Witchcraft, like queerness, is an orientation of otherness. Witches seek their own connection to the spirit world, divinity, and do not require an outside authority to intercede on behalf of the divine for them. Andrew Chumbley referred to witchcraft as “the lonely road” in the context of a spiritual path. This means it's highly individual and looks different for each witch. It implies that this path isn't the well-trodden path of major religious institutions that most seekers of the great spiritual questions travel. It suggests that our solitary path is going to look completely different from witch to witch, regardless of whether that witch is practicing the same tradition of witchcraft as another or working within the context of a coven or group. In this sense, the witch is the other, an outsider to orthodox and mainstream religious ideology. Both queerness and witchery lay on the outskirts of patriarchal religious norms.
Both the witch and the queer have a long history of persecution and discrimination. Using the word witch for oneself is a potent act of reclamation and empowerment, very much in a similar manner to which we reclaim the word queer. Historically, if we wanted to find a “witch,” we would find one at the end of a pointed finger. In other words, witchcraft was originally an accusation based on bigotry and, in most cases, a false one. Those who were accused of witchcraft were victims—of all genders—of the clenching fist of a patriarchal system where the boundaries between Church and State were blurry at best; if they were even there at all.
Most often they were cis-women who were victims of misogyny. As such, witchcraft today is inherently feminist. Often the woman was accused of having too much power, wealth, or land that was deemed only appropriate for a man to posess within society. For this reason, the logic of the time dictated that such power was unnatural in the hierarchy of “the divine plan” and must have come about by unholy means. Perhaps the woman was too attractive and incited lust within the men. Perhaps the woman was too unattractive and evoked repulsion within the men. Either way, the common denominator of most of the women tortured and killed was misogyny fueled by religious fervor. Likewise, there's an intersection between words and expressions related to witchcraft and queerness that most people don't realize. One of the theories behind the origin of the terms faggot and flaming faggot as a derogatory slur, which is argued back and forth by academics, is that during the Inquisitions, the inquisitors would tie homosexuals and nongender-conforming individuals to the wood at the feet of the witches and heretics that they burned to death. This explains why a word for a bundle of sticks has been used as a slur against queer men today. There are also theories that the use of the word fairy as a slur for queer men is because the fae folk were known for their lack of sexual inhibitions as well as their disregard for gender in their intercourse.
Ancient Pagan faiths were full of gay, lesbian, pansexual, intersex, transgender, gender-fluid, and gender-nonconforming deities. These ancient religions also included these queer individuals within their priesthood, sometimes exclusively—something we also see in indigenous faiths and cultures around the world, particularly before colonization. The idea that the divine is a singular old white cis-het dude in the clouds is a fairly modern idea in the scope of the history of religion upon our planet. The witch remembers this, realizing divinity has expressions and archetypes that are as diverse as nature itself—or at least the witch should be mindful of this, if they have forgotten.
Despite this, modern witchcraft with a focus on reviving ancient pagan practices has not always been welcoming to the noncis-het seeker. The imagery of much of early modern witchcraft is extremely fixated on gender binary with an emphasis on fertility and reproduction. Some of the older traditions straight up refused to initiate homosexuals or allow them in their covens or traditions. It didn't even occur to me that you could have a queer witchcraft until I was working in a metaphysical shop part-time during high school, where I happened across the book Gay Witchcraft: Empowering the Tribe by Christopher Penczak. The book changed my whole perspective on what it meant to be a witch who was also queer. The book showed me that the two are not incompatible and that Paganism and Occultism have a rich history of queerness that is often erased or ignored. Years later, I learned that some of the best-selling authors of witchcraft books were also secretly queer and quietly died before having the chance to come out of the closet publicly. I also learned about the hidden queer lifestyles some of the founders of the largest traditions of witchcraft had on the side, the same traditions that rejected queer seekers. I was asked on a radio program why I think there's such a rise of queer witchcraft authors today. My answer is that we have always been here, we're just more visible now, and this visibility is more important now than ever.
I feel that Cassandra Snow's Queering Your Craft: Witchcraft from the Margins will do for many others what Penczak's book did for me at that time. Through the pages of this book, Snow urges us to embrace that we are holy and powerful just the way we are, to see all consensual sexuality and gender expression as sacred, as opposed to an act of original sin that we need to cleanse ourselves of or atone for. Queer people have been told by religious institutions that they should be ashamed of who they are and who they love and, in the worst cases, that the divine hates them. They are scolded for being sinful and unholy and often condemned, shunned, or, in extreme situations, abused, Snow encourages you to see the core of who you are as sacred and that your connection to the art of witchery can reflect that. Snow reminds us that witchcraft practitioners and seekers can see themselves in divinity regardless of queerness, gender, or ethnicity. Snow encourages pride over shame and emphasizes embracing our most authentic self in all its unique facets, if we are ever truly going to be empowered in every sense of the word. The empowered witch is sovereign in their self-ownership and autonomy of their bodies, sexuality, and expressions thereof as a sacred right of free will and holds the same to be true for every other individual.
One of the mythopoetic stories about how witchcraft came to the people is found within the Italian legend of Aradia, as relayed by folklorist Charles Leland. In the myth, the lunar goddess Diana sends down her daughter Aradia to instruct the marginalized people in the art of witchery to overthrow their oppressors who are abusing their power—priests, kings, and the rich elite. In this legend, Aradia is the archetype of the very first witch, and therefore she can be seen as all witches: from the most marginalized to the most privileged among us that take upon ourselves the mantle of “witch.”
The central theme of the Aradia myth is that of magickal and spiritual powers being placed in the hands of the marginalized to bring about justice in a world where those in positions of corrupt power and prejudice oppress others. Witchcraft in this sense was given to the people by Aradia as the spiritual equivalent of the first brick thrown at Stonewall, the historic riot that sparked the queer rights movement. Witchcraft today remains a practice of the marginalized, which includes a large percentage of queer folks. It's a way of magickally balancing the playing field in a society of injustice. It is the power to fight back. That isn't to say that the path of witchcraft is solely about magickally fighting others to alleviate the suffering of those who are victims at their political hands. It is also a path of healing others and self. It is about understanding where we fit into both the physical and spiritual ecosystem, even as queer individuals. It is about realizing that all of us are connected and that we have an important role to play in the larger balance of the world. Those same metaphorical brick projectiles can be used for more than dismantling, they can also be used to build something greater and fairer for all in its place. For many of us, what we want is true equity, balance, and peace in our world, and that begins with ourselves and the influence we have in our bubble of reality, our actions and interactions in our corner of the world, as much as it does the larger injustices of our world.
Snow encourages us to decolonize our witchcraft as queer witches to ensure the inclusivity of others that may not have the privilege we do. It's important to realize that privilege is a series of scales in different aspects of life, not a one-size-fits-all universal measurement. Recognizing one's privilege is the first important step to creating inclusive spaces. For example, I do not necessarily have heterosexual privilege or the religious privilege that the majority of the population does, but I do have privilege in my whiteness, being cisgender, being male, and other areas of my life. We should empathize with what it's like to be within a marginalized group outside of ourselves and advocate for them when it is necessary, just as much (if not more) as we advocate for ourselves as queer people and as witches.
Snow asks us to look outside our privileges yet to use the experience of our own marginalization and struggles to help us empathize with others to create much-needed intersectionality within witchcraft. We must be able to learn to listen and recognize that we can never truly understand what it's like to experience how others are held back in manners we may not be, but that we can still stand with them in solidarity. Sort of like how a nonqueer person can never truly understand what it's like to feel like you need to be in the closet, that you don't have the luxury of being who you are to the world without the threat of repercussion in one manner or another. Within witchcraft specifically, it is important that queer witches remain visible to the larger witchcraft and occult community, to remind them that we exist and are a part of their community, to help ensure that we have more inclusive and safer groups for those who may not be white cis-het. If these groups do not exist locally, we need to keep creating these spaces for ourselves.
As evident through the pages of this book, Snow holds the vision in their deepest of hearts for the queer aspirant who hears the call towards witchery to find healing, empowerment, strength, and pride through their craft—but more than that, to use that power properly for empowering, strengthening, and healing others just as Aradia did. To use that power properly to elevate others, instead of misusing the tools of the oppressor upon those among us with less privilege and perpetuating that cycle of abuse, is the true heart of witchcraft as a spirit. Snow holds a vision for all people to see the divinity within themselves as well as all others—to honor that divinity by standing up, standing with, and fighting for those whom individuals and institutions are systematically oppressing, until we can all be equal without needing to be the same; to recognize, celebrate and honor the immense diversity that makes us the uniquely beautiful creatures we call human. Yet, the work begins with us. Like lighting an inner flame, it starts inside of us and spreads to our interpersonal level, within our various communities, and eventually to the world. Through creative and unique journal prompts, introspection, rituals, and spells, Snow achieves this beautifully, and herein lies the perfect guide for the queer witch to stand in their power and stand beside others—truly queering our craft with compassion and pride.
—Mat Auryn
author of Psychic Witch: A Metaphysical Guide to
Meditation, Magick, and Manifestation