They told us to read the Bible. To follow Jesus.
So we did.
And in doing so, we found something the institutions never expected:
A man who challenged power, walked with outcasts, uplifted women, healed the hurting, and broke bread with the rejected.
A man who refused to play empire’s game.
We didn’t leave Jesus. We left the systems that built walls around him. We left the power structures that weaponized his name and forgot his love.
And some of us found faith in witchcraft. Not because we wanted rebellion for rebellion’s sake, but because we found, in the sacred dirt and candlelight and ancestral whispers, the same truths Jesus tried to teach:
Love. Justice. Healing. Accountability. Compassion. Sovereignty.
The Teachings of Jesus and Witchcraft
The true teachings of Jesus and the spiritual roots of witchcraft are not enemies. They both challenge systems of oppression. They both seek to heal what has been broken. They both call the seeker into radical responsibility—and radical love.
Even Pope Francis, may he rest in peace, understood this.
He wasn’t perfect. But he tried. He opened doors the Church had long held shut. He welcomed the outcast. He called for care over control. He reminded the world that faith should include, not exclude.
And in this moment, I remember a message from Santa Muerte. One that echoed in the silence of night like an altar bell in the bones:
“What the world needs now is a faith that walks through fire. Not to burn for the sake of pain, but to understand. To be transformed. Fire destroys what no longer serves. But it also births new life from ash. That’s the kind of faith worth having.”
It’s not about martyrdom. It’s about depth. A faith that challenges you. A faith that asks for more than lip service. A faith that stays with you in the dark, that demands growth, that sits beside your grief and still whispers, keep going.
Because if your faith costs you nothing—if you’re not willing to give something of yourself—then what is it really?
And I know that what I’m writing here will ruffle feathers. I know there are people who will see this as dangerous, controversial, maybe even blasphemous.
But here’s what my faith looks like.
My Path of Faith
If you want to know more about being a priestess, there are articles on this blog that explore that path. But this? This is the living truth of it.
When I took up the call to priestesshood, I said yes without knowing what it would fully look like. And even now, it’s hard to put into words.
But I do know this:
There isn’t a moment in my life that doesn’t reflect my faith.
I know others feel that too.
I know there are those who say, “I live my faith every day.”
And yes, you do. And that doesn’t make either of us wrong.
But here’s the difference:
Living faith is not performance. It’s not aesthetic. It’s presence. It’s showing up when you don’t want to. It’s writing these words knowing they’ll stir the pot, and doing it anyway. That’s the faith Santa Muerte was speaking of.
Not about blood sacrifice, but about a willingness to offer something real. To offer comfort, certainty, ego, silence. To walk through fire—not just to be burned, but to be changed.
And I don’t like confrontation. I’d rather soothe than spark a fight. I’d rather smooth feathers than ruffle them. But the truth is, I can’t walk in integrity and stay silent.
Not when the message is this clear. Not when the world needs bridges, not more barricades.
My faith lives in the mundane and the magical. It’s with me while I chase my dog through the yard. While I fold laundry. While I make dinner or battle chronic illness.
It’s not confined to an altar, it’s woven into the everyday.
Even on days when I have nothing left, when I say, “Not today”—they are still there. My deities. My guides. My unseen ones. Not in some grand display, but in the peripheral, constant and quiet. I don’t get to walk away. And I don’t want to.
Is that obsession? No. It’s a relationship.
I laugh. I dance. I game. I throw weird little kitchen parties with my family, and sing off-key.
But They are always invited. It’s never just me. It’s always us.
And there are days when I don’t want to pray. When I’m tired or angry or grieving. But I still show up. I still say, “I’m here, even if I have nothing to give.”
That’s faith. Not just the fire. The walking through it.
Faith and Religion Is Not A Competition
And sometimes that fire is a message like this one—one I don’t want to say, but say anyway.
Because for too long, faith has been framed like a weapon. A battle of “my religion is better than yours.” But that’s not truth.
We are walking through the same forest. Our paths look different. But the soil is the same. The trees whisper the same truths.
There are bridges and tunnels and hidden clearings, but no path is the only one. Our deities walk alongside us, not in competition, but in companionship.
And yes, I know the line:
“Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.”
But here’s the thing.
The veil tore when Jesus died. That was the point. That was the sacrifice that changed everything. Even the Ten Commandments were written for a world that no longer exists. They still hold wisdom—don’t kill, don’t covet, don’t lie. But we also live in a world of mixed fabrics and Sunday bacon.
Jesus’ teachings, though?
They’re still relevant. Still radical. Still transformative. Because he was never about the rules. He was about the heart.
If Jesus were here today, I fully believe he’d be sharing tea with the witches, praying with the Buddhists, eating with the Muslims, laughing with the outcasts.
Why?
Because his teachings were never exclusive. They were universal.
And that’s what this post is. A message. A fire. A bridge. A truth.
Not to convert. Not to condemn.
But to say:
“I see you. I honor your journey. And I’m still walking mine.”
What does your path look like?
Tell us below in the comments!