Dan Gentile
SFGATE
December 28, 2019
“Bagel with tomato, avocado, cucumber and onion,” yells the heavily-tattooed barista at the kink café & boutique Wicked Grounds.
Tabitha Slandee shakes her head. “I didn’t ask for onion,” she says to her friends. They tell her not to worry about it and she picks up her food, then places it on the table, a foot away from a black pentagram tablecloth and miniature bronze statue of the goat demon Baphomette.
Then Daniel Walker, one of the group’s founders, rings a bell to call the Satanic Bay Area monthly coffee hour to order.
Turns out Satanists are just like me: they like bagels, act polite to baristas and also … don’t believe Satan exists.
SBA was established in 2015 as an atheistic community organization. All sects and individuals believe different things, but SBA does not believe a muscle-bound devil lurks in a fiery underworld practicing pitchfork tricks and encouraging people to lie and shoplift and murder. They identify with the myth of Satan as a freethinker and rebel, and feel that his image has been distorted by mainstream culture into a catch-all for immoral behavior. But they don’t think he’s real.
Once a month they reserve tables for two hours at Wicked Grounds, which looks more like a college coffee shop than a demonic lair (although they do sell BDSM accessories). Unsurprisingly, nine out of 10 people in attendance wear black (the group counts about 50 members). There’s a fairly even gender split. Many attendees go under pseudonyms for safety (and fun), shifting between monikers in casual conversations.
The meeting serves as a time to socialize and go over a printed agenda of upcoming projects, which range from Christmas cookie decorating parties, Satan’s Little Helpers art supply drives and planning the next Black Mass, where they mark each other’s foreheads with animal blood (or for the squeamish Satanists, red wine).
“It’s like Ash Wednesday, but all the time,” says Brigid Breed, a college student who attends a Christian university incognito.
So aside from baking and marks of the Beast, what do Satanists actually believe in? Before they begin rattling through agenda items (which are weirdly a bit dry), I poll the group on what Satanism means to them. Collectively they claim there aren’t actually many references to Satan in the Bible at all, and his character takes on a new meaning when viewed with a contemporary lens.
“Satan is the universe’s first revolutionary. The first person to say, I want a change that benefits me, a system that would work better,” says Daniel Walker, one of the group’s founders. “You’re supposed to assume that he is the villain, because it’s based on these bronze age values of a divine all-powerful King that’s the ultimate source of what is good in the world. Any disruptive element has got to be the root of all evil.”
For Harq al-Ada, a Satanist who’s been associated with SBA for two years now and leads group meditations at masses, his practice is about understanding your darker impulses.
“In psychology, there is this aspect of shadow. A darker part of us, more primal. Most of the Abrahamic religions they tell us to get rid of your sins, your flaws, hide those parts of yourself. A Satanist is more like, own it, take it, look at it. It’s owning all parts of yourself, whether they’re dark or bright, easy or difficult.”
This all sounds pretty reasonable to me so far, but it begs the question, why use the S-word when it holds such a divisive connotation? Turns out they have an episode of their podcast “Black Mass Appeal” all about this very topic, but Simon Lasher, a group administrator, gives me the short version.
“Being a Satanist isn’t for everybody, and that’s okay. You do attract a lot of heat,” she says. “We’re not using it to be trolls. It’s not a joke. We’re not just trying to get back at Christians, but it is a powerful symbol that stops you in your tracks and attracts attention. And makes you want to learn more.”
For Brigid Breed, Satanism fits in with broader cultural shifts.
“We all grow up in this society where Abrahamic religions are the cultural context wherever we go. The morality of these religions grew in a time when individualism and rebellion were very much taboo. The ideas that you can be weird and queer and outside the brinks of society, there wasn’t a space for that in a religious context. If you’re a feminist or queer, you’re going to be called a Satanist anyway, so you might as well lean in.”
The Black Masses are where the real leaning in takes place.
“The joke I always make is that it’s like going to church, but more metal,” says Walker.
The group members paint a vivid picture of their gathering. Ceremonies vary based on the date, but there’s core aspects: an altar with animal skulls and giant pentagrams, group meditations, remembrances of people who’ve passed, there’s some kind of reading, and of course, a recitation of the Dark Lord’s prayer, which several group members recite in unison (“Our father, who art in hell. Unhallowed be thy name.”)
I chuckle at the parody of a prayer I heard every Sunday growing up and realize that although SBA clearly isn’t a joke … they really like joking around. Several members collaborated on a comic book skewering reproductive rights hypocrisy and there’s plans to record an old timey Satanic radio play. They’re the type of people who’d be kicked out of youth group for asking questions both stupid and way too smart. They’ve given conventional religious doctrines a lot of thought and come to the conclusion that the dogma is ridiculous, but the stories and rituals still hold the power to bring people together.
“At the end of the mass, there’s a moment of recognition for everyone who’s come here and participated in what’s taken place,” says Walker. Harq al-Ada adds, “basically it’s like any religious ritual. It brings the community together and celebrates a purpose.”
The meeting nears an end, but I don’t feel like I’ve been at a cult meeting or dark séance. Maybe I’d think differently if I’d had blood smeared on my forehead at a Black Mass, but as bizarre as that act sounds, the ritual isn’t that different from Christians drinking sacramental wine during communion to symbolize the blood of Christ.
Overall these Satanists seemed relatively wholesome, and as I listened to them talk about decorating cookies and donating toys, I almost forgot where I was … until at eight o’clock when Walker rang a bell to close the meeting and the group loudly joined their voices together in unison, filling the coffee shop with a single chant of “Hail Satan.”
https://www.sfgate.com/offbeat/article/satanic-bay-area-coffee-meetup-14934830.php
December 28, 2019
“Bagel with tomato, avocado, cucumber and onion,” yells the heavily-tattooed barista at the kink café & boutique Wicked Grounds.
Tabitha Slandee shakes her head. “I didn’t ask for onion,” she says to her friends. They tell her not to worry about it and she picks up her food, then places it on the table, a foot away from a black pentagram tablecloth and miniature bronze statue of the goat demon Baphomette.
Then Daniel Walker, one of the group’s founders, rings a bell to call the Satanic Bay Area monthly coffee hour to order.
Turns out Satanists are just like me: they like bagels, act polite to baristas and also … don’t believe Satan exists.
SBA was established in 2015 as an atheistic community organization. All sects and individuals believe different things, but SBA does not believe a muscle-bound devil lurks in a fiery underworld practicing pitchfork tricks and encouraging people to lie and shoplift and murder. They identify with the myth of Satan as a freethinker and rebel, and feel that his image has been distorted by mainstream culture into a catch-all for immoral behavior. But they don’t think he’s real.
Once a month they reserve tables for two hours at Wicked Grounds, which looks more like a college coffee shop than a demonic lair (although they do sell BDSM accessories). Unsurprisingly, nine out of 10 people in attendance wear black (the group counts about 50 members). There’s a fairly even gender split. Many attendees go under pseudonyms for safety (and fun), shifting between monikers in casual conversations.
The meeting serves as a time to socialize and go over a printed agenda of upcoming projects, which range from Christmas cookie decorating parties, Satan’s Little Helpers art supply drives and planning the next Black Mass, where they mark each other’s foreheads with animal blood (or for the squeamish Satanists, red wine).
“It’s like Ash Wednesday, but all the time,” says Brigid Breed, a college student who attends a Christian university incognito.
So aside from baking and marks of the Beast, what do Satanists actually believe in? Before they begin rattling through agenda items (which are weirdly a bit dry), I poll the group on what Satanism means to them. Collectively they claim there aren’t actually many references to Satan in the Bible at all, and his character takes on a new meaning when viewed with a contemporary lens.
“Satan is the universe’s first revolutionary. The first person to say, I want a change that benefits me, a system that would work better,” says Daniel Walker, one of the group’s founders. “You’re supposed to assume that he is the villain, because it’s based on these bronze age values of a divine all-powerful King that’s the ultimate source of what is good in the world. Any disruptive element has got to be the root of all evil.”
For Harq al-Ada, a Satanist who’s been associated with SBA for two years now and leads group meditations at masses, his practice is about understanding your darker impulses.
“In psychology, there is this aspect of shadow. A darker part of us, more primal. Most of the Abrahamic religions they tell us to get rid of your sins, your flaws, hide those parts of yourself. A Satanist is more like, own it, take it, look at it. It’s owning all parts of yourself, whether they’re dark or bright, easy or difficult.”
This all sounds pretty reasonable to me so far, but it begs the question, why use the S-word when it holds such a divisive connotation? Turns out they have an episode of their podcast “Black Mass Appeal” all about this very topic, but Simon Lasher, a group administrator, gives me the short version.
“Being a Satanist isn’t for everybody, and that’s okay. You do attract a lot of heat,” she says. “We’re not using it to be trolls. It’s not a joke. We’re not just trying to get back at Christians, but it is a powerful symbol that stops you in your tracks and attracts attention. And makes you want to learn more.”
For Brigid Breed, Satanism fits in with broader cultural shifts.
“We all grow up in this society where Abrahamic religions are the cultural context wherever we go. The morality of these religions grew in a time when individualism and rebellion were very much taboo. The ideas that you can be weird and queer and outside the brinks of society, there wasn’t a space for that in a religious context. If you’re a feminist or queer, you’re going to be called a Satanist anyway, so you might as well lean in.”
The Black Masses are where the real leaning in takes place.
“The joke I always make is that it’s like going to church, but more metal,” says Walker.
The group members paint a vivid picture of their gathering. Ceremonies vary based on the date, but there’s core aspects: an altar with animal skulls and giant pentagrams, group meditations, remembrances of people who’ve passed, there’s some kind of reading, and of course, a recitation of the Dark Lord’s prayer, which several group members recite in unison (“Our father, who art in hell. Unhallowed be thy name.”)
I chuckle at the parody of a prayer I heard every Sunday growing up and realize that although SBA clearly isn’t a joke … they really like joking around. Several members collaborated on a comic book skewering reproductive rights hypocrisy and there’s plans to record an old timey Satanic radio play. They’re the type of people who’d be kicked out of youth group for asking questions both stupid and way too smart. They’ve given conventional religious doctrines a lot of thought and come to the conclusion that the dogma is ridiculous, but the stories and rituals still hold the power to bring people together.
“At the end of the mass, there’s a moment of recognition for everyone who’s come here and participated in what’s taken place,” says Walker. Harq al-Ada adds, “basically it’s like any religious ritual. It brings the community together and celebrates a purpose.”
The meeting nears an end, but I don’t feel like I’ve been at a cult meeting or dark séance. Maybe I’d think differently if I’d had blood smeared on my forehead at a Black Mass, but as bizarre as that act sounds, the ritual isn’t that different from Christians drinking sacramental wine during communion to symbolize the blood of Christ.
Overall these Satanists seemed relatively wholesome, and as I listened to them talk about decorating cookies and donating toys, I almost forgot where I was … until at eight o’clock when Walker rang a bell to close the meeting and the group loudly joined their voices together in unison, filling the coffee shop with a single chant of “Hail Satan.”
https://www.sfgate.com/offbeat/article/satanic-bay-area-coffee-meetup-14934830.php
1 comment:
This group sounds interesting and cool enough that if I lived in the Bay area, I would definitely want to attend at least a couple of meetings to check it out.
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