(05-14-2024, 12:33 AM)Infolurker Wrote: May the power of Jesus and the covering of the Holy Spirit light the darkness. There are many who had fallen into darkness and have found salvation through the only salvation, Jesus Christ.

There are thousands and thousands of these video stories on New Age & Witchcraft. So many people have been saved and awakened. 

(05-14-2024, 03:49 AM)Michigan Swamp Buck Wrote: First off, a sin is a sin, they are all the same.

Witchcraft is considered a sin, as is divining and necromancy. However, often these words have a different Biblical meaning. For instance, sorcery in the New Testament is translated from the Greek word pharmakeia which relates to potions and poisons and is the root word of pharmacy. Also, witchcraft is often associated with pagan worship, particularly the Wiccan religion. Of course, paganism is a sin anyway, but it isn't witchcraft.

(05-14-2024, 07:20 AM)Ninurta Wrote: I know for fact that "witchcraft" has been used in my family, but I don't sweat it. As a matter of fact, all of my sisters claim I'M a witch, because I sometimes know things that I shouldn't. But I'm not a witch... it's just a thing.

What has always bumfuzzled me is what constitutes "witchcraft". For example, how is the "magick" involved in expelling evil spirits any different from the "magick" involved in summoning them? I've seen videos of a lot of exorcisms and house cleansings and whatnot. There is always some guy or gal, often in robes, roaming around, tossin' crosses for talismans and throwing "holy water" all over the place, all the while chanting magickal incantations intended to expel evil spirits... so how is that different from the rituals, talismans, incantations, and  stuff used to call them in in the first place?

Is "magick" sometimes NOT "magick", even though it involves the exact same processes and materials? Is it only "magick" if it's the other guy doing it?

There are a whole lot of religions around these days, most of them pointing their fingers at all the others and saying "y'all is EVIL!", and I can't fathom why, if they are themselves doing pretty much the same things as all of the "y'alls" that are doing evil.

I reckon it's just a human thing. Way back when, in the Middle East, there were also religions abounding, and all of them thought that all of the rest were doing evil, even though they were mostly all doing the same thing, just for different "gods". Sometimes, a "god's" territory was measured in miles, and ended as soon as you got to the boundary of the next kingdom over., because that kingdom had it's own god or gods.

Mountain folk don't, or at least they didn't used to, when I was young, draw as stark a line between witchery and Bible-totin'. Everyone had their own little brews for what ailed ya, and if you didn't have one, the Granny Woman that lived alone in the cabin in the woods... you know, that old woman that knew the use of every herb, plant, and combination thereof... probably had a cure for what ailed you. It didn't mean she was cavorting with Satan, it just meant that if you were sick, she might be closer than a trip to the big city for a doctor call.

There were lots of spells and bindings and whatnot handed down among generations, and no one believed they were going against God to use them. If they did, they wouldn't be using them.

Some of them even used Bible verses for magicking. Let me tell you a little story.

When I was real little, 2 or 3 years old, my mom was washing out a fishbowl in a bathtub when it broke, and the glass sliced her wrist pretty deep. There was blood all over the place. She screamed for Dear Old Dad, and he came running in, saw what had happened, grabbed her wrist and recited a particular verse out of Isaiah I believe. I was too little to remember the event, but mom swore, and still swears to this day, that him reciting that verse caused her to stop bleeding long enough to get everything wrapped up and carted off to the emergency room for real live doctorin'. She believed in it so strongly that she marked that verse in her Bible, in case any of us young-'uns ever got to leaking out way too much blood.

Is that "witchery"? I dunno. Is God just waiting and hankering to smite us real good over it? Again, I dunno. I reckon that'll be between us and God when we get to the Pearly Gates.

If your mom lived and breathed long enough to birth YOU, then I doubt there was any "sacrifice" of her by your granny. I don't think folks can be sacrificed against their will unless they are killed in the process. Joe down the street can't just up and sell my soul to the Devil without my say-so and agreement. Oh, he could tie me across an altar and cut my throat I suppose, but that isn't a sacrifice of my soul, or of ME. It's just a sacrifice of my body, and bodies are only temporary and fleeting anyhow.Once my soul was freed of that body, well, Old Joe would learn whole news ways of fearing, for the rest of his natural and unnatural life, and the Devil would be nowhere to be found if he knew what was good for him.

On top of that, your Granny is in control of her destiny. Whether she makes it to heaven or not is not for either you or I to say, that's between her and her Dear Lord. There have been many a person who has done horrific things early on, and then done a turn around later in life and skidded in past Home Plate. We are not the judges of that, only God is.

So, there is always hope!

.

(05-14-2024, 07:46 AM)FlickerOfLight Wrote: ...
I came to these same conclusions, pretty much in the last day. 

...

(05-14-2024, 08:16 AM)Ninurta Wrote:

(05-14-2024, 07:46 AM)FlickerOfLight Wrote: ...
I came to these same conclusions, pretty much in the last day. 

...

Well, I've been laying off to make a post in this thread for a couple days, since you first made the thread. BUT, I didn't know quite what to post, so I've been letting it percolate through my brain for that whole time. Apparently, you've been doing some percolating on it, too. Might be that we just tapped into the same 'lectricity circuit.

I believe it was Carl Sagan, or maybe it was Asimov... I misremember just who it was... who said something along the lines of "a sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." But I wonder... is the converse not possibly true? Could magic simply be a poorly understood technology, or perhaps a different form of technology altogether?

I can "water witch". I learned it a long, long time ago. There's no sacrifices involved, nor any incantations, spells, rituals, or calling on spirits. Nothing like that. it's just me and a pointer, usually a forked twig cut from a live tree, although I have copped out and used coat hangers and the like upon occasion. The fact that I can use different materials tells me that it's not in the pointer, and it's probably not in me, either... it's something in the "fields" between the witcher and the Earth where whatever he's hunting for resides - it doesn't have to be water. I've found arrowheads with it, too. It can be anything you're looking for, anything you concentrate on.

But it works. Of that I have no doubt. I've found all sorts of things using it. I've had the pointer twig wring so hard in my hands that it wrung the bark off of it pointing at something. How does it work? I don't have a clue, and I'm the one doing it. Is it "witchery"? Not that I can tell - I don't call on any spirits or gods, I don't mumble any spells or incantations to make it work, it just does.

So why do they call it "water-witching"? It's just another tool in the tool box... and maybe a "technology" so poorly understood that it's indistinguishable from "magic", poorly understood even by those who can use it. Going back to your cell phone analogy, I don't know how they work, either, but I know how to push the button to MAKE it work!

.

(05-14-2024, 09:08 AM)Ninurta Wrote: The Leviticus passage definitely sounds like a magickal ritual, but it could also be viewed as an early psychological test.

My first wife was a psychologist, and I have long maintained that pyschology is nothing more than pseudo-scientific sorcery...

You see, if the woman believe strongly enough that the "bitter water" which was converted from "holy water" is going to mess her world up because she was unfaithful, she's gonna hesitate to drink it, and a canny priest is going to pick up on that...

.

(05-14-2024, 09:08 AM)Ninurta Wrote: The Leviticus passage definitely sounds like a magickal ritual, but it could also be viewed as an early psychological test.

My first wife was a psychologist, and I have long maintained that pyschology is nothing more than pseudo-scientific sorcery...

You see, if the woman believe strongly enough that the "bitter water" which was converted from "holy water" is going to mess her world up because she was unfaithful, she's gonna hesitate to drink it, and a canny priest is going to pick up on that...

.

(05-14-2024, 11:12 AM)BIAD Wrote: Whether this true story falls under the heading of 'Witchcraft' or perceived as a lesser manner of enchantment
due to a particular way of phrasing, I just don't know. But it did happen and I mean no offence to the
seriousness of the poster of this thread.


Around the mid-seventies, I was had just about got the hang of being a teenager and was lounging around on a
grassy bank one Sunday afternoon, talking rubbish with my friends and pretending I knew how my life would map
out, when an older boy who I'd never seen before wandered over to where we were seated.

Sunday being the time when everywhere was closed and there was always a feeling of waiting, waiting for school
to start again and the world to wake up from its accepted 'day-of-rest'. Introducing himself as John, he spoke easily
to us wary kids sprawled on the grass and somehow got around to mentioning he played a guitar as a hobby.

It was strange because my friend had just decided to take up the practice and I was hoping my mother would try
to stretch her very limited housekeeping money to buying me a guitar so that I could keep up with my peers. But
it was a doubtful hope, my father regularly drank away any chance of having money to save for possible birthday
or Christmas gifts and in a cramped household of five children, it looked like I wouldn't be strumming along with
my friends anytime soon.

John had a beguiling way about him and when pressed by his partially-interested audience about who he was and
where he was from, John said he visited a community in a church that held an odd word that I'd never heard before
and would be only-too eager to help us become proficient in the art of the guitar.
'Pentecostal'... that was the name of where he implied such a gift waited.

However, since this abode of enigmatic worship offered a place to hang-out in the evenings as a sort-of youth club,
we lethargically agreed that -if we were ever in the area, we might drop in and see what he was up to. Turning to
leave, an older member of our group asked him again for his name and John gave it in full. Smiling straight at me,
I discovered that this confident fellow had the same surname as myself.
.....................................

As a cold January night walked beside three youngsters grumbling to each other that maybe this evening would
the time when the easy-going character who'd appeared when the weather had been warmer, would show us how
to play the instruments now strapped to our backs, the tall spire of the Pentecostal Church loomed moodily out of
the darkness and the half-open doorway below spilled out its inviting illumination.

We'd been coming here for weeks and even though the sparsely-adorned tall-ceiling hall offered table-tennis and
a pool table to entertain its young patrons, we'd grown weary of the payment for such leisure. John had advised
us that those who used the place for more reverent reasons would be easily appeased for their expenditure of such
sport equipment by hearing us sing a religious ditty at the end of each evening. There was an old battered piano
in the corner and John was always happy to bring music to our gruff reluctant tones.

We weren't into all this faith-stuff and even though my mother had -should I suggest 'semi-religious issues' due
her own weird upbringing, the only dedication I knew was towards enticing girls for a quick smooch behind the
bike-sheds at school, creating a decent bird's egg collection to boast to my friends about and attempting to grow
pubic hair. I'd venture the focus of my cohorts fell along those same lines, too.

But just as every other night we'd wandered into that draughty room, our unused guitars would lean against the
heavily-painted wainscot and the ability to pluck more than a couple of chords went unchallenged. We'd grunt
out that Jesus wanted us for a sunbeam or unenthusiastically moan 'Praise Him' as John banged away on the
tone-flat piano and we'd glance at each other with silent signals that tonight was the last time we'd come here.
.....................................

"Just in here and then I promise to teach you the guitar" John said quietly as he ushered us into a room where
a line of hard-back chairs waited. It had been a Friday evening and although we were still too young to trip-the
-light-fantastic in a place Petula Clarke proclaimed was called 'down-town', the three of us knew that the end
of the week demanded more than just paying vocal tribute to an alleged bearded miracle-worker who'd died
long ago.

My two friends had already complained that the wooden instruments we lugged down to this place of worship
were once again being ignored and we'd all agreed aloud that maybe it was time to call it a day on John's earlier
pledge to turn us into Glam-Rock stars. For the first time, I noticed this wily young man -of the same surname
as myself, look unsure and nodding in understanding, he waved a hand to accompany him to a door we'd never
seen opened.

The room was bright and there was a lectern parked on a small wooden stage. One of those foldable trestle
tables that sometimes help when wallpapering -another practice that rarely occurred in my parents' little home,
sat below the podium and beside this, six people stood around mumbling to each other.

One may recall at school that being in a year above another meant quite a lot. One may be only a month or
so younger than a fellow pupil, but that gulf held a high regard based on possibly better fighting capabilities,
further knowledge regarding that puzzling topic of sex and answers to questions to a future not yet formed.
Peering over that this group, I recognised two of these strangers near the sagging trestle table were once
from my own place of education, but now belonged to a strata far higher than we usually encountered.
One of them had been an older brother of a fellow-classmate, now he and his friend had become adults.

Following John's silver-tongued direction, we warily sat down on the wooden chairs and a moment later, the
sextet of older people approached and with mild smiles of greeting, took positions on the remaining seats.

Just as kids before us had done, we schemed with our eyes at each other and nodded our replies to unspoken
warnings. Would this night be when un-strummed guitars would be wielded as brain-bashers against this small
collection of crafty sodomites...? Would we escape this potential scene of debasement and race out into the
night air with loud admonishments on our lips towards organised religion and poor musical commitments?
Sunbeams or not, we waited with coiled muscles at the ready.

There was no goat's blood solemnly sipped from a gold goblet, nor was there (sadly!) a naked nubile female
cavorting her adoration across the herringbone floor for a horned deviant who carried a pitchfork. There was
simply a bearded-man sitting beside John -not, I presume the hairy gent we'd sang about earlier, who merely
began chanting with words that sounded like they came from the bible.
You know...? a lot of 'thy, thee' and long sentences that could easily be shortened.

With sideways glances at each other, we outremers of guitar-prowess arrived at the conclusion that we had
been duped once more, this wouldn't be the night for string-tightening or searching for plectrums in our jean
pockets. As the others began moaning their accord with the words of reverence, we sat there and I privately
wondered what John's smile would look like if I had the audacity to just rise, snort my mockery at the whole
situation and swagger out to retrieve the guitar-shaped waste of my mother's money.

That was when the pair of young men I had recognised earlier beat me to it. Suddenly, the older brother of
the lad I knew and who was a whizz on the football field, bolted upright and began screaming gobbledegook!
A second later, his friend emulated the act and spurted out a similar idiom of undetermined verbage, both
craning their necks to point their heads towards the magnolia-painted eaves above. My friends and I watched
in awe as the bizarre ramblings roared around in the room and during this frightening loquaciousness exhibition,
John leaned over and whispered to us "they're speaking in tongues".

I wasn't the first, but I strongly competed for second place as all three of us rushed out of the room. Absently
grabbing our useless instruments from their usual resting-places, we ran from the craziness and eventually
gathered our breaths under a gas-lit lamp-post closer to the alleyways we'd grown up in.

"Was that the Holy Spirit...?" one my friends panted as we stood in the gloom with hands on our knees and
our voice-less guitars threatening to clunk down from where they were strapped and bang some sense into
our respective heads. "...Was that God?" The chilly night hunkered with us, waiting for a possible answer and
the spluttering gauze from the overhead lamp was the only sound that reminded us that the madness we had
witnessed was no longer a threat.

Mustering a confidence worthy of the charlatan who'd hoodwinked us into believing we would one day strut a
stage with screaming girls wanting more than just our music, I gave them my best sage reply.
"Nah... I go to the same school they went to and I can't talk like that".
.....................................

Just like many reading this, my attic is full of junk. Most of it is boxes of forgotten playthings belonging to my
now thirty-odd year-old son and others are just dusty memories that were once considered important. But up
there in the dark and spider webs is that scratched un-tuned acoustic guitar and the odd time that I've noticed
it leaning against a grinning lion and an unopened box of a Lara Croft figurine, I think back to that night at the
Pentecostal Church.

No matter how much this life slyly hints that the unknown awaits to loosen our bowels just as we think we
have a bead on what we're doing here, that talking-in-tongues-thing I still just can't accept. I mean, come on...
I went to the same school as them.

(05-14-2024, 11:47 AM)FlickerOfLight Wrote: ...Okay, so about this boy. Was he someone that you saw after this?
I was wondering the whole time if you were actually dealing with a demon for a while...

(05-14-2024, 02:49 PM)GeauxHomeLittleD Wrote: What constitutes witchcraft is a matter of perspective. My mother was a practicing witch for years as was I but neither are now. I never made a "pact with Satan", only Satanists do that. The Bible is very wishy washy on the subject. It tells you "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" and yet sings the praises of Solomon and he was a bigger witch than Aleister Crowley! 

As long as you're not trying to harm anyone (follow the Law of Three) I have no problem with witches. They are just people with different beliefs. I'd hang out with a witch before I would hang out with "snake handlers". I wouldn't lump all witches together anymore than I'd lump Pentecostals with Moonies. Intent is what matters.