Friday, March 21, 2008

A Green Witch

It was an ordinary day for a hospital chaplain.  I did some visiting, consoled a woman weeping in the hallway, wrote out medication vouchers for the indigent.  Then I drove out of town to a drab trailer park to do a memorial service for a young man who had died earlier in the week.  The service was held in the trailer park’s community room.  After the rowdy service of storytelling by the man’s friends and ex-girlfriends, I joined the buffet line and loaded up on Indiana soul food: Sloppy Joes, cole slaw, bright green jello, potato chips, and Pepsi in a plastic beer cup.  I was looking around for a place to sit when I noticed the striking woman with silver hair, a black velvet dress, and a necklace with a five pointed star.  She invited me to join her.

“Nice words,” she said.  “Yeah,” I said, “I get a lot of practice.  Are you friends with the family?” “Oh yes,” she said, dark eyes shining.  “The mother and I go way back.” I sipped on my Pepsi, we chatted, and at some point I said, “So what do you do?” She held up a finger and swallowed a bite of Sloppy Joe.  ‘Oh,” she said, “I’m a witch.”

Now, at this point a lot of my fellow ministry types would pray for the Lord’s protection and suddenly remember the bible study they were supposed to be at.  But I kind of like the witches I’ve met.  Women who belong to the nature-based religion called Wicca.

I met my first witch some years ago.  Not at Halloween or a satanic ritual with cats.  But in the hospital, where she was dying.  Sally was one of our employees, beloved by many of us.  But when I entered her hospital room on the oncology unit she looked nervous.  “Um, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said, “and I don’t want you to get upset or anything.” Yes?” I said.  “Well, I belong to the Wicca religion.” “Oooh,” I said, “I thought you were going to tell me my zipper was open.  Or you tie your kids up in your basement.” We laughed, and she told me all about her faith journey.  How she was raised Christian, but grew disenchanted with the double standards in American culture.  Like being raised to love her enemy, not just her neighbor, then having her country led into a preemptive war by a Christian president.  Of the disconnect between American popular faith and the environment, painful to Sally in her deep relationship with nature, her training in herbal medicine.  I learned of the Wicca moral Law of Threefold Return: that teaches whatever good or bad actions a person performs, these will return with triple force.  She even shared a prayer for healing from the well worn book of spells on her nightstand.

So back at the trailer park, I’m having a good old time with the witch I just met.  We both knew Sally, and we found out we both lived in the same neighborhood, in the inner city.  “Oh man, how about those abandoned rental houses?” I complained.  “If you’re such a good witch, why don’t you cast some spells on those absentee landlords.  Or the crime?”

“Oh I did,” she said, munching a potato chip.  “I got rid of five drug houses with spells.” Five?” I said.  “Took me a whole year of calling Code Enforcement, police, and the mayor to get one shut down.” She shrugged, and I raised my Pepsi to her.  “You go girl.”

So next time you’re complaining about your neighborhood or global warming, don’t blame witches.  The lady at the checkout or at the bank may be one.  And don’t worry about getting hexed, or the evil eye.  But you may want to take a hard look at your carbon footprint, after you’re finished with morning prayers.

Broadcast by Jeff Nixa on March 21, 2008
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Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe

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