The Materialism of Magic

For many practitioners of magic, divination requires some basic ingredients. Candles, prayer books, crystals, incense, spices, and tarot cards often serve as tools that help shape and alchemize thoughts and desires into meaningful changes in one’s life. But at what point do magical “materials” cross the line into “magical materialism”?

It should come as no surprise that New Age, occultist, and pagan traditions, like many other religions, rely on tangible material culture in their sacred practices. Prayer beads, veils, icons, and sacred texts are part of the everyday rituals of many world religions. When used within their proper cultural and spiritual contexts, these goods do not merely occupy space as empty commodities; rather, they are objects imbued with symbolic, relational, and devotional meaning. Pagan traditions, in particular, emphasize humanity’s interconnectedness with the physical world, often viewing material objects as vessels of intention and relationship rather than as inert things.

In a post-capitalist context, however, magical practice is increasingly vulnerable to being reduced to a commodity. A telling example is Sephora’s 2018 “Witch Starter Kit,” a collaboration with fragrance company Pinrose. The gift box included nine eau de parfums, a deck of tarot cards, cleansing sage, and a rose quartz crystal, all packaged for mass consumption. The release was quickly met with online backlash from magic practitioners and Indigenous communities, who protested the appropriation and commercialization of sacred spiritual practices. In response, Sephora ultimately pulled the product from its inventory. The incident highlighted the tension between spiritual practice rooted in meaning and community, and consumer culture’s tendency to flatten ritual into aesthetic novelty.

Even the non-material aspects of religion have increasingly been commodified through what might be called “social products.” These include spiritual self-help courses, luxury yoga retreats, and motivational speaker events that charge exorbitant fees while promising enlightenment, healing, or transcendence. This shift toward consumer-driven religiosity can be attributed, in part, to post-capitalist alienation. As societies become more secularized and demystified, a persistent “meaning gap” remains. Humans possess a deep desire for purpose and orientation; when traditional sources of meaning erode, commodities often appear as convenient substitutes.

In a culture saturated by commodity fetishism, material goods come to function as tangible—yet ultimately superficial—reflections of identity and value. The illusion of fulfillment they provide is short-lived. Over time, the novelty fades, dissatisfaction resurfaces, and another purchase is required to restore the feeling of meaning. In this way, consumption becomes cyclical, positioning spending itself as a spiritual act while quietly hollowing out its substance.

So, in a season defined by conspicuous spending, what are witches—and spiritual practitioners more broadly—to do? While consumer habits are undeniably shaped by the social and economic conditions of the present, those who practice esoteric spirituality nonetheless retain agency over their personal rituals. They can choose whether their practice is meaning-driven or commodity-driven. A meaning-driven practice might begin by considering the origins of a spiritual object: Who made it, and with what intention? Does the practitioner understand its purpose, symbolism, and cultural context?

Further questions naturally follow. Is the object necessary or useful to one’s practice? Does it facilitate inner transformation, or does it merely validate and perform a spiritual aesthetic? When these questions are applied not only to spiritual tools but to consumption more broadly, practitioners may find themselves becoming more deliberate and selective. Such reflection helps distinguish the mass-produced “Witch Starter Kit” from a votive statue acquired during a pilgrimage or monastery visit.

No single person’s purchasing habits will ever fully resolve the ethical tensions surrounding materialism and commodity fetishism. To live, one must buy, and completely denying ourselves of any pleasure does not bring us more valor and virtue. Yet one’s posture toward goods and services can either support or undermine spiritual development. When all is said and done, one might ask: Who would I be without all this “stuff”? And would there still be magic in my life?

Tara Yazdan Panah is an essayist from Carlsbad, CA, and an Inglenook Features Writer. She is currently based in Cambridge, MA, where she works as a teaching fellow at Harvard Divinity School.