As the Sun enters the ascendant decan of Pisces, we turn our thoughts to nature. The main distinction between Thelema and paganism (“paganism” here referring to actual folk religion, as opposed to the modern phenomenon of “neo-paganism” and Wicca which are little but thinly veiled versions of Christianity with the exception that the morbid sexual hysteria is slightly less obvious in the former case) and the major “world religions” can – from one point of view – be boiled down to this question.

For the purposes of this entry, let us assume that the objective of religion or spirituality in any of its forms is some form of self-improvement or life-improvement, in the broadest possible terms. The fundamental premise of Christianity (and all the Abrahamic religions, for that matter) is that human nature is sinful, and acts as either the primary or sole barrier to this improvement. As Saint Paul put it in his Epistle to the Romans:

For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.

The underlying premise of this rather twisted piece of “logic” should be familiar to all, namely the phenomenon of finding oneself seemingly unable to do what one wants to do. The annual ritual of the New Year’s resolution that many people subject themselves to is an illustration of this, a ritual line in the sand which one heroically hopes one’s habitual indolence and weak will shall from thereon in find to be impassable. However, Paul’s argument from this simple observation has two components which are of particular importance to us in this context.

The first is the assumption that “what I want to do” can be equated with “what is good.” This really runs to the heart of the question. The individual who beats himself up over not being able to stick to his New Year’s resolution is reasoning that sticking to his resolution is “better” than not sticking to it, and the fact that he therefore cannot stick to it means that there is something deficient within him that is preventing him from doing so. This is a hugely incomplete argument that misses entirely the possibility that the real problem could lie in what he wants.

This “problem” could conceptually come in one of two forms. The first is that rather than the “sinful nature” frustrating what the individual wants to do, it is in fact that individual’s wants that are frustrating his nature; that is, there is something in his being that makes him want things that are contrary to his actual nature and which are therefore inordinately difficult for him to achieve. In this form, the source of the discomfort does not arise from the fact that he cannot do what he wants, but that for some reason he wants to do things that are, broadly, “unnatural” to him. This form would suggest that if he could realign his “wants” with his actual nature, the discomfort would cease.

The second form asserts that the discomfort arises fundamentally from the phenomenon of wanting; that is, whatever the individual wants is a siren-call, and should not be heeded. In this form, the discomfort does not arise from wanting something contrary to his nature, but from wanting in itself. It asserts that wanting is universally an unfavourable comparison between the actual state (or, more properly, what is perceived to be the actual state) and some particular other state that is desired, and that this unfavourable comparison inevitably results in discomfort since the current state is necessarily perceived to be in some way deficient when held in comparison with the desired state.

The point of importance to the current entry is that both of these two forms both stress the importance of acting in accordance with nature, as compared to St Paul’s argument that one should expressly not do this. In the first form, it is asserted explicitly that the wants should be aligned with the nature. In the second form, it is asserted that wants should be eliminated, which will inevitably lead to actions being in accordance with nature; if we define “nature” as “the natural tendency to action,” then this will only be thwarted due to a want – conscious or otherwise – to do something different, and if those wants are removed, then actions will flow from the nature. The distinction between the two forms reduces ultimately to that of method.

On the question of method, the Christian approach described above has a relatively significant difficulty, in that there appears to be none: “I cannot carry it out.” The only option is to surrender all to Jesus as personal saviour: “no man cometh unto the Father but by me.” Under a literal interpretation of Christianity, there appears to be nothing else to live other than a long miserable litany of sin terminated, the Christian hopes, by entry into Paradise.

That is, mortal life is wholly written off by Christianity as something to be endured, made bearable only by the shaky promise of a blissful afterlife. Yet, the theory of the universe inherent in this literal interpretation is so self-evidently absurd that we should look for a slightly more reasonable interpretation before writing it off completely.

Inherent in the idea of surrender is the idea of ceasing to try, which on the face of it is similar to the “stop wanting” approach we described earlier. The pessimism of Christianity mirrors that of Buddhism, which declares that “existence is suffering,” and seeks an escape from the “cycle of Samsara,” or the cycle of birth and rebirth. Both are fundamentally negative approaches, condemning nature as inherently bad. The Christian approach has the aspirant merely give up hope entirely, to trust Jesus to “save” one, whereas the Buddhist approach demands discipline to achieve control over bodily actions, speech and mind in order to free the individual from the cycles of existence. The two approaches are identical in that they postulate the existence of something fundamentally deficient within man that needs to be overcome; they differ in the the Christian method entrusts the solution to an imaginary third party, whereas the Buddhist method relies on individual effort.

Both Thelema and paganism dispute this fundamental proposition, and assert that nature is, if not “morally good,” at least “proper” to the individual, and that the self or life improvement that we assumed to be the purpose of religion is to be found in embracing that nature, not rejecting it. Both have a fundamentally positive outlook on existence and on human nature, celebrating the latter instead of attempting to “transcend” it. Attempts have been made to reconcile these approaches, asserting that Buddhist practice, for instance, is intended to “free” the nature through discipline, but these attempts are wholly superficial; a closer examination will reveal the continuing assumption that there exists a “problem” that needs to be “fixed.” For instance, the very attempt to postulate that man cannot perceive or “be true to” his nature without such discipline explicitly assumes just such a problem.

The portrayals of gods in classical paganism well reveals the distinction; the gods are fickle and wayward, as imperfect as man, and unashamedly so. By contrast, the Abrahamic religions propose a single and perfect god to which we must aspire (although the Old Testament in particular portrays Yahweh as a thoroughly unpleasant character wholly undeserving of the term “god” as the Christian imagines it). Unlike both the Abrahamic and Buddhist approaches, there is no attempt within classical paganism or Thelema to strive for some kind of “perfection” in either character or mind.

This may give rise to the appearance of a paradox, namely, if there is no “problem” that needs to be “fixed,” what is the purpose of religion, if we have already assumed it to be some form of improvement? If there is nothing that needs to be “fixed,” what then needs improving? It may at first glance appear to be a subtle distinction, but what needs improving is an ability, not the self. We can liken to the process to learning a musical instrument; at the beginning, the individual can play only ineptly, but he is not deficient in this, and the instrument itself is certainly not broken. The Thelemite, for instance, perceives his own suffering just as the Buddhist does, but it causes him no despair; he perceives a difficulty in implementing what he believes to be his will just as the Christian does, but he perceives no deficiency. By paying attention to what is, and avoiding “lust of result,” he sees no alternative standard of what should be, and hence experiences no disappointment. The aspiring Thelemite, of course, may experience just these things, but the solution in this case is essentially just to practice, to improve his ability to avoid drawing such comparisons. As it is said in The Book of the Law, “Bind nothing! Let there be no difference made among you between any one thing & any other thing; for thereby there cometh hurt.”

Thus, as the Sun progresses through this decan, endeavour to avoid drawing comparisons between the current and desired states of both the environment and the self. Much of the joy in learning a musical instrument is precisely in the learning; try to view the trials of life in the same light. Remember that “death is the crown of all,” so that no state of perfection can be reached, much less maintained. There is no reason to be upset at the inability to achieve a certain end, where there is no third party giving one a divine command to do it, and no upset within the self unless one creates it. Avoid the temptation to construct a “personal morality,” to replace one artificial set of rules with another. Concentrate on what is, instead of what is merely imagined.