STARS, NOT SHEEP

The Real Reason Thelema Speaks Only to a Few

I’ve explored the concepts I'm about to write about today many times before, turning them over in my mind without ever fully committing them to the page. However, this time I wanted to properly sit down and give them a more coherent form, to explore them thoughtfully and in greater context. What particularly sparked this reflection was a recent Facebook post by an acquaintance recounting their experience at a talk given by a renowned Lama. Amidst mostly dull, self-focused questions about managing ego or finding comfort in spiritual practice, one young man stood out by asking if his profession—cockroach extermination—was compatible with taking spiritual refuge. The question struck them because it pierced directly into the heart of ethical considerations inherent in any sincere spiritual path.

My acquaintance noted, with some lament, that nobody in that gathering mentioned God. This absence prompted them (and now, myself) to reconsider once again the nature of mysticism, the value and challenge of spiritual communities, and how we navigate a path like Thelema in pursuit of something deeper.

Now, imagine stepping into a centuries-old cathedral on a cold evening. Candlelight flickers off stained-glass saints, incense hangs sweetly in the air, and a gentle voice from the pulpit promises salvation. In that warm embrace of faith, devotees feel rescued – liberated from sin, assured that an external saviour will carry their burdens. For most people, religion offers exactly this comfort: the promise that no matter one’s flaws or fears, a greater power will save them in the end. Whether it’s salvation from sin, deliverance from suffering, or eternal life in paradise, exoteric religions (outward, public faiths) thrive on a theology of salvation. This promise soothes deep human yearnings. It’s reassuring to believe that by following certain creeds or rituals, one will be rewarded with safety and peace. From the fervent Christian awaiting Jesus’ redemption to the devotee of Krishna trusting in divine grace, the narrative is similar – salvation comes from an external Divinity. It’s a warm, sheltering narrative, like being wrapped in a soft blanket on a winter night. The emotional appeal is powerful: fear of the unknown is eased by faith in a loving saviour, guilt is washed away by forgiveness, and life’s injustices are rectified by promised heavens. Mainstream religions, by and large, speak to this need. They present mythic stories of sin and redemption, struggle and deliverance, which resonate with the masses. After all, who wouldn’t be drawn to a message that all our suffering can be cured if only we believe, obey, and await divine mercy?

Indeed, salvation-oriented religions often ignite sensory and emotional experiences to reinforce their promise. The rousing swell of a church choir can feel like angels lifting one’s soul; the sight of devotees bowed in unison can instil a comforting sense of unity and surrender.

In such settings, the individual’s heart may swell with hope: a saviour is looking out for me, I am not alone, my ultimate fate is secured. This emotional security blanket is a cornerstone of popular religion’s mass appeal.

It requires relatively little of the follower in terms of personal transformation beyond faith and obedience. The heavy lifting of spiritual fulfilment – overcoming sin or reaching heaven – is outsourced to the deity or messiah. The believer’s task is chiefly to trust and follow. In exchange, they receive the promise (explicit or implicit) that they will be saved from existential terror – from death, from meaninglessness, from moral failure. Salvation is a gift, freely given by grace or earned through piety, and it’s profoundly exoteric: available to anyone in the public who accepts the creed. This is the familiar religious pattern that has comforted billions through history.

Thelema’s Radical Departure: A Path Without Salvation

Now contrast that comforting tableau with a very different scene: a lone individual stands in a small temple or perhaps under an open night sky scattered with stars. There is silence except for their own heartbeat. No congregation surrounds them, no priest intercedes on their behalf. In their hands might be a handwritten journal or esoteric text, and in their heart a daunting realisation – no one is coming to “save” me. This is the world of Thelema, the Law of the New Aeon of Force and Fire. Thelema does not offer the warm blanket of salvation theology at all. Instead, it proclaims a bracing, even stark, message: every man and every woman is a star. Each of us must discover our own divinity, chart our own course, and embark on the Great Work of spiritual attainment ourselves. In other words, Thelema offers apotheosis, not salvation – the potential for each individual to become divine, rather than to be saved by another divine being.

This is a radical departure from the salvation model. Liber AL vel Legis, the central sacred text of Thelema, declares succinctly: “Every man and every woman is a star.” This cryptic verse conveys that each individual contains a unique divine spark and an independent orbit of destiny. It implies we are not lowly sinners awaiting rescue, but stars – luminous beings who must shine by our own light. Thelema’s primary commandment, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law,” further emphasises personal responsibility and inner guidance. Your True Will – essentially your soul’s unique path and orbit – is the only compass. No external authority (not even Crowley himself, as the Prophet) can hand you salvation; you must first discover, then follow your own True Will to realise your divine nature. In place of a preset list of sins and saviours, Thelema offers a toolkit of magical and mystical practices aimed at personal discovery: rituals, meditations, the quest to attain Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel and the experience of one’s higher divine Self. These are not things the average person can simply receive or believe once and feel “saved.” They require work, discipline, and courage. Little wonder, then, that Thelema’s path is sometimes called the Law of the Strong – it demands much of the practitioner and promises no earthly guarantee of comfort or reward.