Beyond the Pall (Part 7): A Day with Dennis

It was October in Salem. It was now eight months since my friend the Witch had died. It was also the season when the occult trade took on a decidedly more noticeable place in the marketing strategies of our fair city. Our small city of 40,000 people hosts twelve or thirteen withcraft shops, and the windows were brimming with occult wares like toy stores stocked for the Christmas rush.

In the ninth October of ministry during Salem's month long Haunted Happenings events, we now had over a hundred volunteers. The members of our own small church, interns from a prophetic school of ministry, groups from other churches in the area, musicians, and people who travelled from as far away as California joined us to "do the stuff" in our wildly fun city during this season in which families visited to celebrate the costume season, and spiritual seekers came from distant lands to pursue an alternative spirituality.

I taught classes on understanding Neo-Paganism to people who visited to do evangelism in our unique gentle style. We held events specifically aimed at offering fun, yet significant experiences to visiting tourists. We served free hot cocoa on the streets, and provided seven days of live music on the city's largest outdoor stage which we paid for, and sponsored and ran.

During this unbelievably busy season Dennis joined us from rural mid-state New York, and stayed at our house for a week. We prayed together. We practiced the ancient art of scripture meditation called Lectio Divina. We wandered around town and visited some of the Witches I knew, and I taught Dennis what I had learned over the last 13 years of studying, and befriending Witches.

Dennis had come with expectations of discovering a new way to do evangelism after having felt ineffective over most of the course of his 23 years as a Christian. The year before he heard about our outreach in Salem, MA, and his heart had been stirred to visit us.

One afternoon Dennis and I were doing Dream Interpretation (pretending to be like Daniel of the Bible) at the church. As we were interpreting dreams, a man in a long black cape, and some convincing looking vampire fangs entered and patiently waited for us to conclude our session. Vlad was a gothic magician working in the city. He had visited our church once before, and he and I frequently spoke on the street. When we were done, Vlad asked if I could visit one of the local Witches, who had become quite frustrated, and was apparently in some state of frenzy that day.

"Pastor Phil, he respects you, and I am sure he will listen to you." Vlad said.

When we were free, Dennis and I made our way to try and help this professional Witch who was working his way toward burnout. I mentioned to Dennis that this had now become a fairly regular event, especially during the busy Halloween season. Dennis was processing this information, which even to myself was a bit bizarre, but to Dennis there was no mental file folder in which to place these strange facts.

Unfortunately, we could not reach this Witch in his shop on our little journey down the street. So we let it be known we were making a friendly call, and went on our way. As we left the store, we were met by another local Pagan shop owner who asked me if I would help bring some peace between some feuding business owners.

"Could you do a miracle?" He asked.

"Sure, what's going on?" I asked in return.

He told of the two business owners: one who ran a haunted house, and another who ran a Witch shop. They were at odds with one another over what he thought was fairly petty issues.

"It would be better for business for all of us if they could get along," he said.

I told him I would give it a try, and as we walked away Dennis laughed with wonder and said, "Two different Pagans have asked for your help and counsel for their friends in the last 20 minutes. This is incredible!"

Dennis spoke to our church on Sunday morning, and this event became one of the highwater marks of his week. The experience was weird and wonderful, and Dennis helped me remember once again for perhaps the thousandth time that my life has become weird and wonderful in the last few years.

Beyond the Pall (Part 6): Pagans in the Pews, and 1692

(Beyond the Pall is a continuing series following missional engagement with the Neo-Pagan community in Salem, MA and beyond. The story began with the death of a friend who was a prominent Witch in Salem. I was a pall-bearer at his funeral, and so this series carries the title with its not un-purposeful similarity to the term “beyond the pale.” This story comes from our "God for People Who Hate Church Conference back in May. Some of you may have been there for this event.)

Three women sat nervously in the back of our little church in Salem, Massachusetts. Church was not a place they frequented, and a Christian conference was not something they would have ever considered attending, but I had personally invited them, and they agreed to give the event a try.

Could it be that the memory of the Witch trials of 1692 still lingered, and left the smell of death over our city? Or were there more recent memories, which haunted these women's minds, and made church a scary place to these three Witches sitting in the back row.

In the break between the sessions, we discussed issues close to their hearts. John Smulo and I talked, asked questions, and tried to make them feel as comfortable as possible.

The first woman was a Witch in her mid-fifties, and she had been one for over twenty years. She owned a Witchcraft shop, and trained people in the craft, but she had not been raised as a Witch. She was raised in an Irish Catholic home. She remembered threats of Hell, and never quite identified with what seemed to be the cruel God of Catholicism. She knew that some Christians believed she was a baby sacrificing, Satan worshiper, but she assured me that she did not even believe in the existence of Satan, and had raised her own children. She told stories of people asking her what babies tasted like, and how many cats she had sacrificed.

The second woman was in her early thirties, and identified herself as a solitary Witch. This meant that she did not have a coven, and did not gather on any regular basis with other Witches. She did not care to practice spells, and simply performed a daily ritual which sounded like a session of silent prayer. She did not grow up in a Christian home, but she did work for a large Christian Book Company. She was appalled by the hypocrisy, judgmentalism and gossiping of her Christian co-workers, and had wondered for quite some time if this was the typical state of the Evangelical Christian faith.

The third woman was Jewish, and in her mid-thirties. She was not actually a Witch, she was a Druid. She was raised as an Orthodox Jew, and went to Hebrew school when she was young. After a series of spiritual searches beginning in her late teens which included Christianity, and Buddhism, she found herself drawn to Druidism, and now owned a small Celtica store in town. She was strongly polytheistic, and thought that Monism (the belief that everything is one), and its counterparts, which for her includes Monotheism were part of the problem of violence and struggle in our world.

All three women thought that it was preposterous that Christians believed that Witches and other occult practitioners made a regular practice of cursing churches, or Christians. "I don't even have time for that kind of nonsense," the first woman remarked.

The end of the break came, and it was time for the next conference session to begin. John and I were leading the discussion panel, and so I began with a short introduction, "This is what a Witch looks like. Is it what you expected?" The attenders at our Christian conference laughed.

Now it was their turn to tell their stories, and relate their struggles of living as Neo-Pagans in a predominantly Christian world.

Many Christian churches would be afraid to allow a discussion panel with people from other religious beliefs, but we weren't one of those churches. We believe listening and learning are as critical to the Gospel as preaching, and this was our opportunity to show our beliefs in a practical way to our Neo-Pagan friends.

After an hour and a quarter, we were done with the session. The three Pagan ladies thanked us for allowing them to share their lives, and the first woman who had been practicing the craft as a professional in Salem for almost twenty years said this event was the first of its kind she knew of in the city.

The church applauded. The applause rang with appreciation for their courage to sit before us, and tell their stories. I wondered if this had happened in any other evangelical Christian Church anywhere.

Could it be that Christians in Salem had lived side by side with Pagans since the inception of the Neo-Pagan revival (which began in the late 1960's), and never really knew what they believed, and what they were like as people? Apparently, it is possible, and we were wondering how effective it has been in reaching people with the message of God's love.

Does the smell of death from 1692 still linger over our city, and is this what makes dialogue so difficult? I think not, but perhaps the false reports of baby eating, Satan worshiping Pagans does infect the minds of some church goers, and that stench of death just might be enough to keep Pagans from the pews.

Discussion at The Ooze

I have started a discussion at The Ooze on topics related to engaging those who are involved in the occult. It has been going for a few days, and has hit the hot topic level. Come on in and join the discussion at The Culture Discussion Board at The Ooze. I'd love to see you there.

Beyond the Pall (Part 5): Emerging From Outer Darkness

She screamed from inside the locked vault. I closed only one of the two massive doors of our double-doored vault. As I turned the handle, the gentle clicking noise accompanied the narrowing of the thin crack of light until it disappeared altogether. Then she screamed all the louder, but these were faint and distant cries to us.

Within the locked vault a person can not see their hand before their face. Complete and utter darkness envelopes you, and no amount of time will allow your eyes to adjust to see even faint images.

I allowed her to scream a short time - short for me, but perhaps an eternity for her. After about 45 seconds I spun the handle counter-clockwise, and the gentle clicking gave way to the fine crack of light, and then to the opening of the door.

She was free again. A Witch who was a mother of two young children emerged from the Vault. She was cursing, and shouting, and confessing sins, and saying she did not deserve this.

We listened. We laughed. We discussed the experience with her.

She described the utter feeling of isolation, and the sense of truly understanding the concept of Hell as outer darkness.

She said thank you - repeatedly.

After she left, we scratched our heads, and considered this strange, but remarkable interaction.

She had come into our church meeting space. It is a 200 year old bank, with a massive vault directly opposite the entrance. She came with her friend. Both dressed mildly witchy in black, with tall shoes.

We discussed our plans for an event which we are planning for the Halloween season in Salem. These Witch friends of ours were publicizing, and helping sponsor the event for us. We described elements of this event, which we call "The Brimstone Chronicles." "The Brimstone Chronicles" will walk through the history of the Christian concepts of death, and the afterlife. It will include an experience of outer darkness. People will be asked to consider outer darkness as they are locked into the old vault for a short time.

She was excited about the idea, and asked to be locked in the vault. We asked if she was sure she wanted to do this. She was insistent. We obliged, and the strange story of screaming, cursing, confessing sins, and thanking us for the experience unfolded.

A couple weeks later she returned on a Sunday afternoon. She was walking downtown Salem with her mother.

"Mom. this is Pastor Phil," she smiled proudly, "Pastor Phil this is my mother."

"I've heard so much about you. It is nice to be able to put a face with the name." Her mother replied.

We spoke awhile, and even reminisced about the experience with outer darkness. My friend the Witch had asked for Hell. We gave it to her, and we were still friends. Her Roman Catholic mother thanked me for being a positive influence. They left.

I scratched my head again.


To read parts 1-4:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

Beyond the Pall (Part 4) Dancing in the Battle Zone

Three silver knives were stuck in the turf at my friend's gravesite. They were evidence that someone hoped to keep his spirit from tormenting them from beyond the grave. After the death of my friend the Witch, Pagans from near and far had divided into friend and enemy status. I care little for the battle lines of men, and prefer to befriend everyone while carelessly navigating the battlezone. Someone was crucified millennia ago for dancing in the battlezone. He sat with drunkards and religious leaders, came to break down the partition between Jew and Gentile, and the cross He bore is still my model for action.

Similarly I don't respond to superstitious fears. Silver knives, incantations, or chants seem powerless to soothe the demons of bitterness or fear in our own hearts. Those personal sins are the real ghosts of which we should be wary.

So as the battlelines were drawn. I ignored them. Pagan stood against Pagan, and of course Christians joined the fray as well. There are Christians who have a need to mention eternal torment to those who are not Christians at every possible opportunity. These pitched their tents on the side of Hell, and lobbed their morter in my direction. They believed that I was somehow compromising my faith by not emphasizing Hell during this season of my friend's death. Once again I danced in the militarized zone, and let the bombs fall around me.

Witches and occultists were accusing other Witches of being Satan worshippers. Of course, Witches don't believe in Satan, and so it looked more like a politically motivated accusation. At stake was licensing for Tarot Reading, and Psychic Readings in the city of Salem. If one group could make another look bad, perhaps it meant more money, more customers for them during the tourist season.

Meanwhile Christians made similar accusations of Satanic worship. I wondered quietly if such unfounded accusations against Neo-Pagans (which is a broad category including Witches, and Wiccans) were a way for the Christian church to develop a much needed visible enemy. A visible enemy gives us a more adventurous message, and maybe even an upperhand in fundraising.

Having been asked to speak at, and/or create workshops for Pagan events, I met with Witches to discuss upcoming teachings. I passed my ideas through them, and they were excited about these lessons on the Christian message which I was preparing.

During this time the battlezone became more active.

I have seen Witches lie about one another, and I have seen Christians lie about one another. I have seen Witches posture for position for personal gain, and I have seen greed in Christian leadership too. I have seen Witches dishonor those among their spiritual family who pass away, and I have seen Christians speak ill of the dead as well.

I have seen Christians who have chosen to speak the truth even if it cost them, and yes I have seen Witches do the same. I have seen Christians act mercifully toward those who do not deserve mercy, and I have seen Witches do the same.

Often my little world of Christianity prides itself in being the model of ethical behavior. I am not sure that we can honestly wear those shoes, because they do not always fit us. Instead I think we are called to dance gracefully in the battlezone.

We are called to avoid choosing sides in personal struggles for the sake of loving all people. We are called to navigate the places of strife with the words of peace. We are called to help the defenseless in the moment of their greatest need, and to cease throwing stones even when stones are deserved. We are called to speak words of truth even if those words defend non-Christians, and call Christians to repentance. I believe that this is what dancing in the battlezone looks like, and I believe we are all called to such a ministry.

Unfortunately, even Christians are saving their silver knives to join the fight instead of dancing in the battlezone.


To read parts 1-3:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Beyond the Pall (Part 3): Fellowshiping with Darkness?

Should I have said that I would pray about it? Should I have asked for advice from my ministry peers, and considered their wisdom first? Should I have weighed out the factors, and considered how it might look to other Christians? I don't know. But I did do what I usually do. I saw a door crack open, and rushed through it headlong.

"I would love to teach a workshop!"

It was set in motion, and I, an evangelical Pastor was headed to being one of the workshop presenters at a festival with 1,500 Pagans. In turn she hoped to give my name to some national coordinators, and wanted to see if she could get me connected at a national level, taking my message on the road.

It was the end of my friend's memorial service. My friend the Witch had died, and I became a larger part of the lives of his friends who were left behind. Speaking at his service, I hailed back to the Celtic Christians, and referred to the Thin Places where Heaven meets earth. The death of a friend is a Thin Place, because it blindingly reminds us of our own mortality, and captures our fears, and our hopes, our joys, and our sorrows in one anarchic clash, and we meanwhile squint in the light of eternity. I ended my short message by calling everyone to consider making their own lives a Thin Place where people could capture Heaven through interacting with us. It was not a Gospel message, but it was one rooted in the source of my faith, and it reverberated gently among the Pagans in attendance that night. You see, I am convinced that what we give people is often indicative of where we are headed. If we show them heaven by treating them graciously, then it is heaven which is flowing from our hearts. On the other hand, if we give people Hell by treating them poorly, that speaks for itself. I was encouraging people to live in such a way as to give away pieces of Heaven.

After the memorial I worked on developing a workshop idea for this Pagan festival. Over the next couple weeks this is what developed:

The Circle and The Cross Talk:  Re-visioning Pagan/Christian Relationships

"Looking back to the Caesars, and to the Burning Times misconceptions and urban myths have had deadly results for both Pagans and Christians.  In our own times, though mild in comparison, Pagans have been on the receiving end of the religious persecution.  Some have chosen to remain in the broom closet, and others have faced the struggle head on - sometimes to bitter disappointment with family, friends, and work associates.  This workshop is designed as a deeper look into the worldview differences between Christian and Neo-Pagan thought with a focus upon deconstructing, and re-visioning some of the beliefs which cause the greatest pain.  Come learn to navigate this battlefield of philosophical tension. Topics of frustration to be covered include judgment, conversion, spiritual dissonance, and sexuality."

I am going to be giving a workshop discussing Heaven and Hell, Salvation, Spiritual Warfare, and Sex from a Biblical perspective at a Pagan gathering, and people are excited about it. Someone pinch me and wake me up.

Paul spoke of his love for the Jews. I have this same deep appreciation, and love for Neo-Pagans. Over the last 12 years of getting to know them, I have learned that this much-maligned group is filled with beautiful people. In our Christian tendency to reduce every person to simply a sinner, we sometimes lose sight of the imago dei which simmers gently in the every person. In our tendency to demonize cultural and religious groups we do not understand, we sometimes loose sight of legitimate critiques they may have against our own culture, and our ways. I have found my Neo-Pagan friends to be among the brightest, and the most concerned, and also the ablest critics of our own Christian culture. Yet, here I was being accepted as a voice of legitimacy on their own turf, and I am a man of the cloth they choose not to weave their garments from.

Did this support the old adage that it is not what you say, but how you say it? Has my work in deconstructing, and redefining Christian doctrine missionally for alternative spiritualities had its effect in making me a more gentle Christian to those I really loved? Had I found a way to express Jesus to people who seemed to have no problem with Him, but struggled mightily with His followers? Perhaps it was simpler than that. Perhaps it was that when my friend died, I showed myself true - as a friend to him, and to his friends, and did so without worry of whether my reputation would be sullied by hanging out with Witches.

Perhaps I am actually compromising my faith, as my detractors warn, or I am being subtlely deceived by the wiles of the devil, and moving into unprotected territory where I would be subject to the devil's attacks and deceptions. One pastor had suggested as much when he asked me the rather sophmoric question, "Have you ever heard the term fellowshiping with darkness?"

"Uh, yeah..." 'Gee, It's not like I haven't been a Pentecostal Pastor for 20 years,' I thought.

"Well what does it mean to you?" He querried deeper, as though he was trying to mine some deep-seated unrepentant condition from my heart.

I wanted to answer, "It looks like sitting in a room with a bunch of cowards screaming at demons, while people who need Jesus are out on the streets during Halloween. That looks like fellowshiping with darkness to me," but I held my sarcasm, and remained gentle before his inquisition. Halloween in Salem is a month long, and while we made friends, served the community, and shared our faith, this man had critiqued our outreach projects, while he sat in holy huddles inside the safety of the church.

I guess if Halloween outreaches have been a problem, teaching at a Pagan Festival is going to be a bigger problem for some people, but for now I will prepare, and see what the upcoming months moving toward the conference bring.

As I draw deeper into the culture of these people I love, will I find deeper expressions of the imago dei? Will I find people earnestly seeking authentic spirituality? Will I find other Christians who are willing to join me in a quest to share Shalom? or will I find myself fellowshiping with darkness, turmoil, and succumbing to deception? I think I know the answer, but who can read the map of the untrod paths of the an adventure yet untried?

Only one Person can read that future which does not yet exist.

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?

Beyond the Pall

I stood outside the doors waiting with seven other men. We were all dressed in black. The mood was somber, but then, it almost always is. Especially when death knocks earlier than expected.

The doors broke open. The coffin emerged, and we took our positions. My friend in front of me had to throw his long black cape over his shoulder, and reposition his tall pointed hat upon his head. The amulets, and trinkets bounced off the patchwork of his cape. Behind me a tall young man in a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with occultic imagery, and a black leather coat took his place. As we made our way down the steps to the hearse, I had to kick aside the flowing cape which filled the steps in front of me. I in my black pin-striped suit, and deep grey wool overcoat was one of two conservatively dressed men appointed to carry the casket. The six Witches, and Neo-Pagans were dressed in their regalia, and the one other conservatively dressed man was young. He wore a sharp black suit, a crisp black shirt and black tie, with one small round lapel pin - the symbol of the First Church of Satan.

What had brought me to this moment is the stuff fables are made of. The newspaper had announced this funeral with the words, "Witches Mourn Their King." I was a simple Christian Pastor, and somehow I felt at home.

We made our way to the back of the hearse, and together pushed the casket upon the rollers. Then together we watched the doors close.

The minutes before the casket arrived at the door, and came into our hands were surreal as any I've experienced. It was surreal that I was there. It was perhaps more surreal that I was comfortable. We stood and made small talk. The younger men looked out of sorts, as though this was a part of life yet unknown - some rite of passage only now being experienced - except for the young Satanist. He was calm, in control, and appeared familiar with the deeper moments of life. It was he who was considerate enough to suggest that we all greet, and learn each others' names. During those same moments, a close friend of the deceased, a large man with a severe limp adorned in a long black cape stood at the bottom of the stairs, and said ceremoniously to we eight pall-bearers, "Carry my friend with honor." He repeated himself with conviction, and touch of sorrow, perhaps wishing he were healthy enough to play his part in the moment, "Carry my friend with honor."

Between the wake the night before, and this day of the gravesite service hundreds of people had come. Some traveled from as a far as Canada to honor my deceased friend the High Priest of his little circle of a Salem variety of Witchcraft.

The services were decidedly witchy, filled with some of the pomp of Wiccan ceremony, and some of the drama of Halloween in Salem, Massachusetts, with cauldron, and blade, and broom, and skull.

For the two days of services I sat with my dead friend's mother. She, like myself, was a Pentecostal Christian. She grieved, and worried over the death of her son, and felt uncomfortable with the witchiness of the ceremonies, though she had seen it dozens of times by now. When it came to the conclusion of the gravesite service each person was given the opportunity to honor the deceased by taking a memory of his life, and ritually casting a pinch of salt upon the casket. She asked me if it was okay with God to do this. I leaned over and whispered to her, "I think God would like you to remember that you have been the salt of the earth in your son's life. Of course, it's okay." She cried, and limply tossed her grains of salt upon the gray metal box.

Few funerals in America have the output of emotion I experienced over these two days. People openly cried, and wailed, and expressed words of appreciation. This man barely 40 years of age had gathered this strange troupe together in his death, and I watched people from all walks of life: Christians, Witches, Atheists, and Satanists speak of their respect for him. There were many people who had been touched by his life, and felt that his help had been instrumental in their lives. One Christian spoke of her return to Christianity from Witchcraft, and stated that he had been instrumental in helping her find her way back to Jesus. This was the surrealism: Many people mourned him though he was a Witch, a Voodoo Practitioner, and even joined the ranks of Anton LaVey's Organization in his last years of life. To most people he lived beyond the pall. Yet to some he offered words of wisdom, and hope.

I consider the life of this strange man who died, and contrast it with a man who yet lives.

The man who yet lives is a Christian pastor I once served alongside. He says all the right things, and appears at cursory glance to be the model of citizenship. His dress is impeccable. His actions are sharp, and decisive. His ministry is successful by all appearances, but a deeper look reveals a dark underbelly of corruption. Subtle lies, clever manipulation, and political savvy are his trademark. He rules his little kingdom with an iron fist, and crushes those who refuse to labor under his heavy-handed control. Good pastors have been lost, churches have been dismantled, and reputations have been ruined under his guidance.

I wonder which life is more tiresome to the gracious Nazarene I serve. Which life is wearisomely beyond the pall?

I was strangely, but deeply honored to be asked to be a pall-bearer for my friend the Witch. Somehow I am ashamed to know the man who yet lives, and declares to serve my Jesus, and it makes me wonder what it is that only God can see beyond the pall-bearing.