I was a devout child growing up, and by choice, too. I went to an Anabaptist church, first only on occasion with my grandparents and then in later years with my dad. I had dreams of becoming a Pastor when I grew up, or even a monk. I was far more interested in God than in Christ. Although Jesus was interesting to me, sure, and we were on good terms ( I even elected to be baptized at nine years old. I took two whole weeks of classes in preparation and everything. My grandma threw me a party. There was cake.), but God was far more fascinating. He was the Creator, the Alpha and the Omega. My personal spiritual beliefs around Christianity were, to the dismay of my father, surprisingly Quaker. I’d sit in our church out in northern Indiana Amish country, in our favorite front row pew in the balcony section, with my children’s Bible in it’s Noah’s Ark zip-up Bible case, wearing my chubby kid sweater vest and khakis while trying my best to listen to Pastor Bill talk about Jesus some more, waiting for him to spill the beans about God. I just wanted to hear about God.
What was God? Where did He come from? What did He look like? Did He really love me? What was He doing before He made the Universe? Was He lonely? These were some of the questions I wanted answered. But I never got my answers.
I realized around the age of twelve that church was basically the Jesus Show and was promptly disappointed. No Great Mysteries were revealed to me at the pulpit. Which was perfect timing because puberty turned out to be a whirlwind of reality shattering existentialism for me, including but not limited to: having animistic experiences for the first time, discovering Paganism, Witchcraft, and Wicca, encountering ghosts, psychism, having my first mental health crisis and losing my only friends over it (not exaggerating), realizing I was a homosexual and it would be a “thing” I’d have to deal with for the rest of my life and people would judge me for it and I’d never feel normal and I could lose my family over this, but-I-don’t-think-I-have-it-in-me-to-lie-my-entire-life-it-hurts-too-much-oh-God-help-I-hate-this, etc., etc.
But my teen years in general were an exploratory time. I was home schooled through a state program which allowed me more time to myself, as well as time to help my grandmother take care of my ailing grandfather. I’ve practiced some sort of magic since I was thirteen, even earlier if you count the The Craft style binding spell I put on my dog at the age of nine, or the “rain dance” I did when I was seven (say what you will, but I’m pretty sure I made it drizzle). During this time I played with a lot of labels while fearing letting go of my Christianity. Christianity was one of few common tethers I still held to my family. As cliche as it was, I felt so different and out of step with them, and it was noticed. I didn’t want yet another wedge between me and the people I loved the most, losing Christianity, despite my naturally changing beliefs, felt like losing a part of them. Terms I used were things like “mystic”, “mage”, “gnostic”, and “spiritualist”. Although in my heart, I ached for “witch”, I always had. But “witch” scared me because I could feel the weight and importance and fire and blood of that word, and I didn’t want to take it on lightly. I gave myself time with the word, and on my eighteenth Christmas Eve night, by the light of the candles burning on my aluminum foil wrapped ironing board altar, I gave myself permission to be “witch” and I have never looked back.
I didn’t have a lot of negative experiences with Christianity, at least nothing that would look any different than your run-of-the-mill YouTube comment section. My homosexuality never came up because I wasn’t out then. I was just a large boy who was quite and uncomfortable in his skin. I’ve always had a great disdain or the idea of sin, especially original sin. Being punished for things you cannot control has always felt exceptionally cruel. Luckily, Anabaptists were pretty chill on O.G. sin. Any sins committed before Christ’s death were washed away in his blood, making original sin a moot, void, and even offensive concept in our church.
One of the things I loved and miss the most about Christianity was the idea of striving to live a godly life. Not to be this big, holier-than-thou chosen lamb of God, but to be humble and forgiving and kind. To be human, but also strive for grace. I was always taught that the kindness and understanding of strangers was God’s tiniest yet most important miracles. To open up to that grace and humanity and be that miracle for someone else. To be human and love the humanity in others is to be godly.
I’ve sparsely seen some similar-ish ideas in modern Paganism, particularly within pre-social media era book-learnt Wicca (Selena Fox and Christopher Penczak are great example of Pagan grace walking), and I am sure somewhere out there in the Eddas and other Pagan texts that I need to read there is something similar, most undoubtedly there is an Eastern equivalent, too. I’ve been pulled to this idea of Pagan grace for well over a year now, trying to form it through the fog of thought and feeling. I never really let go of grace from my Christian days, I just didn’t know how it would or could fit into my Paganism. Paganism is so freewheeling and centeredness is such an integral part of grace, it sometimes feels incompatible. I often worry that so much of what is considered Paganism is so laser-focused online that it has lost a lot of it’s footing on the earth. The internet is a fantastic tool, but it shouldn’t be the only tool.
I used to have this fantasy of starting a Pagan monastery, fulfilling my life long dream of becoming a monk of some sort (we would wear green robes, because we were Pagan, you see). But then my Virgo Sun/Virgo midheaven/Virgo Mercury brain would kick in with not only the financial logistics, but the religious ones as well. Virgo: the wet-blanket of the stars!
Perhaps I am overthinking it and over-complicating matters. Perhaps my Pagan grace, or whatever it should be called, doesn’t need to be defined so much as felt. Perhaps it’s wordlessness is a part of it’s Pagan-ness; it speaks not as a sermon, but as the breath of the wind. Perhaps it is already in me; in the Earth I walk on, in the animals I cherish, from the Gods I honor, the Dead I remember, and in the humanity I love in people.
Stone Paws & Wood Antlers 