Embodying the Sacred

Each tradition and culture has its own understanding of the relationship between the physical body and the soul: some see the body as vehicle or vessel for the soul; some believe that the body is the physical manifestation of the soul and the source of our human magic; others believe the body houses a soul that is incomplete without the context of family, community or environment. Culture itself is enacted by the physical body through physical acts such as singing, dancing, eating, performing rituals, crafting objects and interacting with others.  Individually, our relationship to our own physical bodies may be complicated due to history of trauma, physical disability, illness or pain, discomfort with some aspect of our size, gender, or appearance or for other reasons.  Our core beliefs about our physical bodies intimately shape the way we connect to and understand the sacred. Spiritual longing, and that deep sense of meaning and purpose that having a spiritual path can bring, are physical as well as emotional and spiritual phenomena.

Body and Soul

There is no universally agreed-upon definition of the human soul. Every tradition (and many individuals) defines this concept differently. How we understand the nature of our soul (or even our sense of “self”) informs the way we relate to spirituality in general, and how (or if) we form relationships to our own blessed Powers (Deities, Oricha, Lwa, ancestors, fae, helpful dead people, animal and plant spirits, angels, and all the others who might walk with us). How we understand our physical bodies directly relates to how we understand our souls.

We can find many narratives with which to understand the relationship between the soul and the physical body. Some of these narratives may include:

  • My body is sinful or dirty and must be purified, subdued, punished or controlled.  My soul (or my sense of the sacred) is pure, but my body is an impure vessel. Without interventions of some sort, my body is unsuitable to house my soul or achieve higher spiritual goals.

  • My body limits me, and must be transcended by my soul if I am to grow.  My soul can or should ascend, leaving my body behind (while I am still living) in the pursuit of more important sacred endeavors.

  • My body is one of several soul parts. My body is the physical manifestation of my soul, and is as sacred as any other soul part.

  • I am a whole, unified being. My body and my soul are both just specific parts of the unity that is “me”.

  • My body/mind/spirit, in community with others, is a small part of a larger tribal or communal soul: individual people are part of larger enspirited living collectives, and the collective itself is the soul rather than any one individual.  My soul is incomplete without the context of the whole (family, community, culture or tradition, natural environment, etc.).

  • My body was given to my soul by a deity as a means of impacting and effecting the material world, and as a means of growing and changing my soul, or doing work on behalf of my deity.

  • My soul is a piece of a larger collective that is the Unity that is the sum of all that is. My body is part of that collective.

  • My body is a dwelling or vehicle that houses my soul.  My body and soul are separate, and my body is lifeless and meaningless without my soul to drive it and give it meaning and purpose. My body only exists to give my soul a place to live and a means to create or interact with the material world and has no value or worth beyond that purpose.

  • My body powers or feeds my soul as long as I am incarnate, and my soul can harvest the energies unique to a mortal existence, thus making my body the source of my current human magical or sacred capacities.

There are endless other ways of nuancing this narrative as well. Additionally, a tradition (or an individual) may believe more than one of these simultaneously (i.e.: the body is indistinguishable from the soul, and we are inherently sinful and must be purified; the body is a limiting dwelling and must be transcended and controlled; all of us make up a collective soul, and the individual physical bodies are vehicles that carry the individual parts of that larger soul; etc.).

Another way to frame this relationship is as follows:

My individual physical body is inherently (pick one or more):

  • Sacred, “good”

  • Sinful, “evil”

  • Incomplete

  • Neutral

AND my physical body is (pick one or more):

  • Me (I am a whole being)

  • Where “I” live (what houses my soul, but is fundamentally separate from my soul)

  • A part of my multi-part soul

AND my individual soul is (pick one or more):

  • A single unit that is the “real” me, complete and separable from my physical existence

  • Made up of a mix of parts, some of which are eternal and some of which are mortal (including my physical body)

  • Just one part of a larger soul (the part of me that engages with or links into the larger collective of relationship, family, community, culture, natural environment, etc.).

Why does this matter? Because this will shape the type of work we do, the type of spiritual practices in which we engage, and how we understand ourselves and others. If I believe that my body is impure, I will probably want to focus on the kind of spiritual practices that involve either purifying my body or working towards separating my soul from my physical body in order to worship, make magic or interact with other beings. If I believe that I am inseparable from my community (and therefore incomplete without my community), I may believe that I need my community in order to be able to perform meaningful rituals, engage in worship, or do other types of spiritual work, or I may dedicate the type of spiritual practices I do to enhance or benefit the larger whole. Our beliefs about ourselves and bodies in general shape what we believe to be possible for ourselves and others.

But this question impacts more than just how we engage in spiritual activities. How we construct the relationship between body and soul also impacts our everyday actions and behaviors, how we treat ourselves and other people. If I believe that bodies are inherently dirty, imagine how this might impact the way I treat my lovers. If I see my body as inseparable from my soul, and my soul as inseparable from the earth, this might impact what type of car I choose to drive, or how I choose to make a living. Our beliefs about soul and body, directly and indirectly, inform every choice we make, every action, every relationship; it informs all of who and what we are individually and collectively.

For myself, I believe that my physical body is one of several parts that make up my multi-part soul, in essence my body is the “mortal” part of my soul. I believe that individual soul parts came together when I was born to shape the unique individual collective entity currently known as “River”. Parts of my soul will continue past my current incarnation, but the unique individual I am at this moment in time (the collection of soul parts that includes my current physical body) is a one-time deal. The bits that make up me will separate at my death, each going its separate way to do things specific to that soul part. I also believe that I am one small part of several collective souls that I share with others in my family, my (human, animal, plant, and landscape) communities, and the earth. I also believe that I can function as a small part of the larger consciousness of several of my Gods and Powers, that in essence I function as a cell in the larger bodies that are the Powers with whom I am oath-bound (though the Powers do not need me in order to continue to exist, any more than I need sloughed off skin cells to continue to exist). What impacts the collective souls in which I am embedded impacts me; I in return impact the collective souls.

Embodying a Mortal Life

Part of what shapes our core lived experience is the simple fact of our mortality. Our souls may be immortal but our bodies carry an expiration date.  And it is with our mortal bodies that we experience, manipulate and change ourselves, one another, and the world around us while we are alive. As we deepen into magical or devotional practices, or begin to explore our spirituality in other ways, the core beliefs and understandings we carry about our physical bodies and physical experiences shape the way we understand and interact with our blessed Powers and our sense of the sacred.

How do we experience sacredness? We know it when we feel it. Staci Haines defines embodiment as “living inside your own skin.”  Embodiment means being able to have a felt sense of self, the ability to experience our physical sensations and emotions. In her book, Healing Sex: A Mind Body Approach to Sexual Healing, she says that, “when we can feel ourselves deeply, we can notice what we authentically love and care about, or what we are called to.” (Haines, 2007, page 3). If we believe that our physical bodies and our souls inform one another, then embodiment (being in our bodies) must be an important component of authentically deepening into spiritual practices.

Embodiment can also be defined as “the process whereby the individual body is connected into larger networks of meaning at a variety of scales; the production of social and cultural relationships through and by the body simultaneously with the ‘make-ing up’ of the body by external forces” (Cresswell, 1999, page 175-192). If we are to be able to work in partnership with others, we must also recognize and, more importantly, step into our full selves as well as our place within a broader context.  Our ability to experience sensations and emotions are the entry into this partnership.

“Embodiment” can be understood as having one of two opposites: dissociation or disembodiment.  In psychology, dissociation is understood as a perceived detachment of the mind from the emotional state or from the body (Medterms Medical Online Dictionary). The term dissociation also refers to the act of separating or the state of being separated (Merriam Webster Online Dictionary). When we dissociate, we separate or shut down sensation, either from parts of ourselves or from our sense of feeling connected to the world around us.  We dissociate through contraction – literally tightening up muscles, creating energy blocks, or numbing out and encapsulating emotions, sensations, or memories.

Dissociation is an incredibly intelligent survival strategy that all of us are born knowing how to do. Dissociation can help us survive emotionally or physically dangerous situations. However, dissociation (over time) is a limiting strategy, preventing us from being able to access our aliveness, our wisdom and our resources. The problem is not whether or not we dissociate (because we all do, and sometimes this is the best option in a challenging situation), the problem is whether we know how to stop dissociating and come back to our sensations and our full selves when we are ready to do so, when the dissociation stops being useful. Because dissociation prevents us from accessing our full selves and our connections, dissociation prevents us from being able to fully access our sense of and connection to our blessed Powers.

Disembodiment, on the other hand, means either to leave the body or simply to not have a body.  I further recognize a difference between “disembodied” and “noncarnate”: a human spirit may be disembodied, having once been part of a living human and not currently being in relationship to that person’s body (due to death or possibly due to wandering or traveling).  Disembodiment may be employed as a profound way to dissociate – if my soul and all parts of my consciousness, leave my body, I can cease to feel pain. A noncarnate being would be an entity that is not currently in relationship to a body, and perhaps never has been and/or never will be.  This type of being might be referred to (depending on your culture or tradition, and depending on the nature of that being) as an angel, fae, Oricha, Lwa, god or deity, land wight or spirit, or by some other term (though traditionally, some of these beings may have once been human and are now “elevated ancestors”). Different traditions have different stories and beliefs about these entities (who they are, their evolution, their role in relation to humans, etc.), but that is another story for another day.

I believe that embodiment is a vital part of engaging with the sacred.  It is harder for us to do anything if we cannot access our full lived experiences; it is harder to make choices and harder to take responsibility for our choices if we don’t have access to our full selves.  Furthermore, if our individual ways of connecting to the sacred is fundamentally informed by our beliefs about ourselves, then in order to be able to begin to know our will, our wants and desires and passions, we must first embody our full self.

Our “will” is that deep sense of knowing what we want and our ability to take responsibility for our part in shaping our world in order to achieve that want. The concept of will is an important one in many spiritual and magical paths – when we engage with the sacred, it is often in part because we are trying to affect change outwardly in our world or inwardly in ourselves. Knowing our will enables us to connect cleanly and meaningfully with our blessed Powers as well, either in a devotional context or a working partnership. When we can fully experience ourselves, we can access our full will, and our full capacity for creating change. Embodiment gives us the means to most deeply know and connect with the contents of our heart, our needs, what we care about most deeply. We cannot access our full will without this knowing.

Being embodied also gives us the opportunity to have the felt sense of actually connecting to something outside (or inside) of ourselves. We know that a spiritual practice is working because somewhere inside ourselves we feel it. Spiritual experiences come through as physical and emotional sensations. When we are dissociated, we are cut off from that internal sensation that lets us know that we have received a message, a blessing, or a true understanding. Dissociation is a contraction, a closing down of receptivity and feeling. Dissociation prevents us from being able to feel ourselves, other people, and the sacred in all its forms. If we cannot pay attention to our feelings and sensations, we simply cannot feel our spiritual experiences.

Embodiment: How do we do it?

Some spiritual practitioners engage with their blessed Powers by “journeying” – allowing their consciousness to disengage (at least in part) from a felt sense of their physical bodies to travel the spirit worlds and work with who or what they find there. Without a solid sense of embodiment, this work can be dangerous and disorienting. How do we know we’ve brought back all parts of ourselves when we return (and haven’t picked up any spare bits by accident) if we don’t know what our personal version of wholeness feels like? How can we tell the difference between having experiences in the spirit worlds change us for the better or for the worse if we don’t know what our baseline feels like? I believe that it is not just possible but important to do these types of practices in embodied ways – to bring some amount of a felt sense of self with us into the spirit worlds, and to be able to get back in touch with our felt sense of physical self when we return. We can more fully experience our time spent in the spirit worlds and, in my experience, we are less likely to feel disconnected when we come back home to a more mundane reality, too.

As living humans, we process all of our experiences through our nervous system. We have specialized nerves in our brains and throughout our bodies to notice temperature, pain, vibration, empathy, color, sounds, textures, tastes, memory, cognitive processes, numbers, music, and many other things. When we travel in the spirit worlds, because we are still alive, we are still running our experiences through our nervous systems. By better accessing these specialized cells (ie: by being more embodied), we can experience journeys, visions, and direct connection with our Powers more powerfully and with more accuracy. And by getting more skilled at the physical discernment of sensory input, we improve our abilities to sense the sacred, receive true messages, connect more deeply, and do better work on behalf of and in partnership with our blessed Powers.

But embodiment is tricky business, and hard work. We are taught (by our families, our culture, our life experiences) not to be (fully) embodied.  Dissociation is, in part, a learned behavior.  I believe our world intentionally teaches us to dissociate in certain ways – if we’re not paying attention, we’re easier to control.  If we’re not fully here, we’re not in our power and someone else gets to be in charge.  That “someone else” may be our families, bosses, leaders, or others. Being dissociated means we are less in touch with what we want, and are therefore more easily manipulated. Dissociation cuts us off from our ability to feel empathy and connect with others as well, serving to keep us separated and unable to access support, care and resources.

I believe sexism, racism, and other forms of oppression can be understood as types of collective dissociation – as a society, when we stop feeling ourselves and one another, we stop being able to access a felt sense of kinship and commonality, we lose our capacity for empathy, and we stop being able to recognize and feel our own and other people’s dignity. When we cannot feel how we are connected to other people, it becomes easier to create us/them dichotomies. Dissociation happens when we feel unsafe – it is an attempt to protect ourselves from pain and harm. When we begin to do this as a culture, we cut off our ability to feel specific members of our society – we are taught that certain types of people are unsafe or unimportant in certain ways, and therefore we collectively dissociate from those types of people. This dissociation is harmful to all of us, regardless of whether we are the type of person that society has labeled unsafe. When we collectively dissociate, we individually stop seeing certain types of people (ourselves included) as equally human, with needs, cares, and concerns. It becomes easier to scapegoat folks – if I can’t feel myself and I can’t feel my connection to you and I can’t feel and recognize your humanity, it becomes easier to blame you for whatever has frightened me enough to cause me to dissociate. We become unable to recognize and therefore act from a place of shared interest and cooperation.

We are all impacted by the cultures in which we live; we shape the culture; we are the culture. If we believe that we are individual members of a tribal or collective soul, this type of collective dissociation negatively impacts our collective soul, keeping us from wholeness and limiting our ability to collectively interact meaningfully with the sacred. If we want to heal our own individual dissociation, we must also look to cultural dissociation and oppression. We cannot be separated from the whole – when we work towards healing the collective, we heal ourselves, and vice versa.

Most of us are not taught to be embodied, to drop into an awareness of our full selves (however we understand our self) and be able to interact with the world from that place. Imagine for a moment what the world would be like if we all were fully aware of our needs, wants and desires and felt empowered to assert those needs. Imagine a world where we could all be respectfully responsive to our own individual needs, the needs of other people and beings, and the collective needs of the world around us simultaneously. Aspects of dissociation are learned behaviors; embodiment can also be learned.

How do we regain a sense of embodiment? How do we (re)learn embodiment? According to Staci Haines, the path to embodiment is a three-fold path, including increasing our awareness of our sensations and feelings, transforming our old “shape” (the way we live in the world, in our bodies, and in our relationships) into a shape that is more in line with what we care about most, and then practicing living and feeling that new shape.

We begin with somatic awareness. Embodiment isn’t always fun or pleasant – we probably dissociated for a good reason. So begin by finding an even better reason for why embodiment is worth it. What do you love most in this world? Where does your passion live? What do your ethics tell you? I believe embodiment is the path to truly connecting to the blessed Powers whom I love and with whom I swore oaths – for me, that’s a compelling reason to work towards becoming more embodied. Find a compelling reason to be embodied, and return to that reason if the act of feeling sensation starts to feel overwhelming. Once you have your reasons in place, begin to notice your sensations and feelings. Do this as often as you can, with your eyes open and while engaging with others, not just while you’re alone or in deep meditation.

Dissociation and related survival strategies cause our bodies and our emotions to close down in specific ways, unique to each individual. This may show up as energy blocks, emotional blocks or numbness, or even literal muscle contractions and physical body symptoms. Our next step is to begin to de-armor, feeling our way into where we’re stuck, numb, or contracted, and finding ways to relax and open those contractions. We begin to bring forth a new way of being in ourselves and in the world. Ask yourself, if every part of me believed that I am loved and connected, that all of me deserves to be here, how would I orient myself in the world? Let your body answer. When we let go of the deeply held armoring that keeps us from feeling, we open our channels to allow sacredness, aliveness, and connection to flow through us. When we begin to open, curiosity about ourselves and others begins to creep into our awareness – we become curious and interested in the world and in ourselves. We are better able to access our sense of the sacred when we are open, better able to feel ourselves, one another, and what we love.

It is important to note here that many of us both cannot and should not do this work in isolation. We may need to engage with spiritual and/or mental health professionals, supportive community, and direct contact with our blessed Powers in order to unwind a lifetime of dissociative patterns and behaviors. Individual dissociative patterns live in our bodies; collective dissociative patterns live in our behaviors and interactions with others.

Third, we consciously take on practices that help us live what we believe in and care for most deeply. Many of us have “practiced” being dissociated for many years, practiced tightening our jaws or pulling in our shoulders while walking in the street, practiced putting other people’s wants ahead of our needs, or shutting out our awareness of other people. We are, in part, defined by the constellation of our daily actions and choices. Do you make choices that would bring honor to your ancestors? Do your daily actions line up with your ethics? Do you live your life in a way that would make you proud to stand before your gods? We need to practice awareness, practice de-armoring, practice connecting authentically with others, practice living aligned with our ethics in order to become proficient at these skills.

Our lives, our personal and collective histories, our cultures, our daily habits and practices, and our beliefs “shape” how we live in our bodies and in the world.  It is possible to change our shape if our shape isn’t working for us. This act of changing shape requires more than just an examination of what our beliefs are. It requires that we consciously practice the new shape. This shaping occurs in the realm of our physical and emotional sensations, what we feel, how we move through space individually and in relation to others. Becoming embodied is the act of showing up and noticing what’s happening. Becoming embodied (in our individual self, in our relationship, in our families or communities, in relation to nature, etc.) requires actively feeling our sensations, both physical and emotional, in order to feel ourselves, our place, and our role. This is a set of physical and emotional actions, not a hypothetical intellectual exercise or statement of belief.

Our bodies are not optional. As long as we still draw breath, we cannot fully leave the part of us that is our bodies behind. If I were to embody the belief that my body is me and that I am sacred, how would that change how I make simple daily choices? Would I remember to eat breakfast? What kinds of relationships would I have? How would that belief inform my career choices and how I perform my job? How would a belief that all parts of me are sacred (and by extension, all parts of all things are sacred) change the kinds of spiritual practices I engage in, or the way I relate to my blessed Powers? How would that belief impact how I treated others, or how I expect others to treat me and one another?

Embodiment takes practice and may require changing regular habits and thought patterns.  This may include evaluating how we talk about ourselves and others, engaging in regular physical exercise or physical disciplines, touching other people more (or less, or differently), noticing and engaging with our natural environment, practicing conscious body awareness by using techniques such as body centered meditation, or evaluating core beliefs about our bodies and bodies in general. Anything we want to learn must be practiced if we want to get more adept at the learning – embodiment must be practiced if it is to be incorporated into our regular daily experience of living.

If we are to step into solid, sacred relationship with the blessed Powers with whom we may engage, I believe that the most effective and powerful way to do this is by expanding to fill our full selves, to step into a greater level of personal and collective embodiment. Practicing embodiment gives us the opportunity to show up, access a deep felt sense of the sacred, and have more meaningful ways of engaging with our blessed Powers and with one another. Being embodied gives us the opportunity to bring something unique to the table, the deep, complex and nuanced perspectives of a lived human experience.

References:

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/dissociation

http://www.medterms.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=38857

Cresswell, Tim (1999) ‘Embodiment, Power and the Politics of Mobility: The Case of Female Tramps and Hobos’. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 24.2.

Haines, Staci (2007) Healing Sex: A Mind Body Approach to Sexual Healing, San Francisco, CA. Cleis Press.

Haines, Staci, personal communication, various dates (2008-2009)

Week One

 

gim·bal

ˈgimbəl,ˈjim-/

noun

noun: gimbal; plural noun: gimbals

A mechanism, typically consisting of rings pivoted at right angles, for keeping an instrument such as a compass or chronometer horizontal in a moving vessel or aircraft.

Origin

Late 16th century (used in the plural denoting connecting parts in machinery): variant of earlier gimmal, itself a variant of late Middle English gemel ‘twin, hinge, finger ring that can be divided into two rings,’ from Old French gemel ‘twin,’ from Latin gemellus, diminutive of geminus.

Welcome to the Weekly Gimbal. I’ll be helping transcribe Gimbal’s first weekly installment here, until he finds a durable keyboard of his own that meets his particular, eccentric and fickle, standards. Gim is an African raven with stormy blue-grey eyes and a profanely charming personality. He likes to flirt with women coast to coast, and if he didn’t keep eating the pages out of his notebook, would have dozens of numbers collected by now. (He does, on occasion, use a telephone.) He grew up in a polytheist temple, is an initiated priest, and serves his community locally and abroad with an arrangement of divination methods, from runes and cards to geomancy, bibliomancy, and more. (He’s been known to offer divination over a cadaver or two as well.)

When I asked Gimbal if he was interested in a weekly column, he was so overtaken with excitement that we needed to postpone the conversation until he calmed down enough to, well, land. And give me back my cigar.

Gimbal’s oracle for the week, determined via a form of corvidiomantic bibliomancy, draws from four volumes: a work of theoretical psychology, a work of inspired fiction, a work of folk tales, and a work of indigenous scriptural wisdom. ONE possible interpretation will follow, although it is by no means authoritative. Perhaps you the reader have a different take? If so, please let Gimbal know in the comments section, and next week he’ll provide an answer as to what his interpretation as the diviner is, along with another new oracle and a snazzy selfie.

“The room was quiet.

Fat Charlie stared at Daisy,

willing her to understand

the literal sense, at the level of

interpersonal action, and is only

secondarily, lately, translated

with orienting, for the purposes

of the present argument, therefore

appears as a phenomenon.

 

If the buffalo gets to the

marshy place, he will be free,

Rosie’s mother had told Rosie

that she was certain that Fat

can be restored.

 

Away with my money,

this was divined for the duck

the diviner of the house

of white cloth, together

am acquainted. The smaller

ones are frequently quite

as swift as a hare.”

Possible Interpretation:

It is important to bring oneself to stillness and quiet, in order to focus upon the reality of the things, however abstract or concrete, in order to bring one’s appreciative awareness toward true understanding.

Abundance and wealth, be they of material, social or spiritual means, are like the tides at times in ebb-and-flow, or as with the saying, “money come, money go”, with an implication of future ventures and opportunities for gain, even in present fortune’s escape from stable ground into the proverbial marsh. In short: when opportunity for success bolts wildly into the mud, this time around it is wise to let it go: there’ll be another chance.

Don’t let the loss of the cow force you to lower your expectations of gain; smaller “wins” can evade just as easily as the big ones… but by that same token, they can taste just as nice, if that’s your thing. Aim for what you Will, even in failing and flight: learn the terrain, from marsh to bramble, and learn the way the games are played. As a hunter or an investor in your own future, know what it is that you’re after, or don’t bother.

Gimbal is a well-groomed, black, African Raven. He is showing his face in profile.

Please share your thoughts, or reflections on how this wisdom might apply to your present circumstances, in the comments section below.

Stay tuned next week for another oracle from Gimbal, and confirmation of meaning around the above!

A New Place for Loki, Part II

Loki as the Sacramental Fire

Despite the evidence that supports calling Loki a fire god, there is one event in Snorri’s Gylfaginning which many people believe specifically discredits Loki’s identity as such. However, when placed in the proper context, this same event may serve as the key to Loki’s primary function in pre-Christian Germanic culture.

Snorri tells us of an occasion where Þórr and Loki journeyed together to visit Útgarðar (“out-world”), the home of a mysterious entity named Útgarða-Loki (“out-world Loki”). On their journey, they stopped at the house of a peasant and were given lodging there for the night. When dinner time arrived, Þórr took the two goats that pull his chariot and slaughtered them. He skinned them and carefully separated their meat from the bones, instructing the family not to break them. However, the peasant’s son Þjálfi didn’t listen, and broke one of the goat’s thigh bones to get to the marrow. The next day, Þórr blessed the piles of skin and bones with his hammer, and his goats came back to life. However, one of them now had a broken leg where Þjálfi had snapped the bone. Þórr was so angry that he was about to destroy the whole house and the family pleaded with him for mercy. This appeased Þórr’s anger, and in recompense the farmer gave him his son Þjálfi and daughter Röskva as servants.

Interestingly, Hymiskviða in the elder Edda makes a short allusion to this story, and in this account it is Loki who is somehow responsible for the laming of Þórr’s goat:

37. They hadn’t travelled a long distance,
before Hlorriða’s goat lay down
half-dead before them;
The goat’s bones were lamed,
this crafty Loki had caused.

With their new servants in tow, Þórr and Loki (after a series of misadventures) eventually reach Útgarða-Loki’s castle. Considering the laws of hospitality that were paramount in Norse culture, Útgarða-Loki gives them an extremely rude welcome. He doesn’t offer them any food or drink, but tells the travelers that no one who doesn’t have a superior skill is allowed to stay there. As Loki has been refused the hospitality he should have received, he gets food through the back door, so to speak, by claiming that nobody can eat faster than he can, “I know a feat that I am quite prepared to have a go at, that there is no one inside here who can eat his food quicker than I.”

Then Utgarda-Loki replies, “That is a feat if you can perform it, and we must try out these feats.” He calls down the bench that someone called Logi is to come out on to the floor and compete with Loki. Then a trencher is fetched and brought in on to the floor of the hall and filled with meat. Loki sits down at one end and Logi at the other, and each eats as quickly as he can and they meet in the middle of the trencher. Loki has eaten all the meat off the bones, but Logi has eaten all the meat and the bones too and also the trencher, and it seems to everyone now that Loki has lost the contest.

Þjálfi and Þórr compete in their own contests, and Þórr has the same degree of success as Loki. The next day, Útgarða-Loki reveals that the gods were only bested because he used illusions to fool them.

“The first was the one that Loki engaged in. He was very hungry and ate fast, but the one who is called Logi [flame], was wildfire, and it burned the trencher just as quickly as the meat.”1

Many people have taken this to mean that there is a clear distinction between Loki and wildfire, and therefore Loki was himself not a fire deity. However what many people have neglected to recognize is (as I have already established) wildfire was not considered the same thing as sacramental fire.2 The most obvious clue to the kind of fire Loki represents is in the bones that he doesn’t eat. There were many transformations in the funeral rites of Scandinavia as the Bronze Age gave away to the Iron Age. In the Bronze Age, cremation was the primary form of funerary practice in Scandinavia and Europe, and the rituals involved were very specific. In Bronze Age Scandinavia, the bones were not damaged in the cremation fire, but were carefully removed from the pyre after burning and washed before they were placed in an urn. They would then be buried, and a howe of some kind was often built over the site. This careful removal of bones from ashes could have symbolized the freeing of the spirit from the ties of the earth.3 The cremation fire was thus the doorway through which the spirits of the dead would be released from the physical world into the realm of the spirits.

It wasn’t until the Iron Age that the body and the grave goods were burned indiscriminately together on the pyre with no attempt to separate the bones from the rest of the debris. This may signify that the symbolic significance of separating the bones was forgotten or no longer represented the religious beliefs of the Iron Age. In the 10thand 11th centuries, cremation was beginning to lose popularity in Scandinavia in favor of lavish inhumation rituals, which were perhaps imitations of those performed by the Catholic Church. The practice of cremation continued in the North until Christianity (which opposed cremation practices) was so firmly established that inhumation became the universal custom.4

Due to the pointed way in which Loki doesn’t consume the bones in Snorri’s account, it is my belief that in antiquity Loki (like Agni) was regarded to be the personification of the fire of cremation and sacrifice. In Snorri’s story, Loki represents the holy fire of cremation that separates bones from flesh, which competes against Logi, who personifies the mundane wildfire that indiscriminately eats whatever is laid in its path.

Just as the sacramental fire of Agni is born from wood and heaven (sunlight or lightning), Loki is born from lightning (Fárbauti) and wood (Laufey/Nál). Both gods also have a strong association with the thunder and lightning god of their respective traditions. Agni travels with Indra, the Vedic god of thunder and lightning, in a chariot drawn by rams, where Loki and Þórr travel together in a chariot drawn by goats. Both pairs of gods were (usually) considered close friends, and Agni and Indra were often honored together. A parallel between Loki/Þórr and Agni/Indra can also be seen in Balakanda-Ramayana, where Indra is rendered a eunuch and he enlists the help of his friend Agni to regain his testicles. Agni obliges and prays to the manes (the ancestors), who help him to replace Indra’s testicles with those of a sacrificial goat. This myth obviously parallels the story of Loki helping Þórr to regain his manhood/hammer in Þrymskviða. The fact that sacred fire was born from the heavens (in the form of lightning) signifies that this fire was seen by early man as having divine origins and being set apart from mundane fire, and may account for the strong association that gods like Loki and Agni have with gods of thunder and lightning and always accompany them.

In the Vedic tradition, Agni specifically represents the fire of cremation and sacrifice. In the Vedic religion, the dead went to the realm of Yama (etymologically cognate to the Norse Ymir) who was the first mortal to die and subsequently became the king of the underworld. For this reason, the common people were typically inhumed. Nobles and priests, on the other hand, were placed on a funeral pyre as an offering received by Agni, who would then carry them (as he carried the offerings to the gods) into the heavens to become godlike. Horses, weapons, and servants were sent along with the nobility, and a wife who willingly entered the funeral pyre with her husband was giving proof of her noble character.5 It is obvious that the Scandinavians shared a similar custom, as these same elements (including the willing suicide of a wife) are all found in the account of Baldr’s funeral in Húsdrápa.

If Loki, like Agni, originally had a major role in funeral rites, this would certainly account for his conspicuous connection to both fire and the world of the dead. The name alternate name for Loki’s mother Laufey,“Nál”, may be related to the Old Norse word nár meaning “corpse”. This word is also at the root of Naglfar, the ship of the dead which Loki captains in Völuspá6. Naglfar itself may be representative of the famous funerary ships from Iron Age Scandinavia, on which nobility (including Baldr) were burned along with their possessions. That Loki should captain this ship is highly appropriate if he is the personification of the cremation fire, which literally “rides” on funeral ships during the time of cremation. It is also notable that Loki’s daughter Hel is the goddess of death, and some speculate that the name of his child, Narfi, is also etymologically connected to the word nár.38 It is also Loki who gives birth to Sleipnir, whose eight legs, according to H.R. Ellis Davidson, may be symbolic of the legs of the four bearers of a funeral bier7

Loki’s close relationship to Óðinn is further accentuated when viewed through the lens of cremation practices. In Ynglinga saga, Snorri tells us that it was Óðinn who first instituted cremation among the Æsir.

“Odin set in his land the laws which had formerly been upheld by the Asa folks; thus, he bade that they burn all the dead and bear their possessions on the fire-bale with them. He said that every man should come to Valhall with such riches as he had with him on the fire-bale and that each should use what he himself had buried in the earth.”8

Like Óðinn, the Hindu Shiva is the ruler of the funeral pyre and his assistant Agni is the personification of the fire itself. As the cult of Shiva grew, he often assimilated the deities and customs of older cults, until he himself is referred to as Agni on occasion. While Shiva is the god of cremation, Agni is the cremation fire, the instrument of Shiva and the gateway of the dead. It is possible that as Agni works in the service of Shiva in the rites of cremation, this same association was made between Óðinn (the lord of the hosts of the dead) and Loki (the gateway through which the dead travel).

H.R. Ellis Davidson suggests that some kind of ritual cannibalism may have accompanied Bronze Age cremation rituals. In “King Bjorn’s Howe” at Uppsala the burnt remains of a man were lying in a tree coffin inside a barrow, and outside the coffin were the unburnt bones of at least three adults. One of the human bones was split lengthwise as though to extract the marrow. The suggestion that these human sacrifices were eaten is strengthened by another discovery in Sweden in a peat bog. Two artificial pools which were originally enclosed with sharpened stakes were found to be holding the bones of many animals and at least four humans. Only parts of the larger animals were found, suggesting that the rest (including the humans) were consumed at a sacrificial meal. The human skeletons were not complete, and were mixed indiscriminately with the animal bones. Bronze Age rock engravings that were found near this site suggest that this ritual occurred in the same period.9

Though it may be coincidental, these findings sound eerily like the account in Hymiskviða and Gylfaginning, where Loki encourages the splitting of bones in order to extract marrow. If Loki has a connection to these funerary rites, then his association with cannibalism certainly would have tainted later opinions of his character.

Further evidence for Loki as a god of cremation lies within his compelling kenning “Gammleið”, meaning “vulture’s path”. There has very little explanation as to why the vulture, as apposed to any other kind of aerial creature, has been chosen in this kenning, especially since Loki typically takes the form of a fly or a falcon. I personally feel that vulture might be associated with Loki for the same reason we see it associated with Agni. Like the cremation fire, the vulture picks away the putrid and rotting flesh from pure, clean bone. This can be interpreted as the spirit being removed from the earthly flesh, releasing the soul of the dead from the physical world. It can also be interpreted as the ego being torn away from the “bare bones” of our being. In the Vedic fire ritual called the Agnicayana, an altar to Agni is constructed out of mud-bricks in the likeness of a bird of prey. This particular bird is credited with having carried fire to humans, and is the origin of the myth of the phoenix that cremates and resurrects itself.10 Because the altar-bird has a short tail and long, broad, un-tapered wings, Indologist Frits Staal (who extensively studied the Agnicayana in 1975) believes that the bird being depicted is a vulture, as this is the only kind of bird in existence with these specific physical characteristics.11 The Griffon Vulture is a likely candidate. It nests in Europe, North Africa, and parts of Asia. the Vedic ritual of the Agnicayana includes the literal embodiment of Agni as fire. Remarkably, it is the world’s oldest surviving ritual.12 The Agnicayana lasts for twelve intensive days. Prior to this a wooden temple is built on the outdoor ritual site, and within it a large clay altar in the shape of a vulture in flight. Many offerings to the gods are burned on this altar, including animal sacrifices. During this portion of the ritual, a sacrificial pole is erected, to which is tied a he-goat that is later sacrificed to empower Agni.13 On the last day of the Agnicayana, the entire ritual structure is set on fire as the final offering to Agni, leaving no trace of what was once a quite large, wooden temple.

A similar practice of sacrificing a goat on a pole in honor of the star Sirius was recorded in Denmark by the Spanish Arab At-Tatuschi during the second half of the 900’s. Incidentally, the most famous landmark from heathen Scandinavia that bears Loki’s name isn’t a place, but a star: Sirius, the “Dog Star”, was known in Scandinavia as Lokabrenna (“Loki’s Torch”).14 Due to Loki’s association with Sirius, a travel account by the Spanish Arab At-Tatuschi may be relevant to the question of Loki’s worship. This story comes from the second half of the 900’s, when At-Tartschi was visiting Schleswig (Hedeby, Danmark).

Scheleswig (Hedeby) is a very large town at the extreme end of the world ocean. In its interior one finds fresh water sources. The inhabitants worship Sirius, except for a minority of Christians who have a church of their own there. They celebrate a feast at which all get together to honor their god and eat and drink. He who slaughters a sacrificial animal puts up poles at the door to his courtyard and impales the animal on them, be it a piece of cattle, a ram, billygoat or pig so that his neighbors will be aware that he is making a sacrifice in honor of his god.”15

If like Agni, Loki was also the recipient of the sacrifice of a goat tied to a pole, this may shed some light on the unusual story recorded in Skáldskaparmál in which Loki ties a goat to his genitals (I.e his “pole”) in order to make Skaði, the goddess of winter, laugh. The star Sirius rises on the horizon beginning around July 24th, so perhaps this ritual would have been enacted to honor the time when Sirius (Loki’s torch) would rise, bringing with it the full heat of summer to melt the remnants of winter, and this story was actually a dim memory of one of his own cult practices.

If my hypothesis is correct, this could also shed light on the Loki’s role as the messenger who carries gifts to the gods, as he does in Skáldskaparmál when he brings gifts to Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr from the world of the dwarves. This could also explain, that while Loki may not have had an organized cult in the same way that Þórr or Óðinn did, he still has a prominent role in Norse cosmology. Loki, like Agni, may have been seen as the messenger/vehicle through which all of the gods received their sacrifices, as opposed to being strictly a solitary receiver of offerings in his own right.

Interpreting Loki as the personification of sacramental fire also leads to an interesting interpretation of his wife, Sigyn. In Þórsdrápa, Loki is given the kenning Farmr Arma Galdrs Hapts, meaning the arm-burden (husband) of the galdr fetter/deity (“fetter”, being a kenning for “god” or “goddess” in Skaldskarpamál)16. It is possible that the identification of the gods with fetters is related to a practice of the Semnones recorded by Tacitus:

Another form of reverence marks the grove as well: no one enters it unless bound with a chain, as an inferior being, outwardly acknowledging the power of the divinity. If they happen to fall down, they are not permitted to get up on their feet again: they roll out along the ground.”17

As the personage referred to in this latter kenning seems to be Sigyn, it implies that she was a goddess who was somehow connected to the art of galdr (i.e magical song). Rudolf Simek suggests that because Sigyn is named as Loki’s wife in Haustlöng (therefore, as early as the 9th century) she probably belonged to a Germanic pantheon of earlier times, where she was presumably worshiped as a goddess in her own right.18

Sigyn is most famously remembered for her role at the end of Lokasenna, which is also described in Gylfaginning and in Völuspá 35, where after Loki is bound, she holds a bowl over Loki to catch the venom that is dripping into his face. As with many aspects of Loki’s mythos, I have often wondered if the image of Sigyn holding a bowl over Loki once represented a religious practice, which was later transformed (or misinterpreted) as a story of agony and torment.

I have found an interesting parallel to Sigyn in Vedic mythology in the figure of Svāhā, wife of Agni. Svāhā is the goddess of libations, which are poured out over Agni’s flames to make offerings to the gods. In other words, Agni is the being who carries gifts to the gods, much like Loki himself does in Snorri’s account of the creation of Þórr’s hammer. Svāhā’s name (which means “offering” and “oblation”) is chanted by priests and housewives who cook the daily food as they throw oblations of ghee and rice into Agni’s flames as sacrifices to the gods.19 When viewed in this context, the role of a goddess who holds a bowl over her husband, the sacramental fire, takes on a very different light.

Sigyn’s name implies “victory”. When used in a ritual of oblation, it would have a similar meaning to that of Svāhā. Perhaps the magical songs (galdr) of which Sigyn seems to have been the goddess were actually songs of worship and praise which were sung while pouring offerings to the gods into Loki’s flames. It is therefore possible that the original image of Sigyn holding a bowl over Loki was actually intended to represent Sigyn pouring offerings onto her husband’s earthly manifestation. It may have been after the coming of Christianity that the liquid offerings dripping onto Loki came to be known as “poison”. By permanently binding Loki until the old gods meet their deaths, it’s possible that the Christian authors of this new story intended to block the doorway through which the old gods received their offerings and praise: in other words, starving them.

Aside from his role as the god’s gift-bringer, if we remember that Loki also may have been revealed to be the god of cremation in Snorri’s account of Þórr’s journey to Útgarðar, Loki’s role as the cremation fire could also lend additional meaning to his involvement in both the death of Baldr (at least according to Snorri) and the role he plays in Völuspá‘s vision of Ragnarök. Whether or not Loki should be considered directly responsible for Baldr’s death has been a hotly debated topic that exceeds the purposes of this article. In short, whether you are following Snorri’s account in Gylfaginning or that of Saxo in the Gesta Danorum, it is Hoðr that is actually responsible for Badr’s murder, and in Saxo’s account Loki isn’t even mentioned in relation to Baldr’s death. However, in Lokasenna we hear from Loki’s own lips, not that he murdered Baldr, but that he brought it about that Baldr would no longer return to his hall:

  1. And will you, Frigg, have me tell more
    of my harmful words;
    I am the reason it was determined
    you will never again see
    Baldr riding to his hall.

Taken in the context of Loki as the cremation fire, it could very well be that Loki meant this in the literal sense, as he (as the fire which burned Baldr’s ship) metaphorically separated Baldr from the world of the living:

Then Baldr’s body was carried out on to the ship, and when his wife Nanna Nep’s daughter saw this she collapsed with grief and died. She was carried on to the pyre and it was set fire to.”20

The same logic could be applied to Loki’s role in Ragnarök, when Loki rejoins the Muspilli on Naglfar, the ship of death (or in this case the cremation ship?), and sails forth to burn the world. Like the cremation fire which burns and purifies putrid flesh, Gammleið and his people consume the corpse of Miðgarðr in order to release it from its old structures and allow it to be born anew. Loki is thus the personification of the flames through which the world must be thrust before it can be purified and reborn. But if Loki originally had a prominent role in these funerary rituals, what would have led him to lose his status as a holy entity? More important, in a land where fire often meant the difference between life and death to the common man, why would a god of holy fire be completely demonized by its native people? Since Loki was a deity who I believe was originally responsible for carrying burnt sacrifices to the gods and freeing the souls of the dead via cremation, it is only natural that the Catholic Church would have found him particularly deplorable. The oldest scald to mention Loki was Þjóðólfr of Hvinir, the author of Haustlöng, which was composed sometime in the 9th century.21 At this time, Loki’s devious nature was only lightly touched upon. People only grew more hostile to his image during and after the Scandinavian conversions.

Though it may only be coincidental, it seems significant that during the establishment of Christianity in Europe in the 5th century, cremation was increasingly abandoned. Inhumation was necessary for the resurrection of the body promised to new converts of Christianity. The pagan rituals of burning bodily remains therefore gradually became viewed as heretical. In 789, the Emperor Charlemagne criminalized cremation in the European West, deeming burial to be the only proper Christian custom.22 Among the laws in Leges Saxonum, we find, “If someone cremates a dead person in a pagan rite, and reduces the bones to ashes, he gets the death penalty.”23

It is therefore possible that some of Loki’s demonization began at this time because he may have been the personification of cremation fire. Images of Loki as a giant bound until the god’s doomsday appear in Scandinavia long after the year 789 AD, and this has led me to wonder whether it was Loki or pagan rites of sacrifice and cremation these artists were attempting to bind.

This brings us to our final question: If my hypothesis is correct, where does this place Loki in the context of modern Heathen ritual? In my own practice, this has meant acknowledging Loki’s presence in any sacramental fire used during blót, particularly when fire is used as the vehicle through which the gods receive their sacrifice. A worshipper with close ties to Loki may be asked to create the sacramental fire in his name, which will represent his physical presence on earth as well as the gateway through which the gods will receive their offerings. Sigyn, like Svāhā,, is invoked when these offerings are made and prayers are said for the victory of the gods, the ancestors, and the worshippers. A woman of power may be seen as the embodiment of Sigyn during this ritual, who physically pours or places offerings to the gods into Loki’s flames.

Returning Loki to the function of sacramental fire not only helps to return him to a functional position within his own pantheon, but also helps to rebuild a vital aspect of Heathen worship which has yet to be explored with great depth: that of burnt-offerings. Veistu, hvé senda skal? Do you know how to send?

Bibliography:

Snorri Sturluson. Edda. Tr. Anthony Faulkes. Everyman, 1995

Snorri Sturluson. Heimskringla or The Lives of the Norse Kings. Tr. A.H. Smith. Dover Publications, Inc., NY, 1990

Tacitus. Agricola and Germany. Tr. Birley, A.R. Oxford University Press, 2009

The Kalevala: or, Poems of the Kaleva District. Tr. Francis Peabody Magoun Jr., Ed. Elias Lönnrot. Harvard University Press, 1963

Consulate General of Denmark in New York. Factsheet. http://web.archive.org/web/20060113013845/http://www.denmark.org/about_denmark/factsheets_articles/factsheets_vikings.html. (accesssed April 25, 2001)

James Chisholm, Grove and Gallows: Greek and Latin Sources for Germanic Heathenism. Runa-Raven Press, TX, 2002

E.O.G. Turville-Petre. Myth and Religion of the North: The Religion of Ancient Scandinavia. Greenwood Press, CT, 1975

Douglas J. Davies. Encyclopedia of Cremation. Ed. Davies, Douglas J. and Mates, Lewis H. Ashgate Publishing, VT, 2006

Jan de Vries. The Problem of Loki. Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seuran Kirjapainon o.y, Helsinki, 1933

Jacob Grimm. Teutonic Mythology: Volume One. Tr. Stallybrass, James Steven. Dover Publications, Inc., NY, 1966

Jacob Grimm. Teutonic Mythology: Volume Two. Tr. Stallybrass, James Steven. Dover Publications, Inc., NY, 1966

Rudolf Simek. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. D.S Brewer, Cambridge, 2007

Axel Olrik. Loke in Younger Tradition. Tr. Eli Anker. Saertryk af Danske Studier 1909. http://www.freewebs.com/harigast/archive/olri_01.html

H.R. Ellis Davidson. The Road to Hel. Greenwood Press, NY, 1968

H.R. Ellis Davidson. Gods and Myths of Northern Europe. Penguin Books, 1990

Dumezil, Georges. Archaic Roman Religion: Volume One. Tr. Philip Krapp. The University of Chicago Press, 1970

Frits Staal. Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume One. Motilal Banassidass Publishers, Delhi, 1983

Frits Staal. Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume Two. Motilal Banassidass Publishers, Delhi, 1983

Wolf-Dieter Storl. Shiva: The Wild God of Power and Ecstasy. Inner Traditions, Rochester, VT, 2004

Sacred Writings vol. 5. Hinduism: The Rig Veda. Tr. Griffith, Ralph T.H. Motilal Banarsidass Publishers PVT. LTD. Quality Paperback Book Club edition, 1992

Anderson, Gunnar. Among trees, bones, and stones: The sacred grove at Lunda. “Old Norse Religion in Long Term Perspectives: origins, changes, and interactions”. Ed. Andrén, Anders, Jennbert, Kristina and Raudvere, Catharina. Nordic Academic Press, 2006

All translations of stanzas from the Elder Edda by Dagulf Loptson.

1 Sturluson, Snorri. Edda. Tr. Faulkes, Anthony. 45

2 Staal, Frits. Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume One. 84

3 Davidson, H.R. Ellis. The Road to Hel. 9-12

4 Ibid, 9-12

5 Storl, Wolf-Dieter. Shiva: The Wild God of Power and Ecstasy. 178

6 Simek, Rudolf. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. 228

7 Davidson, H.R. Ellis. Gods and Myths of Northern Europe. 142

8 Sturluson, Snorri. Heimskringla or The Lives of the Norse Kings. 6

9 41. Davidson, H.R. Ellis. The Road to Hel. 14-15

10 Staal, Frits. Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume One. 86

11 Ibid, 89-90

12 Ibid, 89-90

13 Staal, Frits, Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume One

14 Grimm, Jacob. Teutonic Mythology: Volume One. 242

15 Consulate General of Denmark in New York. Factsheet. http://web.archive.org/web/20060113013845/http://www.denmark.org/about_denmark/factsheets_articles/factsheets_vikings.html.

16 Sturluson, Snorri. Edda. Tr. Faulkes, Anthony. 88

17 Tacitus. Agricola and Germany. 57

18 Simek, Rudolf. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. 284

19 Storl, Wolf-Dieter. Shiva: The Wild God of Power and Ecstasy. 155-156

20 Sturluson, Snorri. Edda. Tr. Faulkes, Anthony. 49

21 Turville-Petre, E.O.G. Myth and Religion of the North. 126

22 Davies, Douglas J. Encyclopedia of Cremation. Ed. Davies, Douglas J. and Mates, Lewis H. (Ashgate Publishing, VT, 2006) xvii

23 Chisholm, James. Grove and Gallows, 53

Wyrd Ways

In this, my inaugural column for Polytheist.com, I want to talk for a bit about why I became Heathen. There were many reasons at the time, twenty plus years ago, that I did not wish to make that leap. I love my Gods more than anything else in my world. I am especially bound in service and devotion to Odin and that happened quite a bit before I became Heathen. It may seem overly facile to say that it’s all Odin’s fault but well, readers, it really is all His doing! He called and I answered. He’s got a very seductive ‘voice,’ after all, and I’ve never regretted my devotion to Him. When He directed me to Heathenry I balked quite a bit, but in the end I went where He bade. It’s been, over the years, a rather interesting journey. Looking back, Heathenry has changed quite a bit (in many ways for the better) since I first entered the religion, and in many ways it remains sadly much the same.

When I first became Heathen, it was all but taboo to discuss or give any personal credence to what was (then as now) termed “UPG” (unverified personal gnosis). In good Protestant fashion, anything remotely smacking of mysticism, experience, or messy, messy emotional engagement was frowned upon, strongly. As a religious studies scholar, I find this not particularly surprising but ironic and very, very amusing given that all religion is, at its heart, UPG, but I digress. All emphasis was placed on a body of non-religious texts termed “the lore.” This included the “Poetic Edda,” “Prose Edda,” Icelandic Sagas, Anglo-Saxon medical charms, historical and legal accounts as well as contemporary scholarship. The idea was to reconstruct the religion of our ancestors as accurately as possible and to that end, Heathens would comb through the extant sources looking for evidence of how rites and rituals were performed. Validity of an approach or practice rested on its presence in the lore. The Gods were, by and large, an afterthought. Certainly there was very little sense of the terrifying immediacy of devotional engagement, and rituals were largely constructed to keep the actual rawness of the sacred at a distance.

The reasons for this textual focus were many: the majority of our converts come from Protestantism, quite often fundamentalist Protestantisms in which the written word is given tremendous credence; there was a strong desire to do things right — and this I fully understand. We should want to do things the proper way for our Gods; there was a desire to separate oneself from Wicca and other non-historical forms of Paganism; and from its beginning in the States, Heathenry has attracted a doggedly blue collar demographic, with a powerful work ethic but an ingrained aversion to contemplation of that which wasn’t immediately apparent or immediately accessible to a community. Moreover, Heathenry attracted a majority of people who were fairly conservative in their views and who had a keen interest in their forebears, their ancestry, the “old world.” It rarely attracted those called by the Gods (not surprising given the extreme hostility toward devotion in those early years).

Then something happened. I actually think a confluence of things happened over the better part of two decades. A group in CA (now y’all know I’m no fan of CA anything, but I have to give credit where credit is due) began practicing a reconstructed version of a spae-rite, a ritual centered around a seeress who plumbs the other worlds for knowledge. Despite criticism of their approach, the practice itself was clearly grounded in lore. This led to a greater awareness of the more esoteric aspects of practice, including Deity possession. While deeply controversial, ever so slowly more and more people started speaking up about experiences that they had. Early on several writers (Edred Thorsson, Freya Aswynn et al) shared their knowledge of rune lore further laying the foundation for an alternative way of approaching the religion. The spae-group, of course, had already been working for years when I became Heathen, and while I disagree with many, many aspects of their practice, I think they laid some very useful groundwork for what was to follow after 2000. In the early two thousands, Raven Kaldera started his work publicly as a Northern Tradition shaman and at the same time there was a growing interest in the Jotnar, what some groups call the Rokkr–Deities like Loki and His family. This highlighted a serious fault line within Orthodox or mainstream Heathenry and a growing awareness of how different various “denominations” might function. More and more people began getting actively called by the Gods and having that as one’s driving force for coming to a religion, is a far, far different thing from wanting to engage in what many of us dismissed as little more than historically oriented role play. Those more gods-focused also became more vocal.

Now obviously, I’m glossing over quite a bit and the community was and remains intensely polarized. What happened though over the last decade is something that has, I believe, been happening in polytheism and paganism in general: a chasm has been highlighted between those who are Gods-focused and Gods-motivated, and those who would put the community and other people over any sense of piety or devotional obligations (rather than seeking to build a community rooted in those latter values). All of these slow, incremental changes, despite the ensuing suspicion and hostility (sometimes intense hostility) created a fissure in the lore-based fundament. It created space through which our Gods might slip.

For all its faults — and in my opinion, Heathenry still has many (I haven’t even touched on its insularity)–now it is a community where to varying degrees people will talk about their devotion, about the ways they honor the Gods, where direct experience isn’t quite so objectionable. Now there are models, very vocal models throughout the various community denominations clearly showing an alternative to staunchly lore-based methodology and more importantly, that it’s not an either-or. Lore can be a useful tool *and* one can be deeply, experientially devout. Now there are those working and teaching and praying and living their faith in ways that clearly show how to do this restoration in a way that emphasizes our devotion to the Gods. Moreover, across denominations (and despite disagreements) I’ve seen a growing awareness of the importance of ancestor work, of honoring our dead, and that fills me with joy. We’ve a very long way to go however.

Now I’m a polytheist and Heathenry is the flavor of polytheism that I practice and it’s been odd to see some of the same shifts and transitions happening in polytheism as a whole, that I’ve watched and participated in over the years within Heathenry. Looking at polytheism as a whole I can’t help but think about where I would like to see Heathenry in another twenty years. Part of me worries that in order to grow into a tradition that truly places Gods and ancestors first, that has an awareness of devotion and piety and that has eschewed the indoctrination of contemporary Protestantism, humanism, modernism, and any other ism diametrically opposed to the mindset of our ancestors, we may have to first tear down what foundation we’ve built. Ragnarok. I hope that isn’t the case. I hope that we are wise enough as a community to build the foundation of this restoration on devotion. I hope that we will as a group root out the intolerance and xenophobia, the insularity and deep suspicion not just of mysticism but of education as well (for all that Heathenry calls itself the religion with homework, there is a deeply ingrained, working class suspicion and disregard of intellectualism within the community).

A friend of mine recently told me about a state wide processional to a particular Goddess. The image of this Goddess was carried by people from one particular Heathen kindred all around the state, stopping wherever there were Heathen groups so that She could be venerated …except that’s not what actually happened. My friend was present at one of the stops. She wanted to pay her respects to this Goddess. She told me, disgusted, that the statue was put on a table. No prayers were given. No acknowledgement that the image of the Deity was present. It was placed on a table and then people socialized for an hour. For this, we might as well all be humanists. It betrays a remarkable lack of priorities. I can’t help but think that the purpose of the processional was to improve the status of the kindred and people doing the procession and not in fact to venerate the Goddess and that has to stop.

We as devotees of the Gods are better than that. We have on our shoulders a heavy, heavy weight, that of restoring the threads of our traditions, threads that were sundered often violently with the spread of christianity across Europe. We have an obligation to our Gods and our dead. We have an obligation to those who will come after us in this tradition to get our shit together and do this restoration thing well; and we can. It is something that is well within our means. All it requires is a shift in mindset. Why are we doing this? For Whom? Tradition building includes community building but that latter should never be done at the expense of proper veneration. Durkheim be damned, religion is not socialization. It’s about a shared experience of the holy. I think if we keep that in mind, if we school ourselves to think first of what is right by the Gods and the dead, and do that instead of worrying what others will think, or jockeying for position, or a thousand other human-centric foibles we’ll be ok. Certainly the one thing that we can all agree on, regardless of our denomination or position, is that we want to see our traditions restored.

And that, my readers, is what this column is about. Over the next few months I’m going to be talking about Heathenry: what we do well, where I think we should improve, and what the way certain religious structures have been allowed to develop means for us as a global community. Moreover, what does it mean to be doing this restoration work in a world so different from that of our ancestors, a world poisoned for two thousand years by monotheistic oppression? What does it mean to be breaking free into the traditions of our ancestors and into a sense of our own indigeny? How do we do this well, respectfully, sustainably?

I don’t have answers to all or even most of these questions but I know they need to be asked and I’ve seen enough transformation over the past two decades in Heathenry to have hope that by working together, intra-faith as well as interfaith with other polytheists, we can figure it out.

Stumbling Toward the Gods

Several years ago, I was sitting in a friend’s living room, having a chat about the various members of the tradition we share. We were only gossiping a little, in the negative sense of the term: she isn’t really given to gossip, and while I’ve been known to loudly roll my eyes at the foolishness that I see around me (I do live in the San Francisco Bay Area, after all), I’m much more interested in the way people are living their lives using the various magical, spiritual, and religious traditions that they engage.

But we did start discussing the idiosyncrasies of our kinfolk, with as little judgement as I could manage. It was just the two of us, so there also wasn’t much of an attempt to be political. Still, I was quite surprised when she fixed me with a look from across the room and asked, “Why aren’t you a freak like the rest of us?”

It sounded a little like a challenge. Hell, in a tradition like the one we were discussing, it bordered on an insult. But she had a point. I look better suited to being in an Episcopal church on Sunday than I do making offerings to my Ancestors or chanting in a dead language to a Goddess of war and sovereignty. And at the time, I said something about having my pointy teeth hidden in a friendly face.
That may have been true then, and it may still be true today. Sharp teeth, after all, are in the flesh of the bitten. But my answer to the same question today would be more about placing myself in the hands of the Gods that speak to me, and following where they lead.

Religion and Magic

Over the last couple of years, as my engagement with my local spiritual community has shifted toward Polytheism, I have come to realize that the difference between religion and magic is significant, important, and relevant in my life.

I think that this is an important distinction, but I want to be clear that I am not trying to make any comment about the fundamental rights or freedoms enjoyed by any group. In the United States, there has been some relatively recent progress made in extending legal religious recognition to many traditions. This is an important step to ensure that all traditions have a place in the future of the world. I am neither qualified to nor interested in drawing legal distinctions, nor am I commenting on anyone’s right to practice as they will in a protected and recognized way, whether their tradition is spiritual, magical, or philosophical. I am a fervent believer in and practitioner of both religion and magic. Instead, I’m saying that it’s more useful to understand the direction from which you’re approaching the subject, in terms of the results you get from all the beings involved. I’d also like to point out that it may be difficult to draw a bright line between these; the edges blur and run together like watercolors on a rainy day.

I started out in the Bay Area Pagan Community not really understanding what I was getting into, in many different respects. I’d grown up as an aforementioned Episcopalian, come to find that wasn’t working for me all that well, and discovered “Paganism” as an identity. I began looking around, and before long I found myself in a tradition that focused largely on Ancestor contacts, Land and Faery allies, and the development of spiritual and psychic skills to manage these relations. There are Gods in that tradition, but they aren’t tied to a particular historic pantheon. And along the way, I was exposed to what were then the usual suspects in the Pagan world: so-called Eclectic Wicca, the group of related traditions commonly referred to as “British Traditional Witchcraft,” and Ceremonial Magical traditions. The path that I was learning, that felt like (and still feels like) home to me, had something different that I couldn’t define, so I didn’t get too involved with the other folks.

My first teacher was also, separately, a student of Santeria, so we would occasionally talk about some of the things that he was learning in that tradition. These conversations struck an interesting chord for me. There was something different, and frightening, and strangely attractive in what he was expressing, and I didn’t really understand the reasons why.

The reasons boiled down largely to a question of religion versus magic.

To clarify, by “religion” I mean a set of beliefs concerning the nature of the universe, which (in the Polytheist context) includes the acknowledgement of deific beings who have their own agency, and includes devotional and ritual practices concerning those beings. Magic, on the other hand, is in its simplest form the exertion of Will within and upon the universe, generally to achieve a specific end that the magician (ideally) desires.

Can one be performing religion and ask one’s Gods for help with a specific situation? Sure. That’s called “prayer.” Can one be practicing magic and exert one’s Will with regard to a God, spirit, or other superhuman being? Of course they can, it’s a fundamental basis of magic in the Western tradition. But let me turn those questions on their heads.

Can one practice religion and not believe in deific beings? Well, certainly not as a Polytheist. In fact, if you’re doing “religion” and don’t believe in these deities and spirits, you’re doing something else. (Which is okay.) If you’re engaging with archetypes, or metaphors, or leveraging your psyche with cultural tales that aren’t any more real than Star Wars is real? You’re actually practicing a form of magic, whether you believe in a Higher Self or not. And magic is cool, so that’s okay, too.

Which brings me back to my own path, and how I accidentally stumbled into Polytheism, where I might otherwise have been a happy henotheist in the Episcopal Church, or an Eclectic Pagan worshipping the Many Facets of One Mother Goddess, or perhaps a chaos magician trying to coin-flip my way to work. (And there’s nothing wrong with those, they’re just not my path, and not germane to the conversation here.) When I was in those early rituals, just learning my skills and all the things that are in “mainstream” Paganism? When I was hiking alone in the forest, or on the beach? When I was walking around in circles chanting songs of sovereignty? I was listening. I was keeping my spiritual ears open. And I heard Gods call to me, into the silence.

I heard Them speak to my heart and my soul as They spoke to my mind and my ears in the rituals. There was recognition there, for me, of something powerful and beautiful and ultimately satisfying that I didn’t find elsewhere. I realized that that first tradition, the one I’d found my way into in the first place, was full of poets and seers and priests who genuinely loved and believed in their Gods; they expected them to be real and have agency and make a difference in the world, if one would only listen for Them. So I responded, and They responded, and I knew that my relationships with Them would involve partnership, service, and worship.

I’m still here, listening, even though the clutter of life sometimes makes it hard to hear clearly. Perhaps, Dear Reader, you are too, and your path isn’t so dissimilar to mine. I look forward to sharing my thoughts with you.

A New Place for Loki, Part I

In stanza 144 of Hávamál, the speaker asks the reader about their knowledge regarding a series of religious ritual steps. The seventh question, “Veistu, hvé senda skal?” (do you know how to send?), which comes right after “Veistu, hvé blóta skal?” (do you know how to sacrifice?) is the topic of this article. The word “senda” in Old Norse means to send something somewhere, sometimes in the context of sending a gift. Its place in the series of questions in stanza 144 suggests, that after something (whether an animal, an object, or a human) has been sacrificed to the gods, the next logical step is to send that gift to the gods. But how does one go about doing that? What is needed to send a sacrifice into the liminal world of thea gods? For the Old Norse people, there seem to have been two primary vehicles: Water (as reflected in the many widespread bog-finds) and Fire. It is the second of these which I believe holds the key to understanding Loki’s function in Old Norse religion, and reveals the constructive role he could be playing in modern Heathen ritual today.

Before I continue, it is important to make a distinction between the sacramental fire I will be speaking about vs mundane fire. In many ancient societies (those of Scandinavia included) there was more than one “species” of fire. The wildfire was not the same entity as the hearth fire or the fire that healed. Just as certain bodies of water and earthly locations were held in high esteem, some fires were holier than others. For example, Grimm describes a ritual which was enacted to create a very specific kind of fire in Germany called the “need fire”. In the ritual of the need-fire, every fire in the village must first be extinguished. Then a flame is kindled by drilling with a wooden roller, and sick cattle and horses are driven through the resulting fire three times in order to cure their illnesses.1 This demonstrates that different kinds of fire with different functions existed in the Germanic world.

In Old Norse literature and archeology, there seems to have been at least three major functions for sacramental fire: purification (as when fire is carried around the perimeter of a new land to purify it in Lándamabók), cremation (as demonstrated in Baldr’s funeral as described in Gylfaginning), and the sending of sacrifices to the gods as burnt offerings. Though the latter has very little evidence in the way of literature, there is a great deal of archeological evidence to suggest that burnt offerings were conducted in the Old Nordic/Germanic religion:

“Burnt offerings in Old Norse religion are a kind of ritual activity that – as far I know – practically unknown in the literary sources. We know very little about whether they were practiced at all, or if so, in what forms. In the archaeological sources, however, the (sometimes) vast systems of hearths that occur, mostly in southern Scandinavia and in continental Europe as well, have been interpreted as remains of cremation offerings. Sometimes these hearth systems are located on conspicuous hilltops or even mountains and the burnt bones that they contain are usually from cattle, sheep/goats and pigs.”2

In Vedic religion (the Indo-European cousin of the traditions of Germany and Scandinavia) sacramental fire is also used in rituals of sacrifice, purification, and cremation and is personified by the god Agni, who is both the messenger of the gods, and symbolically is the “mouth” through which the gods receive their sacrificial offerings:

HYMN XIII

  1. AGNI, well-kindled, bring the Gods for him

who offers holy gifts.

Worship them, Purifier, Priest.

  1. Son of Thyself, present, O Sage,

our sacrifice to the gods today.

Sweet to the taste that they may feast.

  1. Dear Narasamsa, sweet of tongue, the giver of oblations,

I invoke to this our sacrifice…”3

He is also the fire of cremation that carries the dead to the world of the gods. A closer look at Loki’s mythos reveals a function that mirrors that of Agni in the Vedic tradition, and not only clarifies Loki’s position in the Norse cosmos but also gives larger meaning to pre-Christian Norse fire rituals. But before Loki’s position as the personified sacramental fire can be defended, I first have to make a case for Loki’s association with fire in surviving Norse literature.

Loki as a Fire God

Because there is no primary source that places Loki directly in the role of a fire god, there has been a lot of speculation as to whether this was truly one of his original functions. Many people have discounted this as a possibility entirely, and some scholars barely broach the subject in their studies of Loki. However, there are still many sources which point to Loki’s fiery nature, and when viewed together they greatly strengthen the hypothesis that he is a god associated with fire.

In Völuspá, there are a few stanzas that suggest that Loki may be directly related to the Muspilli: the word now commonly used to describe fire-giants from the world of Múspellheimr, which Snorri describes as a world that is guarded by a fiery being named Surtr (“black”). It is possible that the word “Múspell” was borrowed from continental Germany by the Scandinavians, as “Muspilli” is the title of an Old High German poem from the late 9th Century, and is the name for the Christian end of the world by fire.4 Turville-Petre speculates that it was borrowed and misunderstood by the Scandinavians to mean that it was the name of a fire-demon who would destroy the world.5 “Múspell” is the owner of the ship Naglfar (“nail ship”) and his children are known only as “Múspell’s sons”. However, rather than being a literal personage, “Múspell” could just as easily mean something like “fiery destruction”. Múspellheimr would therefore be the world of fiery destruction, and the “sons of Múspell” are the sons of that world. According to Snorri, come Ragnarök , Surtr will be at the front of the advance against Ásgarðr.

Amid this turmoil the sky will open and from it will ride the sons of Muspell. Surt will ride in front, and both before and behind him there will be burning fire. His sword will be very fine. Light will shine from it more brightly than from the sun. And when they ride over Bifrost it will break, as was said above. Muspell’s lads will advance to the field called Vigrid.6

Snorri also tells us that Surtr is a being who is stationed at the border of Múspellheimr in order to defend it, and seems to be Múspellheimr’s guardian:

There is one called Surt that is stationed there at the frontier to defend the land. He has a flaming sword and at the end of the world he will go and wage war and defeat all the gods and burn the whole world with fire.7

This obviously bears some resemblance to stanza 3:24 of Genesis, in which an angel with a flaming sword guards the gates to paradise, and it’s hard to say whether Surtr guarding Múspellheimr with his fiery sword is a late invention or not.

In Völuspá, there is more than one stanza in which Loki seems to be counted among the Muspilli, and even more significantly as a high ranking force therein. Though Snorri places Surtr at the front of Múspellheimr’s attack, Völuspá names Loki as the captain of Naglfar (the ship which Snorri states is owned by Múspell) who actually leads the fire-giants (including Surtr) from Múspellheimr.

51. A longship ferries from the East,
Muspell’s people are coming
over the waves and Loki steers;
Sons of the giant fare forth
with all of the devourers, [kenning for fire?]
the brother of Býleist travels with them.

The fact that Loki sails the Muspilli to Ásgarðr from Múspellheimr suggests that he himself should be counted as a fire-giant; for according to Snorri, only someone who is native to Múspellheimr is able to enter this world without perishing, which Loki obviously doesn’t since he steers Naglfar from this fiery world.

Then spoke Third. “But first there was the world in the southern region called Muspell. It is bright and hot. That area is flaming and burning and it is impassable for those that are foreigners there and are not native to it.”8

Though many people have presumed Surtr to be the “king” of Múspellheimr, this is never explicitly stated in any source. Rather, the evidence presented by Snorri andVöluspá point to Surtr as the guardian of Múspellheimr, but not necessarily its ruler. As Loki is the only being who is actually described as leading the Muspilli, it is possible that it is Loki, not Surtr, who might be regarded as their leader. Rudolf Simek also tentatively makes this observation.

Loki will be the helmsman of the ship Naglfar according to Völuspá 51 and with this ship the powers of Muspell will cross the sea. It is not certain whether because of this Loki should be seen as their leader.”9

The idea that Loki could be considered Múspellheimr’s ruler may shed some light on Óðinn’s pact of blood-brotherhood with him. Perhaps this bond was not a simple blending of blood between friends, but a blood truce between kings. Njörðr has often been viewed as a king within Vanaheimr, while his son Freyr is the king of Álfheimr. Both of these individuals are brought to live in Ásgarðr as hostages in order to keep peace between their nations. Identifying Loki as a hostage king of Múspellheimr may explain his presence in Asgard, as the Muspilli demonstrate no threat to Ásgarðr until after Loki and his children have been imprisoned, thus breaking the truce between the two nations.

A further connection between Loki and the giants of Múspellheimr can be found in the Eddic poem Svipdagsmál. This story makes mention of a mysterious figure named Sinmara (“pale nightmare”), who is generally believed to be Surtr’s wife. In the course of this poem, Svipdagr asks the giant Fjölsviðr what weapon can kill the rooster Víðófnir who resides in Ásgarðr. Fjölsviðr responds,

26. Lævatein it is called,
and Loptr, knowledgeable in runes, forged it
before Nágrind [the gate of the dead] below;
In an iron chest Sinmara keeps it
and holds it with nine strong locks.

The name of the sword which Loki forges in Helheimr, Lævateinn, literally translates to “damage twig”, which itself is actually a kenning for sword and may not actually be the sword’s name. The fact that Sinmara guards the sword for Loki is interesting, and one might suppose that as she is the guardian of Loki’s sword, her husband Surtr is the guardian of Loki’s realm while he is away in Ásgarðr.

Further evidence for Loki’s power over fire is found in Lokasenna. Once Þórr has sufficiently threatened Loki into leaving Ægir’s hall, at the end of the poem, Loki leaves Ægir with a curse.

65. Ale you brewed, Ægir,
but never again will you hold sumbl;
All of your possessions, that are inside here,
fire will play upon it
and burn you from behind!”

This would be a rather strange curse for Loki to pronounce if he had nothing to do with fire at all, and as Völuspá and Svipdagsmál both imply, many poets of the elder Edda indicate an association between Loki and fire.

Other evidence for Loki as a fire god must be sought outside the elder Edda, and can sometimes be found in the scattered remains from other Indo-European cultures. At both the end of Lokasenna and in Gylfaginning, there is a story in which Loki transforms himself into a salmon in order to escape the wrath of the Æsir; and it is while he is in this form that they eventually capture him. In Snorri’s account, Loki invented a fishing net and burned it when he thought he was about to be discovered. The gods used the pattern of the ashes left behind to make a new net.

After that they went and made themselves a net just like what they saw in the ashes that Loki had made. And when the net was finished the Aesir went to the river and threw the net into the waterfall.”10

When Loki tries to jump over the net and escape, it is Þórr who eventually captures him.

Though it may be tempting to attach an aquatic symbolism to Loki’s salmon form, there are other Indo-European sources which argue otherwise. The 48th magic song from Finnish Kalevala bears a strong resemblance to Snorri’s account, and describes a fish as the vessel for the fire which Ukko (the sky god) lost. Väinämöinen (the hero of the Kalevala) and the people of the Kaleva District join forces to catch the fire-fish, making a flax net in order to capture it. Once captured, the spark escapes and starts to wreck havoc on the landscape. Väinämöinen finally convinces the fire to calm down and come with him to bring fire to the homes of the people, transporting it on a piece of birch bark. Like Loki and Agni (the Vedic personification of sacramental fire), the fire must be captured from the water in which it was hiding in order to become useful to the people again. 11

De Vries suggests that the red color of the salmon may have led to the idea that it is a fish that holds fire, and also points out that there is a Native American legend in which fire is extracted from a red salmon.12 Tales of the salmon as a fiery creature also are found in the Celtic regions. In Ireland, there is a story of a salmon that ate nine hazelnuts that had fallen into the well of wisdom in which it dwelled. It was said that whoever ate the salmon would ingest all of the knowledge in the world. The poet Finn Eces captured the salmon, and instructed his apprentice Fionn mac Cumhaill to cook it for him. As Fionn was cooking the salmon, his thumb was spattered by some of its hot oil. He put his thumb in his mouth to soothe it, and inadvertently swallowed all of the knowledge that the salmon held. In this story, not only are the salmon and fire dimly connected, but so is the Celtic conception that fire is symbolic of knowledge.

Tales of fire trying to hide in water aren’t unique to Europe, and are also found in Vedic mythology. The Vedas tell how fire (Agni) constantly withdraws from men, goes into hiding in water, plants, or other elements, and must be repeatedly recaptured. It is said that Agni has a great fear of death, as his elder brothers had succumbed or disappeared under the weight of their sacrificial function. Agni flees and takes refuge in the water, and the gods must lure him back into sacrificial service by promising him a share of the sacrifice and immortality.13 This clearly resembles Snorri’s tale of the gods having to capture Loki from a river, and also dimly echoes the story in which Loki recaptures Iðunn and restores immortality to the gods.

That Loki should be the inventor of the fish net is also significant, in that this accomplishment is also attributed to other Indo-European fire gods. In Greece, the smith god Hephaestus is credited with inventing the fishing net, with which he captures his wife Aphrodite and Ares in an act of adultery. In Rome, a strange sacrifice was offered to Volcanus, the god of destructive fire. In these sacrifices, the violent opposition between fire and water (possibly also exemplified by Loki and Heimdallr) was expressed through an offering of small live fishes, (in place of human souls) which were thrown into Volcanus’s fire at his temple at the Volcanal14. In India, Agni is also known as the enemy of fish, and as inventor of the fish net Loki himself is an obvious enemy of fish. It is also worth mentioning that the name which Snorri gives to the thong Brokkr uses to sew Loki’s mouth shut (Vatari) is a name for “fish” in the Þulur.15

Aside from this literary evidence, There is a small piece of archeological evidence from around the year 1000 CE, now called the Snaptun Stone, which may be further evidence of Loki’s fiery nature. This somewhat famous image (which has generally been accepted to be Loki) was carved onto a soapstone bellows-guard found on a beach in Jutland, Denmark. The figure has a series of gashes across his lips, and is believe to portray Loki, after his lips had been sewn shut by the dwarf smith Brokkr.

A bellows-guard such as this would have been used to shield a bellows from the heat of the forge, and it’s possible that Snaptun Stone’s creator may have been attempting to enlist Loki’s help in transforming and shaping their metals with his fire, and in this way Loki would have borne a resemblance to another Indo-European forge and fire deity: Hephaestus. As Loki forges a sword in Svipdagsmál, perhaps he once had a stronger association with forges then surviving evidence about him implies.

In addition to the pagan customs surrounding fire that parallel Loki’s lore, we also have post-conversion folk sayings about an entity named Loki or Lokke in Scandinavia. Axel Olrik remarks that many of these traditions support the picture of Loki we have from the Eddas, and it is notable that many of them present him as a being of light and fire.16 Just as the faery gods of Ireland were made the harmless and diminutive “little people”after the Christian conversion, perhaps Loki received similar treatment post-conversion and was transformed into a smaller entity within Scandinavian folk culture. The following is a list of fire-related folk sayings organized according to the region in which Olrik collected them. It should be noted that far from supporting the malicious figure that Loki becomes in Völuspá and consequently at the end of Gylfaginning, these whimsical and even affectionate images of Loki reveal that in the minds of the common people of Scandinavia, Loki was still considered a mostly harmless (albeit somewhat annoying) entity.

Denmark:

Lokke is reaping his oats” Refers to air shimmering with heat or flickering lights.

Lokke drives his goats” Describes the same phenomena.

Lokke the playing man” Describes the sun glimmering off water and creating flickering lights.

Loke drinks water” When sunbeams break through clouds and touch the land or sea.

Lokke watches his goat herd” When heat flutters from the ground like leaping goats.

Sweden and Norway:

Lokje beats his children” When the hearth fire makes a loud, cracking noise.

People in Tlemarken throw the skin from boiled milk into the hearth fire as a sacrifice to Lokje.

In Sweden, a child who loses a tooth throws it into the fire and says: “Locke, give me a bone-tooth for a gold-tooth”.

Iceland:

Lokadaun” or “Lokalykt” Used to refer to a sulfurous odor.

Lokabrenna” Refers to the heat of summer.


Iceland’s association with Loki and the odor of sulfur is extremely relevant to the famous Icelandic hot springs, which actually do smell strongly of sulfur. Icelanders may very well have associated Loki with the fire under the earth that heats the hot springs, as
Völuspá places Loki “under the hvera lundi”, sometimes translated as “cauldron-grove” (I.e the hotsprings):

  1. She saw lying captive under the cauldron groves,
    yearning to do harm,
    someone similar in shape to Loki.

It seems apparent that some memory of Loki as a fiery entity survived in Scandinavia, and this may reflect opinions of him that were held at an earlier time.

Stay tuned for Part II!

Bibliography:

Snorri Sturluson. Edda. Tr. Anthony Faulkes. Everyman, 1995

Snorri Sturluson. Heimskringla or The Lives of the Norse Kings. Tr. A.H. Smith. Dover Publications, Inc., NY, 1990

Tacitus. Agricola and Germany. Tr. Birley, A.R. Oxford University Press, 2009

The Kalevala: or, Poems of the Kaleva District. Tr. Francis Peabody Magoun Jr., Ed. Elias Lönnrot. Harvard University Press, 1963

Consulate General of Denmark in New York. Factsheet. http://web.archive.org/web/20060113013845/http://www.denmark.org/about_denmark/factsheets_articles/factsheets_vikings.html. (accesssed April 25, 2001)

James Chisholm, Grove and Gallows: Greek and Latin Sources for Germanic Heathenism. Runa-Raven Press, TX, 2002

E.O.G. Turville-Petre. Myth and Religion of the North: The Religion of Ancient Scandinavia. Greenwood Press, CT, 1975

Douglas J. Davies. Encyclopedia of Cremation. Ed. Davies, Douglas J. and Mates, Lewis H. Ashgate Publishing, VT, 2006

Jan de Vries. The Problem of Loki. Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seuran Kirjapainon o.y, Helsinki, 1933

Jacob Grimm. Teutonic Mythology: Volume One. Tr. Stallybrass, James Steven. Dover Publications, Inc., NY, 1966

Jacob Grimm. Teutonic Mythology: Volume Two. Tr. Stallybrass, James Steven. Dover Publications, Inc., NY, 1966

Rudolf Simek. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. D.S Brewer, Cambridge, 2007

Axel Olrik. Loke in Younger Tradition. Tr. Eli Anker. Saertryk af Danske Studier 1909. http://www.freewebs.com/harigast/archive/olri_01.html

H.R. Ellis Davidson. The Road to Hel. Greenwood Press, NY, 1968

H.R. Ellis Davidson. Gods and Myths of Northern Europe. Penguin Books, 1990

Dumezil, Georges. Archaic Roman Religion: Volume One. Tr. Philip Krapp. The University of Chicago Press, 1970

Frits Staal. Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume One. Motilal Banassidass Publishers, Delhi, 1983

Frits Staal. Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume Two. Motilal Banassidass Publishers, Delhi, 1983

Wolf-Dieter Storl. Shiva: The Wild God of Power and Ecstasy. Inner Traditions, Rochester, VT, 2004

Sacred Writings vol. 5. Hinduism: The Rig Veda. Tr. Griffith, Ralph T.H. Motilal Banarsidass Publishers PVT. LTD. Quality Paperback Book Club edition, 1992

Anderson, Gunnar. Among trees, bones, and stones: The sacred grove at Lunda. “Old Norse Religion in Long Term Perspectives: origins, changes, and interactions”. Ed. Andrén, Anders, Jennbert, Kristina and Raudvere, Catharina. Nordic Academic Press, 2006

All translations of stanzas from the Elder Edda by Dagulf Loptson.

1 Grimm, Jacob. Teutonic Mythology: Volume Two. 604

2 Anderson, Gunnar. Among trees, bones, and stones: The sacred grove at Lunda. Old Norse Religion in Long Term Perspectives: origins, changes, and interactions. 197

3 Tr. Griffith, Ralph T.H. Sacred Writings Volume 5. Hinduism: The Rig Veda. 7

4 Simek, Rudolf. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. 224

5 Turville-Petre, E.O.G. Myth and Religion of the North. 284

6 Sturluson, Snorri. Edda. Tr. Faulkes, Anthony. 53-54

7 Ibid, 9

8 Ibid, 9

9 Simek, Rudolf. Dictionary of Northern Mythology, 223

10 Sturluson, Snorri. Edda. Tr. Faulkes, Anthony 51

11 Kalevala: the Epic Poem of Finland – Volume 02. Ed. Lönnrot, Elias. Tr. Crawford, John Martin. (Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, 2003-2010. Web)

12 De Vries, Jan. The Problem of Loki. (Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seuran Kirjapainon o.y, Helsinki, 1933) 156

13 Staal, Frits, Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Volume Two. (Motilal Banassidass Publishers, Delhi 1983) 77-78

14 Dumezil, Georges. Archaic Roman Religion: Volume One. Tr. Philip Krapp. (The University of Chicago Press, 1970) 321

15 19. Simek, Rudolf. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. 353

16 Olrik, Axel. Loke in Younger Tradition.