Three witches occupy my neighbor’s yard this time of year.
Surrounded by crows, bones, rats, chains and broken pumpkins, one witch, the one closest to the passerby, comes alive in the darker hours. Standing over her black kettle, she methodically stirs the substance hidden within, the sounds of moving liquid not to be missed. Beyond her, along the back, there is a coffin propped up horizontally, the lid opened, exposing a skeletal man dressed in black.
The summer lawn that once contained green grass, tulips, blue jays and cardinals in the tree and flower boxes along the window frames is now a graveyard. This is a house I walk by almost daily, but usually try to avoid during the month of October. In years past this was another Halloween display that creeped me out, made me uneasy, caused me to cross the street to the other side. This year, though, I have a new perspective.
As I made my usual walk home one late afternoon, I got to witness the project being constructed. Many of the pieces were in place, but not all. The owner of the house and his friend, the masterminds behind the creation, were hard at work. I slowed my pace to watch them a little and took the opportunity to acknowledge their artwork. In the midst of the conversation, I decided to ask the question I have long wondered about.
“Is the man in the coffin supposed to be a pastor?”
Both men stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
“You’re the first person that we know of who has ever noticed.”
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Another house on my street, one that is almost equal distance between the one with the graveyard and my own, contains a single Halloween decoration, but it’s presence is looming. Across the walkway is an inflatable arch. The center contains the head of a clown with its hands reaching out through the pillars. Across the top are the words “fun house.”
When I saw the arch for the first time, I immediately recognized it because a few days earlier I had received a photo of the very same decoration. The picture my mother sent wasn’t of the one found on my street, but one my 5-year old niece had spotted in my hometown. The story goes that when my niece Lilianna saw the “fun house” arch with the big clown face, she immediately asked my mother to stop the car and to then take a photo. Accompanying the picture my mother sent was also a video where my niece explained what she was up to. She wanted to play a little trick on her Aunt Sara. She wanted to see me “freak out like a little baby.” She too knows how much I dislike Halloween, likely thanks to my sisters who like to pull their own little pranks.
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It is no secret that I do not like Halloween.
I have never ever and I doubt I ever will.
I do not like clowns, masks, costumes, or bad drag.
I do not go to haunted houses.
I do not watch scary movies.
I do not pass out candy to trick-or-treaters by myself.
This year though, thanks to a coffin in my neighbor’s graveyard scene, I am acknowledging fears within fears.
My fear of most things related to Halloween is parallel to my other fears -
my fear of the unknown, of things being beyond my control, of failure, of death
I am often motivated by fear -
the fear of not being loved, of not being enough, of being misunderstood.
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In talking with the two men about their vision for the pastor in the coffin, I realized that I don’t want to be that pastor. The story that this scene is meant to accompany is that the pastor is responsible for attempting to burn the three witches at the stake, but they don’t die.
In retaliation, they then burn the pastor.
I doubt I will die from being burned at the stake as a result of my perpetuation and participation in toxic theology. But I also don’t want to die to the institutional church or the status quo or the unjust systems of patriarchy, heterosexism, racism, and white Christian nationalism. I believe the church is in a liminal space. This was true before the pandemic, but has been exasperated because of it. I’m also not the same pastor I was before and I realize there is no turning back.
Often my fear of many things keeps me from doing what I feel called to do. I am feeling called to see where new innovation and creativity might take me. There is hope to be found in the good news of the gospel and I am being transformed to take my seat at the table and invite others along. Thanks to the unnamed, barely recognized pastor I know now the fear of not following the call that is on my heart is larger than the fear that usually holds me in place.
