SCHOOL OF OUR DIVINE
INFINITE BEING
Polytheistic Monism - Divine Theurgy - Oracle to the Gods
Diet, Exercise, Sobriety and Physical Discipline
Theurgy is discipline. As the soul is trained through successive ritual praxis, so too must the body be cultivated with intention. The physical form is the living temple through which the work is done; its strength, clarity, and vitality directly affect the depth and stability of theurgical operations. The disciplines of exercise—appropriate to one’s age, health, and capacity—and a balanced diet are not ancillary to the work, but essential pillars of it.
No single method is imposed here; what matters is that the chosen regimen be deliberate, sustainable, and grounded in wisdom rather than indulgence. Movements and practices that promote flexibility, stamina, and postural integrity are recommended. Our practices in Kriya Kundalini Yoga are sufficient for maintaining the health of the spine and energetically preparing the physical body for the embodiment of the divine. However, this should be complemented with some form of strength training and cardiovascular exercise, ensuring that the body’s physical endurance matches its spiritual readiness.
Nutrition should exclude, or at least strictly limit, substances universally recognized as detrimental to health—refined sugars, white flour, and other processed foods. A lower-carbohydrate diet can be beneficial, particularly when paired with intermittent fasting, as these approaches help clear the body and sharpen the mind. Adequate and consistent sleep is equally vital, for without it the subtle faculties are dulled.
There are many excellent, freely available resources—especially on platforms such as YouTube —that offer guidance on diet and exercise. But the standard here is clear: the care of the body must match the care of the soul. Whatever model is chosen, it must be pursued with the same steadfastness and clarity that one brings to the altar.
Fasting holds a singular and venerable place in the life of the theurgist. Across traditions—from the ascetic retreats of the desert mystics to the vigil-fasts of the Eleusinian initiates—it has been recognized as more than a physical discipline. It is a deliberate act of consecration, a setting apart of the body from its ordinary patterns so that the whole self may be attuned to the sacred.
For longer operations, it is strongly advised to fast from the day before the rite until its completion. This abstention does not weaken the practitioner; rather, it reclaims energy otherwise spent on digestion and redirects it toward clarity of mind, subtle perception, and sustained inner focus. In this state, the veil between the ordinary and the divine grows thinner, the inner ear more attuned to the voices of the gods.
Beyond immediate ritual preparation, the discipline of periodic fasting—whether one day each week or one day each month—serves as a continual purification of the body and the will. Physically, it allows the system to reset, clearing metabolic byproducts and restoring balance. Psychologically, it develops mastery over desire and habit, proving to the self that the appetites serve the soul, not the other way around. Spiritually, it creates an inner emptiness in which divine presence may dwell more fully.
Fasting also sharpens the instrument of ritual receptivity. As the body moves into a lighter, more subtle rhythm, the mind’s tendency toward distraction diminishes, and the theurgist enters the work with heightened lucidity. This lucidity is not only mental but energetic: the vital currents of the subtle body circulate more freely, making invocation, visualization, and communion more vivid and effective.
While there are many approaches—water fasts, partial fasts, intermittent fasting—what matters most is intentionality. The fast is not undertaken as a health fad or an endurance contest, but as a sacred offering: the gift of one’s own embodied energy back to the divine order. The hunger felt during such a fast is not an obstacle but a teacher, a reminder of the longing that underlies all true theurgy: the hunger for the divine itself.
In my own work as a theurgist, I have chosen to follow a low-carbohydrate, high-nutrition vegetarian diet. This decision was rooted in a direct personal experience while in India, where I encountered Kali and was transformed through a chthonic encounter with the goddess. I have a video on YouTube describing this experience for anyone interested.
I maintain an intermittent 24-hour eating rhythm, which allows my body and mind to rest from constant digestion and remain clear for both study and ritual. Once a week, I also fast for a full day as a dedication to performing the Divine Infinite Being Invocation Ritual of the Pentagram on Sundays. Over time, this weekly rhythm has become more than a routine—it is a way of preparing my entire being to meet the rite with focus, energy, and presence.
This is not a universal prescription. The principle is that one’s diet should serve one’s spiritual work, whatever specific form that takes. For me, vegetarianism, controlled carbohydrates, intermittent fasting, and a dedicated weekly fast are simply the pattern that aligns best with the work I am called to do.
In the life of the theurgist, clarity of mind and steadiness of will are paramount. The use of hallucinogens, entheogens, and other psychoactive substances—such as marijuana—has been present in spiritual practice for millennia. Many traditions report, and modern research affirms, that these substances can evoke visions, heighten sensory perception, and catalyze mystical experiences. When used rarely, in a controlled and intentional manner, such substances may serve as occasional allies, opening perception to layers of reality that are normally veiled.
Yet there is a vital distinction to be made: ritual theurgy in its greatest, most transformative effects arises not from altered chemistry, but from altered being. Sobriety and purity—here understood not as moral categories, but as conditions of liminal readiness—allow the theurgist to move from the rational to the suprarational through the sonorous power of invocation and the embodied presence of the god-forms. In this state, the shift of consciousness is not externally triggered, but internally generated; it is a tuning of the soul’s instrument to the resonance of the divine
From my own past experience, I can attest that marijuana, when used before ritual, at first seemed to greatly enhance the sense of immersion and contact. The imagery was vivid, the presence tangible. But over time, the progressive and consistent performance of ritual revealed a subtle erosion: the high became ritualized in itself, shifting the focus from divine communion to a preoccupation with the altered state. The mind, instead of being drawn toward the god, began to orbit the desire for the drug’s effect.
When I stepped away from this practice, the immediate sense of depth was diminished. Rituals felt quieter, even less dramatic. But as the weeks and months of sobriety unfolded, coupled with periods of fasting and deliberate purification, a profound transformation took place. The experiences that emerged were of an entirely different order—towering in presence, crystalline in clarity, and far more enduring than anything drug-induced. These states were not dependent on chemical triggers and could be called upon again and again through disciplined practice.
Theurgy at its highest aims at the stable elevation of the soul, not momentary glimpses. Substances may open doors, but the disciplined theurgist learns to build those doors into their own being—accessible by will, invocation, and alignment alone. For this reason, while controlled and rare use of hallucinogens is not condemned, the enduring mastery of the art belongs to those who walk the path of sobriety for the greater portion of their work.
In the context of theurgy, the best approach to alcohol is infrequent, deliberate, and, when possible, sacramental. Shared in group settings or on rare social occasions, it can serve as a convivial bond or a ritual libation. Yet the measure of its use must be guided by a higher principle—one the Orphics understood well.
The Orphics were devoted to Dionysus, but not to the common intoxication associated with his worship in the broader Hellenistic world. In the public festivals, wine often flowed to excess, dissolving the boundaries of self through celebratory drunkenness, bodily abandon, and sensory saturation. The Orphics, however, sought another form of ecstasy altogether—one born not of the body’s dulling but of the soul’s illumination. For them, the “drunkenness” of Dionysus in his higher order was a rapture of clarity, a spiritual exaltation in which the divine presence overcame the mortal frame without the clouding of reason.
This is the essential difference: ordinary intoxication lowers the mind into the purely sensory and emotional; Orphic ecstasy elevates it into the suprarational, where the soul is absorbed into divine life. Theurgy seeks exactly this higher ecstasy—one in which awareness becomes more acute, not less.
Thus, within theurgical practice, the drinking of wine or other libations, when consecrated to the gods, is entirely permissible. In fact, as in ancient rites, it can serve as a vehicle of offering and communion. But the disciplined nature of the work allows for no surrender to physical drunkenness. The wine is taken in measured quantity, its effect symbolic and sacramental, aligning the act with the Orphic pursuit of divine intoxication without the loss of mental sovereignty.
In short, for the theurgist, alcohol is not a path to ecstasy—it is a small, carefully shaped vessel for it. True theurgical rapture comes through invocation, divine presence, and the awakening of the soul to its own immortal nature.
Theurgy, too, generates an ecstasy, but it is of another kind entirely: an exaltation born from hyperawareness, precision of invocation, and the felt descent of the divine. This is, in many ways, the opposite of the dulled and altered state that alcohol can produce. For this reason, within the practice of theurgy, the drinking of wine or other libations—when consecrated to the gods—is certainly permissible, but the disciplined nature of the art demands that it never reach the point of physical drunkenness, especially in ritual settings.
In short, alcohol may occasionally accompany theurgical life, but it must never lead it. The highest states of theurgy arise not from losing oneself in the senses, but from becoming so present that the senses themselves are transfigured.
