Why Rituals Are Only Theater, Not Magic

Over my more than thirty-year journey in magic, there’s one question that returns with almost comical persistence. Sometimes it comes from someone new—someone who has only just opened the door to the subject. Other times it comes from a person who has “been through a lot,” someone who has watched videos until three in the morning, lit candles, whispered words, drawn symbols, and yet there’s a quiet tension in their eyes: “Okay… but then why doesn’t anything truly change?”

And right there, in that pause between hope and doubt, my most frequently asked question appears: “Why do you claim rituals are only theater and not magic? And if they’re only theater—why do so many people use them?”

I love these questions. Not because they give me a reason to argue, but because I can feel that behind them there’s something more valuable than curiosity. There’s a hunger for reality. There’s a desire not to be deceived—neither by others nor by your own eyes. And if those questions aren’t met honestly, a person can spend years “doing magic” and still never truly step onto the Path of working with the magic of the mind. They’ll be busy, they’ll be excited, they’ll have experiences… but they won’t have truth they can stand on.

So I’ll begin with the first question. But I won’t begin with theory. Because theory is often like a beautifully drawn map of a place you’ve never actually been. It can impress you, it can sound convincing, but it isn’t lived ground. And in this subject, nothing is stronger than practice.

Take a small coin—any coin at all. Place it in front of you, on the floor or on a table, an altar or whatever you prefer, but in a way that you can clearly see which side is facing up. That’s it. Just that. Nothing special.

Now perform a ritual for something very simple: make that coin flip completely on its own, from one side to the other. If rituals truly are a force that changes reality by themselves, then you should be able to do exactly that. Not “make it twitch a little.” Not “feel the energy rising.” Not have something happen “internally.” Make it flip. It’s an action so elementary that it shouldn’t challenge anything that claims to “rearrange the threads of the Universe,” “rewrite fate,” “open roads,” or “close doors.”

And this is where most people instinctively begin to apologize in advance. They start to suspect there’s a trick. That “it doesn’t work like that.” That “the task isn’t set correctly.” That “there has to be a special hour.” That “the coin is too material.” That “you don’t do things like this just to prove them.” But that is exactly what’s revealing. When a system starts avoiding what can be tested, it doesn’t behave like a power—it behaves like a story that hides from light.

You don’t need to tell me the result of the experiment. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. The coin stays exactly as it is. Not because you’re “not pure enough,” not because you “don’t have the gift,” not because “someone interfered.” Simply because theater—no matter how beautiful—doesn’t move matter by itself.

Usually, that’s where a person goes quiet. Sometimes they get angry. Sometimes they feel robbed. Sometimes they feel strangely free. Because if a coin won’t flip from words and candles, then what are we doing at all? And why do so many rituals claim far greater power—power to change relationships, heal illnesses, “bind” someone, “unbind” someone else, bring money, “strike” an enemy?

The promises are grand. Sometimes they’re delivered with such confidence they sound like the laws of physics. “Do this and it will happen.” “Say these words and fate will be rewritten.” “Light the candle and the Universe will hear you.” But between “will” and “happens” there’s a gap that is often filled with fantasy, desire, and the human tendency to search for meaning at any cost.

The truth—however uncomfortable it may be for some—is simple: a ritual, by itself, changes nothing for anyone. It isn’t a lever you pull and reality reshapes itself. So why is it so popular?

Because a ritual is the perfect language for hope. The perfect costume for fear. The perfect stage for that inner wish to believe we have control—especially when life shows us just how little control we actually have. When we’re hurting, when we’re under pressure, when we’re alone, when we feel powerless, the human psyche begins to look for something to hold onto. And if that support doesn’t come from a real structure that produces change, it’s easily replaced by a symbol.

In moments like that, the natural flow of events starts to look like an “answer.” Something good happens and we say, “See? The ritual worked.” Nothing bad happens and we say, “See? The ritual protected me.” Something bad happens and there’s still an explanation ready: “I should’ve used one more candle.” “I should’ve pronounced the words more precisely.” “Someone interfered.” A ritual is convenient because it can be “right” no matter what—not by the force of truth, but by the fact that we can make it fit into any story that would have unfolded anyway.

And here I need to say something very carefully: this doesn’t mean a ritual is completely useless. It only means we have to return it to its rightful place—otherwise it becomes a trap. Ritual is theater. And theater does have power—just not the kind people imagine.

Theater can change the state of the mind. It can gather attention, sharpen perception, calm inner chaos, unlock inner resources, and organize experience in a way that helps a person enter a certain magical state. Not because a candle is a “portal,” but because a flame is a focus. Not because words are a “code for the Universe,” but because words are a code for your own mind. Not because a symbol has inherent authority over reality, but because a symbol speaks to the part of us that doesn’t think in logic, but in images.

When we’re not in a hurry. When we have time. When we consciously use ritual as a tuning, a preparation, an entry point into that inner ordering that makes real work possible—then ritual can serve a beautiful purpose. It becomes a ramp. It becomes a stage where the mind begins to perform in the right direction.

But there’s one crucial difference between a mature practitioner and someone who is simply hoping. A mature practitioner knows that they are the one doing the magic. Not the candle. Not the smoke. Not the whisper. Not “the power of the night.” Them—through the mind, through attention, through choice, through action, through the ability to shift their inner state and then move through the world in a new way.

The Universe isn’t moved by theater in itself. It doesn’t “grant wishes” because we performed a scene. If there is change, it comes from the fact that we have changed. That we’ve become more focused. Clearer. More collected. Braver. Or simply more ready to take the next real step we used to postpone.

And when a person sees that—when they live it—when they stop leaning on effects and start leaning on structure, magic stops being “a coincidence we interpret.” It becomes an inner discipline. Quiet, but real. Without grand gestures, but with results. Not because we convinced the world to obey us, but because we trained the mind to work in a way that makes the world meet a new cause for change in us.

And ritual? Ritual remains beautiful. Sometimes it’s even necessary. But it’s no longer a god. It’s a stage. And that is enough.

Author: Morgan Shade