How Modern Paganism Lost the Thread of Relationship

(And How to Get It Back Without Becoming a Reenactment Nerd)

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A Quick Story Before We Begin

Picture two Vikings.

Viking A wakes up. Pours some mead on the ground for the land-spirits. Chats with his house-carl about last night’s dreams. Goes fishing. Makes an offering to Njord because the herring are running. Shares dinner with neighbors—some of whom follow Christ, some who follow Thor, some who aren’t sure what they follow but make excellent cheese. Falls asleep listening to the wind in the fjord.

Viking B wakes up. Checks his ancestry DNA test to confirm he’s 23% Scandinavian. Gets angry on the internet because someone called Odin “All-Father” instead of using the “correct” Old Norse pronunciation he looked up yesterday. Yells at a stranger for combining rune magic with crystal healing. Goes to bed alone, clutching his reproduction sword, dreaming of a pure past that never existed.

One of these Vikings is practicing a living religion.

The other is building a bunker.

This article is about how we got from A to B—and how to get back.

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Part I: The Web That Was

(Or: Your Ancestors Were Way More Chill Than You Think)

Let’s start with a weird claim that happens to be true:

Historical pagans didn’t really do “religion” the way we think of it.

They didn’t have scripture. They didn’t have Sunday school. They didn’t have doctrinal statements you had to sign to join the club. What they had was relationships. Lots of them. With everything.

The Anthropology of “Hey, Neighbor”

Julian Pitt-Rivers, an anthropologist who spent way too much time studying Mediterranean hospitality customs (someone had to), noticed something back in 1977. From Vedic India to Iron Age Scandinavia, Indo-European societies ran on what the Greeks called xenia—guest-friendship, sacred hospitality, the art of not being a jerk to strangers.

This wasn’t just being polite. It was theological.

The way you treated a guest was the way you treated a god. The way you treated a god was the way you treated a guest. Everything was connected through webs of obligation, gift-giving, and mutual “don’t screw this up” energy.

Mary Douglas, another anthropologist who could probably sort your entire life out just by watching how you arrange your kitchen, described small-group religions (that’s all the pre-Christian European ones) as having weak boundaries but strong internal connections (Douglas, 1970).

Think about that for a second.

Weak boundaries. Strong connections.

Not “who’s in and who’s out.” Not “us versus them.” Just… connection. Permeable. Breathing. Alive.

The Land Was the Liturgy

Richard Bradley, an archaeologist who digs things up for a living (literally), wrote a whole book called An Archaeology of Natural Places (2000). His big insight? Pre-Christian European religions weren’t about believing the right things. They were about being in the right places.

Sacred springs. Ancient groves. Burial mounds that whispered with ancestors. The sacred wasn’t something you carried in your head. It was something you stood on.

This is what philosopher Edward Casey calls “locative” spirituality (Casey, 1997). It’s the opposite of “I can worship anywhere because God is everywhere.” It’s “I worship here because here is specific, and the spirits of here know me.”

The Norse Were Running a Relationship Startup

Let’s look at the evidence for Norse religion specifically—because this is where modern people get really confused.

The Landvættir: Your Local Nature Spirits, Please Don’t Scare Them

The Landnámabók—basically the Icelandic settler’s handbook from way back when—has this delightful detail. When Vikings sailed to Iceland, they would remove the dragon-prows from their ships before landing. Why? So they wouldn’t frighten the land-spirits (Byock, 2001).

Let that sink in.

These are Vikings. We’re talking about people who raided monasteries for fun. And their first priority when reaching new land was not freaking out the local nature spirits.

This isn’t a religion of conquest. It’s a religion of negotiation. Of “hey, we’re new here, please don’t make our cows miscarry.”

The Gods Were a Social Network

Michael York, a historian of religion who has opinions about polytheism (and wrote a whole book called Pagan Theology in 2003), argues that pagan pantheons aren’t really “theologies” in the modern sense. They’re social maps.

The Æsir? Political gods. Chieftain energy. Leadership and law.

The Vanir? Agricultural gods. Fertility and reciprocity. “Let’s all get along and have good harvests” energy.

The Jötnar? Wild gods. Chaos and transformation. The stuff outside the boundaries that you still have to deal with.

You needed all of them. The web included everyone.

Christianization Was a Dinner Party, Not a Crusade

Here’s something that blows modern minds: when Scandinavia converted to Christianity, it wasn’t because missionaries won theological debates.

Anders Winroth, a historian who specializes in making Vikings more complicated than you thought, points out that Christianization happened through political alliance and gift-exchange (Winroth, 2014). King Óláfr Tryggvason didn’t argue people into Christianity. He gifted them into it. Accepted the new god as a powerful ally. Made relationships.

The idea of “faith” as believing specific propositions? That would have been weird to a Viking. They cared about who you sacrificed with, not what you secretly thought.

The Blót: Religion as Potluck

Neil Price, an archaeologist who wrote The Viking Way (2002) and the absolutely massive Children of Ash and Elm (2020), synthesized all the evidence about Norse sacrifice (blót). His conclusion?

It was basically a communal barbecue with divine guests.

You sacrificed an animal. You cooked it. You ate it together. The gods got their share. You got yours. The animal became a mediator—literally “making middle” between human community and divine community.

This is relationship as shared consumption. Not theology as correct belief.

See the pattern yet?

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Part II: How the Bunker Got Built

(Or: The 19th Century Ruined Everything, Part 4,729)

So if historical paganism was all about connection, permeability, and webs of relationship… what the hell happened?

Short answer: Romantic nationalism happened.

Long answer: Keep reading.

The Invention of “Pure” Germanicness

In the 19th century, a bunch of German intellectuals got really into the idea that they had a racial essence that could be recovered from the past. This was the Völkisch movement—”Volk” meaning people, but in a creepy “blood and soil” way that would go on to cause significant problems in the 20th century.

Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke traced this whole mess in The Occult Roots of Nazism (1985). Mattias Gardell followed up with Gods of the Blood (2003). Both tell the same story: the Norse heritage got transformed from a web of regional practices into a fortress of identity.

Guido von List. The Germanenorden. People with impressive beards and unfortunate political ideas. They took the decentralized, localized, relational spirituality of actual Heathens and turned it into Germanic Nationalism: The Religion.

This was the critical turn.

From “who are we connected to?” (the land, the ancestors, the gods, the neighbors)

To “what are we not?” (not Slavic, not Jewish, not Catholic, not modern, not contaminated).

Arjun Appadurai, an anthropologist who thinks about culture professionally, calls this “culturalism” (1996)—when culture stops being the water you swim in and becomes an object of passionate defense. The “old ways” became a flag. A boundary marker. A bunker.

Ásatrú: From Practice to Protest

Fast forward to 1972. Iceland. The Ásatrúarfélagið gets founded. In America, the 1970s counterculture discovers Vikings. Sounds cool, right?

But here’s the thing: American Heathenry inherited that 19th-century bunker mentality.

Jennifer Snook, a sociologist who actually talked to American Heathens for her book American Heathens (2015), found that the movement has been “shaped by its oppositional stance.” Defining itself against Christianity. Against mainstream culture. Against “fluffy” Wicca. Against universalism. Against “SJWs.” Against whatever the internet is mad about this week.

This is definitional by negation.

A religion that knows what it hates but has forgotten what it loves.

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Part III: The Anthropology of Why Bunkers Feel Safe

(Spoiler: They’re Actually Terrible for Your Spiritual Health)

So why do people keep building these spiritual bunkers? There’s actually anthropology for this.

From Locative to Utopian to Dystopian

Jonathan Z. Smith, a religious studies scholar who could probably deconstruct your breakfast cereal, made a famous distinction in Map Is Not Territory (1978). He talked about locative sacred spaces versus utopian sacred spaces.

Locative = centered, place-bound, specific. You are here. The sacred is here. Relationship happens here.

Utopian = unbounded, portable, anywhere. The sacred is everywhere. Or nowhere. You’re floating.

Historical paganism? Super locative. Your gods lived in that grove. Your ancestors were buried in that mound. You made offerings at that spring.

Modern reconstructed paganism? Increasingly utopian. Portable. Placeless. Practiced in living rooms and online forums.

But here’s the twist: when your spirituality becomes oppositional—when it’s about fighting enemies—then utopian becomes dystopian.

You carry the bunker with you.

You’re not in relationship with land, ancestors, and gods. You’re in relationship with your enemies.

The Political Battlefield Is Anti-Land

James C. Scott, a political theorist who studies how states ruin everything, argued in Against the Grain (2017) that state formation required destroying local, place-based relationships in favor of abstract categories.

Citizen. Subject. Class. Race. Party member.

The “political battlefield” isn’t just metaphorical. It’s anti-local. It’s where humans relate to each other as abstractions instead of as embodied beings in specific places.

David Abram, an environmental philosopher who actually pays attention to the non-human world, traced in The Spell of the Sensuous (1996) how abstract thought and literacy let humans disengage from the more-than-human world.

Modern Paganism’s turn toward political ideology—whether left-wing “activist witchcraft” or right-wing “folkish Heathenry”—is the same disengagement. The “land” becomes a symbol (of the nation, of the oppressed, of the volk) rather than a presence (this soil, these plants, this weather).

Tim Ingold, an anthropologist who wrote Being Alive (2011) and The Perception of the Environment (2000), developed the concept of “dwelling”—knowledge that comes from sustained, embodied engagement with a place.

Bunker mentality is the opposite.

Knowledge that comes from disengagement. From internet arguments. From portable identity that needs no specific ground.

Even the Romans Weren’t This Bad

Here’s a historical fact that ruins a lot of narratives: pagan Rome didn’t conquer for religion.

Ramsay MacMullen, a historian who actually looked at the evidence, documented in Christianizing the Roman Empire (1984) that Rome had no concept of religious conversion as a state goal. The pax deorum—peace of the gods—was maintained through correct practice, not correct belief.

Roman expansion? Driven by plunder, tribute, and political domination. Greed and power. Not theological imperative (Woolf, 1998; Ando, 2008).

Peter Heather, a historian who wrote Empires and Barbarians (2009), notes that Romanization was cultural and economic, not religious. When Romans encountered local gods, they didn’t destroy them. They said “oh, your god is like our god” and added them to the pantheon.

This is the pagan pattern: religious pluralism as default. Conquest for resources, not souls. Gods as allies to negotiate with, not truths to enforce.

The bunker mentality—”we must defend our faith against enemies”—is Christian and Muslim in structure, not pagan.

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Part IV: The Gnostic Exception That Proves the Rule

(Or: Christianity Was Cool Before It Got Popular)

Quick detour. Remember how we said organized Abrahamic religions introduced the bunker mentality?

There’s an exception. Actually, the original Christianities were pretty punk rock.

Outsider Religion vs. Imperial Religion

Before Constantine, before Nicea, before Christianity became the Roman Empire’s official religion—there were just Christianities. Plural. Competing groups with weird ideas and small communities.

David Brakke’s The Gnostics (2010) and the Nag Hammadi scholars (Meyer, 2007; Pagels, 1979) have mapped this out. The Valentinians. The Sethians. The Thomas Christians. These groups were:

• Small and voluntary (not state churches)
• About personal transformation through direct experience (gnosis), not doctrinal assent
• Rejection of worldly power (the “god of this world” was often seen as a lower, messed-up power)
• Inclusive across social boundaries (women, slaves, foreigners as teachers and leaders)

Rodney Stark, a sociologist of religion, argued in The Rise of Christianity (1996) that early Christianity grew precisely because it was high-tension outsider religion. It created new fictive kinship bonds across ethnic and class lines.

Then came Theodosius I and his edicts (381-391 CE).

Charles Freeman documented this in The Closing of the Western Mind (2003) and A.D. 381 (2008). Christianity transformed from persecuted minority faith to state-enforced orthodoxy with the power to exclude, persecute, and define “heresy.”

This is bunker mentality in its pure form.

Defining Christianity by what it was not. Enforcing boundaries through state violence. The cuius regio, eius religio principle—”whose realm, his religion”—that dominated European religious politics until the Enlightenment.

Religion as territory to conquer and defend.

Not religion as web of relationships.

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Part V: Symptoms of Bunker Mentality in Modern Paganism

(A Field Guide to Recognizing When You’re in a Fortress Instead of a Forest)

How do you know if you—or your community—has slipped into bunker mode?

Here are the warning signs, backed by actual research:

Symptom 1: The “Lore-Only” Fortress

“If it’s not in the Eddas, it’s not real Heathenry.”

Sounds authentic, right? Wrong.

Jörg Rüpke, a historian of Roman religion who wrote Religion of the Romans (2007) and Pantheon (2018), demonstrated that no historical paganism was “lore-only.” All living traditions evolve, borrow, adapt, and innovate.

Here’s the kicker: the “lore” we have?

• Snorri’s Prose Edda? Written in the 13th century by a Christian.
• The Poetic Edda? Preserved fragments, written down by Christians.
• Saxo Grammaticus? Christian. Writing centuries after conversion.

These are literary constructions, not liturgical manuals. They preserve fragments of oral tradition filtered through medieval Christian frameworks (Lindow, 2002; Schjødt, 2020).

Treating them as “scripture” isn’t restoring Heathenry. It’s Christianizing it.

Symptom 2: The Ancestry Trap

“You need Scandinavian DNA to honor Norse gods.”

Historical evidence says: nope.

Leszek Gardela’s Magic in the Viking Age (2021) and the broader archaeological record show Norse religion was practiced by diverse populations—Sami, Finns, Balts, slaves of various origins who became part of Norse households.

The Hávamál—that famous wisdom poem—says: “Cattle die, kinsmen die, but a good name never dies” (Hávamál 76).

Emphasis on name. Reputation. Relationship.

Not blood.

The Norse concept of frændskapr (kinship) could be created through oath, adoption, and service—not merely birth (Byock, 1988).

Symptom 3: The Political Weaponization

Whether it’s:

• Progressive Paganism: Using witchcraft as “resistance” against “the patriarchy”
• Traditionalist Paganism: Using Heathenry as “resistance” against “modernity”

It’s the same pattern.

Patrick Deneen’s Why Liberalism Failed (2018) and Mark Lilla’s The Shipwrecked Mind (2016) document how political ideology has become a substitute for religion in modernity.

But the reverse is also true: religion has become a form of political ideology.

When your primary religious activity is fighting enemies, you’re practicing politics with spiritual aesthetics.

Not spirituality with political implications.

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Part VI: Restoring the Web

(Practical Steps for Getting Out of the Bunker)

So how do we get back to Viking A and away from Viking B?

The Heathen Third Path offers a framework: rooted but not closed, inclusive but not rootless.

Here’s what that looks like in practice:

Step 1: Get Locative or Get Lost

Follow Bradley (2000) and Abram (1996). Restore place-based practice.

Learn the specific ecology of your place. Not “nature” in the abstract. This creek. These trees. This soil.

The spirits here know things. They remember things. They have preferences.

Ask them.

Step 2: Make Friends With Non-Humans

Donna Haraway’s Staying with the Trouble (2016) and Eduardo Kohn’s How Forests Think (2013) argue for multi-species relationship.

Your paganism should include:

• Animals
• Plants
• Fungi (they’re running the show anyway)
• Weather patterns
• The dead

Not just humans and gods.

Everything’s connected. Act like it.

Step 3: Bring Back the Potluck

Restore commensality—the shared meal—as the center of practice.

The blót. The sumble. Sacred consumption. Creating relationship through eating together.

Not theological debate. Not purity testing. Bread and meat and mead and conversation.

Step 4: Practice Sacred Hospitality

Restore xenia/heitsugu as a primary virtue.

The willingness to be vulnerable to the stranger. To create relationship across boundaries. To recognize that your enemy might become your guest might become your friend might become family.

This is the opposite of bunker mentality.

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Part VII: The Tree and the Bunker

(A Metaphor to Take With You)

Let’s return to that image: the tree versus the bunker.

Historical paganisms were arboreal:

• Rooted in specific soil
• Branching in multiple directions
• Interconnected through mycorrhizal networks (look it up, trees are chatting underground)
• Alive, growing, dying, regenerating
• Permeable to wind and rain and light

Modern bunker Paganism is architectural:

• Defensive walls
• Enclosed space
• Static and rigid
• Designed for siege warfare
• Cut off from the surrounding ecosystem

The bunker serves fear:

• Fear of contamination
• Fear of impurity
• Fear of the Other

The tree serves relationship:

• The willingness to be changed by connection
• The risk of vulnerability
• The acceptance that growth requires decay

Roy Rappaport, an anthropologist who thought deeply about ritual, argued in Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity (1999) that religion evolved to regulate relationship—between humans, between humans and cosmos, between living and dead.

When religion becomes primarily about regulating boundaries—who’s in, who’s out, who’s pure, who’s contaminated—it has inverted its function.

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The Question

So here’s the test. The question to ask yourself, your community, your practice:

Are you building a bunker, or are you growing a tree?

The answer isn’t in what you believe.

It’s not in which books you’ve read.

It’s not in how historically accurate your costume is.

The answer is in what you are connected to.

And whether those connections are growing.

Or whether they have already died.

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References

(For the Skeptics, the Scholars, and the “Source?” Crowd)

Abram, D. (1996). The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World. Vintage.

Ando, C. (2008). The Matter of the Gods. University of California Press.

Appadurai, A. (1996). Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. University of Minnesota Press.

Bradley, R. (2000). An Archaeology of Natural Places. Routledge.

Brakke, D. (2010). The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity. Harvard University Press.

Byock, J. (1988). Medieval Iceland: Society, Sagas, and Power. University of California Press.

Byock, J. (2001). Viking Age Iceland. Penguin.

Casey, E. S. (1997). The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History. University of California Press.

Douglas, M. (1970). Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology. Pantheon.

Freeman, C. (2003). The Closing of the Western Mind: The Rise of Faith and the Fall of Reason. Vintage.

Freeman, C. (2008). A.D. 381: Heretics, Pagans, and the Christian State. Pimlico.

Gardela, L. (2021). Magic in the Viking Age. Oxbow Books.

Gardell, M. (2003). Gods of the Blood: The Pagan Revival and White Separatism. Duke University Press.

Goodrick-Clarke, N. (1985). The Occult Roots of Nazism: Secret Aryan Cults and Their Influence on Nazi Ideology. NYU Press.

Haraway, D. J. (2016). Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Duke University Press.

Heather, P. (2009). Empires and Barbarians: The Fall of Rome and the Birth of Europe. Oxford University Press.

Ingold, T. (2000). The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. Routledge.

Ingold, T. (2011). Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. Routledge.

Kohn, E. (2013). How Forests Think: Toward an Anthropology Beyond the Human. University of California Press.

Lilla, M. (2016). The Shipwrecked Mind: On Political Reaction. New York Review Books.

Lindow, J. (2002). Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Beliefs. Oxford University Press.

MacMullen, R. (1984). Christianizing the Roman Empire (A.D. 100-400). Yale University Press.

Meyer, M. (2007). The Nag Hammadi Scriptures: The Revised and Updated Translation of Sacred Gnostic Texts Complete in One Volume. HarperOne.

Pagels, E. (1979). The Gnostic Gospels. Vintage.

Pitt-Rivers, J. (1977). The Fate of Shechem, or the Politics of Sex: Essays in the Anthropology of the Mediterranean. Cambridge University Press.

Price, N. (2002). The Viking Way: Religion and War in Late Iron Age Scandinavia. Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Uppsala University.

Price, N. (2020). Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings. Basic Books.

Rappaport, R. A. (1999). Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge University Press.

Rüpke, J. (2007). Religion of the Romans. Polity Press.

Rüpke, J. (2018). Pantheon: A New History of Roman Religion. Princeton University Press.

Schjødt, J. P. (2020). Initiation Between Two Worlds: Structure and Symbolism in Pre-Christian Scandinavian Religion. Northern Academic Press.

Scott, J. C. (2017). Against the Grain: A Deep History of the Earliest States. Yale University Press.

Smith, J. Z. (1978). Map Is Not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions. Brill.

Snook, J. (2015). American Heathens: The Politics of Identity in a Pagan Religious Movement. Temple University Press.

Stark, R. (1996). The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History. Princeton University Press.

Winroth, A. (2014). The Conversion of Scandinavia: Vikings, Merchants, and Missionaries in the Remaking of Northern Europe. Yale University Press.

Woolf, G. (1998). Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul. Cambridge University Press.

York, M. (2003). Pagan Theology: Paganism as a World Religion. NYU Press.

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Now go outside. Talk to a tree. Pour some mead for the land-spirits. Invite a stranger to dinner.

Build webs, not bunkers.

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