The Official Blog of the Temple of Bacchus Here you enter a different kind of path — one rooted not in dogma, but in ecstasy , embodiment , and the living presence of Dionysus. The Temple of Bacchus is a revival of the ancient mysteries: a tradition of frenzy, liberation, ritual intoxication, and divine communion. Here, the body is not an obstacle to the sacred — it is the altar. The Thyrsus  is our staff of revelation.A place where myth, research, ritual, and lived experienc

The god erupts wherever we gather— in the gasp before the drumbeat, in the shiver that climbs the spine like a serpent waking to sunlight. We are the wine spilling over the rim, the feet that forget the ground, the mouths that open not to speak but to let the god roar through. They tried to chain the frenzy, to name it sin, to bury it deep— but ecstasy is a root that splits stone, and every body remembers the way home. We rise laughing, trembling, undone, vines in o

The rites of ecstasy have worn many masks. Here is how the ancient Orgia echoed through the medieval imagination, reshaped as the Witch’s Sabbat. I. The Dionysia and Orgia: Sacred Madness and Trance In ancient Greece, the Dionysia  were public festivals honoring Dionysus—god of wine, theater, and ecstatic rebirth. They featured dramatic performances, processions, and communal celebration. But beneath the civic veneer lay the Orgia —private, ecstatic rites of divine possess

I. Introduction: Between Ecstasy and Erasure Across centuries and empires, ecstatic rites have risen from the margins—wild, sensual, and spiritually defiant. The Bacchanalia of ancient Rome and the witches’ sabbat of medieval Europe are two such traditions: both demonized, both suppressed, and both remembered through the lens of fear. This essay explores their symbolic and ritual parallels, tracing how the Roman Senate and the Christian Church each responded with moral pan

The vine remembers what the world forgets. Roots whisper the names we carried through fire, and every cup raised in trembling hands is an echo of the first wild cry. They tried to bind the god in silence, to drown the drum beneath the church bell, but frenzy is older than fear and the body keeps its covenant. We return in every age— masked, unmasked, reborn in the wine-dark night— for the god walks wherever breath becomes song and desire becomes a doorway. Call it ma