The Path of a Christian Witch (2 page)

As is often the case with spiritual journeys, my road was not a straight one. It turned and twisted in the most unexpected of ways. It was in the widest turns, however, that I learned the most about myself and about my place in the world. I was interested in paranormal phenomena from a very young age. I was always looking for uncanny occurrences that confirmed that there was more to the world than what was visible. I started reading about astral travel and the auric field and got interested in all matters relating to metaphysics. Concurrently, religion was also an all-powerful part of my life. I would spend hours talking to Jesus and Mary before going to sleep. They were my solace and counsel.

As I grew up, I became increasingly aware of the incongruities between my beliefs and the actions of my church. My faith was that of the innocent child, relying on the simplicity of Jesus’ teachings and on the beauty of love. I could not comprehend the teachings of the men who claimed to represent him. Politics and worldly greed had entered my sanctuary, my sacred space. Like an adult who looks at her parents through mature eyes, I could not understand what my church had become. I gasped at the polemics of the church on homosexuality and women’s rights. It was around this time that I discovered Witchcraft. I started reading about it and signed up for classes. I discovered magic in myself and in the whole world, and I felt reborn. The gifts I had developed as a child rushed back at me in a great wave. And yet, despite all these discoveries and the reconnection to a deep part of myself, I lived in anxiety and misery. My most intimate friends, my Lord and Lady, could not be part of this. I had lost my tradition, the rock on which my faith was built. I was lost.

Here is the new chapter in my life, and it is a beautiful one. I have chosen to bring together all the beauty in my life into one vibrant and loving spirituality. I have given up nothing. I embrace it all.

Initially, I set about the task of writing these lines with the mindset of the scholar, making a case for the possibility of the coexistence of two beautiful philosophies, Paganism and Christianity, into one coherent spiritual practice. I wanted to dig up the roots of history and find the initial meaning of Christianity, its core teachings. I wanted to tear down the politics and the perversions that had infiltrated the church. I wanted the truth to come out so that we could rebuild a faith the way Christ would have wanted. I was the new Inquisition, tearing away the hypocrisy and the injustice that had marked the reign of the church for centuries. It was time for the Holy Institution to stand trial and to answer for its atrocities.

That version was never written. I’ve abandoned the role of the persecutor. He who uses the sword dies by the sword, someone once said. There has been enough bloodshed and anger in the name of the church that I decided I would add neither fire nor fuel to an already burning situation. I have no right to attack and destroy an institution that supports the faith and devotion of millions. There are good people in the church, people who believe and follow Christ’s teaching and way of life. We are all brothers and sisters in this. Division and resentment is the last thing Jesus would want of us.

So I start anew in joy and celebration for the beauty I have found within myself, the vital core of godliness we all share though we call it by different names. This is the story of my experience and my vision for a new-old spirituality. Throughout, I have included my experiences as a means to transmit the lessons that life has bestowed on me in a manner that no formal text or teaching could ever have. Life is the greatest teacher of all, and each of these experiences was a lesson through which I grew. These are not guidelines for a practice. This book is meant to inspire, not restrain. Take what fills you with divine light and discard the rest. But dare to dream that your path will lead you where you have always longed to be.

I am a Christian Witch, a walking contradiction.

I cast circles and design spells of burning incense and gemstones bright.

I follow the teachings of Jesus, his message of love and compassion.

My guides are the angels, the saints, the warrior women of the Torah, the myrrh-bearers, and the Holy Trinity.

My cup and cauldron are the Holy Grail.

My herbs of worship are frankincense and myrrh.

The four archangels guard my elemental gates.

My scriptures are the Bible and the Gnostic Gospels.

My mythology is Genesis and the parables.

My guardian angel is my spirit guide.

My God is the breath of life from which all things in the Tree of Life flow.

I celebrate the Christian aspects of the Sabbats.

I celebrate the Pagan aspects of the Christian Holy Days.

I practice what is forbidden by the officials of my church.

I attend Mass.

I am priestess of my rituals.

I believe in the blessed sanctity of the earth and the heavens.

I believe in the beauty of women’s spirituality.

I am not a Bible-waving, proselytizing fanatic.

“An ye harm none, do what you will.”

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

“All acts of pleasure are my rituals.”

“It is time to rejoice, for that which was lost is found.”

Foundations

The first time I walked into a Pagan class, someone asked me what had brought me there. I answered the only thing I knew to be true: it was a series of random steps. I never started out my journey being anything but myself. I just looked around me at each moment and walked toward whatever was calling me. Some doors opened up for me as others closed. I don’t know if that is what we call fate or if we choose and create our lives at any given moment.

What is certain is that these random steps never intended me to reach any particular destination. If I close my eyes, however, I can tease out of my memory key moments in my life when such doors were open. These doors, once crossed, took me on the sinuous journey that is now my life. I am struck, in retrospect, with the mundane nature of these moments. I could have easily passed them over as insignificant. And yet they have built up, ever so gently, the foundation of what I would become.

A Bowl of Water

I remember a bowl of water. I remember the water swirling in the light, its pristine clarity reflecting the light of day. I remember the smell of freshness as it was being poured and the rush of sound and color as it fell below. I even remember the metallic taste on my tongue and the cool feeling on my skin as I carried this bowl to the middle of the room. I don’t remember much else of that day. I don’t remember why I followed my father to church or why I followed the youth group to the church basement. I don’t remember how old I was. Maybe six or seven? I don’t even remember what the purpose of that bowl of water was. I think we were told the story of the Samaritan woman. Or was it Jesus’ baptism?

But what I do remember with absolute clarity is the feeling of being part of something. As I carried the bowl of water, I felt as though I was part of a story that had been unfolding for thousands of years. As I sat with the other children around that small makeshift altar, I lived an experience that had up until then been denied to me. I participated in something sacred. I was no longer a mere observer. I lived and felt the mystery and the teaching with my whole being.

During my earliest years, religion was not really a daily part of my life. I was raised Catholic, but the scope of our religious practice in those years was going to church for Christmas and Easter. We celebrated baptisms, first communions, and weddings. I received formal Catholic education in school. That was it. Like many others, my parents had put churchgoing on hold when small children made it difficult to sit through services. But then my father sustained a serious work injury and decided to start going to church once more. It was at that point that I started going as well. I think it was mostly a way to spend time with him rather than due to true devotion.

Every Sunday we would walk to St-George’s Church in the suburbs of Montreal, where we lived. That is where I was invited one morning to follow the other children to the basement to partake in something that changed my life. Until then, church was an absolute bore. You sit, stand, sit, stand, listening to the interminable drone of a man who looks bored to tears, too. You just sit and wait for it to be over. However, down in the basement, our catacomb, I became involved. Through action, I began to understand the meaning of what was told to me. I began to understand the meaning of ritual. That bowl of water conveyed more meaning than could have been contained in an hour-long homily. It meant purity, cleanliness, service to others. It sang, it danced. And we gathered around it and shared this experience. Something inside me rang with the truth of that experience, and I could never be content with being a mere observer anymore. I returned every week to be a part of the mystery.

Assembly

Still, the extent of my religious life was limited to Sunday mornings. I thought little of it outside that reserved time. I spent most of the rest of my time reading and playing outside, like most children my age. I just loved to read. I’d taught myself to read by age five, and books were treasures to me. I read
The Wizard of Oz
and
The Chronicles of Narnia
so many times that the books literally fell apart in my hands. I would stay up late at night, unable to put the adventures on pause. I also loved to go to school. To study and learn: there was nothing greater.

In third grade, I took up the challenge of going to English school. Living in Quebec, I already spoke French. I also spoke Italian, which I had received from my parents. But my parents also recognized the importance of speaking English in today’s world and had taken steps to find a school where I could learn the language. Under the eyes of my nervous parents, I put on my green tunic and set off to The Abbey, a private, Catholic, and English-language school at the other end of town. I did not speak a word of English at the time, but I was strangely undisturbed by that fact. This lack of concern was justified: by Christmas, I was conversing and reading like a pro.

My years at The Abbey were the best of my childhood. It was a small school of about one hundred children. The children I started school with in the third grade were the ones I graduated with three years later. We were a family. We formed such bonds that I know that if we met on the street today, we would run into each other’s arms as if we had just seen each other yesterday.

We started each day with Assembly. Each class came in to the gym row by row. The school principal stood in the front and led the prayers. We said the Our Father and the prayer to our guardian angel. Then we sang one song in English and one in French. We were then all ready to start our day. I would look around at the faces at Assembly, and I could feel a serenity and a deep joy at being together and celebrating something greater than ourselves. We sang and prayed. Nobody rolled their eyes or caused a commotion. We enjoyed this time as much as any other part of our day. My experience of religious affairs had always been tainted with the feeling that it was something you put up with. But there, in Assembly, we were singing and having a good time. It was a solemn occasion without being stern. It was joyous without being frivolous. It felt good to be there. And it became a daily part of my life.

Religion became my favorite subject. In third grade we sat in a circle, and the teacher read the stories of Abraham, Noah and his ark, and the Israelites’ flight through the desert. In fourth grade we reviewed the Commandments and learned how to live together and what Jesus had taught us.