The Religion of Christ vs The Religion of Power
- Michelle Hayman
- 46 minutes ago
- 31 min read
The Renaissance is often celebrated as a rebirth of learning, a turning point where Europe emerged from darkness into light. Yet beneath this narrative lies a more complex and far less examined reality. At the very moment when classical texts were being recovered and translated, certain writings; long believed to contain ancient and sacred wisdom—were elevated with unusual urgency and authority, not only by powerful patrons but within the intellectual life of the Church itself. These texts, associated with the figure of Hermes Trismegistus, were not treated merely as philosophy, but as a form of divine knowledge capable of revealing hidden truths about the cosmos and humanity’s place within it. This convergence of wealth, scholarship, and religious influence raises a serious question: were these ideas truly a recovery of lost wisdom, or the reintroduction of something Scripture had already warned against?
The system known as theurgy in the Renaissance cannot be understood apart from the broader revival of Hermeticism, a movement that profoundly shaped figures such as Giordano Bruno. What initially appeared to be philosophical or scientific inquiry, such as Bruno’s engagement with Copernican theory, was in fact bound up with something deeper: a magico-religious worldview rooted in what was believed to be ancient wisdom. Scholars gradually came to recognise that Bruno’s thought, particularly his use of memory systems and symbolic imagery, was not merely intellectual but formed part of a wider Hermetic philosophy in which magic and religion were inseparable.
This Hermetic tradition had been transmitted through the translation and study of texts attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, which Renaissance thinkers believed contained primordial revelation. Through the work of figures like Marsilio Ficino and Pico della Mirandola, these ideas were integrated into Christian intellectual life, combining elements of philosophy, Cabala, and mystical practice. Within this framework, theurgy emerged as a practical application of Hermetic thought, a means of transforming the human mind and soul through symbolic, imaginative, and ritual techniques designed to access higher spiritual realities.
In Bruno, these strands converge: Hermeticism, mnemonic systems, and earlier combinatory traditions such as those of Ramon Lull are fused into a unified approach that treats memory, imagination, and symbolic structures as instruments of spiritual power. Theurgy, in this sense, is not merely theoretical but operational, it seeks to effect real change in the practitioner by aligning the mind with what are believed to be cosmic or divine forces. This places it within a long historical development, stretching from late antiquity through the Middle Ages into the Renaissance, where it functioned as both a philosophy and a method for engaging with the unseen world.
The writings that inspired the Renaissance magus were believed to be of extreme antiquity—older than Moses and the prophets, and the supposed source from which even the Greek philosophers had drawn their wisdom. Yet this claim was entirely false. These texts were not ancient at all, but were written between the second and third centuries after Christ, long after both Moses and the foundations of biblical revelation. Rather than recovering primordial truth, the Renaissance was returning to the religious world of late paganism, a period shaped by a mixture of Greek philosophy, oriental influences, and magical practice, often associated with Gnostic thought.
The figure of Hermes Trismegistus itself was a constructed identity, combining the Egyptian god Thoth with the Greek Hermes. Under this name, a body of literature developed dealing with astrology, occult sciences, and the use of natural substances and symbolic correspondences to perform magic, including the making of talismans to draw down the powers of the stars. Alongside these practical texts, there emerged a philosophical literature, particularly the Asclepius and the Corpus Hermeticum, which were later treated as sacred wisdom.
Despite their Egyptian appearance, these works were not written by ancient priests, but by unknown authors, likely Greek, who combined elements of Platonism and Stoicism with other influences. Some describe rituals in which spiritual powers are drawn into statues, while others present accounts of creation, the ascent of the soul through the planetary spheres, and a form of regeneration in which the soul is filled with divine power.
These texts arose in a time when classical philosophy had reached a dead end and many turned instead to mystical and magical systems for answers. What was later received as ancient revelation was, in reality, a much later synthesis of philosophy, religion, and magic—given false authority through the illusion of antiquity, and wrongly set above the far earlier testimony of Scripture.
If these writings are not ancient revelation, but a later mixture of philosophy, mysticism, and magical practice, then they must be judged not by their claims, but by their nature. Scripture does not leave such systems undefined. It warns that in later times some would depart from the faith, “giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils” (1 Timothy 4:1). The features of the Hermetic system, its pursuit of hidden knowledge, its use of spiritual intermediaries, its attempts to ascend to the divine and draw down unseen powers, align not with the pattern of biblical revelation, but with the very practices God consistently forbids. What is presented as illumination is, in reality, a different source of inspiration; not the Spirit of God, but influences that operate outside His revealed word. The issue, therefore, is not merely historical error, but spiritual discernment. For when a system claims access to divine truth while bypassing the authority of Scripture, it does not elevate man toward God, it exposes him to deception under the appearance of light.
Why should this concern those who profess Christ? Because this was no external threat—it was cultivated within Christendom itself, advanced by figures such as Cosimo de’ Medici, translated by a priest in his circle, and given influence under the very name of Christian learning; and from this same Medici family would later arise two popes, Pope Leo X and Pope Clement VII, demonstrating how closely these currents were tied to the highest levels of the Church itself.
Before entering the Renaissance world, the foundation must be Scripture. The King James Bible speaks plainly on this matter. “There shall not be found among you… a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer” (Deuteronomy 18:10–11). “For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft” (1 Samuel 15:23). “Neither repented they of their murders, nor of their sorceries” (Revelation 9:21). And again, “For thy merchants were the great men of the earth; for by thy sorceries were all nations deceived” (Revelation 18:23). The term translated as “sorceries” does not merely refer to the use of substances, but encompasses the manipulation of spiritual forces through rituals, enchantments, and contact with unseen powers. In this sense, what Scripture condemns is not vague superstition, but an active engagement with the spiritual realm outside of God’s authority, and this is precisely what theurgy seeks to do.
“Also of your own selves shall men arise, speaking perverse things, to draw away disciples after them” (Acts 20:30).
The Renaissance magus did not understand himself as a practitioner of evil, but as a restorer of lost wisdom. He believed he was recovering an ancient, sacred knowledge, older than Moses, older than Plato, through which man could understand and even participate in the structure of the cosmos. Yet the historical reality, as shown in the Hermetic texts themselves, exposes something very different. These writings were not ancient at all, but products of the second and third centuries after Christ, arising within a world that had grown weary of philosophy and turned instead toward mystical, magical, and intuitive systems of knowledge . What the Renaissance embraced as primordial revelation was in fact a later synthesis of pagan religion, Greek philosophy, and occult practice.
Within this system, theurgy emerges as the practical expression of that worldview. It is not merely contemplation, but operation. The Hermetic writings describe a universe filled with spiritual forces, structured through celestial spheres, and accessible through the human mind, which is understood as a reflection of the divine intellect. Knowledge, in this context, is not intellectual assent but transformative power. Through disciplined imagination, symbolic structures, and ritual alignment with cosmic principles, the practitioner seeks to ascend beyond the material world and to participate in divine activity itself. This is why these texts describe processes of regeneration in which the soul casts off its earthly limitations and becomes filled with divine powers, rising through the planetary spheres toward union with the divine .
Do not confuse these so-called “divine powers” with the Holy Spirit.
But this ascent is not the only movement. The same system teaches that just as the soul may rise, so too can powers be drawn down. The Hermetic Asclepius gives a striking account of Egyptian religious practice, in which priests used ritual knowledge to “draw down the powers of the cosmos into the statues of their gods,” effectively animating them . This is not metaphorical language, but a description of deliberate technique: the crafting of physical forms designed to receive, contain, and manifest spiritual forces. The statue is no longer merely symbolic; it becomes a vessel.
This practice rests on a wider framework of correspondences. The world is treated as a network in which stars, planets, plants, stones, images, and words are linked through hidden sympathies. By understanding and manipulating these relationships, the magus constructs talismans, images, and symbolic systems capable of attracting and directing specific influences. Thus the Hermetic literature includes not only philosophical discourse but also practical instruction—methods of astral magic, the use of natural substances believed to possess hidden virtues, and the construction of objects intended to channel power.
Later developments in the Renaissance intensify this approach. Figures such as Ficino and Bruno extend these principles into the deliberate use of images, memory systems, and symbolic arrangements designed to “draw down favourable influences” and shape both the inner faculties of the mind and the external world . The imagination itself becomes an instrument of operation, a point of contact through which these forces are received and ordered. Whether through statues, talismans, or internalized images impressed upon memory, the aim remains the same: to establish a controlled meeting point between the visible and invisible realms.
At its core, then, theurgy rests on several fundamental assumptions: that the cosmos is alive and filled with spiritual intelligences; that man, through knowledge, can access and direct these forces; and that material objects, and even the human mind, can serve as vessels for spiritual presence. This results in a system that is not only philosophical but functional, combining cosmology, ritual practice, and spiritual ambition into a unified method of engaging with the unseen world. It is, in essence, the intentional preparation of forms—external and internal, into which spiritual power may be drawn and through which it may operate.
When placed alongside Scripture, the parallels are not incidental but exact. The idea that spiritual powers can inhabit images corresponds directly to the biblical condemnation of idols, which are not merely empty forms but are associated with real spiritual entities. “The things which the Gentiles sacrifice, they sacrifice to devils, and not to God” (1 Corinthians 10:20). The animation of statues reflects the warning against idols that “have mouths, but they speak not… they that make them are like unto them” (Psalm 115:4–8). The construction of objects to channel unseen forces aligns with the prohibition against enchantments and dealings with familiar spirits. The claim that man may ascend and participate in divine power echoes the original deception, “ye shall be as gods” (Genesis 3:5). Even the outward manifestations, control of forces, signs, and wonders—find their counterpart in the warning that false power may appear through “all power and signs and lying wonders” (2 Thessalonians 2:9).
What presents itself, therefore, as a philosophy of divine union is, in practice, a system of mediation between man and spiritual forces outside the authority of God. It is structured, intentional, and operational. Theurgy is not simply the search for truth, it is the attempt to access, direct, and embody unseen powers, to house them within created forms, and to exercise influence through them. And it is precisely this union of image, ritual, and spirit that Scripture consistently identifies, not as wisdom, but as sorcery.
If this is what Scripture condemns, ritual attempts to draw spiritual power into material forms—then the claim that Christ can be called down into a wafer must be examined in the same light. For God has already forbidden all such practices: “There shall not be found among you… a consulter with familiar spirits” (Deuteronomy 18:10–11). The principle is clear—man is not given authority to summon, invoke, or compel the presence of the divine through ritual means. Yet the doctrine in question asserts precisely this: that through prescribed words and actions, a priest can cause Christ to become present within a material object. This raises a fundamental contradiction. Christ, having risen from the dead, is not subject to manipulation, nor confined to earthly elements. Scripture declares that He has entered “into heaven itself, now to appear in the presence of God for us” (Hebrews 9:24), and that He is seated “on the right hand of the Majesty on high” (Hebrews 1:3). His priesthood is finished, His sacrifice completed “once for all” (Hebrews 10:10), and His presence is not mediated through objects, but through the Spirit.
To suggest, then, that He would respond to a human ritual—particularly one that mirrors the very structure of practices God has forbidden—and become contained within a created substance is not only theologically inconsistent, but reverses the order of authority. It places man in the position of calling down the divine, rather than submitting to the God who reveals Himself according to His own will. Theurgy seeks to draw spiritual power into material forms; the Gospel declares that God has already acted, once and fully, in Christ. These two systems are not compatible. For if Christ is sovereign, glorified, and seated in the heavenly sanctuary, He is not summoned. And if He is summoned, then what answers is not the Christ of Scripture, but something else.
This helps explain the persistence of image and statue veneration: once it is assumed that the divine can be brought into material forms, those forms cease to be mere reminders and become objects of reverence. Yet these are not the Holy Spirit, nor benevolent angels. For why would faithful servants of God act in direct contradiction to a command He has already forbidden?
The Hermetic worldview does not stop at internal transformation or symbolic spirituality; it extends to the manipulation of the visible world through invisible forces. As the texts and their Renaissance interpreters make clear, the cosmos was understood as a living, interconnected system governed by celestial intelligences. The stars and planets were not inert bodies, but channels of power, distributing influences that could be accessed, aligned with, and directed. Through knowledge of these correspondences, between planets, elements, images, and materials, the magus (I prefer witch) sought to place himself in harmony with these forces and thereby gain the ability to operate through them.
This is why the Hermetic literature is filled with astral magic: the construction of talismans, the timing of actions according to planetary movements, and the use of ritual and imagery to attract specific celestial influences. These were not passive beliefs, but deliberate techniques. As described in the tradition preserved in the Corpus Hermeticum and expanded in the Renaissance, the practitioner does not merely observe the cosmos, he engages it. By aligning himself with its structure, he seeks to participate in its operations, effectively mediating between the spiritual and natural worlds .
In this system, visible effects are the intended result. The manipulation of unseen forces is expected to produce manifestations in the material realm, whether in the form of influence over events, changes in the natural order, or demonstrations of power that appear extraordinary to observers. The Renaissance magus, drawing on these Hermetic principles, believed that through proper knowledge and practice he could channel celestial forces into tangible outcomes, using spiritual intermediaries to act upon the physical world.
When this is set alongside Scripture, the parallel is exact and sobering. Revelation describes a power that “doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men” (Revelation 13:13). This is not presented as illusion, but as a real manifestation, yet one that serves deception. The point is not merely the wonder itself, but its source and purpose. It is power exercised through means that bypass God, producing visible signs in order to mislead.
This is precisely the pattern found within the Hermetic system. The claim to access celestial forces, the use of spiritual intermediaries, and the expectation of visible manifestations all align with what Scripture identifies as deceptive power. It is not simply philosophy, but a framework for producing signs, signs that appear to confirm authority, yet originate outside the truth. As Scripture warns elsewhere, such power may come “with all power and signs and lying wonders” (2 Thessalonians 2:9), reinforcing the same principle: that not all supernatural manifestation is of God.
Could it be that apparitions presenting themselves as Mary lead people to build shrines that draw devotion toward deceptive spirits? For why would Mary desire what belongs to Christ, when the commandment says, “thou shalt not covet”—that is, not to take, desire, or claim what is not rightfully yours, including the worship due to God alone?
Theurgy, therefore, does not merely aim at private enlightenment; it seeks demonstrable effect. It is a system in which unseen forces are invoked, directed, and made visible. And in this light, the description in Revelation is not abstract, but directly relevant. The bringing down of fire from heaven stands as the ultimate expression of this principle, the visible display of power mediated through spiritual means. What the magus claims as mastery of cosmic forces, Scripture reveals as the mechanism of deception.
The revival of Hermetic philosophy in the Renaissance was not an accidental rediscovery of forgotten texts, nor a purely intellectual development. It was enabled, directed, and financed through one of the most powerful families in Europe: Cosimo de’ Medici. To understand the significance of this, one must understand who Cosimo was. He was not simply a patron of the arts, but the head of the Medici banking empire, whose financial network extended across Europe, including direct dealings with the papacy. The Medici bank handled vast flows of money, state funds, ecclesiastical revenues, and papal finances, placing the family in a position of immense influence over both political and religious institutions.
It is within this context that the arrival of the Hermetic manuscripts must be understood.
Around 1460, Cosimo dispatched agents to search for ancient texts, part of a broader effort to recover what was believed to be primordial wisdom. When the Corpus Hermeticum was brought to Florence, it was not treated as one text among many. Cosimo immediately intervened in ongoing intellectual work. Marsilio Ficino, who had been translating Plato under Cosimo’s patronage, was ordered to stop and translate Hermes first . This directive reveals more than interest—it shows priority, urgency, and intentionality.
Why this urgency? Because Cosimo and his circle believed that Hermes Trismegistus represented a source of divine wisdom older than Moses, a theology that predated both Judaism and Christianity. This belief, though historically false, gave the Hermetic texts immense authority. They were not read as speculative philosophy, but as sacred knowledge. And because Cosimo controlled the financial and cultural machinery of Florence, he was able to ensure that this knowledge was not only translated, but disseminated, taught, and embedded within the intellectual life of the time.
Ficino himself is critical here. As a priest operating within the structures of the Church, he did not reject Christianity, but sought to harmonize it with Hermetic thought. Under Medici patronage, he translated the Corpus Hermeticum and developed what he called “natural magic,” a system involving planetary influences, talismans, and the alignment of the human soul with cosmic forces. This was not hidden or marginal—it was produced within a "Christian" environment, funded by one of the most powerful banking families in Europe, and circulated among the educated elite.
The Medici influence did not end with Cosimo. The family’s integration into the highest levels of the Church is demonstrated by the fact that two Medici became popes: Pope Leo X and Pope Clement VII. This is not a trivial detail. It means that the same family which financed the recovery and promotion of Hermetic texts also came to occupy the supreme office of ecclesiastical authority. While it cannot be claimed that these popes formally instituted theurgy as doctrine, they presided over a Church already shaped by the intellectual currents their family had helped unleash.
The result is a convergence that should not be ignored: financial power, religious authority, and esoteric philosophy intersecting within the same network. The Medici did not merely fund art—they funded ideas. They created the conditions in which Hermeticism could be revived, legitimized, and integrated into a Christian framework. Through patronage, they elevated texts that taught the manipulation of spiritual forces, the animation of images, and the ascent of the soul through cosmic powers. Through influence, they ensured these ideas were not dismissed as pagan remnants, but reinterpreted as ancient wisdom compatible with Christian thought.
From a biblical perspective, this convergence is deeply significant. Scripture warns not only against sorcery, but against systems in which economic power and spiritual deception operate together: “thy merchants were the great men of the earth; for by thy sorceries were all nations deceived” (Revelation 18:23). Here, in the Renaissance, one observes a historical pattern in which those with financial control also shape the spiritual and intellectual direction of society, promoting systems that align not with divine revelation, but with hidden knowledge and ritual power.
Thus, the revival of Hermeticism under Cosimo de’ Medici was not merely a cultural movement—it was a financed and directed reintroduction of a magico-religious system into the heart of Christendom. It was translated by clergy, sustained by wealth, and later surrounded by a Church leadership connected to the very family that had initiated it. What appeared outwardly as a recovery of wisdom was, in reality, the restoration of a system that Scripture had already identified and condemned.
The role of Cosimo de’ Medici in relation to the Roman Catholic Church must be understood not in terms of doctrine, but in terms of power. He was not a theologian, nor a cleric, but a banker, and it was precisely through this position that his influence over the papacy was established. The Medici Bank became the official financial institution of Rome, handling papal revenues, collecting tithes and taxes from across Europe, and managing funds for the administration of the Church. In effect, the financial arteries of the papacy flowed through Medici hands. This placed Cosimo in a position where, though he held no ecclesiastical office, he exercised real leverage. Control of money translated into influence over decisions, priorities, and outcomes.
This influence became especially visible during the reign of pope Eugene IV. During a period of political instability, Eugene IV was forced out of Rome and took refuge in Florence, a city effectively under Cosimo’s control. There, Cosimo supported him both financially and politically, providing the stability the pope lacked. This was not merely an act of charity, but a strategic alignment. In return, Florence rose in prestige, and the dependence of the papacy upon Medici resources deepened. The relationship between banker and pope was no longer distant; it was immediate and mutually reinforcing.
It is within this same context that the Council of Florence must be understood. Hosted in Florence under Cosimo’s influence, this council was one of the most significant religious events of the fifteenth century, bringing together representatives of the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Churches in an attempt at reunification. The Byzantine emperor and clergy were brought to Italy, and the city became, for a time, the centre of Christendom’s most pressing theological negotiations. Yet behind the theological language stood financial and political realities. Cosimo funded and facilitated the council, elevating Florence as both a cultural and religious centre, while strengthening the connection between economic power and ecclesiastical authority. Though the attempted union ultimately failed, the prestige gained was lasting.
What emerges from this is a pattern of influence exercised without office. Cosimo never became pope, cardinal, or bishop, yet his position allowed him to shape the environment in which such offices operated. Through financial backing, he could support certain factions, influence the conditions surrounding papal elections, and ensure that the Medici name remained indispensable to the functioning of Rome. This strategy bore fruit in the generations that followed, when members of the Medici family themselves ascended to the papacy, pope Leo X and pope Clement VII, bringing the convergence of financial power and ecclesiastical authority to its fullest expression.
Cosimo’s relationship with the Church, therefore, is best understood as a blend of "faith", prestige, and power. He funded churches and religious institutions, enhancing his public image of piety, yet at the same time operated within a framework where influence was exercised through wealth and strategic alliance. Religion, in this context, cannot be separated from the structures that sustained it. The same figure who financed the recovery and translation of Hermetic texts also stood at the centre of the Church’s financial system, supporting popes, hosting councils, and shaping the intellectual life of Christendom.
The banker who enabled the flow of papal wealth also enabled the flow of texts that taught the drawing down of spiritual powers, the animation of images, and the manipulation of the unseen world. The result is not merely a historical coincidence, but a structure, one in which influence over money, thought, and religion operated together, giving legitimacy to ideas that Scripture had already warned against.
The Medici, therefore, must not be understood merely as patrons of learning, but as a family in whom financial power, religious influence, and intellectual direction converged. They were among the most powerful banking houses in Europe, financing kings, administering papal revenues, and sustaining the institutional structures of the Church itself. Their reach extended across political and ecclesiastical boundaries, placing them in a position where economic control translated into cultural and spiritual influence. This is not without biblical parallel. Scripture declares, “thy merchants were the great men of the earth; for by thy sorceries were all nations deceived” (Revelation 18:23). The language is precise: those who hold economic power are linked with systems of deception, and the two operate together.
Within this framework, the Medici represent more than a historical family, they embody a pattern. On the one hand, there is financial dominance, the control of wealth and the ability to direct institutions. On the other, there is the promotion and legitimization of ideas rooted in what Scripture identifies as forbidden practices. The revival of Hermetic philosophy, with its doctrines of drawing down spiritual powers, its use of images, statues, and talismans, and its system of hidden knowledge, did not arise independently of this power structure. It was sustained by it. Thus, what appears as a cultural movement is inseparable from the economic forces that enabled it.
Here, then, is a convergence that demands attention: economic power, institutional religion, and esoteric philosophy operating within the same network. What Scripture presents prophetically, merchants, power, and sorcery working together to influence the nations—finds a historical echo in this alignment. It is not necessary to claim formal doctrine to observe the pattern. The same structures that controlled wealth also shaped thought, and the same family that elevated Hermetic wisdom also stood at the summit of ecclesiastical authority.
In this light, the issue is no longer isolated to individual practices or ideas. It becomes systemic. When financial power supports spiritual systems that claim access to hidden forces, and when those same networks intersect with religious authority, the result is not neutrality but influence—an influence that Scripture repeatedly warns must be tested. For where wealth, power, and spiritual claims converge, the question is no longer simply what is taught, but from what source it comes.
At the centre of the Renaissance magical worldview stands the figure of the magus, whose beliefs were not peripheral, but foundational to the entire Hermetic revival. The Hermetic texts describe processes of regeneration in which the soul rises through the planetary spheres and becomes filled with divine virtues, effectively transforming the practitioner into a being aligned with higher powers. Knowledge, in this context, is not passive understanding, but a means of transformation and control. To know the structure of the cosmos is to gain access to its forces.
It is here that practices such as solar magic and the use of talismans become central. In the system developed and expanded during the Renaissance—particularly through figures like Marsilio Ficino—attention was given to the influence of the sun and the stars as channels of spiritual power. The sun, associated with life, vitality, and divine illumination, was treated as a primary source of influence. By aligning oneself with solar qualities, through music, imagery, materials, and timing, the practitioner sought to absorb and channel these forces. Talismans were constructed as physical objects designed to capture and hold such influences, created according to precise correspondences between celestial bodies and earthly substances. These were not symbolic tokens, but instruments intended to receive and transmit power, part of a wider system in which matter itself could be shaped into a conduit for the unseen.
Frances Yates makes clear that this process was not confined to external objects. The use of images, memory systems, and carefully constructed symbolic frameworks allowed the practitioner to internalize these operations. The mind itself became a kind of temple or instrument, capable of receiving and organizing spiritual forces through imagination and disciplined technique. Through such methods, the magus sought not only to understand the divine order, but to unite with it—to participate in it, and ultimately to exercise influence through it.
At its core, then, this system rests on a set of interwoven claims: that the universe is alive and permeated with spiritual forces; that man, through knowledge and technique, can access and direct those forces; and that through this process he may ascend beyond his created state and partake in the divine. This is not merely philosophy, it is a program of transformation, a pathway by which the practitioner seeks elevation through hidden knowledge and ritual practice.
Set against Scripture, the correspondence is unmistakable. The promise at the heart of this system is the same that was spoken at the beginning: “ye shall be as gods” (Genesis 3:5). The pursuit of divine status through knowledge, the desire to transcend created limits, and the attempt to access power apart from God’s revealed will are not new developments, but the continuation of an ancient deception. What the magus calls illumination, Scripture identifies as the reappearance of the original lie, clothed now in the language of philosophy, but unchanged in its essence.
“And will ye hunt the souls of my people, and make them fly?” — Ezekiel 13:20 (KJV)
The Hermetic system describes a world governed by seven ruling powers, the so-called “Seven Governors”, through which all earthly life is ordered and controlled. These are not merely physical bodies, but spiritual authorities embedded in the structure of the cosmos. When placed alongside Scripture, this framework bears a striking resemblance to the ordered systems of power described in Revelation, where the dragon operates through a structure symbolized by seven heads. In both cases, what is presented is not chaos, but hierarchy: a mediated system of rule between the unseen realm and the world of men.
“And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads.” — Revelation 12:3 (KJV)
“The seven heads are seven mountains, on which the woman sitteth.” — Revelation 17:9 (KJV)
“And there are seven kings: five are fallen, and one is, and the other is not yet come…” — Revelation 17:10 (KJV)
Within the Hermetic and Egyptian framework revived in the Renaissance, Isis (Queen of Heaven, the dead, and funnily magic) is not merely a mythological figure, but a symbol of a deeper doctrine—that the material world itself is permeated by divine power. The texts describe how Osiris, representing the invisible divine, permeates the world, while Isis governs and manifests this presence within creation. In this system, all things are understood as reflections of divine wisdom, and the visible world becomes a vessel of spiritual force. This is not a distant theology, but the very foundation upon which Hermetic practice rests. For if the divine is present within matter, then matter itself can be used, shaped, and animated as a medium of that power. Thus Isis becomes not simply a figure of worship, but the principle that allows for the animation of images, the use of talismans, and the belief that spiritual forces can inhabit created forms. What is presented as divine immanence is, in practice, the justification for engaging with spiritual power through material objects.
What emerges from the ancient world is not a single isolated figure, but a pattern—a recurring feminine divine archetype that appears under many names across different cultures, yet retains strikingly similar attributes. In Mesopotamia, she appears as Ishtar, also known as Inanna, the goddess of love, war, and fertility, often associated with the planet Venus. In the Levant, similar attributes are found in Anat, a violent and bloodthirsty deity described in Ugaritic texts as delighting in slaughter, and closely associated with Baal. The same religious stream identifies a “Queen of Heaven,” explicitly condemned in Scripture (Jeremiah 7:18; 44:17–19), to whom offerings were made.
These identities do not remain confined to the East. As cultures merged, these figures were reinterpreted and absorbed into the Greco-Roman world. Ishtar/Inanna becomes identified with Astarte, then with Aphrodite, and ultimately with Venus, carrying forward the same associations of sexuality, power, and celestial influence. In parallel, the great mother goddess appears in Anatolia as Cybele, whose cult was formally brought into Rome in 204 BC during the Second Punic War. She was installed on the Palatine Hill, one of the seven hills of Rome, embedding this ancient religious current at the very heart of the imperial city.
The identification of these goddesses was not accidental. Ancient writers themselves equated them. In Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, the goddess Isis declares that she is known by many names among different peoples, explicitly identifying herself with other major goddesses, including Cybele and Venus. Here, Isis is presented as a universal deity, one figure expressed through many forms, worshipped under different titles but understood as essentially the same power.
This is critical. What appears outwardly as many religions begins to resolve into a unified system: a single feminine divine principle manifested under multiple names, spanning Babylon, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. Whether called Ishtar, Astarte, Anat, Isis, Cybele, Aphrodite, or Venus, the underlying pattern remains consistent,she is associated with heaven, fertility, power, and often dominion over kings and nations.
This continuity becomes especially striking when viewed alongside Revelation’s imagery of the woman who rides the beast. The text presents a figure who is not merely symbolic of one city, but of a system, arrayed in splendour, ruling over kings, and associated with both power and spiritual corruption (Revelation 17:1–5). The fact that Rome, the city historically linked with the seven hills, had already absorbed and institutionalized the worship of Cybele—an embodiment of this same ancient goddess tradition—adds a historical dimension to the imagery.
Thus, what Scripture condemns as the worship of the “Queen of Heaven” is not confined to one culture or period. It appears across civilizations, adapting its name but retaining its identity. The biblical witness does not treat this as harmless variation, but as a recurring form of idolatry—one that unites religious devotion, political power, and spiritual deception under a single, enduring pattern.
Here are her the Queen of Heaven's main aliases:
Ishtar (Akkadian)
Inanna (Sumerian)
Astarte (Phoenician)
Anat (related but distinct, sometimes overlapping in function)
Aphrodite (Greek identification)
Venus (Roman identification)
Isis (syncretically identified later)
Cybele (parallel “great mother,” later merged conceptually)
Among the figures carried through the ancient Near Eastern religious systems, Anat stands out with particular clarity, not as a benign or maternal figure, but as one marked by violence and bloodshed. The Ugaritic texts describe her as a goddess of war with a reputation for ruthless destruction, one who delighted in slaughter and whose identity was bound up with blood. She is not merely associated with conflict, but revels in it, her character defined by ferocity and the taking of life. This is not symbolic language softened by later interpretation—it is the consistent portrayal of her nature.
Even within the biblical record, her presence lingers as a remnant of surrounding idolatry. Place names such as Beth-anath (Joshua 19:38; Judges 1:33) preserve the memory of her worship embedded in the land itself, a trace of the religious systems that Israel was commanded to drive out. These are not neutral cultural artifacts; they are markers of a spiritual reality that Scripture repeatedly opposes.
When this figure is placed alongside the prophetic language of Revelation, the correspondence becomes striking. The woman described there is not merely adorned, but corrupted—“the mother of harlots and abominations of the earth,” and more than this, “drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus” (Revelation 17:5–6). The imagery is deliberate: not only idolatry, but bloodshed; not only deception, but violence against the people of God.
This is the same pattern. A feminine figure exalted, worshipped, and enthroned—yet marked by blood, by destruction, and by opposition to the truth. What appears in ancient texts as Anat’s delight in violence re-emerges in prophetic Scripture as a system intoxicated with blood. The continuity is not in name alone, but in character.
Scripture does not present such things as distant mythology, but as part of an ongoing spiritual reality. The presence of Anat in the land, the condemnation of idolatry, and the final unveiling in Revelation all point in the same direction: that what is worshipped under the guise of divine femininity is not life-giving, but destructive—opposed to God, and ultimately revealed by its fruit.
After seeing these images and tracing this pattern across history, the question cannot be avoided.
Why would a church that proclaims to worship Christ become so deeply entangled with systems of banking, power, and practices that mirror what Scripture calls sorcery? Why does the historical record show figures like Cosimo de’ Medici financing both the papacy and the revival of Hermetic texts, texts that explicitly teach the drawing down of spiritual forces, the animation of images, and the manipulation of the unseen realm? Why does this convergence exist at all?
And further, why, long before this, was the cult of Cybele installed in Rome in 204 BC, placed upon the Palatine Hill, at the heart of the city later identified with the seven hills of Revelation? Why does the same pattern of a ruling feminine figure, linked to power, fertility, and dominion—move from Babylon to Rome, and then reappear under new language within a Christian framework?
The issue is not terminology, but practice. It is often said that such figures are not worshipped but merely “venerated.” Yet Scripture does not judge by the distinctions of language, but by the reality of action. Bowing, praying, offering devotion, attributing power—these are acts. And the commandment is not ambiguous:
“Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image… thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them.” (Exodus 20:4–5)
Yet in catechetical systems, this command is merged or obscured, effectively removing the explicit prohibition against making and bowing to images. The result is not theoretical, it is visible: statues, icons, processions, acts of devotion directed toward created forms. The question must be asked: why is the command altered, unless what it forbids has become central to practice?
And then there is the deeper contradiction. Christ, after His resurrection, ascended and “sat down on the right hand of God” (Hebrews 10:12), awaiting the appointed time of His return. No apostle is ever recorded as calling Him down into material form. Yet later systems claim precisely this kind of operation—mediating divine presence into physical elements through ritual action. If Scripture condemns attempts to manipulate or summon spiritual power, if it forbids dealings with unseen forces apart from God’s command, then on what basis can such practices be justified?
What the Hermetic texts describe, the drawing down of powers, the inhabiting of material forms, the use of images as vessels—belongs to the same category Scripture consistently warns against. These are not neutral techniques; they assume that spiritual forces can be invoked, directed, and contained. And Scripture identifies such forces clearly: “the things which the Gentiles sacrifice, they sacrifice to devils, and not to God” (1 Corinthians 10:20).
The issue, then, is not merely historical or symbolic—it is theological and spiritual. If the command forbids images, if sorcery is condemned, if Christ is not summoned but sovereign, and if the worship of any “queen of heaven” is explicitly rejected, then the presence of these elements within a system that claims the name of Christ demands explanation.
For God does not judge by labels, but by truth. Not by what is said, but by what is done. And where practice contradicts command, the question is no longer one of interpretation, but of obedience.
The revival of the Hermetic texts in the Renaissance did not merely introduce new ideas—it transformed the way older, explicitly magical writings were understood. Chief among these was the Asclepius, a text which openly describes the fabrication of idols and the drawing down of spiritual powers into material forms. Prior to the recovery of the Corpus Hermeticum, such material stood exposed for what it was. But once Ficino translated the Hermetic writings—especially the Pimander, and surrounded them with a language of piety, theology, and divine wisdom, the entire framework shifted.
What had been suspect became sanctified.
Frances Yates makes clear that the Asclepius was effectively rehabilitated through this process. Read in isolation, it describes practices that align directly with what Scripture condemns—ritual operations, the animation of statues, and the mediation of spiritual forces through material objects. Yet when placed within the newly translated Hermetic corpus, and interpreted through Ficino’s Christianizing lens, it was no longer seen as dangerous or pagan, but as part of an ancient, sacred theology. The same text, once understood as magical, was now received as divine wisdom.
Even the so-called “Lament” within the Asclepius underwent this transformation. This passage mourns the decline of Egyptian religion, portraying it as the loss of a holy and morally ordered world. The destruction of that system is described not as liberation from idolatry, but as the collapse of morality itself, a descent into chaos and confusion. Its tone echoes the language of biblical prophecy, lamenting the loss of righteousness and calling for restoration. Because of this resemblance, Renaissance readers, already predisposed to believe in the antiquity and sanctity of these texts, could begin to read the Lament not as pagan nostalgia, but as a kind of moral testimony.
This is the inversion.
What Scripture identifies as idolatry is reframed as holiness. What is condemned as deception is presented as lost truth. The “religion of the world,” steeped in magical practice and the invocation of spiritual powers, is reimagined as a moral and divine order whose disappearance brought corruption upon humanity.
Thus, the rehabilitation of the Asclepius was not a minor scholarly development—it was a turning point. It allowed a system involving images, rituals, and the manipulation of unseen forces to re-enter Christian intellectual life under the guise of ancient wisdom. By embedding these practices within a framework of piety, the Renaissance magus could engage in what Scripture forbids, while believing himself to be restoring what was sacred.
In this light, the issue is not simply one of interpretation, but of authority. Once a text describing magical operations is accepted as divine or near-divine revelation, the practices it contains are no longer rejected—they are justified. And what had been clearly outside the bounds of biblical teaching is brought back in, not as error, but as enlightenment.
In a previous blog, I also examined and translated the works of the Jesuit Athanasius Kircher, who, with papal approval, sought to uncover the meanings of Egyptian hieroglyphs. In one of his works, he dedicates an obelisk to Ferdinand III, addressing him as the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights.
Here's a quote from his work:
"These, then, were the first Egyptian letters and elemental characters; by which they not only wrote their ordinary communications and epistles, but also concealed within them great mysteries, known only to the priests, and filled with mystical symbols and sacred meanings.
And so, to give a single synoptic view of all that has been discussed thus far,
I have thought it fitting to add a table that displays exactly the first formation and institution of the Egyptian letters,
as they were established by Thoth, or Mercury Trismegistus,
the founder and divine legislator of Egyptian writing".
For further reading see my previous blog post:
To understand the gravity of all this, one must return to a much earlier conflict—one that reveals the same pattern long before the Renaissance. In the period leading up to the Maccabean revolt, Israel faced a crisis not merely of politics, but of identity. Under foreign influence, many among the people, including elements within the priesthood—began to adopt Greek customs, language, and religious practices. This process of Hellenization was not neutral; it involved the gradual abandonment of the law of God in favour of a system rooted in philosophy, culture, and ultimately, idolatry.
The Hasmoneans, arising in response to this corruption, stood in opposition to that movement. They resisted the imposition of pagan practices and fought to preserve the worship of the God of Israel according to the Law. Their revolt was not simply nationalistic, it was theological. It was a rejection of syncretism, of the merging of divine truth with foreign systems, and a defence of the covenant against those who would dilute or redefine it.
At the same time, the Zadokite priesthood, descended from the line appointed for temple service—represented the ideal of faithfulness to that same covenant. Their role, at least in principle, was to maintain purity in worship, to uphold the law, and to resist the intrusion of practices that defiled the sanctuary. The tension between faithfulness and compromise, between preservation and assimilation, runs through this entire period.
What emerges is a pattern that repeats across history. On one side, there are those who seek to preserve what God has commanded, refusing to mix it with external systems. On the other, those who adopt, reinterpret, and integrate foreign ideas, often under the claim of wisdom, progress, or deeper understanding. The conflict is not new. It is the same struggle seen in the prophets, in the exile, in the resistance to Hellenization, and later in the confrontations of the early Church.
The question, then, is not confined to history. It is ongoing. Will what God has revealed remain distinct, or will it be merged with systems that promise power, knowledge, or cultural acceptance? The example of the Hasmoneans stands as a reminder that fidelity to God has always required separation from what He has forbidden. Not innovation, but obedience. Not synthesis, but truth.
And that remains the dividing line.
It is my conviction that what is now called the “mother church” has departed so far from the doctrine of the apostles that it scarcely resembles it at all. The apostolic witness was marked by simplicity, humility, and obedience. They did not practice theurgy. They did not construct systems to manipulate spiritual forces. They did not seek power, influence, or elevation. They preached Christ crucified, and worshipped the One who gave His life.
There is a fundamental difference between those who submit to God and those who attempt to mediate, channel, or command what belongs to Him alone. The apostles did not summon, did not invoke, did not ritualize divine presence into objects or elements. They did not build structures around mystery to elevate themselves above others. They served, suffered, and bore witness.
What, then, are we to make of those who came later? Men who speak in the name of Christ, yet align themselves with power, wealth, and systems of control. Men who sanction the sword, yet claim spiritual authority. Men who stand before images—images that the very law they claim to uphold forbids to be made or bowed before, and call this devotion.
God does not judge by titles, nor by institutions, nor by carefully constructed language. He judges by truth and by action. And the contrast is stark. The apostles owned nothing, sought nothing, and gave everything. But later structures amassed wealth, adorned themselves in gold, and turned what was freely given into something mediated, controlled, and, at times, sold.
The gospel was never a commodity. It was not something to be administered through hierarchy, nor something to be clothed in spectacle. It was a message of repentance, of truth, of reconciliation with God through Christ alone. Yet what followed often replaced that simplicity with layers of ritual, authority, arrogance and display—systems that bear far greater resemblance to the structures of the world than to the life of the apostles.
The question, then, is unavoidable: does this reflect the pattern of those who walked with Christ, or does it reflect something that has been built in His name, yet departs from His command? For what God establishes does not require embellishment, and what Christ taught does not need to be reformed by prideful, human power.
For those who wish to examine the sources directly, I have included the text below. What has been presented here is not speculation, but drawn from the writings themselves.
Please excuse any variations in page size.
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