April 1st. 2018

I spent my Sunday morning sitting in a wooden pew, tucked in small white church between an east and west window. To my left I could see our gorgeous moon (in Libra) setting, and to my right I could see the beginnings of the sunrise. Everywhere there were trees. Nearby, one of the oldest cemeteries I'd been to.

We were all holding candles in the dark. Until the service began, a string band quietly played.

If a witch is to celebrate Easter, this is how.

It's a long and winding road, healing. One moment we feel like a black sheep outsider, and the next we are enfolded with great welcome back into the safety-net of our roots. I am re-learning that despite the manifold "sins" (to use the terminology) of Christianity against humanity, and its sins against my Self-hood, my divinity in a female body,

It's still only a tool. Neutral.

And in these quiet moments of an early morning, in the Machpelah Presbyterian Church (built 1890...9?) It was a beautiful vehicle for a celebration of one of the more ancient rituals: welcoming Spring Renewal. This happened through the archetypal filter of Jesus as Christ (and I am comfortable celebrating Jesus the Man, as he lived and as he rose from death.) And that was okay.

I didn't run to the bathroom (or in this case, the woods) crying.

I did not feel assaulted by the content of the service. All was well. And I experienced God and Love as I first had when I was still a young girl: ageless, genderless; more or less a feeling of ecstatic joy and sweeping emotion. The swell of an upright bass, rain of a Hangpan, and sitting under the protective wing of my mother.