings of פאכת (which I personally prefer), פאחת ,פאכט, or פאחט for pekht, leading to gematric values for the phrase Khabs Am Pekht in Hebrew of 710, 319, 698, and 307 respectively.
While the use of the Coptic in the Golden Dawn is both hindered by its founders’ poor understanding of the language and somewhat obviated by the Egyptological research and the increased resources available for Middle Egyptian language, it is also possible to translate Khabs Am Pekht into Coptic based on the information we have already uncovered thus far. As mentioned previously, khabs entered Coptic as ϩⲃⲥ, ϩⲏⲃⲥ, and ϩⲏⲃⲉⲥ depending on dialect. The word pekht entered Coptic as ⲡⲟⲣⲥ, a “thing stretched”;32 though Budge provides the Coptic as ⲡⲱϩⲧ instead which is closer to the Egyptian pronunciation.33 The addition of the preposition ⲙ/ϩⲙ (“in”) to this word gives Khabs Am Pekht as ϩⲏⲃⲥ ⲙⲡⲟⲣⲥ (/ħe:βs m pors/, or “ḥēbs m-pors”). As my own skills with Coptic are far from proficient, however, be advised that this translation is highly fallible. That said, it passes muster at first glance and should serve well enough for our purposes. At any rate, it is certainly a better attempt than “chaubs am pathti“.
While there were three separate dialectical forms of Khabs by the time the word entered the Coptic language, there were even more ways to spell the word in the Egyptian language. Because hieroglyphs are formed from a combination of phonetic glyphs and a determinative glyph, the difference in the determinative glyph is especially salient when examining the subtle differences in meaning shone forth by multiple hieroglyphic spellings. The component hieroglyphs that are used phonetically are also magically significant, but the determinative sign–the last sign (or occasionally multiple signs) in the word–carries the most semantic “weight” as it provides context for the phonetic value.
In the case of khabs, the determinative for the singular form is always 𓇼 (Gardiner N14), but we can instead look at the meanings and associations of the component phonetic hieroglyphs, in the same way that such a breakdown is occasionally done for words and names in Hebrew. As an example, let us consider the first spelling in the list above, 𓆼𓅡𓋴
𓆼 (Gardiner M12) depicts a lotus plant, has the phonetic value /ḫꜣ/ which itself refers to part of a lotus, and has the meaning “bow, bend, do homage”. It also refers to the number 1,000 in Egyptian mathematics.36 This allows us to associate the sign with Hebrew gematric values, and Sepher Sephiroth gives the entry תשרק for the number 1,000–a word which refers to an acrostic-based “Qabalistic method of exegesis”.37
𓅡 (Gardiner G29) on its own possesses the sound /bꜣ/ and represents a saddle-billed stork. Agrippa lists the stork as among the animals under the power of Jupiter.
𓋴 (Gardiner S29) has the sound /s/ and is meant to resemble a folded cloth.
By looking at the component “letters” of a word in this manner, a variety of additional meanings implicit within the written representation of the word can be unlocked.
We can see from the phonetic values of the above hieroglyphs that the modern Egyptological spelling of khabs is ḫꜣbꜣs, pronounced khebes. Apart from 𓇼 which serves as the determinative for all other singular forms of the word, the remaining hieroglyphs in the dictionary entry for khabs are as follows.
𓄿 (Gardiner G1) is the Egyptian aleph or /ꜣ/, and depicts a vulture. The vulture corresponds to Mars and is sacred to the goddess Hathor.
𓃀 (Gardiner D58) has the sound /b/ and depicts a foot. As a word it is also /bw/, meaning “place”.
𓅱 (Gardiner G43) has the sound /w/ and depicts a quail chick. It is also used for the plural at word endings. Agrippa calls the quail Saturnine, and states that it is an enemy of the Moon and Sun.
I am uncertain about the remaining two characters. I was not able to find the former (the one that looks somewhat like a J) in Gardiner’s sign list. I believe the latter may be 𓊃 (Gardiner O34) which has the sound /s/ and depicts a door bolt.
The word pekht in Egyptian is more interesting, as there are multiple determinatives which contextualize the phonetic value of the word, and which therefore possess greater magical significance than the phonetic value alone. The first entry does not possess a determinative, but those from the remaining entries are as follows.
𓂡 (Gardiner D40) depicts a forearm with a stick; more precisely, this stick appears to be the heka or crook. As a word on its own it can mean “strongly”, “to strike”, or “to examine”.
𓂻 (Gardiner D54) depicts walking legs. As a word on its own it can mean “approach”, “enterprise”, “do not move”, “stop”, or “thigh”.
𓀒 (Gardiner A15) depicts a man falling. As a word on its own it can mean “trap”.
𓏴 (Gardiner Z9) on its own represents multiple sounds, notably including /ḫbs/. It depicts crossed diagonal sticks. On its own it can mean “destroy”, “break”, “divide”, “over load”, “cross”, and “meet”.
The phonetic hieroglyphs used in pekht above are:
𓊪 (Gardiner Q3) has the sound /p/ and depicts a stool.
𓐍 (Gardiner Aa1) has the sound /ḫ/ and represents a placenta or sieve.
𓏏 (Gardiner X1) has the sound /t/ and represents a loaf of bread.
For a further example of the type of Qabalistic analysis that involves separating a word into the meanings of its component letters, see Israel Regardie’s A Garden of Pomegranates, 1999 edition, page 112.
When I set out to research this topic I did not intend to effectively demolish the mythic history of the phrase Khabs Am Pekht, Konx Om Pax, Light in Extension. It seems that I have nonetheless done so, and we must keep in mind the difference between literal and mythic history and to appreciate the latter in order to keep from being disillusioned by such a discovery. Despite the fictional history of the phrase, however, I still hold these words sacred, and say them every day in my own practice. They have not lost their meaning for me as I began to uncover their literal history. Instead, I have found the inspiration to look more deeply into the intent behind their use and look at this phrase with the same kind of reverence I imagine its creator must have felt: as a connective thread of meaning weaving the old and the new Mysteries magically together, and as a Mystery itself to be meditated upon and unfolded.
Küntz, D., 1996. The complete Golden Dawn cipher manuscript. Edmonds, WA: Holmes Pub. Group, pp. 46, 48, 52, 126.
The Golden Dawn system is a fabulously complex interweaving of magical symbolism. The major themes of each initiation ceremony change, but certain aspects remain consistent throughout. One such aspect is the positioning of the Cross and Triangle upon the Altar. Present within each ceremony from Neophyte through Philosophus, the positioning of the Cross and the Triangle relative to each other changes with each grade, and these positions each have different significance. My intent with this post is to walk you through the various positions of the Cross and Triangle in each grade, and to unpack their meaning and symbolism.
The initiate first encounters the Cross and Triangle in the Neophyte Ceremony. It is this symbol upon which the blindfolded candidate swears their oath, and which they see for the first time at the raising of the blindfold or hoodwink. The new initiate is told that the “White Triangle [is] in the image of that Immortal Light, that Triune Light, which moved in Darkness and formed the world of Darkness and out of Darkness”; and that “the Red Cross above the White Triangle, is an image of Him Who was unfolded in the Light”1.
Pat Zalewski elaborates somewhat further, stating that “the Red Cross of Tiphareth (to which the grade of 5°=6° is referred) is placed above the White Triangle, not as dominating it, but as bringing it down and manifesting it unto the Outer Order. It is as though the Crucified One, having raised the symbol of self-sacrifice, had thus touched and brought into action in matter the Divine Triad of Light.”2
One seldom-noted fact concerning the Cross and Triangle arrangement in Neophyte, which represents the entirety of the Outer Order–the “Golden Dawn” proper–is that it is identical with one of the alchemical symbols for Phosphorus. Meaning “light-bearer” (from φῶς light + φόρος bearer), and having the same appellation as the planet Venus as the morning star, the significance should be obvious. As the Neophyte Ceremony represents in microcosm the entirety of the Work of the Outer Order, so too is the symbol of Phosphorus emblematic of the Golden Dawn in the same way that Venus heralds the morning light; it is also symbolic of the Promethean ignition of the Light in the initiate. For the same reason, the Vault of the Adepti is entered through the wall of Venus, “that sole planet unto whose symbol all the Sephiroth are conformed”.3
In the Zelator Ceremony, the Cross is placed within the upright Triangle. As an evolution or unfolding of the meaning first established in Neophyte, this arrangement represents Spirit as made manifest in Matter. The Zelator grade is the first Elemental grade, and the first one in which the initiate steps onto the Tree of Life, into the Sephirah of Malkuth, the material world. The Cross and Triangle in this position reflects the maxim that “Kether is in Malkuth and Malkuth is in Kether”4.
The words of the Hiereus in the Zelator Ceremony are as follows: “In this Grade, the red Cross is placed within the White Triangle upon the Altar, and it is thus the symbol of the Banner of the West. The Triangle refers to the Three Paths [i.e. Qoph, Shin, and Tav] and the Cross to the Hidden Knowledge. The Cross and the Triangle together represent Life and Light.”5
Appropriate to the first of the Elemental grades, the three vertices of the Triangle in this arrangement correspond to the three Qabalistic elements of Air, Fire, and Water.
In the Theoricus Ceremony the Hiereus states, “The cross within the triangle, apex downwards placed upon the Altar at the base of the Tree of Life, refers to the Four Rivers of Paradise, while the angles of the Triangle refer to the Three Sephiroth NETZACH, HOD and YESOD.”6
Here the downwards triangle has its lower vertex in Yesod, assigned to the Theoricus grade; and its upper vertices point to the two subsequent grades, as well as to the elements of Fire and Water, of which Air is the son. As stated in the Fourth Knowledge Lecture, “Thus the Rivers form a Cross and on it the GREAT ADAM, the SON who is to rule the Nations, was extended from TIPHARETH”.7 Bearing the Four Rivers of Paradise, the Triangle is the downwards reflection of the Supernal Eden into the Astral realm.
The placement of the cross above the downward-pointing triangle in the Practicus ceremony is explained as “the power of the Spirit of Life rising above the Triangle of the Waters, and reflecting the Triune therein.”8 Here the symbolism of the Cross retains its significance as the Spirit of Life as encountered in the Neophyte and Zelator Ceremonies (and implicit, I would argue, within the meaning of the Cross within Theoricus as well).
Zalewski elaborates further: “The Cross above the inverted triangle is very important to the Water Grade of Hod. In reflection, the Tarot Key of the Hanged Man justifies this. The Cross, in effect, is I.A.O. or the Divine White Brilliance that is to descend into the inverted triangle–Osiris. It is the Light of Redemption, Osiris Risen through trial and suffering. In many respects it is identical to Adam and Eve expelled from the Garden of Eden; they must redeem themselves before they can return. The Cross must descend to give the triangle enlightenment.”9
In the Philosophus Ceremony, “the Triangle surmounting the Cross upon the Altar represents the Fire of the Spirit surmounting the Cross of Life and of the Waters of Edom.”10 Upon entry into the Temple of Netzach, the officers are arranged in the same pattern as the Cross and Triangle on the altar, namely that of the glyph of Sulphur. In alchemy, Sulphur is associated with the active male principle and with Fire, as Mercury—encountered in Practicus—is associated with the passive female principle and with Water. This completes the philosophic triad, the Salt of the corporeal world of matter having been introduced in Malkuth (and being physically present on the Altar in the Theoricus Ceremony).
In the Fourth Knowledge Lecture we are further told, “The Alchemical symbol of Sulphur on the Tree of Life…does not touch the 4 lower Sephiroth. The Cross terminates in Tiphereth, whereby as it were the Supernal Triangle is to be grasped, and Tiphareth is the purified Man.”11
Of the diagram of Sulphur on the Tree of Life, Zalewski says:
This diagram represents the trials and tribulations of the Candidate who has been purified and enriched through suffering by the Holy Fire. Its essence can only be reached through the process of separation from the grosser lower forms, shown by the lower Sephiroth. Its symbolic symbolism shows that through the Sephiroth of the Tree of Life one can ascend, be purified, and reborn through the Tiphareth center of death and rebirth. In many respects, this is a hint of things to come for the renewal of the spirit. The lower Sephiroth form the incorporeal cross (imperfect man) of Sulphur, Sal Salfuris (Salt of the Soul) below the actual start of the material cross (perfected man). The incorporeal cross is analogous to man, the areas that have to be purified first. … In Netzach, we see Sulphur in its own fiery nature, its basic raw state. The Sephiroth of Tiphareth, at the very base of the cross, is in its perfected state of readiness. The cross of Sulphur is also analogous to the red cross of suffering in the 5°=6° ritual, for before the lower Sephiroth can be purged of their impurities, the gap must be bridged to its Higher Form as the candidate does in the 5°=6° Oath.”12
Pat Zalewski, Golden Dawn Rituals and Commentaries, pp. 321-322
In the symbolism of the Golden Dawn, the “Cross of Life” corresponds to Tiphereth, whereas the Triangle changes reference points depending on the grade to which the arrangement is attributed.
We learn in the Philosophus knowledge lecture that the symbol of alchemical Sulphur that is displayed in the altar arrangement of that grade maps onto the six upper Sephiroth on the diagram of the Tree. We are further told in the Theoricus ceremony that the triangle on the altar refers to the three Sephiroth of Netzach, Hod, and Yesod. Using this information as a starting point, we can begin to decipher how the remaining cross and triangle arrangements also fit into this scheme.
Just as the Microprosopus is the reflection of the Supernal Macroprosopus across the waters of the Abyss, embracing the six Sephiroth from Chesed to Yesod in the figure of Zauir Anpin, so too is the Cross and Triangle arrangement of the Practicus grade on the Tree of Life the mirror image of the Sulphur glyph of Philosophus, laid out upon these same six Sephiroth. Thus the triangle in this grade is encompassed within Malkuth itself, touching the three Paths but not traversing them.
A more subtle meaning of the Cross and Triangle arrangements rests with the alchemical symbolism of the Elemental grades. The meanings of both symbols as explained within the ceremonies differ from grade to grade, to the point that the Cross in the Practicus ritual and the Triangle in the Philosophus ritual effectively share the same meaning at different times. Nonetheless, I believe that the two symbols share a common meaning in a more overarching capacity within the Outer Order. The Triangle generally symbolizes the person of the initiate. This should not be considered synonymous with the body, nor necessarily with the Ruach or the Nephesh in and of themselves. Rather, it would perhaps be most accurate to frame it in the language of the Neoplatonic understanding of the double nature of man. The Triangle represents the Neoplatonic “lower self”: the part of each person that busies itself with the mundane task of living one’s everyday life. The Cross is the higher self, which we may regard in Hermetic or Qabalistic terms as the Neshamah. The Neoplatonists (at least as represented by Porphyry and Plotinus) believed that while the higher self is certainly superior to the lower self and represents the proper aim of our existence, the goal was not to suppress the lower self or replace it with the higher self. Instead, the goal was integration between the two: to live a life of engagement with noesis, understood as contemplation or meditation, while still going about the business of daily life under the direction of the lower self.
With this in mind, the progression of the Cross and Triangle motif makes a great deal of sense in light of the alchemical operations involved in the Outer Order grades. When the initiate first enters the Order, he is in a state of darkness, ignorance, and mortality. As represented by the cord and hoodwink in the Neophyte Ceremony, the soul is bound by the lower self. The Zelator grade commences the Great Work with calcination, as represented by the upright triangle of Fire. We proceed to dissolution in Theoricus, in which the Triangle is now that of Water. Following the dissolution operation we enter the separation stage, and the Cross is therefore freed from the triangle in order to stand outside it. We proceed back through the Triangle of Water in the corresponding elemental grade of Practicus, to the Triangle of Fire in Philosophus—where the arrangement also symbolizes the alchemical principle of Sulphur, as explained in the ceremony. In the operation of conjunction in Tiphareth that takes place in the Adeptus Minor grade (and to which the initiate is partially introduced in Portal), the Cross of the higher self will once again be united to the Triangle of the lower self, but this time in an integrative capacity. The Adept will begin to grasp at the peaceful coexistence of the lower self under the presidency of the higher self.
Regardie, I. (1989) The Golden Dawn: An account of the teachings, rites and ceremonies of the order of the Golden Dawn. 6th ed. St. Paul, MN: Llewellyn Publications, p. 128.
Zalewski, P. (2011) Golden Dawn Rituals and Commentaries. [United States]: Rosicrucian Order of the Golden Dawn, p. 74.
Farrell, N. (2015) The Magic Machine: The Golden Dawn vault in colour. Rome: Magical Order of the Aurora Aurea, p. 18.
I have added a page to this blog with the text of Coffin Spell 261, “To Become Heka”, which features centrally in my own Invocation of Heka. Both the original Egyptian text and English translation are provided, along with audio of the same. May it be a worthwhile resource for students.