Initiation

Feb 13
5 min read

Updated: Mar 12

The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) defines initiation as a “Formal introduction by preliminary instruction or initial ceremony into some position, office, or society, or to knowledge of or participation in some principles or observances; hence generally, admission to the knowledge, or instruction in the elements, of any subject or practice.” The OED omits a description of the stages of the formal ritual or ceremony performed, as well as their functions. The principal purpose of a ritualized initiation is transformation (also transfiguration or metamorphosis). This is why initiation is occasionally referred to as a “rite of passage.” The passage is expected to change the aspirant seeking to traverse it, and that change is always associated with improvement. At least that is the expectation. Accordingly, the transformation is the goal and not merely the crossing-over to some other side. More is involved than the notion of getting from A to B. Kayin recognizes this larger aim as he inspects the mysterious sigils outside the Orphean Cave:

“By their nature, all initiations revolve around the motif of passage. Here, the voyage is one of conversion, which occurs between life and death and, reliably, culminates in some type of resurrection or return. When I found the runic signs indicating transformation, I knew I had

arrived on familiar ground.” (Masks of God, p. 176)

There are three main elements of the initiation process: Katabasis (Descent), Metamorphosis (Transfiguration), and Anabasis (Ascent/Return). All formal transformation can only transpire in a controlled space that needs to be set apart and protected from the mundane world. Intuitively, caves offer an ideal environment. (See Caves, and the philosopher Porphyry’s claim that they served as the first temene, or “sacred spaces.”) The process starts with the candidate’s preparation for “the journey.” Then a guide takes the aspirant to the temenos—a holy cave, sacred grove, temple, lodge, kiva, sanctuary, or shrine—and provides access to it. A guide is absolutely necessary: there is no such thing as self-initiation, which would be as nonsensical as “self-birth.” The guide never leaves the candidate’s side until the process is over. Entry is gained by the guide and not by the candidate, who is not known by the “door guardian,” the protector of the sacred space. Depending on the rules and demands of the ritual, the two ceremonial officials may engage in an exchange of “secret words,” “signs,” and “tokens,” or perhaps some fixed catechism or other back and forth, which can include a vouching for the seeker’s uprightness as well as unlocking and unsealing actions. Finally, the aspirant is taken to the “realm of transfiguration” where the conversion process takes place. This is the heart of the ritual, where its truth is revealed, to return the initiate to the mundane world afterwards in a renewed, indeed upgraded, form or condition.

The improvement applies almost exclusively to a person’s intellectual/spiritual faculties. If we experience the healing of a corporal affliction in the process it is considered a side effect. A cure under such circumstances does not occur because of some physical improvement undergone during the ritual, but because our intellectual faculties have been augmented, providing us with new insights while making us grow spiritually. The purpose of a ritual is to address the person, not the body. This distinction is important, though it is often fudged or misunderstood.

Another misconception involves the repetition of the ritual. A limited understanding of the term “initiation” might be at fault, one that semantically merges the term with “installation,” “appointment,” or even “anointment.” By thinking of “initiation” as a one-time event, we ignore that it implies an undergoing, a transformative experience, one that we would not gain other than by becoming an “other.” As such the ritual is best compared to a theatrical performance where the actors play a different role from the one they adhere to in their day-to-day lives. The experience of becoming and acting as someone else—a historic personality, or a mythical/biblical character—provides us with an episodic memory of the occurrence, as if we had taken part in the history-changing event directly. The acquired insight is far greater than the type gained from reading about the story or the myth in a book or from hearing about it from someone else. Most importantly, we have come to possess a memory of the events in question because we have lived through them, even though the experience was simulated. This is part of the transfiguration we’ve undergone, which is supposed to change us into a better version of ourselves. The only downside to metamorphosis is its impermanence in the face of the influences of the mundane world. We are also prone to forgetfulness, even in regard to the experiences we have forged on our own. Thus, the process of transfiguration should be repeated on a regular basis, such as annually, befitting the reliable circularity of the seasons. For this reason, even the most seasoned members of a rite or observance are eager to attend the yearly ceremonies—perhaps in different roles, such as witness, coach, guide, door-guardian, or master of ceremony—if only to deepen their understanding while strengthening their commitments. The old hands know that the true power of a ritual lies in its repetition. It is why such activities are often referred to as “the work,” the work that is never completed in this world, but which must go on and on until the coveted ideal state is achieved.

SPOILER ALERT: The cyclic aspect of an initiatory activity is reflected in the makeup of the OC, particularly the first three books, each of which represents one of the phases of the transfiguration process. Throughout the series the process is likened to the motif of the “Snake Biting its Tail,” the Ouroboros, whose circular unfolding governs the OC’s intertwined plot structure:

Book One, Masks of God, stands for the Katabasis principle, dramatized by Kayin’s final descent to the Hiding Land; Book Two, Soul Engineer, represents Kayin’s metamorphosis as he adapts to the demands of a novel environment; the culmination arrives in Book Three, Brotherhood of Shadows, with its prospect of Anabasis or Ascent, depending on whether Kayin can be restored to an improved version of his former self, which is required for escaping the Hiding Land—and the constrictions of the Ouroboros—permitting him to climb up to the New World.

The parallels to the prisoner’s escape and return in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave (Republic VII) should be obvious, though in Kayin’s case the phases are reversed, befitting the classical patterns laid down by the likes of Inanna’s Descent, Orpheus’ foray to the Nether Realm to bring back Eurydice, Persephone’s abduction, or the subsurface refuge-taking of the Hopi people (to live with the ants and learn from them) in order to weather the destruction of the world on top, followed by their subsequent ascent, or emergence, into the next world. Even Dante’s Divine Comedy begins with a downward journey to the Inferno, followed by the scaling of the Mount of Purgatory, before reaching the Paradiso on top.