The Cult of the Sacred Feminine. More from my new-book, available now.

A great deal of misguided new-agers and practicing feminists believe in the cult of the sacred feminine. In recent times this idea gained some mainstream exposure with the release of Dan Brown’s the Da-Vinci Code, which took ideas from Freemason Michael Baigent’s and Lincoln’s book ‘Holy Blood Holy Grail’ which sought to show that Da Vinci encoded the secret of Mary Magdalen’s relationship with Jesus and made a case that the sacred feminine was part of early Christianity which had been ruthlessly suppressed by the Catholic church.

Their ideas of the ‘sacred feminine’ are usually half formed and nebulous and don’t really contain any solid thesis, except the one thing they tend to agree on is that whatever the sacred feminine was, the evil Catholic Church suppressed it.

I am not here going to argue against the ‘evilness’ of the Catholic Church, I am in full agreement that this indeed an evil institution, but part of its evil is ironically not because it suppressed the sacred feminine but precisely because it reveres it.

The Catholic Church is a cult which specifically deifies the female, in exactly the same way as the cults of the ancient world. Within Catholicism, Mary is exalted far beyond Jesus as the ‘mother of God’ and clearly, if the Catholic dogma states that Jesus was God on Earth then Mary as his mother, would figuratively and literally be the ‘mother of God’ and hence, woman is superior, even to God.

Clearly then, Mary ‘outranks’ Jesus in whatever imaginary pantheon the Catholics were operating from when they draw up their Catechism, and their litany of prayers calling for the intercession of Mary.

The nature of Jesus’ relationship with ‘God’ is much more subtle than the dogma of the church and there was much blood spilt over a precisely rigid definition of the nature of Jesus’ Godhood when this wasn’t really the point.

In the Ancient world the sacred Feminine was wholeheartedly celebrated and celebrated in a variety of cults. These cults celebrated the Goddesses known under various names but essentially they were different elements of the same Goddess. They were usually sexual in nature, because obviously once one starts to make spirituality a matter of gender, ie ‘cult of the feminine’ then evidently one is dealing with sexuality.

This is a key point the silly sausages blabbing about sacred feminine this and sacred feminine that miss, or aren’t really capable of understanding, is that as soon as one starts to bring sexual gender into discussion then one is literally and obviously focusing on sex. And so it was and is. The feminine cults of the ancient world all focused, to the exclusion of other more interesting spiritual matters, on sex. The Cult of Venus was all about sex. The cult of Cybele was all about sex. The cult of Ishtar was all about sex. The cult of Venus demanded that women prostitute themselves on the steps of the temple in order to be protected in society by the cult. The cult of Cybele demanded that men castrate themselves on the steps of the temple to serve as the eunuchs to officiate over the sexual rites. The Catholic church, in its guise of cult of the sacred feminine as Mary mother of God demanded that virgin nuns give up their virginity to ‘God’ ie: the priests, and ritually sacrifice any unwanted children to be buried on the grounds of the convent.

This is what is really meant by sacred feminine. Just as any religion which claimed to be about the ‘sacred masculine’ would be focussed on the phallus and sex. Any cult which reveres the ‘sacred feminine’ is going to necessarily interest itself with the mythos and metaphysics of the generative principal, because that’s what gender is on an unavoidably fundamental level, which is precisely why it is so ‘unspiritual’ to genderize spirituality and anyone who tries to do so is deliberately misleading you and most likely, trying to suck you into some kind of sex cult.

So be warned, witches, wannabees and feminists. Get smart. You have to leave your dick or pussy behind in the next world. There’s no meat in heaven. Neither blood sausage, fish taco, clams and sauce or hot beef. There ain't nothing cooking in that respect so if you think doing Tantric sex is preparing your soul for the spiritual world think again and get used to being a spiritual vegetarian.

One could argue that in today’s society the knowledge of the sacred feminine principal is oppressed, in the way that society and the media seems reluctant to acknowledge that females can be just as aggressive and destructive as feminists tell us men are. The Ancients knew that women and females harboured a terrible and potentially destructive power within them, one that at times, could breach all ability to moderate and pacify it: hell hath no fury and all that. It is for this reason that the female Goddess Sekhmet was depicted as a female lion and in her irrational destructive rages was said to turn rivers red with blood and had to be tricked and appeased to control her wrath. A special beer was brewed and used in one ancient ritual and this was poured into the river until it resembled blood and this was said to calm the ferocious spirit of Sekhmet.

Hathor and Nut the cow Goddesses, evoke the wild female cows of the marshes of Northern Egypt, who when disturbed by mere humans, would charge in a wild rage and send all to rout. The Ancient Egyptian pantheon did not appear ready-made at some remote point in history, but gradually developed and became refined. The early archetypal Gods and Goddesses included Nut; Nut was the night sky and was seen as inherently feminine, perhaps it is for this reason that the word Night is feminine in German, Gallic, Urdu, Hindi, Slavic and all the Romance languages. Night was seen by the Egyptians not as an absence of sunlight, but as a medium in itself, like the idea of the aether, and modern science is steadily rejecting the idea that space itself is not a void but a medium formed by the zero point field of constantly vibrating energy, this energy very likely creates the vacuum as a ‘space’ in reality, the Casimir effect demonstrates the existence of this vacuum zero point energy. For the Ancient Egyptians this quantum energy was visualised as a protecting all-encompassing mother in whom one could take refuge by ascending a special ladder.

One could form a hypothesis about the true nature of God being energy and that the different Gods and Goddess of the ancient world were just different forms and concentrations of energy. Nut is an embodiment of the quantum vacuum energy of space in which the Earth lies cradled, as if nurtured within some great cosmic womb, and hence the feminine aspect of ‘night’. The vacuum is an energy field which allows the propagation of light and energy cannot travel without a medium. The presence of the Goddess lies within the vibrating field of the positronic and anti-particles which scientists now believe give the vacuum its reality and creates ‘space’ as we know it, that is distance and separation.

Heaven and the nature of God in ancient Egypt seemed to focus on the sun and in my own previous book entitled Light in the Darkness I attempted to demonstrate that the sun is an energy portal into the quantum subatomic realm to infinity and, to quote Buzz Lightyear, beyond. In his book Ancient Egypt, historian and Christian theologian George Rawlinson suggests that the Ancient Egyptians also had this view that the sun was a portal through which they passed in order to enter the next world:

“Thoth standing by the while, with a tablet in his hand, whereon to record the result. According to the side on which the balance inclined, Osiris, the president, delivered sentence. If the good deeds preponderated, the blessed soul was allowed to enter the "boat of the Sun," Aahlu (Elysium), to the "pools of peace"..”

The energy of the Goddess Nut is physically manifested as the constant creation and annihilation of matter and antimatter pairs of particles which presumably creates a vibration or lateral 4 dimensional pulse which is the nature of the underlying zero point energy of the universe. A constant ripple throughout the whole universe like an endless black sea upon which light itself travels in its eternal frozen moment, a bright instant of light and energy like an intergalactic superhighway, ferrying consciousness and the souls of the myriad beings surfing the sea of the Duat.

The English word Night, the French word Nuit and the Germanic word Not all evoke the name of the Goddess Nut which became the Latin word Nox and the Greek Goddess Nyx who is incidentally the mother of the deities of sleep (Hypnos) and death (Thanatos), as if somehow in sleep and death, we return into the realm of darkness. In ancient Egypt the ‘Underworld’ or Duat was simultaneously the realm of darkness, divided into hours, as in the Egyptian book of the Dead, and also the realm of the dead. So the initiatic ordeal of Unas for instance, as depicted on the walls of the tomb of Unas in Sakarra, took place both at night and simultaneously, in the realm of the dead which it was necessary for him to pass through until emerging into the light, which is the actual real name of the Book of the Dead: The Book of Coming Forth by Day. In Norse mythology the goddess of the Night was known as Nott, and this is again the same fundamental archetypal Goddess as that of the Greek Roman and Egyptian deities.

Ultimately all of these Goddesses of ancient Egypt were all elements of the fundamental female Goddess Isis. Isis has all the abilities and attributes of Sekhmet and Hathor combined. Isis, is said to be able to dispel storms like Sekhmet who was a warrior Goddess and also a goddess of healing. Her image statue was said to be secretly coated with anthrax by the priests and anyone who dared to profane her presence by touching her statue would shortly be struck down and die, apparently from the power of Sekhmet’s curse. Statues of Sekhmet were found all over Egypt and it is hard now to see them in the same way the ancient Egyptians saw them.
They would have evoked terror since anyone who approached Sekhmet was stricken down with a curse, caused by the anthrax virus which was painted onto the surface of statues of Sekhmet to strike down anyone who dare be so importune as to touch her.

The sistrum was associated with Sekhmet and Isis just as it is with Ishtar. The sistrum was a hand-held metal percussion instrument which would produce a sound when shaken and so closely was the Sistrum identified with Sekhmet that the sistrum’s name in ancient Egyptian was Sekhem which means ‘power’. Shaking the sistrum was not merely a musical act, it was a magical one, somewhat like waving a magic wand, of course it is hard for the modern reader again to properly imagine or visualize the power of the Sekhem when it was shaken because we have a different set of beliefs about the forces which govern the universe, but imagine in the absence of our modern science and indeed any of the developments and understandings which we have developed over the years and imagine that you genuinely believed that a shaken sistrum had a profound power, just as when you were a child and saw a magician shake his magic wand and make something disappear in a puff of smoke you might not have known that what you were seeing was an illusion. So too with the ancient world. There was a lot of illusion but the point was that the people believed the illusion and believing the illusion gives it an extra element of power in reality which makes it real. 

This is the key to ritual in the ancient world. An illusion or trick was necessary and commonly used to create the willing suspension of disbelief which would then give the ritual the power it needed to potentially manifest actual magical events and spiritual occurrences. Much like the battery which is necessary to create the spark to start the engine of a car. The illusion is the spark which catches the minds of the ritual’s participants to power the unfolding events, whatever they might have been.

On the internet there is a great deal of cyber blather about Isis, sheer new-age twaddle of the most naïve and uninformed kind. One website, The Hermetic Fellowship in particular has invented a silly liturgy with lots of ‘thees’ and ‘thine’ because of course, magical practitioners are on very informal terms with ancient Egyptian deities. The online text invites Isis to possess the person in question, and this could be problematic since chanting loudly facing the East asking ISIS to ‘come in’ may risk a visit from the anti-terrorism unit of MI5 depending on how effective their surveillance technology is.

Adam Weishaupt himself understood the true covert power of women which has now become an overt power and is turning the world on its head and in his Bavarian Illuminati women were also enlisted. He wrote: “There is no way of influencing men so powerful, as by means of women. These should therefore be our chief study; we should insinuate ourselves into their good opinion, give them hints of emancipation from the tyranny of public opinion, and of standing up for themselves...” He also wrote: “This sex has a large part of the world in their hands.” Female members were divided into two groups: one group of society women, to give the organization an air of respectability; and the other group “who would help to satisfy those brothers who have a penchant for pleasure.” The Illuminati also used monetary and sex bribery to gain control of men in high places, then blackmailed them with the threat of financial ruin, public exposure, and fear of death.

On page 296 of Nesta Webster’s Secret Societies and Subversive Movements we see the possibility of a connection between Freemasonry and Feminism and it is my certain conviction that the Freemasons have harnessed the potentially destructive power of female irrationality under the guise of empowering women by creating Feminism which is presently destroying the ethical, moral and cultural codes of any country which fervently adopts it.

“The first and only woman to be admitted into real Masonry, if such a term can be applied to so heterogeneous a system, was Maria Deraismes, an ardent French Feminist celebrated for her political speeches and electioneering campaigns in the district of Pontoise and for twenty-five years the acknowledged leader of the anti-clerical and Feminist party. In 1882 Maria Deraismes was initiated into Freemasonry by the members of the Lodge Les Libres Penseurs, deriving from the Grande Loge Symbolique Écossaise and situated at Le Pecq in the Department of Seine-et-Oise. The proceeding being, however, entirely unconstitutional, Maria Deraismes's initiation was declared by the Grande Loge to be null and void and the Lodge Les Libres Penseurs was disgraced. But some years afterwards Dr. George Martin, an enthusiastic advocate of votes for women, collaborated with Maria Deraismes in founding the Maçonnerie Mixte at the first lodge of the Order named ‘Le Droit Humain.’ The Suprême Conseil Universel Mixte was founded in 1899”

Feminism’s moral high-ground combined with the deference which society and men give women, is leading to the complete loss of all moral and common sense and female feminists seem to be leading the charge to normalize trans-genderism (an occult ritualized fetish from the Sumerian rites of the Goddess Inanna) mass-immigration and demonizing the white-male. This sustained attack on white men by Feminists is a threat to the very continuation of human civilization itself since it was white men who founded our civilization and who keep the wheels turning. If these people are deposed, which is an effort which is currently underway and is an attack being spearheaded by women under the flag of Feminism, then the world of convenience they enjoy will be stripped from them and everything we have now and take for granted, will be gone. It may seem a long shot but there are plenty of precedents for the sudden destruction of hitherto stable advanced civilizations.

Egypt: A pretty nice place when there aren't bombs going off.

                                                   

  The second remedy.

It was early evening in Cairo, summer was about to come into full custody of this sprawling dusty child of the sun. But in the meantime there were the last few remaining days of reasonable spring weather when one could still walk about town for a couple of hours without requiring  an oxygen tent and an ice bath afterwards.  Soon it would be hot enough to make the piles of garbage hum and stink, creeping through the city spreading dirty fingers through the street. Then it would be hotter still, and the garbage would become fossilised by heat, desiccated like ancient relics, even the flies would desperately start to seek the cool awning of the ahwa and drink tea with the dried out and dusty Egyptians, who smoked cigarettes and drank tea to keep themselves from being swept away by the dry hot wind.

There were only two remedies, at least for this particular traveller against the heat of the city, one, was taking an overnight bus from Cairo bus station to anywhere where there was an abundance of cool water, and  spend a couple of days splashing around hiding from the heat behind the shadows of cool palms.

The other was to drink beer. Any beer would do, though in preference not the stuff that made your eyeballs hurt, but even this one eventually grew accustomed to.

For maximum relief, both of these remedies should be taken together or at least within a couple of hours of each other. In this instance the cool and deep pools of the Siwa oasis formed the perfect tonic; an antidote to Cairo’s millennia of dust piled upon dust, and to the noise of the cars which seemed to own nearly every square metre of this over-tired city.

The cars slept only for about three hours a week, on Friday morning between four am and seven AM when a kind of heavenly peace would descend on the whole of Cairo and all would be quiet. The cars would be resting, piously celebrating the Sabat inside their garages and outside apartment blocks. Still and serene, for a few hours at least. And that was the time when I loved Cairo best. I would wake up especially early, or stay up particularly late, just to enjoy this sacred time.

The oasis was sheltered by palm trees and cooled by bubbling limpid springs, but in the exposed town centre or on the highway back towards Alexandria, it would soon be hot enough to make the tarmac sticky and the ground hot enough to burn feet.

But now I was in the shady folds of the oasis, and after ascending the dry sun battered hill to reach Alexander’s famous oracle I found only old stones and a snake which slithered across the steps leading up to the temple precincts and nearly scared the soul out of my body with the suddenness of its movement.  I took this as a sign, but of what I was not sure. However I have since learned that a snake crossing your path is bad omen, it indicates spiteful or false friends, the classical suggestion is to kill the snake and thus harm those who are harming you, but in retrospect I feel it would  have been most unfair to involve the poor snake in my silly squabbles.

I had rented a bike from Siwa and ridden out of town exploring the length of the oasis in the manner advised. 

I wheeled my bike to the edge of a round plunging pool, the water about 15 feet deep and of the most perfect turquoise blue. For a moment I considered backing my bike up a few metres and just riding my bike straight into the water. But I held back. The place was far too nice for anything too silly. I got off my bike, lay it down and bombed in. Sunk.  And stayed under exploring this mini-aqua-marine paradise. The water was cool but not cold, it was, to the very degree, the ideal temperature.

I spent hours in this watery paradise, my body drinking the water through osmosis. Gradually the bright yellow oasis light slowly ripened to orange as the sun deepened into the horizon, it was time for the second remedy so I cycled back through the cooling palms along the sandy pathways. The path eventually widened and became a road and there were mules roving around pulling carts loaded with green leaf vegetables of some kind,  still no cars as I pulled up to the modest but delightfully cheap Palm Trees hotel where I was staying. A couple of old timers were playing backgammon, in the midst of a ruin of smoked cigarettes and empty shay glasses as the shadows of the palms lengthened and loomed over them.

I returned to Siwa town thoroughly refreshed from my adventures in hydration. Refreshed but not entirely quenched. I needed beer in order for the cure to be complete.

Ahmet’s body was sat in a chair behind the reception desk but his spirit was far away. He had propped himself against the back wall and was sleeping peacefully.

I cleared my throat, Ahmet opened one eye, recognised me and  slowly stood up:

“Kullu tamam?” he said with a friendly smile.

“Not bad,  but I could do with a beer. Where can I get beer around here?’

Instantly he answered, ‘You can have beer at Shali!’.

 ‘Shali?’ I answered, what is ‘Shali?’

‘Shali resort.

Ahmet ‘s moustached mouth offered no more information by way of explanation, like a captured POW who communicated only the barest minimum of information to his captors. I decided I would have to apply some pressure to Ahmet to get him to speak, perhaps some sodium pentothal but I had none to hand, so instead I smiled at him and asked him how to get there. This had the effect of the missing sodium pentothal and he immediately leapt up and grabbed a map and assiduously showed me a way to get myself to the beer-place with my bike.

It involved a six mile bike ride over a straight stretch of hot tarmac out of the oasis on an exposed road towards lake Siwa and by the time I got there it was cool and dusk was approaching. Having not had anything to drink all day except for coffee in the morning I was literally dying for a beer.

I cycled dryly and eagerly towards the resort  and through the gate into an artificial oasis of chlorinated water and shorn pelouse. I threw my bike down and without even sitting down ordered some beers with the desperation of an injured man calling for an ambulance. 

The waiter smiled indulgently and asked me my name and where I came from. I wondered if he had heard me and was about to explode in a surly unbecoming  hot, dehydrated rage but looking out towards the stillness of the lake and the coolness coming off the water I decided to moderate slightly:

‘Beer first, questions later’ I said quickly.

He smiled with understanding and quickly came back with three bottles of Stella.

‘Ah, 3, my lucky number’.

I quickly poured one into the glass and downed it before it had even begun to settle and the beer foam drooled down my chin giving me a little whispy beery gnome beard until I wiped it off. I didn’t care. I was a dying man resuscitated and returned to life by the grace of God given beer.

The first beer was sunk in under five seconds, i took the second and more slowly and deliberately filled the glass and now felt able to answer questions. I smiled:

“Ana James, forsa saiyida. Min il-ingleterra’

“Ahh, bitkellem Arabi!’

“Shwaya bass” I said. For what must have been the millionth and second time.

The only problem with Egypt is that conversation was always so predictable. And after revealing a name and a nationality the conversation  usually turns to football  with the  dreaded inevitability of ‘what team?’ which I had to pretend to take an interest in. But in this instance, because of the still beauty of the lake and the refreshing golden blissfulness of the beer I refused to allow the conversation to be steered to this inevitable though comforting platitudes about football. Instead I proffered:

“Ahmet at the Palm Trees hotel told me about this place. The only place in Siwa where I can get a beer”

The man looked uncertain.

“Ahmet, works at the Palm Trees in town (I pointed in the vague direction of Siwa), moustache (I made a little gesture under my nose)’

At this the man laughed heartily. He put his hand on my shoulder:

“Habibee, you say Ahmet and you say moustache.... In Egypt everybody is called Ahmet or Mahommed and everybody has  moustache’.

He went on to explain  that this is a common source of humour for the Egyptians that if you recognise a friend of yours called Mohamed or Ahmet down a busy street in Egypt, and you were to call out his name, at least a dozen people would turn around to see who was calling them, what’s more most of them would have black moustaches at various stages of size and bristliness.

“My friend, there are too  many Ahmets and too many moustaches, but I know Palm Trees, everybody in town go there for shisha.’

I laughed and smiled and started to like this man. It was my turn to ask the questions.

I asked him if he drank beer, he said he did and I motioned him to sit down and gave him my final beer and talked pleasantries until inevitably talk turned to football but I was feeling pretty good with a few beers down me so I simulated enthusiasm for various football teams and their vastly overpaid representatives. I even managed to think of a favourite team which sounded relatively convincing and even succeeded in convincing my new friend Moustafa that I actually knew what I was talking about. 

My talking about the dream team of Craig Bellamy and Carlos Tevez even convinced me that maybe I did like football and that Manchester City perhaps really were my favourite team. But I didn’t like talking about football because I felt insincere, but it was often worse not to, in which case a frozen silence usually descended on you and further friendly communication was impossible between a man and an non football loving alien.

The night came on swiftly after more beer and Moustafa went off to the room where he was accommodated by the resort and brought back a rather small lump of Lebanese hash. We smoked hash and drank more and it soon occurred to me that it was now far too late and I was far too wrecked to ride the six miles along the now pitch-black road, back to the home of the Palm Trees hotel.

So I stayed the night at the resort and slept drunk and stoned by the lake side and spent the whole time being tortured by mosquitos who also liked hanging out a Shali resort and drinking the beer that had found its way into my blood.

In the morning I examined the red pock marked  wreckage of my legs and decided that the very thing would be a dip in the salty lake to hopefully clean the little mosquito beak punctures and reduce the dreadful itching.

After disinfecting my legs in the salty lake I made my way back to my hotel to return the bike and with pleasure observed a salt crust forming in the hot sun on the six mile journey.

When I returned to the hotel I was greeted by a panic stricken Ahmet who ran towards me and informed me that the army had been out looking for me in the desert and they had even mobilised a general from his slumber. Apparently not returning to a hotel in the evening leads the Egyptian army to fear or suspect the worst and as such a full scale military man-hunt was engaged to discover the whereabouts of what they assumed was either an errant spy or a kidnap victim.

So I checked in to the local police station in Siwa and was greeted by the police chief. It occurred to me that there might be some small trouble and I might have to give a bribe but I had never bribed anyone in my life least of all a police chief and I suspected I would probably make a bit of a hash of it and get myself into trouble. Subtlety and subterfuge are most certainly not my speciality and I am not the man to covertly hand money to a member of a developing nation’s police force with something of a reputation for oppression which typically of police forces in the Muslim world, strikes fear in the hearts of the local population.

So I decided against handing over any money and decided that a smile and a bumblingly apologetically foppish bit of English charm would have to get me out of this mess.

And it worked. My informing him that I was an English teacher and an actual resident (not a mere tourist), and smiling apologetically seemed to act as an admirable stand in for a bribe, if one was even expected which I am not even sure of.... And so after him a few pleasantries and smiles, and him practicing his English, I left waving and smiling.

I had no idea that simply going for a beer in Egypt could lead to so much trouble. I only hope my missing bribe wasn't later extracted somehow from Moustafa in the basement of the Siwa police station. To this day I pray he didn't get into too much trouble about it.