Beyond the Pall (Part 2): Standing Between the Worlds

The funeral passed for my friend the Witch. The weeks following were filled with strange conversations, and changing relationships.

I sat down with small groups of Witches gathered together over the common love of their friend. I hugged more Witches on some days than whole mega-churches will in their entire existence. I saw the Witchcraft community struggling with the issue of respecting the dead. There were some who had seen my friend as a threat, and were taking their shots at him now that he was dead.

"Do you think he is in Hell?" I was asked this question by more than one person. His Pentecostal mother cried each time we talked over the phone. Even a Pagan asked me that fearful Hell question. Believing that the mercy of God is greater than we can imagine, knowing that the thief on the cross made a last-second dive for home plate, and slid in under the tag, I replied that God is the judge of all things beyond the grave, and I know that He loved our friend more than any of us ever could.

He was buried 75 miles away from Salem, and many people in the Witchcraft community could not attend. On Friday the 13th, a memorial service was arranged in Salem. This was the first notable Witch to die since the Neo-Pagan revival had made its way to our little New England burg in the early 70's.

The organizers of the memorial service needed a sound system. Our church had one. We offered it. So Jesus provided the sound system for the memorial of a famous Witch. I was asked to speak, and wondered how that might be received by a room full of Pagans.

Friday the 13th arrived. Jeff, our assistant pastor took the sound system down to the Old Town Hall. I arrived later, and helped set it up. Our close friend who was leading the service sang out a chorus from the musical "Wicked,"

"And Goodness knows
The Wicked's lives are lonely
Goodness knows
The Wicked die alone
It just shows when you're Wicked
You're left only
On your own

Yes, Goodness knows
The Wicked's lives are lonely
Goodness knows
The Wicked cry alone
Nothing grows for the Wicked
They reap only
What they've sown"

"Do you think this song is okay? Should I sing that last phrase, 'They reap only what they've sown?'" Our friend the Witch asked us.

I responded with a slightly twisted, but obvious smirk, "Of course you should sing it. It is from the Bible after all."

"But do you think it's too much? Because I think I like it."

"I am sure it will be fine."

Our singing friend was the main speaker. He was nervous. He asked for advice about his "sermon." We all laughed that he called it a sermon. Jeff and I remarked to one another how pastoral he appeared. He may not have looked like a Christian pastor, but he was caring for people in his unique Neo-Pagan way.

Later that evening we arrived for the memorial. The room was filled with people strange and common. Black is the color of choice for these events, but this was blacker than usual. Some were dressed in ceremonial robes, some in street clothes, and some in wild neo-medieval black leather garb. People gathered in small clans, and the room was abuzz with whispers, greetings between distant friends being reacquainted, quiet laughter, and tears.

I made my way around the room meeting new people, and saying hi to recent acquaintances and old friends. I counted four Christians in the room of somewhat over 100: three from our church, and a Quaker.

After a time of mingling, people were called to their seats. The memorial was decidedly witchy. A small table of occult implements sat front and center. The elements of earth, air, fire and water were called upon, and the spirits of the north, east, south, and west were invoked. I was reminded of a once popular Christian worship song which called to the directions of the compass. I thought to myself that the same Pentecostal churches which enjoyed the song would be the least comfortable of all Christians in this strange setting.

The group of four Witches running the service began to introduce the people who were asked to speak. They would simply say, "and now we will hear from John." I was last in the order.

People shared poetry, stories of their friendship, and writings from the Book of Shadows which was written by the deceased. This Book of Shadows held poems of joy, and sorrow, of doubt, and struggle, moments of calling out to God for help in this troubled world, and honest descriptions of being broken and human.

The Quaker man stepped up. He began, "An Atheist, a Witch, and a Quaker went to Transylvania." The room roared at this joke introduction. He held well over 100 people enraptured with his hilarious stories of their real travels together.

My singing friend approached the mic to introduce me, but he said more than, "and now we will hear from Phil." He called the Witches in the room to remember a time some 15 years previous when the Pagan and the Evangelical Christian communities were aggressively antagonistic to one another, and remarked that those days were past. Then he credited me for the transformation, and openly called the Witches in Salem to follow my example. I rubbed my eyes, and doubted that our little church was as influential as he suggested. He spoke my name. I stood and walked to the platform to the sound of applause.

An Evangelical Christian Pastor being applauded by a room full of Witches; my little world was weird, but it exponentially increased in peculiarity that moment.

"These are the thinnest of times, when the veil between the world we live in and the heavens becomes transparent...." I hailed back to the early Christian Celts and their theology of Thin Places - times and locations where heaven and earth meet as I described the experience we all have during the loss of loved ones. But I wondered who really stood at this uncomfortable junction between the worlds. Was it those who lost their friend? or was it I who had made these new friends in a world so unlike my own?