An Open Letter to Pagans and Wiccans

With a name like mine, people treat me like Wyatt Earp. Assuming I’m the fastest gun in the West, they challenge me to the draw whenever I mosey into town. This irks me because, once past seventy, occult gunslingers want to take off their spurs, put on slippers and sit in a rocking-chair. Our trigger-fingers get stiff.

Like playground yobs, some folk yell that not only am I not the son of Aleister Crowley, but I’m not a magician either! Three ‘nots’ in a row is wild enough, but they don’t stop there; I’m too old, they add, too fat and too ugly. Hold on a minute, pardner! Fat and ugly maybe, but not too old. I may not need acne cream no more, but I still ogle the night-nurse. Instead of shooting their mouth off, wiser folk at least consider the possibility that they might be wrong. It’s the nature of little monkeys to mock bigger monkeys higher up the tree, and it’s the nature of bigger monkeys to lob coconuts at them. Be warned!

Kids pull faces, louts ride the Big Dipper with arms held out, and fathers shout at prize-fighters on television. Human beings love to carp at any-one successful. Drawing moustaches on photos of the Queen is harmless, but some sick souls spray slogans under cover of night, while teetering minds perpetrate horrendous crimes. They may shake their fist at the sky and shout “there is no God”, but they ought to be more careful. For the same reason that I do not recommend anyone to spit at Mike Tyson, I advise everyone to tread softly where God is concerned. But society incites quick action. Hurry up! Make your mark! Time’s passing! Grey hair once meant wisdom, but now it means you are past it. The modern ideal is long-legged youth with silken skin, pearly teeth and starry eyes. Age is gross, wrinkles are foul, and false teeth are vile. Better be poor or gay—anything but old. Yet we cannot forget that we’ll all end like that, and we hate anything that reminds us of the fact.

Fear drips into the soul like damp into a cellar. Malice runs down the walls and hate seeps into cracks. The mind is a chapel of bile in a cathedral of envy. A Welsh lass finds fame as a singer, and hundreds scoff. An unknown lad wins a talent contest and thousands despise him. Let anyone succeed and at once the moaning chorus attacks—the has-beens and failures whose misery seeks relief in hurting strangers. Like plague victims dragging others down, or overturning lifeboats to let survivors drown. To be famous is to court danger. It is the price you pay for poking your head above the parapet. Celebrity brings hate as well as honour. While most people are clapping or cheering, others are sulking in the shadows and might be taking aim. The spotlight helps to pinpoint the target. Royalty knows the sea of waving flags can hide a hand that is holding a gun. Pope or president, politician or pop-star: a malcontent sees you sitting too tall in the saddle and wants to see you fall.

It isn’t much fun being Aleister Crowley’s son. If it had been up to me, I’d have chosen Madame Blavatsky, who did at least look cuddlesome. My mother had her whims, though, and I count myself lucky not to be more closely related to Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra or even Tom Jones. She liked them all. Almost anyone would have been better than Aleister, because he has brought me sorrow, ill will and a thankless job that earns me much resentment. Ah, well, mustn’t complain. What an idiot Daniel would have been if he’d gone into the Lions’ Den to discuss vegetarianism. Well, most folk would say I’m sticking my neck out to mention Occultism here and now. Myself, I see no risk. After all, you’re not wild animals, are you? You are decent, respectable human beings, and I should know because .. (wait for it) .. I have students who are Wiccans. I bet that shot your eyebrows up.

A chap values his beliefs. His views on religion are just about the most personal ideas he possesses, so only an oaf would call them into question or try to change them. Nevertheless, an American lass hailed me in the square.

“Hi!” she smiled. “Can I tell you about my religion?”

“Got one already,” I said, “and happy with it.”

“Can I ask what it is? You could swap it for a better one.”

“For yours, you mean? Listen, Honey: God was in Europe before man found America , so don’t pretend to be superior. If the gods have any sense, they avoid that place. Anyway, I could talk rings round you, so buzz off.” And she did. She backed away as if I were Satan.

Here and now though, you run no risk at all. I never try to change anyone’s views because, quite simply, my path is not superior to any other. Everyone’s trying to climb by his own preferred route. As long as it gets you there, we should ignore the differences and celebrate likenesses. We’re not as far apart as you think. We’re close, in fact. If we’re not “family”, then at least we are kin. So I greet you as our forefathers did in days gone by:

“Peace be with you. Give me shelter and I will murmur a blessing. May your old folk smile when I come, may your children be sad when I go. When we meet in this world or the next, may your gods know me and mine know you. The way is long and lonely so let us therefore be friends.”

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I don’t ask people to swap their walking-stick for mine. I don’t offer crutches when they ask for a helping hand. I have not founded any movement or cause and I am the head of no organisation of any sort. As for grades, degrees, ranks and hierarchies—I detest them. Only two things matter: this world, here and now, and that world, there and then, so there is no reason for us to split into groups when there are no spiritual differences. I don’t think about sheep and goats because this would lead on to unpleasant things like shepherds and shearers—or nasty things like slaughter men and sausage-makers. My biggest bind is other Occultists who try to obstruct me. The reason is simple. To paraphrase the Bible: no one likes a prophet from his own backyard. My humour irritates that po-faced lot whereas I consider it healthy to poke fun at solemnity and prick pomposity’s sails. “They don’t like it up ‘em”, as Corporal Jones remarked. “Can a man who tells jokes also speak with an-gels?” they ask. To which I reply, “Can a man face heaven who turns away its messenger?”

Being an Occult Master is not a big deal. It’s only one step up from being the commissionaire at flashy hotel! So I don’t mind all the shrugs of indifference. What I cannot endure though is all the snarls of malice that are prompted and provoked by evil spirits. Too many folk who have never met me are only too willing to tar and feather me. Well, wasn’t it their forefathers who also burned witches? This is a good enough reason to keep my head down. I pull my hat over my brow, pull in my horns, and tuck my tail in neatly. Oh, I can readily sympathise with that child in the film called ‘The Sixth Sense’ who saw things that nobody else did – I understand stuff that others don’t.

It is important to realise that not even God can change the past. What’s done is done, and that’s all there is to it. Similarly, the truth stays the truth whatever you or I may think about it. Our opinion on the matter does alter a thing. Therefore, instead of arguing, we’d do much better if we looked around to find any truth that may be available. This is how I try to live my life and, because I am so reasonable, others, who go in for the hard-sell and heavy persuasion, dislike me and spread ugly rumours. But here is my creed, straight from the horse’s mouth: The Quest is important—not the route; the climbing matters—not the backpack. If your head is in the clouds you won’t see the sun. That’s it. So Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

I don’t own the truth; I just serve it. Others call me Master because I lead them towards it. I dodge the barbed questions that are meant to trip me up, and I avoid all discussion that tries to pin me down. I give students what they need—which is not always what they ask for. I teach them to discover, and get them ready for revelation. People are nervous of being cheated or of being sold a pup. They hesitate; they dither and, by the time they’ve made their minds up, the shop has closed! Like timid dancers, they um and ah until the music stops. I’m nobody special. To other pensioners, I’m a silver-haired hippie who ought to know better. To middle-aged ex-hippies, I’m a bit of a nutcase. To young folk who espouse all sorts of outlandish causes, I’m a weirdo. In reality, I’m just an ordinary guy.

I am quite poor. I tell you this to allay any fears of a rip-off. If you’ve heard of barefoot doctors, then I’m a bare-arsed Master. I get a copy of Big Is-sue free, for God’s sake! There’s no money in my brand of Occultism, whereas others rake it like experienced croupiers. They charge a call-out fee, just like plumbers. No offence to plumbers—I have problems with my toilet so I may yet need one. (Note: I did say with, not in. Okay?) But is it a crime to make a profit? Doctors live off sickness, but we don’t criticise them though they are better-paid members of the community. Medicine is a noble calling and doctors do a wonderful job. (I mustn’t upset them either in case my problems with change to problems in.)

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I get hate-mail. The milder stuff says I get up their noses, on their nerves, or on their wick. Am I a contortionist? Are they mixing me up with the stage magician who didn’t quite manage to saw a women in half? My title, Master, is a humdinger and puts folk in mind either of school exams or men in leather carrying whips. In fact, it is an echo of mediaeval guilds when admission to a craft came only after a lengthy apprenticeship. An Occult Master is no differ-net from a Master Baker (please note the spelling). The only lashing my students get is from my tongue, as I do my best to lead them through this labyrinth called life. People may ignore me and go it alone. A pity, though, to waste my seven years training and my fifty years experience, yet everyone is free to choose. The gods pencil in a few appointments, so I wait and see. I just make my presence known and, as if by magic, I end up meeting the ones whom the gods want me to meet. There’s no big deal.

Doreen Valiente was kind enough to remove a couple of paragraphs from one of her books, and I was grateful. We weren’t enemies. I never judge people before I meet them. My father said Gerald Gardner was no saint, but my dad was no angel either; neither was he the devil that myth has made of him. People choose ‘facts’ that fit their current views. Fair enough. It’s a free country, but what if someone has messed with our minds already? Crowley and Gardner don’t matter now. Because of war and its aftermath, they had little enough success in their own day. It all took off in the 60s and 70’s, during a period of stability and, some would say, intellectual stagnation. Conduct a poll among Occultists, Pagans and Wiccans (alphabetical order) and few are pillars of the establishment. We’re a marginal bunch, not the mainstream. We’re nonconformists, misfits and we are lovely with it.

There are snobs—card-carrying Pharisees and a parvenu elite who look down their nose like toffs. Were you born into your religion? Were you taught at your father’s knee? Call me names, but I’m not the new kid on the block. There is evil enough without being bad neighbours. Do we have to turn would-be friends into enemies? Maybe we won’t settle world problems or solve life’s mystery, but we could work together for the sake of others yet to come. Whatever life is, we need a set of rules to help us make the best of it. The biological minimum—the cell—is not aware of self, let alone its surroundings. Likewise, the individual who follows a selfish religion tends to-ward being a psychopath. A pair of lovers is not meant to live on a desert island either. It may seem like paradise at midnight under the tropic palms, but endless days together without company will make it a prison. Followers of that faith are moonstruck and mad. Man’s natural social group is the family, the smallest bunch of humans that could survive and stay sane. Their religion is the hearth and household gods.

The tribe is the next larger social grouping and it usually identifies with a given territory. Paganism is its expression and the opposite is fascism. Witchcraft or Wicca is identification with the earth, with nature and with the forces that turn it all. Occultism is to do with the next life, the beyond, and with whatever powers have sway over the cosmos. It is difficult to make it all sound neat. The threads are not neatly interwoven, but intertwined like ribbons in Celtic knot work. You hold one end, I hold the other, and perhaps we may meet in the middle? So mote it be.