I never had to choose between the Bible and the jar, or prayer and rootwork.
Between the cross and the candle. Both live in me. And both lived in the women and men who came before me. The truth is: Hoodoo was never separate from the Black church — it was woven into it.
The lie that you can’t hold both? That was taught. That was imposed. That was colonized thinking trying to make us forget how we survived.
The church mothers knew. The deacons’ wives knew. The grandmothers with florida water in their purses, who prayed Psalm 23 while rubbing oil on your forehead, knew.
They were doing rootwork in plain sight — under hats, behind hand fans, wrapped in white lace gloves.
The Psalms weren’t just prayers — they were spells.
Psalm 91 for protection.
Psalm 35 for justice.
Psalm 23 for comfort and covering.
Psalm 121 for safe travels.
Our ancestors used what was given to them and infused it with what they brought with them. They laid hands while burning herbs and sang hymns while working roots. They anointed doors before the preacher arrived, and did what needed to be done to protect their homes, their children, and their spirits.
I am a Hoodoo Baptist because both bloodlines run through me.
My practice doesn’t conflict with my faith. It completes it. You don’t have to choose between Jesus and your ancestors. You don’t have to abandon one to honor the other.
They’ve already made space for both to live in you.
Covered by spirit. Guided by blood.
🎙 Now listen to the full reflection of The Practice of a Hoodoo Baptist.
