Witches and Jesus

Un-Believable Podcast Season 2 Episode 2

Hey y’all! Thanks for stopping by for my first Substack story. I have decided that I’m going to upload the transcripts of my podcast here, ya know…for posterity and all that. So here goes!

Hey everyone, and welcome to Un-Believable! A podcast about leaving religion, healing from religious trauma, letting go of guilt, and learning how to live again. My name is Carol Chea. I spent over 40 years in the Southern Baptist Church, and only after I left did I begin to realize how deep my indoctrination actually went. Each episode we will discuss topics ranging from bad theology, the patriarchy, and everything chuch-y. Let’s recover together. 

This episode is going to sound a bit different than you’re used to, but stick with me, okay?

If y’all haven’t figured it out by now just from listening to my voice, I’m from Appalachia. One of the most fascinating aspects of Appalachian culture is the strange blend of Christianity and paganism. The early Appalachian settlers were mostly Ulster Protestants, but Celtic lore and practices also came with them. The area’s remote location and the lack of medical care led the settlers to incorporate the medicinal plants known to the indigenous tribes of the region. They were uniquely attached to the land for their survival, and this dependence wound its way into the religion of the area.

Christianity is the predominant religion of the Appalachian region, particularly the area where I grew up, located where the Appalachian Ridge and Valley province gives way to the Cumberland Plateau region. My hometown sits at the base of Cumberland Mountain, and my people come from the mountain itself.

I was raised by a nurse mom and a coal truck driving dad in Campbell County, Tennessee. US Route 25W snakes its way from LaFollette, the county’s largest town, to Jellico, a town that sits on the border of Tennessee and Kentucky. My people live in the hollers along this road, and have for generations. If you ever find yourself on this road, do me a favor. Count the number of churches you see. All of these churches are small, most never seeing an attendance of over 50 people. Most of these churches are of Baptist or Pentecostal beliefs, and yes, there are a few snake handlers sprinkled around. The churchgoers in this region are wary of organized denominations, so they remain independent, answering only to each other, not concerned with how the rest of the world views their belief system. This doesn’t mean, however, that the “old ways” still aren’t around. Folklore has been passed down for centuries, and is so embedded into the culture that it’s impossible to track down the origins. Have you ever heard that death always travels in threes? Or held your breath when passing a cemetery? You can thank Appalachia for that. In these superstitions, death is the main attraction. Seeing owls in the daytime, bats in the house, and hearing a bell ring…all signs of impending death. These superstitions make sense when considering the rough life the early settlers had in this region, where death was common. When I was a little girl, a black cat crossed the road in front of our car. My dad, who was driving, hurriedly drew three x’s on the windshield to “ward off bad luck”.

On the surface, these superstitions seem to contradict their strong belief in Christianity, but to Appalachians, it’s just the way it’s always been, and change isn’t something they are good at.

My great-grandmother considered herself a Christian. She read her Bible, attended church occasionally, and had long conversations with friends on the phone about Jesus. She also had prophetic dreams, buried spell jars in her yard, and believed in the healing powers of poultices and concoctions. She held a strong connection to the earth, to the dirt of the hills she loved. In many ways, the mountains were her church, where she honored the power that still runs through them. Even though the church warned against “messing around with spirits”, we never doubted Mamaw’s dreams, and if she told us something was going to happen, mark your calendar. She knew when there was a baby on the way well before the expectant mother knew, and she could determine the sex just by touching the pregnant tummy. She could determine the character of a stranger just by looking at him. She was never wrong. If my mamaw were alive today, she would be called a witch, but she never worried about labels. She just knew that the way she lived her life had been passed down from generation to generation, just as her red hair, strong bones, and booming laugh were passed onto me, as well. 

When I saw my first ghost, I was playing in the garage where my parents had set up a playroom for me. I happened to look up at the garage door, and noticed a man staring at me from outside. I yelled for mom to look, but she didn’t see anyone. He stared at me for a few more minutes, and just disappeared. He didn’t fade away, or turn and walk away, but just disappeared. Poof. My mom never saw him, but she didn’t doubt me. She said, “you’re just like Mamaw”. No question or fright, just acceptance that I was “just like Mamaw”. It was only years later that I realized no person could have been staring at me through the garage door window. Those windows were around 7 feet from the ground.

I have always felt a special kinship with nature. There is rarely a day when I’m not outside, puttering around the garden, walking through fields, sitting and listening to the sounds of the birds and the crickets. I rise with the sun, if the weather allows, all the windows are open. I’m fortunate to work from home, so I’m able to take breaks during the day just to go outside. Before my husband and I purchased our house, we lived in a tiny apartment in the middle of the city. It was the worst time of my life. My health, both physical and mental, suffered. There were no paths through the trees, no birds singing, no GREEN. 

Now, I have a park a quarter mile from my house, a small wood that borders my backyard, and trees galore. I feel that I can finally breathe here. I can get my hands dirty in flower beds, watch hummingbirds as they drink from feeders, and take my dog on as many walks as we want. 

So what does all this have to do with deconstruction and recovery from religious trauma?

Everything.

There is no room in the southern baptist faith for spirits. Baptists view the world through a binary lens. Good and evil, angels and demons, right and wrong. There is no grey area to examine, no mystery to explore. 

When I left religion, I was finally able to see the vastness of the universe. Christianity kept me locked in a cage of closed minded beliefs. I wasn’t able to think for myself, to trust my gut. If I deviated from the path set out for me, I was labeled a backslider, a heretic. If I agreed with a principle of another religion, I was called out, forced back into the cage through guilt and fear of disappointing my church. 

I recently made a TikTok responding to someone who was trying to defend god. She went on and on in my comments section, blaming all the evil in the world on humanity, while giving god a pass. She said that god is perfect and blameless, but couldn’t answer one simple question: if god is perfect, and he created everything, where did sin come from?

A guy jumped into the comments, determined to put me, the little woman, in my place. He rambled about how atheism is a form of faith, that we worship ourselves. Then he said something I’ve heard from the pulpit dozens of times. I’m going to quote him.

“How could you see a fantastic piece of artwork in a gallery and tell the audience that it just appeared there on its own? To know where we come from and who the artist is is a natural quest. To worship nothing is also a form of worship.”

This is the cage I’m talking about. In the evangelical cage, there is no room for dissension, for discussion. You have to believe exactly as they do. 

My oldest young’un works at a metaphysical shop and cafe, and brings all kinds of awesome things to my house. A few weeks ago, he left a book entitled “Cunningham’s Magical Sampler. Collected Writings and Spells from the Renowned Wiccan Author”. Now, I knew nothing about Wicca, and I sure didn’t have any experience with spells, but I was interested, so I started skimming through it. It was fascinating. It’s full of charms, herbs, food, and the history of what we call witches. This book started my journey into researching my heritage, to investigate the belief systems of my ancestors. And what I’ve found is amazing.

There is no written history of the Celtic people and their particular brand of magic, but there are hints in the stories that have been passed down from generation to generation. Remember those folk tales and superstitions we talked about earlier? These can be traced to our Scots-Irish roots. 

For me, this research has opened up the magic of the universe. In a strange way, it feels like home.

But how can I claim to be an agnostic atheist and find credence in the study of witchcraft? While it’s true that many forms of witchcraft contain elements of deity worship, not all witches worship a deity. It’s impossible to discuss modern witchcraft without bringing up Wicca. Wicca is a neopagan religion that finds its roots in the witchcraft of the past. Wicca originated in the 1950’s , and was founded by Gerald Gardner. The Wheel of the Year, and the worship of the Triple Goddess and the Horned God are important aspects of Wicca. Wicca is considered a nature religion, and it follows a more defined structure. 

Hedge witchcraft is a form of solitary witchcraft. Named for a time when healers lived outside of the protective hedges of a village, the hedge witch is connected with nature, finds solace and peace among the trees and fields, and incorporates many types of herbal magick into their craft. These are only two kinds of witchcraft. It would take hours to name all the different types of witchcraft, and even if we could, each witch practices differently. There is no right or wrong way to be a witch. My mamaw practiced her magic and still believed in Jesus. Others don’t worship any type of deity. 

Leaving religion has allowed me to explore all of this with no guilt, with no fear of going to hell. I’m free to read, to study, to talk to people who practice without the church telling me I’m being influenced by satan. 

For me, I find power in the connectedness of things, the cycles of the seasons, and the symbolism used to honor those things. Ultimately, witchcraft is a way to honor those who came before me, the earth that sustains all of us, and the mystery that exists all around us. And, whether you believe in spells, hexes, or black cats that cross your path, there is magic in the mystery.