Dear Hendrix,
Hail Satan!
Just kidding. Well, sort of… Let me explain.
When I was about 23, I was sitting in my bedroom, and for some reason, I decided to do some research on Satanism. That’s the beauty of the internet. So many curious rabbit holes to fall into. Though I wouldn’t suggest doing this on your work computer when you grow up, but I digress…
For years, I’d struggled over what the idea of Satan actually meant. I was raised Roman Catholic—from baptism to First Communion—so I was taught that Satan was “the epitome of evil” and Hell was a dreadful place full of roaring fires and endless suffering.
My curiosity grew stronger after I took a philosophy class in college and watched a movie (Religulous) in my 20s. Both sparked question after question. I began to come up with my own ideas of what or who Satan might be. I wondered: What if Satan represents someone who merely questions the status quo? What if a pastor or a priest or a bishop or a minister was preaching to their congregation, but then, quietly, in the back of the room, a hand raises…
“Yes, young fellow? Do you have a question?” asks the preacher in my imagination.
“Um, yeah. Hi, my name is Satan,” says Satan. “Do you think that maybe the vision of a burning bush that this Moses guy saw might just have been the result of a hallucination caused by a fever, heat stroke, or a mental health condition? Asking for a friend. Thanks!”
The crowd gasps! The preacher, visibly angry, shouts, “How DARE you question the Holy WORD!” “Down with Satan!” the room erupts. “Down with Satan!”
(Am I using an imaginary young Satan to contemplate the questions I had about religion in my 20s? Yes. Yes, I am.)
While we may never really know who or what Satan is—or even if he exists at all—there are some organizations in the world working in his name. I’m familiar with two of them, in particular. But before I get into how I know them, you should know the difference between the two concepts: Theistic Satanism and Atheistic Satanism.
The first is the belief in an actual Satan as traditionally known by religious standards. And those who identify with that belief system worship him. Atheistic Satanism, on the other hand, which is more of a movement than a religion, uses the character of Satan as a metaphor for human nature, individualism, and rebellion, and does not believe in the actual existence of a real satanic being living in a place called “Hell.” I identified at one point in my life as the latter. If I didn’t think there was a God up there, then why on earth would I believe there was an actual Satan down below?
I remember having a conversation with my older sister and twin brother. I said something like, “What if Satan was just someone who asked hard questions?” Something inside me would relate to that type of figure—I believe in asking questions and challenging convention. I wasn’t curious about Satan because I hate God or Jesus. I just don’t know if Satan gets a fair shake.
So, I explored these two types of Satanism. Within Atheistic Satanism, there are two more subcategories. Still following me? Good! Let’s keep going! The first of the two is the Church of Satan, and the second is the Satanic Temple.
I read up on the Church of Satan first. Although I agreed with the general idea of Atheistic Satanism, there were several things about the Church of Satan I did not agree with. But nothing’s perfect, right? Not even Satan! So, I was still curious, and because it was the only Satanic group I found that met regularly in town, I went to a meeting. After all, since I was already part of one satanic organization called rock ’n’ roll, why not try another? So, on a typical cloudy Seattle afternoon, I found a Church of Satan meeting.
Or so I thought.
I headed out to the meeting, nervous as hell (pun intended). I entered the building and headed downstairs. Immediately, I noticed everyone was wearing black. Okay, I thought, so we all dress the same. Cool, cool. The chairs were placed into a giant circle so we could all see one another as we sat and talked. The woman with long blonde hair, dark makeup, and the biggest smile I’d ever seen was the leader of the group. She began the meeting by having everyone go around and introduce themselves. And if they were new (like me), we had to say our reason for attending. My heart raced. But when it was my turn to speak, I said, “Hi, I’m Eva. This is my first meeting, and I want to learn more about who you all are, what you do as the Church of Satan, and…”
The woman quickly interrupted me, “We are not the Church of Satan. This is the Satanic Temple. The Church of Satan meets at another establishment.” I kept my best poker face. “Oh, yes,” I lied. “I’m sorry, I meant I’m interested in the Satanic Temple.” Then I sat and listened to the entire meeting. I mean, what the hell was the difference between the Church of Satan and the Satanic Temple, anyway?
Well, since you asked… the Church of Satan was founded by Anton LaVey. I had assumed that the Church of Satan matched up with what I believed. Namely, questioning everything our religious classes taught us with thoughtful and genuine conversation. And maybe there’s a bit of that. But for the most part, it’s a bit more ruthless. Look it up if you want to know more; it’s not my cup of tea. And the Satanic Temple focuses on empathy, human rights causes, and individual freedoms, including the “freedom to offend.”
When the meeting finally adjourned, several members were going to lunch, and I was invited by the blonde woman to join. How could I say no? So, there I was, eating really good teriyaki with some Satanists, including the leader of the Northwest Satanic Temple. I’d come a long way from the baptized, communion-fed schoolgirl I was raised as. I can’t remember all the details from that lunch, but what I do recall is that I was surrounded by really sweet, genuine people whose mission seemed to be on the side of advocating for human rights. They were warm (like the fires of hell *rim shot*), they were smart, and they had displayed more empathy than I had seen most hardcore religious people ever show. I ended up staying in touch with a few people for quite a while.
That teriyaki lunch happened some 13 years ago, Hendrix, and let me tell you, as a 36-year-old woman and mom today, I don’t identify with any formal religion, including Atheistic Satanism. I’m more of a “speck of the universe” type. I refer to the Gospel According to Carl Sagan (i.e., Cosmos) for any questions I have about what’s out there. And though I agree with about half of the 10 Commandments—thou shalt not kill—the laws of physics and Einstein’s theory of relativity are my main directives.
Two things can be true: Religion has been used to justify some of the biggest atrocities in human history (and it still happens today), and great humanitarian efforts have been done in God’s name. Religion has harmed, and religion has made lives better. Life is complicated. And as a nonbeliever, if I’m wrong and all this religious stuff is real, and during my Judgment Day (which will take about two minutes of deliberation, tops), I get condemned to the fires of Hell, that’s fine. I’ll be running that place in a week.
In the end, Hendrix, how or if you find spirituality will be your journey. That’s the key. You can ask me or your father questions, of course. And don’t be afraid of raising your hand in the back of the room to challenge anyone, even us. No one can show you the way but you. Even then, you can’t just step outside your door and find it like a pebble on the sidewalk. Sometimes you have to go to the wrong Satanic basement meeting, lie to the people there, sit around and listen to their spiel, and then go to lunch with them in order to realize just whom you’re having teriyaki with.
P.S. Don’t tell your grandmother about any of this!
Eva Walker is a writer, a KEXP DJ, one-half of the rock duo The Black Tones, and mom to her baby girl, Hendrix. She also co-wrote the book The Sound of Seattle: 101 Songs That Shaped a City, which was released in 2024. Every month for The Stranger, she writes a letter to Hendrix to share wisdom learned from her experiences—and her mistakes.
As a regular “Early” listener, I always look forward to these columns as an another delightful window into the vivid and colorful contemporary mind of Eva Walker.
As for the topic at hand, I guess I’m a believer that, if you’re going to have kids, you should really have at least two just so you can have one as a backup in case your only child does become a Satan worshipper or takes up a reckless, death-defying hobby like skydiving. Goodness knows, though, if Eva does have a second child, Hendrix will grow up to be a decent, God-fearing agnostic, and it is her future kid sister Jagger who’ll be the one to get the Mephistopheles tattoos. Who can know? It’s all about hedging your bets.
“But before I get into how I know them, you should know the difference between the two concepts: Theistic Satanism and Atheistic Satanism.”
Every “Satanist” of both kinds that I’ve ever met (quite a few) have been fat dysgenic loser nerds (not the cool kind nerd either). They were all so ugly that I almost gave credence to H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Shadow Over Innsmouth”.
It’s so human and amusing that there are apparently at least two religious groups related to Satan and it appears they are diametrically opposed to each other, just like The People’s Front of Judea vs The Judean People’s Front.
I loved your piece, glad the Hendrix references were explained. Seattle must be filled with people like you and maybe me too, raised by “good Christian people” who fell away from belief. In my case my grandparents were actually decent people who lived pretty good lives to my eye. I used to even feel guilty about losing my religion.
As readers, based on other posters apparently we all get one vote on naming future children of the writer. I suggest Nancy-Ann-Wilson.
This can all get so…complicated (ie the way fascism can be seen as extremely Christian as well as extremely pagan). Maybe it’s just that there’s a continuum of good and evil in every belief system (that isn’t inherently extremist), and that it isn’t the worst idea to try and stay in the light.
Being the gay, middle aged son of two undiagnosed and untreated narcissists – who were always avowed liberals (I was conceived because they were depressed about McGovern) – I grew up in a more or less satanic cult (I’m sure it would have been an extremely Christian cult if they’d been Republicans); trust me: you don’t want this. (There’s a reason the current POTUS’s detractors – which includes me – call his voters cultists. Narcissists don’t have friends or family: they have followers. It’s just that the ones born into it don’t have much of a choice.)
The one – my overt narcissist father (he was the stage parent, always encouraging ie demanding that his blond, golden boy son succeed, albeit entirely for the wrong reasons) – is deceased. My covert narcissist mother is in the next room fuming that I had objected to her intrusive questions about forthcoming therapy and doctor appointments. (Privacy, and the lack of it become – like so much else – tools of control. I grew up in a home where parental nudity and near-nudity were frequent – doors left open, to bathrooms and bedrooms. Both parents barged into my bedroom numerous times when I myself was in a state of undress, my father walking in on me in tween and teen times when I was jerking off. My mother has previously shared sensitive and confidential medical and mental health information about me in completely illegal and public ways – including to a personal enemy of mine.)
Because my father was violent – verbally, physically, and that third way – my young self’s instinct was to seek protection from my mother, but that was no safe place either. There I was shamed for self-expression – trying to live my best life. I was always happiest in front of a camera or on a stage, and my mother hated that about me.
Not yet understanding myself as a victim and survivor of abuse, I identified with the abused/orphaned/abandoned kids of 80s familytime tv – I was on one of those episodes of the Michael Landon show. And you know those boys were almost always somewhat gay (I can tell you personally of at least one or two of these kids who came out as teens – beyond Chad Allen and Danny Pintauro), and a little bit…Christian. (This second part presented no dilemma in grade school because I didn’t yet know I was gay, and because the agency that repped me was one of the “family values” shops in Hollywood – they made us all dress up in church clothes for auditions and shoots, and be very polite. None of this seemed like a particularly bad thing. I liked myself in this context, and people liked me – even people who shouldn’t ie certain men. The agents called us Simons behind our backs, as in Simon from Lord of the Flies. We were the sweet, vulnerable kids who could emote on a dime, and melt the hearts of adults. As your 9th grade English teacher would say, Simon is the Christ figure – the marytr, mistaken for the Beast and killed by the other boys. And you know as a gay man I’ve been mistaken for the Beast a whole lot in my life…)
Just by presenting to the world as a Simon magic happened: doors opened up, you met people – including boyfriends. But if that’s what your covert narcissist mother hates most about you, and you happen to start noticing your attraction to your male classmates and collaborators (how can you be Christian now?), you may begin to reject your Simon-ness. (It’s a strange thing when your mother hates your preppy dork uniform – let alone your actual school uniform [Landon’s kids went there too] – and would prefer you grow a mohawk and go to lots of Circle Jerks shows. But of course if dressing all punk was your actual thing [loved the music though] she’d hate that because it brought you satisfaction and a pathway out of the codependency.)
So, now in middle age, and in recovery after decades of addiction, untreated severe bipolar disorder, mountains of unprocessed trauma, and persistent poverty with occasional homelessness, I’m back…to being a Simon. This was always my best self, even if it isn’t everyone’s – my own proverbial inner child. In my teens I had left him in a ditch by the side of the road – he was the problem you see, the one that attracted the abuse, so he had to go. (Obviously this was classic self-blame.) But in ditching him I lost the better part of my humanity – my capacity for connection: addiction feeds on this.
Part of the tragedy of this whole story is that if I had embraced my Simon-ness coming out in the early 90s, I’d likely have faced massive headwinds identifying as a gay (albeit very progressive) Christian. And there are days I still feel like things haven’t changed very much. But I’ll be appearing in a franchise that centers in part on my own life story – most particularly as myself in the present day, on a forthcoming series. I guess we’ll find out if the audience is ready for the out, adult version of all those abused/orphaned/abandoned boys on Highway to Heaven – an out gay Simon.