Christopagan Faith in Troubled Times

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Christopagan Faith in Troubled Times

When the world unravels, what keeps you rooted?

Aug 14, 2025

Transcript

The world feels raw these days. Heat waves stack one upon another, storms sweep in with fury, and the news from far-off lands carries sorrow and anger in equal measure. On top of that, each of us is carrying the weight of our own daily struggles: illness, loss, uncertainty. In my own life, I recently faced a sudden illness that left me bedridden for weeks, unable to walk unassisted or even muster the energy to speak prayers aloud. It was a season of deep vulnerability, the kind that none of us chooses and all of us will eventually encounter.

Yet even in the midst of weakness, I discovered that my Christopagan faith was not an abstract belief to be set on a shelf, it was a living presence, a thread binding me to something larger than my pain. I have prayed every night for years, calling the four archangels, the spirits of earth, sea, and sky, and the shining presence of the Shekinah to watch over my home. When I could no longer speak those prayers, I felt them rising on their own, carried for me. In dreams or visions, the archangels stood their posts, my ancestors whispered courage, and even a beloved cat long gone curled on my chest in comfort. Whether mystical reality or the gift of my imagination, it didn’t matter. The truth was in the experience: I was not alone.

Faith, at its best, is not about clinging to rules or policing belief. It is about connection. The Latin root of “religion” means “to bind together,” and in crisis, that bond can hold us steady when everything else shakes. My connection to Brigid, to Jesus and Mary, to the very earth beneath me, reminded me that I was part of a living web that no illness could sever. Brian and I spoke often about how such times ripple out to affect everyone in the circle. The one who is sick can feel like a burden; the one caring for them can feel helpless, even guilty for their own moments of frustration. Faith helps break these spirals, not by erasing the hardship, but by reminding us of the deeper unity between us.

This is why practice matters before the storm comes. A deep, rooted faith equips us to meet our anger, fear, and grief without being consumed by them. As Brian reflected, crisis tempts us toward quick, destructive reactions, but the steady discipline of prayer, ritual, and connection gives us other options. It teaches us to recognize the warning signs of a “dark path” and to choose the harder, more life-giving way. It doesn’t guarantee the storm will pass quickly or painlessly. But it hedges our chances. It keeps our roots deep enough to hold fast.

And the roots do not all look the same. For me, it is Brigid’s forge, Julian of Norwich’s “all shall be peace,” the spirits of earth, sea, and sky. For others, it may be justice, love, the law, or the tending of the land. The divine dwells in all things, and whatever soil allows you to grow in strength and compassion that is where you must plant yourself. When we are rooted in what is holy to us, no one can poison that soil. The connection remains, carrying us through even the harshest seasons.

If I learned anything from my recent trial, it is that rooting ourselves in faith is not a single act, but a habit of presence. We plant the seed in moments of peace, water it with daily practice, and strengthen it through small acts of courage and devotion. Then, when the winds rise, the tree of our faith does not suddenly appear. It is already there, grown over years, able to bend without breaking. In that way, the crisis does not build the faith; it reveals it. And perhaps that is the quiet promise faith makes to each of us: not that we will escape the fires and floods of life, but that when they come, we will find ourselves already held, already connected, already home.

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