Hi, I’m John Green.

Welcome  to Crash Course Religions.

In some Christian traditions,  people experience glossolalia,   or the “gift of tongues.” It’s described as a gift from  the Holy Spirit that allows the receiver  to speak a language they don’t understand.

But this gift isn’t unique to Christianity.

When spirit mediums aim to speak with the dead,   they sometimes enter a trance where, in  a similar way, a new voice flows through them.

One of these is often recognized as a  religious experience, while the other is   often considered magic or superstition.

So, what’s the difference between a   spell and a prayer?

Between channeling  spirits and channeling the Holy Spirit?

Where’s the line between religion and magic?

Like religion, magic means different  things to different people.

Like, to me, it means being terrified as a  child of a man who apparently had the ability   to spontaneously generate guinea pigs from a top  hat because, as he later explained to my mom,   rabbits were too expensive.

But that’s  not the only definition of magic.

Also like religion, there’s no  one way to do magic.

The word groups together a bunch of  diverse practices that call on invisible   powers to influence the physical world.

Rituals deemed “magical” are often personal,   private, and goal-oriented, striving to  heal, defend, or transform someone’s life.

Like when I convince myself that if I  just win this game of video game soccer,   AFC Wimbledon will win a game of actual  soccer.

That’s magical thinking, right?

In some traditions, people  gain magical abilities by chance.

Like tangki, spirit-mediums in parts of China and   southeast Asia, who are believed to  heal the sick and bring good luck,   piercing their own skin as they write  messages from the spirits possessing them.

Only those born at certain times and on  certain dates are capable of becoming tangki.

But in other traditions, anyone can learn  magic by studying the Occult, or secret   knowledge of supernatural forces.

Like Wicca, which aims to revive   the pagan worldviews of pre-Christian Europe.

Most Wiccans practice magic alone,  but they also come together at   seasonal gatherings called sabbats  and in networks called covens.

Because regardless of how it’s practiced, the  idea of “magic” often comes with negative   stereotypes — some view it as dubious  or even demonic, reserved for sinners,   charlatans, and people who don’t know better.

And pop culture hasn’t always helped with that.

But it wasn’t always this way.

The English word  “magic” comes from the ancient Greek “mageia,”   a word they got from the Persian “magi.” Which you might recognize as another name   for the wise men who went all out  for the Virgin Mary’s baby shower.

In ancient Greece, people from all  walks of life sought out things like   amulets and potions for protection,  healing, and occasional revenge.

Mageia was seen as closer to philosophy  and medicine than spirituality and religion.

But no one really called their  own practices “mageia.”  Greek and Roman authorities used the  term to demonize people they didn’t   like or rituals they found weird or spooky.

In fact, the Greek philosopher Celsus hurled   allegations of “magic” at someone  you may have heard of—Jesus Christ.

Fast forward to medieval Western Europe, and  these accusations went into overdrive.

Christianity was growing, and the Church  saw magic as a threat — something that only   those in league with the devil practiced.

Accusations of magic and witchcraft were   often lobbed at women and people  in marginalized communities,   and for centuries in Europe and eventually North  America, this had deadly consequences.

It’s estimated that over fifty thousand  people were executed across Europe for   witchcraft between the 15th and 18th  centuries — the vast majority women,   and often single women who were deemed dangerous  because they weren’t tied to a man.

In New England, between 1638 and  1725, women with little power   were disproportionately accused of witchcraft.

During the infamous Salem witch trials of  1692, an enslaved indigenous woman named   Tituba was one of the first to be accused after  confessing to “signing the devil’s book” and   bewitching young girls—though scholars today argue  it’s almost certain her confession was coerced.

By the 19th century, the meaning of  the word “magic” had evolved further.

Scholars saw it as irrational, theorizing that   magic was the earliest stage of cultural  development, followed by religion, and,   eventually, science — once a culture  had shaken off its old superstitions.

But no one could agree on where to  draw the line between magic and religion.

Bronislaw Malinowski argued religions  asked spiritual beings for help while   magic manipulated those spiritual beings.

Émile Durkheim, meanwhile, said  that religions were communal, while magic was more of a solo thing.

But whatever the rule, there  were always exceptions to it.

And, even academics today can’t  agree on a definition of magic.

Scholar Drew Wilburn names a variety  of qualities that make something “magic,”   including attempting to manipulate objects, and using religious practices  like prayer and sacrifice,   and performing actions to serve an individual.

Other scholars see magic as a quality of a ritual,  where you’re working toward a specific effect.

Still others see “magic” as a  term that maligns legitimate   practices and doesn’t have a practical use at all.

And it gets even more complicated when  you consider how to apply these boundaries,   which were conceptualized in Western  Europe, to the rest of the world.

Like, the Islamic term “siḥr” often gets  translated as “magic,” even though it   describes things that wouldn’t fit in the  English category — like gossip and slander,   not just sorcery and demons.

Plus, traditions like Tibetan   Buddhism just aren’t so keyed-up over the  difference between prayers and spells.

And that's something I think about a lot,   because religion and magic have  often overlapped in my world.

I used to be a student chaplain at a children’s  hospital, and I developed a private superstition:   I always laid out my shoes and my  chaplain jacket in a very particular   way designed to ward off injuries and  illnesses among the kids in the hospital,   which I guess is a private and superstitious  practice like magic.

But I would also pray for   the protection and health of all children in the  hospital, which I suppose is a religious practice.

It is not just common for these things to  co-exist; I would argue it’s almost inevitable.

Even those of us who don’t believe in  the supernatural still wish and hope, after all.

While this hierarchy of “magic bad,  religion better, science best,” has a   long and sordid history, it doesn’t help  us understand why people practice magic.

Let’s head to the Thought Bubble… Three snakeskins.

A sacrificed sheep.

Three days and three nights  without food, water, or clothes.

That’s what it took for author Zora Neale Hurston  to be welcomed into the world of Hoodoo.

Before Hurston was a novelist, she  was an anthropologist.

She came to New Orleans in the late  1920s to study this closely guarded,   often misunderstood tradition.

Hoodoo had started with enslaved  people, who adapted west and central   African rituals at a time when openly  practicing their traditions was a crime.

Hoodoo combined knowledge of  plants, spirits, and ancestors,   and was believed to have the  power to hurt people or help them.

Hurston went all-in, earning experts’  trust and training with them for months.

Some specialized in death.

Others had  recipes for changing someone’s mind,   dealing with a bad landlord, or landing a job.

They taught her their spells for the hard parts of  life: betrayal, break-ups, gossip, loneliness.

Like, to keep a secret, you could write it down,   fold the paper up, and slip it into a corpse’s  hands, whispering the secret in its ear.

Or to split up spouses, you could put dirt  from a fresh grave in the corners of their   bedroom, while repeating, “Just fuss  and fuss till you go away from here.” Hoodoo was full of supernatural solutions for  everyday problems, including protection from   violence — a major concern for  generations of Black Americans.

And because Hoodoo didn’t shy away from  that reality, it gave a sense of power to   people who’d been without it for so long.

Today, some Hoodoo practitioners embrace   the “magic” label, while others  claim it's just a way of life.

Either way, as Hurston wrote in 1931,   “Nobody knows for sure how many thousands  in America are warmed by the fire of hoodoo.” Thanks, Thought Bubble.

Whether we call it religious,   spiritual, or magical, traditions  like Hoodoo often reflect the social   conditions of the people practicing them.

And by the 1930s, anthropologists like  E.E.

Evans-Pritchard were starting to argue   that “magic” wasn’t necessarily  at odds with rational thinking.

People often used both magical and  scientific reasoning to explain events.

For example, if a building  fell down and killed someone, the Azande of what’s now South Sudan might suggest witchcraft as  the reason why this terrible   accident happened at that moment to that person.

But they’d also diagnose that termites had gnawed  the wooden beams and caused it to collapse.

Where science could answer the question “why,” magic could answer the question, “why me?”  Magical practices are essentially strategies that help people make sense of the world and manage its   uncertainty, like a 22-year-old chaplain who doesn’t know what the night holds in store.

And, often we see very similar strategies within   established religions.

Consider protective objects, like this Jewish amulet created to   shield a young girl from evil forces.

Or  this shirt wrapped with verses from the   Qur’an and the ninety-nine names of God, intended to protect the person wearing it.

We also find the use of specific words  or phrases of power in many established religions.

Like the Hindu mantra  “Om navah shivaya,” which people   repeat to bring healing and calm.

Or how some Muslims say ayat-al-kursi twice a   day for protection.

Or how I recite the  Lord’s prayer when I’m on an airplane.

Twice actually, once when it takes off and   once when it lands.

And it’s not weird.

Nobody thinks it’s weird.

What might otherwise be called “magic” sometimes goes by another name, like “miracles.” There’s   a long history of Catholic reports of the  Virgin Mary appearing in shrouds, the sky,   and statues weeping tears or blood.

Some Hindu gurus gain authority through healing,   mind-reading, and conjuring.

And in  Myanmar, Buddhist weizza or “wizards”   are said to have special powers to  heal, fly, and turn metal into gold.

When we recognize how common magical practices are–even among established religions–we can see   how they respond to the many uncertainties and fears that make us human.

These days,   magic is as commonplace as good-luck charms and as visible as witches sharing spells on TikTok.

And while some stigma remains from centuries of bad PR,   many magical communities are reclaiming their identities.

For example, brujería has roots in Indigenous practices that were punished,   demonized, and driven into hiding by  colonizers and the Catholic Church,   leading to centuries of stigmatization throughout Latin America and the Afro-Caribbean.

But today’s   brujas are working to reclaim their  image, by talking publicly about how   their practices help them find balance and a feeling of connection to their ancestors.

It’s important to remember that these  categories are created.

They’re created   by us.

And we create categories like “magic” or “religion” to make sense of the world around us.

They may just be words, but words cast  ideas into the world — and those ideas   create structure and meaning in societies, building and reinforcing systems of power.

These words can even conjure illusions  — like the idea that some people deserve   persecution or that their practices are somehow inferior to others’.

But when we part that veil and peer beyond, we can see that the lines that would divide   us are murky at best.

And that the definition of magic is as malleable   as we need it to be.

Sometimes we bend it to wield power, others to fight against it.

But one thing is certain: these traditions  can conjure feelings of empowerment,   resilience, and connection even in a  world that’s difficult and uncertain.

And no matter which way you define  it, there’s a certain magic in that.