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(Doorbell.)

Good morning, blessed be.

I'm Sergeant Johnny Deer of the PRP, the Paganistani Religious Police. I'm afraid we've had some complaints about this residence.

Yes, I'm afraid it is. Ma'am, it's almost March. You really do need to put the Yule things away. We've got to keep the Wheel turning, ma'am. In this age of Climate Change, we really can't afford to take any chances.

Oh, I understand completely. Believe me, I know all about busy. On this card, you'll find a phone number to call if you need a hand; there's free assistance available from the Commonwealth for the seasonally-challenged. Turning the Wheel is everyone's job, we like to say.

The people across the street? What do you mean?

Dear Twin Cities Pagan Pride Committee:

I've got a totally outrageous proposal for you.

Let's kick off Pagan Pride 2018 with an act of public pagan worship at Minneapolis City Hall.

As you are probably aware, the centerpiece of the Minneapolis City Hall is Larkin Mead's monumental 1904 sculpture of the River-god Mississippi: Father of Waters.

Let's get permission to hold a ritual there Friday night.

We can invite Mayor Frey and the city council to join us. The media, of course, will be all over it.

When we do most of our talking with other pagans, it's easy to get lazy about definitions, especially here in the Broomstick Ghetto.

So when the local Theosophists asked me to address their monthly meeting, it seemed a good opportunity to re-examine and re-articulate what I mostly take for granted when talking with the tribe.

I'd love to see you there. This won't be your mom's Pagan 101, I promise!

Why I Am a Pagan

A talk by Steven Posch

Monday, January 8, 2018, 7-9 p.m.

In traditional Lakota lore, it is well-known that powerful spirit beings—what some contemporary pagans would call wights—reside in certain large stones.

One such sacred stone—called in Lakota Eyá Shau, “Red Rock”—is located in the town of Newport, about 10 miles south of the city of “St.” Paul, on the grounds of the Newport United Methodist Church.

And thereby hangs a tale.

Red Rock is a granite glacial erratic boulder measuring about 2 x 3 feet, weighing roughly a ton. In this sedimentary landscape of sandstone and limestone, its unusual composition marks it out as mysterious and powerful.

For centuries, traveling Lakota would stop at Red Rock, then located near the banks of the Mississippi, to make offerings and pray; the rock was named for the custom of ruddling the rock with red ocher.

In time-honored Christian tradition, Methodist missionary to the Lakota Benjamin Kavanaugh set up shop beside the Red Rock in 1839. (Religions come and go, but holy places tend to stay the same.) The town that grew up around this mission—later renamed Newport—was in fact originally called Red Rock. In later years, the church that Kavanaugh had founded changed location several times. Interestingly, with each subsequent relocation, they took Red Rock along with them.

It's still one of the best opening lines that I've ever heard.

A buddy and I had gone over to 'Saint' Paul to check out the new Ethiopian restaurant.

While we were there, I noticed at a nearby table a woman with very intense eyes, giving the waiter a hard time.

Tough customer, I thought.

About halfway through the meal, I looked up to see the tough customer standing at our table. Those intense eyes were on me now.

“I like your pentagram,” she said, then paused. “I have one too.”

Minneapolis, the capital city of Paganistan, has the great good fortune to be home to two sacred waterfalls.

The better-known of the two is Minnehaha Falls, on Minnehaha Creek as it approaches the Mississippi River. This year for the seventh year running, the local pagan community will process to the Falls and make the traditional offerings to her as we kick off our annual Pagan Pride celebration.

The other is the falls on the Mississippi River in the heart of what is now downtown Minneapolis. (In fact, the city of Minneapolis was originally sited where it is precisely because of the falls.) This is the Mississippi's only waterfall; it loomed so large in local lore that in Dakota the Great River itself is known as Hahawakpa, “the river of the falls (haha).” In the whirlpool at the waterfall's foot lived Wanktehi, god of waters.

In 1682 Belgian explorer and missionary Louis Hennepin “named” the falls for his patron saint, Anthony of Padua. They've borne this imposed name ever since.

Well, it's time and high time to lose this imperialist name, which has absolutely nothing to do with the falls themselves.

If you didn't know it was a ritual, you wouldn't know it was a ritual.

An hour before moonrise, we gather at the coven bench in the park.

We swap news, laugh, eat fruit and cookies. Our newest member is just now back from five months in the Middle East; it's Sun and Moon to my eyes to see her again. She's giddy with the freedom of it all: public paganism. Being second generation, she'd never experienced the broom closet before: the pagan generation gap.

We toast her return with (ahem) iced tea from the thermos.

Somewhere behind the tree line, the full Moon is rising unseen. We sing to her, then go downhill to the lake.

Each has her own intent. Silent, we circle the already-dark water, its surface stippled with south wind; soon the Full Moon will shine from its midst. The power builds as we go.