The Origin of our People

When one lays before oneself a map of Europe—not one showing political divisions, but one of the land’s natural features—one’s attention is immediately drawn to the Swiss high mountains. Like a great dark-brown patch they stand out. To the north of this mountain group, Europe slopes downward to the sea. From the uplands of Central Europe, numerous rivers flow into the North Sea and the Baltic. To the west of the Alpine region lies another mountainous landscape in France, separated from the Alps by the Rhône valley. Beyond that, the low plain stretches out toward the sea, from which several rivers also run outward. These mountain regions form natural boundaries. They offer no favorable conditions for life. Thus we find the great centers of civilization lying at the foot of the mountain chains. Around the Alps, in a ring, live the great peoples of Europe.

From the Alps outward, one can sketch the following in broad strokes: to the north and northwest lies the Germanic area, to the south and west the Latin cultural sphere. The boundary line between these regions runs just south of Brussels through Belgium. This is the zone where Germanic and Latin culture meet: a zone of friction. Such is the situation as we can observe it today. In the Germanic sphere lies our own country. We see that we are surrounded on all sides by Germanic peoples: to the south, the Flemish; to the west, the English; to the east, the Germans. Further north live the Germanic peoples of Scandinavia: Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes. The Germanic world thus encircles the North Sea and the Baltic.

1. Distribution of the Germanic Peoples after the Great Migrations.

All these peoples have lived there for centuries. Over the ages, they gradually grew out of different Germanic tribes, and as these tribes fused into larger peoples, they received the names they now bear. England takes its name from the Angles, who settled there together with the Saxons in the 5th century A.D. Denmark from the Danes. The Franks gave their name to the land that is still called France today. But when such great tribal groups as Franks and Saxons appear on the stage, Germanic history is already far advanced. We first hear of these peoples in the period of the great migrations, from the 3rd to the 5th century.

In those centuries of upheaval, beginning from the regions around the North Sea and the Baltic, the Germanic tribes set themselves in motion. The Roman Empire, which had held back their expansion, had grown inwardly rotten and collapsed. The Germanic peoples seized the chance to enlarge their domains. As agrarian peoples, they needed land to establish their farms. Healthy and vigorous, they multiplied rapidly. Northwestern Europe was like a beehive with its entrance stopped: once the obstacle was removed, the swarms burst out. They moved in two directions, pressing along both sides of the Alps into the Roman Empire, which was overrun from east and west at once. By the end of the 5th century, all of Europe lay in the power of the Germanic peoples.

2. Distribution of the Germanic People from 2000 years before the beginning of our era up to its start.

In our own land, after this great shifting of tribes, three groups met. Roughly speaking, the Franks settled south of the great rivers; along the coast lived the Frisians; in the eastern regions, the Saxons. Of the smaller tribes that Tacitus names at the start of our era, such as the Batavians, we hear no more. They were small groups absorbed into larger peoples—just as the Hollanders, Utrechters, and Geldrians, once political entities, were absorbed into the Dutch nation, which emerged as a new political unit in history. Thus the names of the smaller tribes disappeared, remembered now only in occasional place-names.

A few centuries after the beginning of our era, then, we see a vast Germanization of Europe, radiating from the Germanic core around the North and Baltic Seas. That region was like a “womb of nations,” as the Romans called it—a source overflowing and flooding outward. The migrations of the first centuries A.D. were not without precedent. Already a hundred years before our era, the Cimbri had streamed southward from Jutland, spreading panic in the Roman Empire until they were finally destroyed near Milan and north of Marseille. Over the centuries, such Germanic expansions repeatedly collided with Rome. Whenever this happened, history records them as moments of crisis. But when expansion occurred at the expense of other peoples not under Roman rule—often themselves kindred to the Germans—Rome remained unaffected. Only when the expanding Germanic tribes pressed directly into Roman dominion did the clash enter Roman history.

For the gradual expansion of the Germanic world before direct contact with Rome, one must turn to Germanic prehistory—for which no written sources exist. Yet excavations and finds have provided enough evidence to trace this process in broad outline. Transferred to maps, they confirm what Roman contact had already revealed: that from the northwest of Europe, around the North and Baltic Seas, the Germanic tribes spread southward, southwest, eastward, and southeast. What appeared after the beginning of our era as a sudden storm, following the collapse of Roman resistance, had already been unfolding as a gradual movement for many centuries.

3. Probable dwelling places of the various Indo-Germanic peoples before 2000 years B.C.

Around 1800 B.C., the Germanic heartland lay in Jutland and the adjacent Baltic shores. Over the centuries, it expanded southward until, by the beginning of our era, it pressed against Rome itself. There expansion was halted, the pressure mounting until, in the migration era, it burst forth with force. The eighteen centuries before our era that saw this southward expansion were also centuries of high culture. In the first thousand years, bronze (copper alloyed with tin) replaced stone for tools and weapons. In the following 800 years, iron in turn displaced bronze. Throughout, this culture remained Germanic.

Yet even this expansion was not an isolated event. It had its precedent in the spread of Indo-Germanic culture by peoples closely related to the Germans, usually grouped together under the name Indo-Germans, because their migrations extended from Europe to India. What we see between roughly 1800 B.C. and A.D. 500 is but a repetition. Out of the northern cultural zone of the late Stone Age, beginning around 4000 B.C., came earlier waves of migration from the very same region. The Indo-Germanic community, developing in the same area where the Germanic group would later arise, spread outward in the same directions. In the Netherlands, we find traces of this in the megalithic tombs (hunebedden), reminding us that the high grounds of our country were already inhabited by the forefathers of the Saxons and Frisians.

The likely development of these Indo-Germanic offshoots in Europe is shown in Illustration 3, depicting the situation around 2000 B.C. Later these groups moved on: the Indo-Iranians advanced into India and Persia, founding kingdoms in which they formed the leading stratum, carrying their culture with them. The Hellenes settled in Greece and along the coast of Asia Minor, creating classical Greek civilization, one of the noblest blossoms of the Indo-Germanic stock. The Italians pressed onto the Apennine Peninsula and founded the agrarian republic of Rome, which grew into a world empire, though in the end Eastern elements came to dominate, as the old Indo-Germanic line died out. The Celts were pushed westward, found by Caesar in Gaul at the dawn of our era. The Illyrians settled in the Danube basin. Each of these groups founded great cultures, which, while sharing common origins and traits, nevertheless developed a character of their own.

4. Expansion of the Northern cultural sphere in the Late Stone Age (4000–2000 B.C.).

Recent discoveries have even revealed, in the beginnings of Egyptian and Sumerian civilization, influences of the northern cultural circle and its bearer, the Nordic race—evidence that earlier waves had already preceded the Indo-Germanic expansions.

Thus, when we speak of the history of our people, it is folly— as our schoolbooks often do— to begin with the Batavians and the Romans, as though civilization began with Rome. To the last 2000 years there precede at least 4000 years of civilization, of which we now know a fair amount. Only against the background of those 4000 years do the most recent millennia take on their true significance. When we see, in the Middle Ages, our people spreading overseas to the Baltic and the Mediterranean; when in the 16th and 17th centuries the Dutch sailed to the Indies and to America to found colonies; when in the 19th century the Anglo-Saxons, so closely related to our own Frisians, built a world empire through which Western European civilization became the world civilization; none of this can be understood without those earlier 4000 years. The key to the present lies in the past.

Originally published in De Wolfsangel, November 1936 

The Landscapes of J.C. Nachenius, by Nico de Haas

A visual artist does not create his works so that someone else may write about them. Nor is it possible to describe a painting to one who cannot see. At best, one can craft a piece of prose inspired by a painting, but this benefits painting hardly at all, and literature only rarely.

The simplest and most effective thing to do is to encourage the public to behold for themselves.

That requires attention, calm, and the gift of receptivity. A work of art arises from the inspiration of the artist; it is born in solitude. The maker has listened to the rhythm of the whole; at times he has seen the earth more beautiful, clearer, and purer than most people ever perceive it. And something — or much — of this vision he has captured in lines and colors, in surfaces and forms.

That is why the creation of art is never mere craft or formula. Works of art are never manufactured to order, though they may occasionally arise from a commission. But such a commission presupposes wisdom on the part of the patron; without it, no collaboration is possible. Works of art emerge in a mood of sensitivity, openness, and receptivity to perfection — what is often called inspiration. Yet there is nothing magical in this; one might, however, speak of a mystical bond between painter and nature, if mysticism is understood in our sense as a state of special clarity of mind.

But spirit alone is not enough, neither for the painter nor for his painting. The stubborn reality of painstaking craft has its say as well. For the natural demand of the beholder is, and must be, that the work is well made, that the technique underlying it has been mastered. For how could the clumsy hand follow the spirit if it already failed in handling its tools?

In the greatest works we hardly think of such questions: the technique recedes entirely behind the image, which appears to us as the most complete solution to the subject, hardly as something that could have been otherwise. This is what all great art shares: we accept it as the only conceivable expression of its theme, a solution to which we would wish to add nothing, from which we would wish to take nothing away.

The last years have brought us few true works of art and many experiments. All these trials are quickly forgotten, and when we now look back on the productions of the “-isms,” we can only wonder how these soulless contrivances — these purely cerebral and often wantonly insolent market pieces — could ever have been taken seriously. That there were even buyers willing to pay for such brazen things seems astonishing.

Yet, far removed from the clamor of charlatans, true artworks have continued to appear. Often in the solitude of a rural setting, as the distillation of the eternal cycle of unchanging nature. Unchanging — yes, but revealing itself in countless ways, ever new and fresh in its visions of her manifold forms. One of the few who remained faithful to his own nature, who pursued his path unshaken by the corruption of the times, was J.C. Nachenius. And so, now that reflection on the eternal values of our folk begins to glimmer like the dawn of a new age, we turn our attention to his work — this time especially to his landscapes.

We shall not lapse into empty description here. Cataloguing a work cannot bring us closer to its inner essence. Instead, we ask for true attention to these images, which can, of course, only offer a pale approximation of the far more beautiful and noble originals. For these landscapes speak of the grandeur of the open country, of the spacious freedom of nature, and of the unity of the organically grown and the built.

Some works abound in inexhaustible detail, yet remain clear and transparent. Others impress with their gentle atmosphere and intimacy of vision. The viewer must take time, must win for himself the stillness in which these qualities may be discovered and inwardly experienced. For to enjoy art is to be active: to cooperate, to be willing to be shaped.

In this case, it will not be difficult. These works do not burn into the soul like sharp acids. They act rather as healing and restorative. They bring beauty, freshness, and above all, character. Compare the various species of trees and the ways in which they are depicted. And beyond them, the sky — boundless and distant, yet filled with a play that will never cease to fascinate.

Each viewer will experience something different. Many will feel the impression: how beautiful is the earth, how good and rich is nature. Others will discern in these tree forms something of the fate of humankind, and seek in them more than lies within the reach of painting or graphic art. But all will undergo the enchantment of these pure and honest works, which so fully accord with our own being, and therefore are able to speak so directly to our souls.

Nico de Haas in Hamer, January 1941

The Foreign and the Own in the Interpretation of Symbols by Nico de Haas

On the Impossibility of a Logical System and the Influence of Non-Germanic Elements.

In the pre-Germanic era, when the oldest symbols of the Nordic race emerged, the deepest level of consciousness—namely, the completely primitive "all-consciousness," which was not yet capable of distinguishing between acting persons but only recognized "events"—had already been surpassed. Even the most primitive group consciousness had already passed, and the development toward personal consciousness, toward a differentiated self-awareness, had already begun. Thus, the ancient Germanic symbols were already the results of a worldview, of contemplating and experiencing natural phenomena in the awareness of their rhythm, movement, meaning, and consequences.

They are, therefore, the result of human thought, of spiritual perceptions and emotions. No matter how deeply connected to nature they were, the ancient Germanic symbols nevertheless arose through abstraction from nature and the creation of a new synthesis. However, this intellectual labor should not be confused with an act of our rational thinking. The connection to nature in early spiritual life, still largely determined by sensory perception, caused these symbols to be more deeply felt than consciously thought out—and certainly not deliberately invented. Consequently, the ancient Germanic symbols do not at all possess the sharply defined, explicitly determinable meaning that we, with our notions of logic, might wish to find in them. Their rationality is of an entirely different order.

This is why, in the study of symbols, inquiries made in rural areas often yield the vaguest and seemingly most unmotivated answers—yet these are often more accurate and profound than those of the overly self-aware village schoolteacher or other notable who "takes an interest in such matters."

Attempting to construct a fixed system of symbols, from which a coherent conceptual or religious system of ancient times or rural life could emerge without gaps or internal contradictions, is fundamentally at odds with the nature of Germanic symbols and the Germanic people themselves—and is therefore doomed to failure from the outset.

Such a secret doctrine—for that is what it would ultimately amount to—could only be reconstructed for peoples with a distinctly intellectualized priestly rule, and our ancestors certainly did not belong to that category. It was only with the arrival of the Christian Church that such a rationally conceived and detached symbolic system, originating from the theocratic East and thus scarcely comprehensible in lived experience, was introduced. No wonder that these "empty" Christian symbols, as they were perceived by the people, could so easily be filled with old, inherited pagan representations in a manner that suited their own nature! So much so, in fact, that it is now often impossible to determine whether a given symbol is of folk origin or ecclesiastical in nature.

But that is not all. The deep connection of the Germanic worldview to nature makes it, in a broader sense, very difficult to determine whether we are even dealing with a symbol at all—and to what extent the symbolic meaning of a particular image or form has truly penetrated the consciousness of the people.

THE ABSTRACT SYMBOLS

There are cases in which certain universal emotional complexes were already so closely connected to specific natural phenomena that there was no longer any need to abstract them.

One might think of the spring welling up from the earth, the towering tree deeply rooted in the soil, or the unshakable rock, firmly grounded and defying the centuries. These are already the deepest, most expressive, and most comprehensible symbols.

Thus, in the natural worldview of our ancestors, there must have been many compelling symbols that never became abstracted or turned into signs. Perhaps many of these can still be seen today, yet we can no longer grasp their essence because our soul is no longer able to hear that primordial language.

Adama van Scheltema emphasizes that the pure, untainted nature of the Old Norse faith inherently resisted an abstract symbolic language. The same applies here as it does to a rational system concerning the depiction and representation of personified nature gods: such things would have been perceived as meaningless abstractions as long as the deepest religious awe was still directly experienced through the observation of nature itself.

Only when religious concepts become detached from their natural roots and become subjects of contemplation and reflection does the path open for universally valid, abstract-schematic symbols that take over the function of imagery.

Whenever a certain prehistoric period comes to an end, we see such symbols accumulating—and the closer prehistory itself comes to its conclusion, the more intensely this occurs.

The ornamentation of the late Stone Age is, in principle, opposed to symbolism. However, toward the end of the Stone Age, sun symbols begin to appear on Danish pottery. The following curvilinear decorative art of the Nordic Bronze Age is initially almost devoid of symbols, but in the final phase of this period, they appear in great numbers, as seen on the so-called "razors." Although Old Germanic animal ornamentation—right up to the Viking Age—cannot yet be regarded as a symbolic language, the true abstract symbols on tools and weapons from different periods of the Iron Age become increasingly numerous.

Finally, from the later period of the Norse expeditions originate the many figures and actions from Germanic mythology, whose symbolic meanings we today can only guess at rather than truly understand, as A. v. Scheltema writes in Symbolik der germanischen Völker, in Handbuch der Symbolforschung II.

INHERENT SYMBOLIC VALUE

Besides the symbolic quality of certain natural phenomena, the “immanent” or “inherent” symbolism — that is, the symbolism belonging to the very essence — of simple geometric figures must also be considered. Here, too, we must take a step back, because our minds are so overcrowded with a chaotic mixture of art forms from all times and cultures that the expressive power of simple geometric motifs barely reaches our consciousness anymore.

Yet the entire decorative art of our ancestors — through the Stone, Bronze, and Late Iron Ages — shows with what intensity such forms were once perceived and experienced. For thousands of years in the North, the straight line alone was sufficient to convey the artist’s intention, so that even a diagonal already stood out as a distinct expression of “movement.” And how clear and orderly the curvilinear ornamentation of the Bronze Age remained in its early stages!

Even the complex animal ornamentation remained a form of pure art, distanced from naturalistic representation. However, we will never be able to pinpoint exactly the transition from purely decorative forms to meaningful decorative forms, then to ornamental symbols, and finally to purely symbolic signs.

What we can do, however, is draw conclusions from the character of the curvilinear Bronze Age ornamentation about the particular spiritual attitude of the pure Old Germanic agrarian society of that time — a task A. v. Scheltema has already undertaken in his works Altnordische Kunst and Die Kunst unserer Vorzeit.

As for symbolic values, it must be kept in mind that for the farmer, even the simplest geometric motifs carried a strong — though entirely unconscious — symbolic significance. Conversely, in seemingly unmistakable symbols, the primary experience of form alone often played a significant, perhaps even dominant, role — one that entirely escapes our attention today.

Thus, it is possible for a geometric figure to be elevated to a sacred symbol purely because of its "inherent" symbolic power, and to persist stubbornly even though no one can explain or assign it a particular meaning.

This immanent symbolism certainly plays a role in the enduring survival of ancient symbols, which have long since been stripped of their original conscious meaning through Christianization. These symbols outlasted that spiritual upheaval thanks to their inalienable inherent form-symbolism.

Conversely, Christian symbols can be reduced to simple geometric core shapes, which ultimately turn out to be nothing more than meaningful prehistoric symbols.

Finally, pagan and Christian representations can merge and influence each other in various ways. The wheel cross provides a remarkable example of this complex evolution through its countless forms over the centuries.

It is therefore impossible to say definitively: "The wheel cross means this or that." Each instance must be examined individually.

BUILDING ON JUNG

If we wish, however, to return to the "first," original meaning, the depth psychology of Jung — and especially his research on dreams — offers a new approach.

If we accept, as A. v. Scheltema writes in Symbolik der germanischen Völker, Jung’s idea that the collective unconscious of all times and peoples, including the advanced cultures of the South and East, created a remarkably similar symbolic language of forms, then the subsequent conscious interpretation of this symbolism must inevitably differ greatly.

This is not only for ethnological reasons but also on purely methodological grounds: if the early all-consciousness or group consciousness manifests itself in the unconscious life of the modern Germanic person, then it is only natural that we should expect to find echoes of our own prehistory — the original spiritual life of our own ancestors.

It is astonishing, writes A. v. Scheltema, how closely the symbols of our ancient past and those from our völkisch beliefs confirm Jung’s key findings. (Of course, the symbols from Germanic worship, the myths of the late Germanic world, seasonal festivals, and folk customs are not dream images — but the interpretation of dream symbols can help us approach and better understand these ancient symbols.)

He provides countless examples of this: for instance, the symbols and dream images associated with the circle, the spiral, the movement around a center, and those that refer to the center itself (woman, mother, spring, vessel of water). The circle appears as an enclosed space, as an eight-spoked wheel. The center can also be represented as a tree or an egg. The enclosed space can also take the form of a garden or a cave. All these images also appear in strictly geometric forms.

The (inverted) symmetrical arrangement of two symbols also holds meaning as "center-consciousness" and leads, for example, in the late Stone Age to the zigzag band and later, in the Bronze Age, to the wave band and the spiral vortex.

In animal ornamentation, during the second phase of this style (from around 600 CE), the inverted-symmetrical group becomes an almost natural element in decorative art, often combined with interweaving and knotting. These knots evolved in folk art into the well-known "sacred knots," which must have carried a very strong and compelling symbolic meaning alongside their purely decorative beauty.

The symbolism of the "knot" here suggests connectedness and intimate intertwining. Consider the role that the knotted cloth plays in folk customs during marriage proposals.

Adama van Scheltema attempts, using Jung’s method, to reach the core idea of Germanic symbolism: "For we, too, are dealing with a text containing fragmented and unknown words, and we, too, must try — by comparing a series of texts in which that unknown word appears — to arrive at its meaning."

GENERAL CLASSIFICATION

The fundamental idea of the "primitive" nature religion was not static but distinctly dynamic, based not on natural objects but on natural phenomena — on the functional relationship between essentially different natural forces, which nonetheless strive from within toward organic unity and harmony. Once again, it becomes clear why the decorative art from the golden age of this grand nature religion — the curvilinear Bronze Age ornamentation — exhibits the same dynamic structure and why it is so difficult to determine whether the circle and spiral motifs, which so wonderfully align with this worldview, were meant as symbols or not.

After examining the symbols associated with this form of worship — which was so closely linked to the sun — such as the tree in its many forms, the sun wheel, and the axe or hammer, Adama van Scheltema explores the symbols that naturally express the concept of fertility emerging from this worship.

Based on these reflections, the author organizes a whole series of symbols into two groups, which correspond to the original meaning of these representations: as expressions of opposing but unifying natural and life forces. He thus arrives at the following general classification:

RELATED TO A FEMININE-EARTHLY PRINCIPLE:
Earth — Water

• Forms of the Earth: The landscape vaulted by the sky, the land, mountains and hills, rocks and stones, caves.
• Forms of Water: Sea, lake, river, swamp, spring, fountain, ice, glacier.

Death and Burial

• Grave: burial mound, stone grave, grave marker, urn for ashes.

Plant World

• Forest, tree, shrub, flower, fruit, grain, field.
• Bread and porridge.

Animals

• Earth animals: Mouse, snake, toad.
• Water animals: Fish.
• Night animals: Cat, owl, bat.
• Female animals: Cow, mare, goat, etc.

Symbols of Fertility and Protection

• The egg.
• Rest and Darkness, Shelter and Enclosure: Night, moon, stars — cave, grave, house, roof, bed — enclosed spaces and fences: courtyard and hedge, fortified settlement, places of worship, fortress and tower.
• Entrance: Gate, door, threshold, window.

Protective and Decorative Objects

• Shield and armor — crown, wreath, belt, necklace, veil.
• The center or goal of a movement.

Stillness

The Woman and Her Work

• Braiding, weaving, spinning, flax cultivation and processing, pottery, housework, preparing food, baking bread, etc.
• Associated Tools: Spindle whorl, distaff, spinning wheel, loom — braided and woven work, threads — pottery (everything that contains or receives), the hearth.
• Hollow Forms: The fire-drilling base, metal-casting molds, so-called "elf bowls."
• The mill.
• Healing, medicinal herbs, and springs.

Qualities and Directions

• Soft, moist, cold.
• Left.
• Blue, green.
• Horizontal.

RELATED TO A MASCULINE-SOLAR PRINCIPLE:
Air — Fire

• The Sun and Sky Phenomena: Their fertilizing effect on the earth — wind, storm, rain, thunder, and lightning.

Animal World of Flesh and Blood

• Sky Animals: Birds.
• Male Animals: Bull, stallion, boar, goat, stag, rooster.

Symbols of Movement, Light, and Struggle

• Movement and Light, Battle and Attack: Day, sun — wheel, chariot, ship, horse — march, run, jump, ride, throw — offensive weapons: throwing stick, spear, throwing stone and disc, ball, bullet.
• Path as a Symbol of Movement: Ladder, footprint.

Noise and Sound

• Noise, horn calls, clattering, whip cracks, gunshots.

The Man and His Work

• Hunting, fishing, seafaring, plowing, metalwork, warfare, fighting, sports.
• Associated Tools: Ship, plow — weapons: lance, sword, axe, hammer, thunderbolt, arrow (also as a symbol of movement and penetration).

Solid and Forceful Forms

• Weapons, fire drill, rod, whip.

The Miller (as a symbol of force and transformation)

Symbols of Death and Combat

• Killing, wounding, martial arts.

Qualities and Directions

• Hard, dry, warm.
• Right.
• Red, yellow.
• Vertical.

AMBIGUOUS SYMBOLS

It would make no sense to turn this arrangement of two interconnected groups of symbols — which together express the idea of fertility in a thousand different variations — into a rigid "system," a kind of modern-logical conceptual construct of mathematically provable certainties.

On the contrary, we must always keep in mind that these symbols were born from direct observation of nature, but that "reality" is rarely unambiguous. Therefore, symbols often have more than one meaning.

Just like dream symbols, they can only be more precisely defined through their relationships with other signs or actions — in other words, through their function within a larger whole. Only in this way can the intended meaning in each specific case be separated from ambiguity and explained.

Here, the dynamic character of the symbols plays an important role. For example, the circle as a movement expresses the male principle, whereas the circle as an enclosed space symbolizes the female principle. The sacred hearth fire is undoubtedly a symbol of the woman, the sacred center of the house, but at the same time, burning, light, and the play of flames are solar signs and therefore symbols of the male principle.

The same applies to the ship: without a doubt, the ship plowing through the water is a male symbol, yet it is also a safe home, a shielded fortress on the restless waters, a deep maternal womb. Thus, we also encounter the ship as a symbol of the goddess Nehalennia.

In the language of fixed conceptual signs (wrongly considered as "the" symbols), it is precisely this dynamic, fluid, and changeable nature of the ancient symbols that is hardest to understand.

As late forms, they are already externalized and schematized, making them particularly difficult to interpret despite their apparent simplicity and clarity.

NON-GERMANIC AND PROTO-GERMANIC

On one point, however, I would definitely disagree with Adama van Scheltema — namely, regarding the reduction of the symbols and religious concepts of the Germanic era to a "polar opposition" in the sense of the "hieros gamos", the cosmic marriage between Heaven and Earth, or between Sun and Earth, or between the Male Principle and the Female Principle. Adama van Scheltema practically builds his entire interpretation of symbols on this idea, which is very unfortunate, because now this "cosmic marriage" will likely haunt discussions as "the solution" for years to come, stemming from his "Handbook of Symbol Research".

For example, Adama van Scheltema believes he recognizes the "hieros gamos" in the bridal pursuit sagas of the Edda and considers it the reason for the construction of Stonehenge and the origin and ancient meaning of the solstice fires. He also interprets the frequently recurring symbolic religious act of circling or spiraling around a fixed center point (like the Trojaburg, the dance around the tree, or circling a pole or stone — such as the "Vlöggeln around the Stiepel") as the search for and eventual finding of the sacred female center, expressing the Cosmic Marriage and a veneration of Mother Earth.

Vlöggeln around a Stiepel

Since this movement could not be expressed through static conceptual symbols, it is suggested that people solved this difficulty by forming a symbolic group of motifs, always depicting a female center flanked by two male-oriented symbols. Examples include the tree between two axes (like in the Kivik grave) and similar arrangements. Later, this idea was transferred to the motif from the East of the Tree of Life between two (solar) birds, and so on.

Kivik grave image

It cannot be denied that in folk art of the past centuries — and even in prehistoric times — there are many motifs associated with the concept of Mother Earth. Undoubtedly, current folk customs still contain echoes of the symbolic marriage between Heaven and Earth. But it is equally certain that this idea is not specifically Germanic. On the contrary, among no other people in the world has this concept played so little of a role as it did among the Germanic tribes.

If Jung can identify such motifs and if Adama van Scheltema also finds traces of them in Northern art, it undoubtedly means that these archetypal images stem from an older layer than the Germanic religion — from the pre-Germanic period. At most, one could say they are Indo-European in nature, but their widespread presence suggests an even earlier origin.

This aligns with new insights into the Germanic religion: we must always keep the worldview expressed through symbolic acts in mind because these acts explain much of the symbolic representations and conceptual signs.

The idea of the child tree, the Poppe stone (Stone in Friesland, where according to legend women got there children from), and the child pond are ancient. The concept of seeing the fertile earth (and later the cultivated field) as a Great Mother is similarly old. The symbolic act of swearing blood brotherhood under a strip of loosened and lifted turf is also not just Indo-European but far more universal.

The later Germanic female deities are all active, life-giving, and independently wandering figures — much like the post-medieval Perchta and Bertha. Even the much-debated rock carvings provide no evidence for the importance of the Cosmic Marriage in the Germanic worldview. Moreover, the origins of these carvings must still be cautiously considered as purely Germanic.

Even the nature of the goddess Nerthus is not fully explained by simply identifying her as a Mother Earth figure or by attributing her a role in the "hieros gamos".

As for folk customs, Professor Jan de Vries points out in his "Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte" that we are dealing with a small remnant of original pagan practices, almost unrecognizably buried under Christian, classical, and various other influences.

THE FEMALE ESSENCE AMONG THE GERMANIC PEOPLES

In this context, I would like to refer to a lecture by Dr. Bernhard Kummer: "Die weibliche Gottheit bei den Germanen" ("The Female Deity among the Germanic Peoples"). He argues that the human dignity of women in ancient Germanic paganism had not yet been reduced to a purely sexual aspect. The Germanic concept of individuality was a matter for both genders.

The objectification of women as merely a "Mother" — a notion that limits her personality to a passive, receptive, and childbearing role — is indeed known across all levels of cultural development, from the "mother animal" to the "Madonna". However, in Germanic culture, this idea recedes behind the recognition of women’s independence, willpower, drive for action, courage, and active spiritual strength. The impersonal Mother ideal fades in favor of the concept of an equal, active, and dynamic female personality.

The deepest meaning of Germanic parenthood lies in the companionship between the two genders. Only through this lens can the well-defined female figures from the sagas and medieval Germanic art be understood — despite, and certainly not because of, Christianity.

The doctrine of original sin, with its element of blaming women through the biblical "fall of man", is at the root of the horrific witch hunts. From the nomadic love of the East and the world-rejecting male brotherhoods of the Vatican arose the one-sided and eventually perverse veneration of Mary as the Mother of God — a passive, inactive Holy Virgin Mother enthroned in stillness.

But for the pure, nature-connected Germanic pagan, nothing was further from the idea of enclosing mother and child in a sacred shrine, shut off from the men's world outside.

For the Germanic person, the woman was not exclusively a sexual, passive, and defenseless being, confined to a high and holy existence in the limitation of an artificially protected and placed-outside-the-natural-order motherhood. Thus, the woman also had an equal share in the divine and in the worship. Naturally, in accordance with this, the qualities of female deities were not limited to "earthly fertility" or "cosmic motherhood." A Mother Earth concept was therefore never dominant in Germanic thought, and what is commonly dismissed as the general concept of "Magna Mater" cannot simply be reduced to mother-goddess mysticism in any form. What on one hand is understood as passive, to be awakened, fertilized, enduring, and defenseless, appears on the other hand as a war goddess, Dawn, an active, healing force.

Thus, the heavens are not universally seen as male-fertilizing; they are just as often viewed as female, and the earth as male (in Northern Babylonia and Egypt). Certainly, the Northern Freya has erotic traits reminiscent of Astarte, but nowhere is as much artifice required as in the Germanic North to construct a Mother Earth worship from this. Both the orgies of the original worship, divine conception, and divine birth are absent, as is the myth of the Sacred Marriage of Heaven and Earth.

If Jung and Adama v. Scheltema also refer to the Chinese, it should be noted that in their Yang and Yin, Heaven and Earth, male and female, light and dark, high and low, they present these as two complementary and harmonious natural forces facing each other. But this is also not an idea of the earliest times, of the most primitive beginning.

Thus, in the Germanic period, the human precondition for a Mother Earth cult is lacking.

To understand the two symbolic series of the male and female natural principles, we must adopt the idea that these two aspects of life are outlined in the ancient Germanic worldview against a sexually neutral background, where both genders are granted the same ideal and the same share in heaven and earth.

This is a worldview in which the woman — and thus the female divine force — plays an active and co-decisive role, free from any humility or subjugation.

In this sense, every sexual interpretation and every symbolic representation that presents the feminine primarily as "mother" (and thus also as earth) must be considered foreign to the people, from the Jewish scattering of grain for the bride to the worship of a Divine Mother. Freed from these tendencies, however, the bipolar arrangement of symbols can certainly prove enlightening: as a juxtaposition of the natural male and female principles.

THE LIGHT, THE GOOD, AS THE MOST SACRED CONCEPT

While the Earth-Sun concept in the Indo-Germanic world does develop to some extent in places like India and Greece, it is most likely that this development occurred under the influence of a foreign race.

For the Germans, however, we can assert that at the center of their religious experience, the concept was not a cosmic-sexual one but a cosmic-ethical one: namely, the symbol of Light. And this great neuter "It" was not envisioned in human form but represented through abstract symbols; or at most "in the symbol of personality," as Hauer aptly stated.

In this context, it is worth noting that Bishop Wölflein (Ulfilas), in translating the Bible into Gothic, translated the Greek word theos (the God) with the Gothic guth, which up until that point had always been neuter and, on this occasion — in the 4th century, and for the sake of the Christian God — was used for the first time in a masculine form.

From this perspective, with the Light symbol as the central and governing thought, solemn rituals such as moving around a fixed center, etc., take on a greater and more elevated significance than in the "hieros gamos."

From the principle of the holy Light, we will be able to interpret the Germanic symbols most clearly, with the older, accompanying and enduring thoughts as either pre-Germanic or post-medieval (folk practices). An overwhelming and inexhaustible Sun-Fire- or Light symbolism throughout the ages seems to confirm this position.

MAGIC-AVERSIVE SPIRIT

Naturally, the meaning of symbols in use has not always been "pure." From the hunter culture of the earliest times, various magical beliefs (such as animal and hunting magic) were undoubtedly carried over, just as later foreign influences infiltrated the völkisch art of the Middle Ages.

However, everything that smacks of magic and demonism is, in essence, non-Germanic, as evidenced by the expression the Germans still used in historical times for magical practices: finngerdh (Finnish work). Without a doubt, the Nordic people were averse to all forms of magic; it was not in their nature and was perceived as foreign. This does not mean, however, that "magic" was never practiced, and some individuals sought their fortune in magical practices — just as today.

But throughout the art of the Ice Age, it is clear that this typically magical hunting art disappears as the farming Nordic peoples come to the fore, so that the magical character of the art is no longer found among the Germanics in the Bronze Age. (It is still present among some hunting tribes in Northern Scandinavia.)

SWASTIKA, SIX-POINTED STAR, AND SPIRAL

From all this, it becomes clear that the study of symbols can never start from abstract geometric signs. These appear among all kinds of peoples, in various times, with the most diverse functions and meanings. As early as the bone objects from the Old Stone Age, we find "rune-like" signs as undecipherable decorative forms, symbols, ownership marks, and incidental line structures.

Precisely because of their abstract nature, these signs lend themselves well to being linked to contemporary concepts — they are timeless and styleless.

Take, for instance, the well-known six-pointed star constructed from compass strokes. The Nordic flourishing period, the Bronze Age, in all its rich religious life, did not know this figure at all. It only appears later, after strong foreign influence, on the Gundestrup Cauldron. Similarly, the spiral, the knot, and the lily shape are entirely absent in the Germanic Bronze Age. Even the swastika appears only in its "cursive form" with spiral ends in the rock carvings of Tunge (Bohuslän).

Gundestrup Cauldron with six-pointed star (Marygold)

It is no wonder, then, that the meaning of runes as conceptual signs is so difficult to approach. Nevertheless, these signs undoubtedly carried a certain symbolic value and a sensory-acquired meaning (aside from their function as written characters), making their study valuable and necessary. But here too, a purely intellectual, "logical" solution in the spirit of our time will never be fully achieved — all the more so because, alongside their recognized meaning, an emotional value also arises from these abstract geometric signs and ornaments.

Thus, alongside the undeniable symbolic meaning of the Bronze Age swastika, many spirals appear purely as ornamentation. Yet even then, their inherent symbolic value cannot be entirely denied, for the same formative thought clearly governed the highly developed art and worship of the time.

Later, the swastika, adapted into a kind of meander ornament, seems to have been used purely decoratively, though it also appears as a series of symbols on various funerary urns.

Since the time of the Migration Period, the swastika has appeared in folk art in a purely geometric form and with certainty as a solar symbol. In this case, it can be assumed that its original meaning was still passed down.

The six-pointed star and the spiral, however, are a different matter: they were entirely unknown during the Bronze Age when the religious symbols of the Germanic worldview were being developed. Therefore, no symbolic content of these shapes could have been passed down. The six-pointed star cannot, therefore, be equated with the sun wheel.

Moreover, in rural areas — not just locally but everywhere — the six-pointed star is associated with a plant name: In the Netherlands called "blomme," in Germany "Ringelblume," and in England "Marygold."

Thus, the six-pointed star and the spiral are primarily technical and geometric decorative figures, arising from the material and tools used, especially in carving techniques. Their origin in Germanic culture lies in the Middle Ages, even before the Gothic period. But the beloved combination of the six-pointed star and spiral in our folk art also appears in Roman Spain (2nd–4th century) and the pre-Christian Near East as a symbol of Astarte.

Of course, the motif so cherished in Germanic folk art has nothing in common with these Eastern symbols beyond its technical form. Its popularity can only be explained by the inherent symbolism of these abstract shapes, which clearly resonated with the aesthetic sense of Germanic farmers.

Perhaps they unconsciously felt in it the radiant and the moving, or the resting and the dynamic, the feminine and the masculine principle. But for the farmers, this need never have become a consciously recognized symbol.

ORIGINALITY OF SYMBOLS

Both the purely stylistic analysis of form, the formal study of symbols, and depth psychology demonstrate that symbolic forms related to the dualistic principle appear universally and at all times among nearly all peoples.

But can we still speak of "proto-Germanic" symbols as an entirely unique creation of the Nordic race?

Yes, indeed. Because the primary importance lies not in the figurative forms themselves but in the meaning they express.

In summary, the distinct character of ancient Germanic symbolism lies in its understanding of the activity of the great forces that govern life strictly within the already existing natural reality — not, for example, in the relationship between a transcendent spiritual afterlife and the natural world of the here and now.

Adama van Scheltema adds to this:

"Precisely in this limitation, this symbolism aligns with the nature-bound way of life of our ancestors as well as that of our rural folk. And despite this, we may now claim that the symbolic concepts familiar to us remain binding far beyond the level of spiritual development of early times and the peasantry. They can easily be transferred to entirely different levels of communal and individual consciousness and ultimately even help us shed light on the unfathomable depths of personal inner life. If, however, a new religious reflection can indeed be expected from the enduring spiritual values of our ancient past, then any attempt toward this must not start from a barely understood solar or Wodan cult but from the all-encompassing essence of Old Nordic religious symbolism, deeply rooted in the human soul and the natural order itself."

Nico de Haas in Hamer, September 1942

The Secrets of the Building Lodges by F.E. Farwerck

In ancient times, it was common in northern Europe to build with wood, as the rich forests provided more than enough suitable types of timber. In southern Europe, people also built with wood, but stone had already been used as a building material for a very long time. When various Germanic tribes, in search of fertile farmland—which the forested landscapes of northern Europe provided only sparingly—migrated into the collapsing Roman Empire during the so-called Migration Period, they also became acquainted with stone construction.

Up to that point, the erection of stone buildings had, of course, been in the hands of Roman, Greek, and Byzantine master builders. The first Germanic builders to work with stone were the Lombardic Magistri Comacini. They are known to us from the regulations issued by Rothari, the king of the Lombards who had settled in Italy at the time, in which he established the relationship between the client and the master builder. From the name by which these builders were referred to in these regulations, it was inferred that they were Roman builders who had continued their profession in the Lombardic kingdom. However, this assumption is incorrect, as the Latin name was merely a result of the fact that all laws in the Lombardic kingdom were written in Latin.

King Rothari (c. 606 - 652)

The name likely meant "the collaborating (co) master (magistri) masons (macini)," though this is not certain, and many other interpretations exist. Be that as it may, whenever we encounter the names of these magistri, they turn out to be Lombardic names, sometimes more or less Romanized.

The Magistri Comacini did not limit their activities to Italy; various Germanic rulers also summoned them to other European countries, where they not only constructed buildings but also taught the local populations the art of building with stone. This led to the emergence of groups of builders in northern Europe who, under the leadership of a master builder, traveled wherever churches and other structures needed to be erected.

Under the master builder, there were several stone masons—experts in working with and building with stone—who, in turn, had a number of journeymen and apprentices training under their supervision. Their work increasingly began with the establishment of a lodge, a temporary wooden shelter where discussions took place, drawings were made, visiting journeymen were received, and where apprentices were promoted to journeymen and journeymen to masters. Over time, the name of this wooden structure was transferred to the community of collaborating builders themselves.

It has often been assumed that church construction in the Middle Ages was entirely in the hands of the clergy. However, this has proven to be incorrect. While historical records frequently mention that a particular bishop built a church, this almost always means that he commissioned its construction—he was the patron, not the master builder. That being said, there were bishops and abbots who are known to have acted as architects, but from an early period, laypeople were also recorded as master builders.

We also hear about monks practicing manual labor, especially when it comes to the construction of monasteries. However, a careful study of the available sources shows that secular building lodges were responsible for a significant portion of the construction work.

In the northern regions of Europe, large-scale church construction naturally began only after the Christianization of the area, initially with wooden churches built in a traditional local manner. Later, inspired by the Lombardic master builders, stone construction emerged. As early as 804, we read about the layman Odo, who built the cathedral in Aachen.

Cathedral of Aachen

It is impossible to list all the secular builders mentioned in the early centuries of church construction, but their number far exceeds that of bishops and abbots who can be definitively identified as master builders overseeing works carried out by monks or lay brothers.

Each building lodge functioned as a closed community, and apart from those who received their entire training within the same lodge, admission was subject to certain conditions—professional competence being one of the most important. However, the exclusivity of the lodge made it necessary to establish safeguards to prevent unauthorized individuals from entering. In addition to verifying skill level, specific recognition signs were used for this purpose.

In the craft guilds, which later evolved from these lodges, these signs consisted of a gesture, a handshake, and a word. The gesture involved placing the extended right hand on the throat with the thumb positioned at a right angle. Evidence that this gesture was already in use among the building lodges can be found in a sculptural relief at St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna, dating from either 1147 or 1258, when the cathedral was rebuilt after a fire (see image below).

Hand gesture in relief at St Stephen's Cathedral

At that time, however, craft guilds had not yet been established—the cathedral was built by a building lodge, and this sign was apparently already in use there.

The handshake used in the masons' guilds involved placing the thumb on the knuckle of the other person's index finger and pressing it three times. It is reasonable to assume that the guilds inherited this gesture from the building lodges.

The specific word used for recognition has not been passed down to us. However, a distinctive way of knocking—used by a visiting journeyman seeking entry into a lodge—has been recorded. This consisted of two quick knocks in succession, followed by a third knock after a slightly longer pause. Several other recognition methods have also been preserved, all of which likely originated from the era of the building lodges.

Initiation rites were also among the lodges' secrets, though very little is known about them, and most of what we do know comes from the later craft guilds. To what extent the guilds faithfully preserved these original rituals is unclear, and they appear to have degenerated to some degree over time. However, given the prevailing beliefs of earlier times, it is likely that the building lodges also had specific initiation rites.

Among the most obvious secrets, as mentioned, were the trade secrets that apprentices and journeymen gradually learned and were required to master as masters. These primarily included the technical skills of properly working stone, shaping it into a perfect cube, and creating sculptures, among other tasks. The prohibition against revealing these trade secrets remained in effect for a long time, even when the existing regulations of the building lodges were documented in print in 1459. For example, these regulations stated that neither master, overseer, nor journeyman should teach anyone outside their ranks anything related to the craft.

However, even more important than these practical secrets were the architectural and geometric principles that guided construction and determined the proportions of buildings—principles that inspire admiration for Romanesque and later Gothic churches. Some knowledge of these proportions has been passed down in cryptic language, sometimes in verse form. While these verses were likely understandable to craftsmen of the time, they are obscure to us today. Many have attempted, with varying degrees of success, to rediscover the foundational principles of these proportions.

The symbolic meanings of various tools—such as the chisel, hammer, compass, measuring rod, and square—were also likely among the building lodges' secrets. However, the specific meanings have not been passed down to us. Medieval prints with alchemical imagery already associate the compass with the spirit (the sun and the day) and the square and measuring rod with matter (the moon, night, and the burial urn)(see image below). This symbolism was likely inherited from the building lodges.

Example of alchemical imagery with tools

The lodges did not operate in isolation but formed associations that secured special privileges from emperors and the pope. One of these privileges was that their members were not subject to secular or ecclesiastical jurisdiction but fell under the authority of the lodges themselves. Any offenses committed had to be judged within the lodges, with appeals possible to the central leadership of the organization. This provided the builders with a level of security that other citizens did not enjoy.

Since they formed a closed community, it was inevitable that they also discussed religious or political ideas that could not be openly expressed in the outside world. Occasionally, some of these ideas leaked out, but due to their privileges and their monopoly over the essential field of architecture, there are no known cases of persecution against them. Only in the final period of the building lodges do we occasionally find instances of master builders being persecuted for their religious beliefs.

The security that builders enjoyed within their closed circles likely made the lodges a refuge for members of other secret societies—groups persecuted by the Church either for heresy or for continuing pagan traditions. This particularly refers to the remnants of ancient initiation societies and ritualistic men’s brotherhoods, which have gradually become better understood over time.

With the spread of Christianity, these brotherhoods—originally dedicated to Wodan—were, of course, banned. However, they likely continued their rites in secret until this was no longer possible. At that point, they may have reemerged as neighborhood guilds (buurgilden), which officially aimed to promote mutual aid among neighbors. Yet, these guilds were also viewed with suspicion by the authorities and were repeatedly outlawed. Eventually, they found a new form in certain trade guilds, often named after saints—particularly in Scandinavia, where many records about them have survived.

Ultimately, members of these brotherhoods and guilds sought sanctuary within the building lodges, where they found peace and protection. We know this in part because elements from the earlier men’s societies and neighborhood guilds are clearly present in the building lodges and the later masons' guilds. Furthermore, various indications suggest that members of the building guilds were not ordinary craftsmen. For example, the poet Michael Beheim (1416–1474) describes stonemasons, singers, and poets together as striving toward higher arts, suggesting that their work was regarded as something beyond mere manual labor.

Michael Beheim

After the Christianization of these regions, paganism did not suddenly disappear. The ongoing struggle against it is evident from the numerous repeated prohibitions against pagan beliefs and practices, which clearly proved difficult to eradicate. If this was true for the general population, then it is even more likely that these old religious traditions persisted within the building lodges, which were shrouded in secrecy.

Indeed, there are many indications that the pagan spirit endured within the lodges. One such indication is a directive from Pope Gregory VI in 750 to the bishops and abbots of Hesse, in which he states: "The German builders working on churches and monasteries must be well cared for, and no violent conversion attempts should be made on them, as they may otherwise abandon their work."

Aside from the pope’s pragmatic approach—prioritizing the continued construction of churches over immediate conversions—this directive has significant implications. By the time it was issued, the Hessians had been Christian for at least a century, yet many of their builders apparently still adhered to pagan beliefs. There had evidently been attempts to eradicate these beliefs by force, prompting some builders to leave their work in protest. Furthermore, this directive confirms the earlier assertion that church construction in Hesse was not primarily overseen by clergy but rather by lay builders—since monks and lay brothers would not have required conversion.

The survival of pagan ideas among the lay builders of Romanesque churches is also evident in various symbolic carvings they incorporated into these structures. Most notably, they included ancient Germanic script—runes—which can still be found on the walls of many churches, even later Gothic ones, such as those in Dordrecht, Leersum, and Soest. Particularly remarkable are the runic symbols in the church of Borculo, though some were destroyed in the devastating storm of 1928. That these were recognized as pagan symbols is made evident by the small crosses added to the Ing-rune in Borculo’s church—an apparent attempt to Christianize the inscription.

Ing-rune at Borculo church

More significant than the presence of runes are the sculptural reliefs found in Romanesque and Gothic churches, which clearly reference pagan myths and heroic legends. Outside of Iceland—where the Church adopted a more tolerant stance—Christian authorities in Europe generally sought to replace these old stories with Christian legends. However, it is evident that these myths continued to live on among the general population and that medieval builders were well-versed in them.

Because the building lodges operated with relative autonomy and were less vulnerable to persecution than the general populace, their members did not always have to keep these myths and sagas—along with their lingering pagan beliefs—entirely secret. While they exercised caution, they could afford a degree of openness, even incorporating elements of these traditions into church architecture. When a pagan motif could be reinterpreted in a Christian way, it was often tolerated, even if the explanation seemed somewhat forced. Yet, at times, sculptors created works that resisted any Christian reinterpretation, further confirming that the spirit of the old religion persisted within the lodges.

It is impossible to catalog all the mythologically inspired carvings found in medieval churches, so we will focus on three primary categories: (1) scenes from the legends of Dietrich von Bern (Theodoric the Great), (2) depictions of gods with their sacred animals, and (3) representations of the Fenriswolf.

The legends of Dietrich von Bern revolve around Theodoric the Great, king of the Ostrogoths, who settled in Italy in 490. Though elements of his saga acquired a Christian veneer, they originate in ancient pagan traditions. One of these myths describes his battle with a dragon—a clear parallel to the Norse god Thor’s fight against the Midgard Serpent. In Christian tradition, the same story was later attributed to St. George and St. Michael, but among the common people, it was also associated with the increasingly legendary figure of Dietrich von Bern.

Dragon eating Sintram

A unique motif in Theodoric's dragon battle is the near-devouring of his servant Sintram, who is saved at the last moment (see image above). This aspect is absent from other variations of the story. A Christian interpretation of such an image is easy to construct: Dietrich represents Christ, the dragon symbolizes the Devil, and Sintram is the human soul, rescued at the last moment from damnation. But whether this was truly the sculptor’s intended meaning remains an open question.

A depiction related to this saga can be found in the Church of St. George in Bacherville near Rouen (see image below). According to its description, it represents St. George fighting the dragon. However, curiously, he does not use a spear or a sword, as is customary in Christian depictions of this theme, but rather a hammer. Now, as previously mentioned, the pagan dragon slayer was Thor, whose weapon was always the hammer Mjölnir. This suggests that the image was clearly influenced by the pagan god-myth.

St. George fighting the dragon with a hammer.

Odin (Wodan), the king of the gods, was always accompanied in mythological stories by two wolves or dogs, while his two ravens brought him news of everything happening in the world and whispered it into his ear. This god is frequently depicted in churches with his companion animals, and a particularly beautiful representation of this can be found in the church of Alpirsbach in Württemberg, where the animals have been fused into wolf-ravens (see image below). Just as Odin’s ravens were said to do, these creatures appear to be whispering messages into his ear.

Odin and his "wolf-ravens"

The two animals also appear separately, seemingly as decorative motifs, so that their inclusion would not raise any objections. This is the case, for example, on one of the capitals of the church in Quedlinburg (see image below). There, we see a wolf and a raven, with the former having a rope tied around its body. The knot is also an ancient symbol, frequently associated with Wodan as a guide of the dead and with his death horse. From this, we can infer that these are indeed Wodan’s companion animals.

Wolf and raven as decorative motifs

Among the mythological creatures was also the Fenriswolf, whom the gods, after many failed attempts, finally managed to bind. As a guarantee of their promise to release him if he could not free himself, the god Tyr placed his arm in the wolf’s mouth. When the gods did not keep their promise, the beast bit off his arm. The gods were overjoyed that the wolf had finally been restrained, averting great dangers for both humanity and the gods themselves. In the related myth, it is said: "Then all the gods laughed, except for Tyr, who did not laugh," which is quite understandable.

The bound wolf was placed under the guard of the harp-playing Eggþér. This saga is depicted in the cloister of the church in Berchtesgaden (see image below) on a column that is slightly heavier than the others. On the left, we see Tyr, reaching with his right hand for the stump of his missing left arm, and on the right, the wolf with the harp-playing guardian beneath it.

Tyr saga on a column

A similar depiction can be found on the Bankhead Cross, which still stands near Duplin Castle in Perthshire, Scotland (see image below). It is assumed that this cross was created by Norwegian settlers after their conversion to Christianity (or at least under their direction) by a sculptor who belonged to a building lodge or a related organization.

Bankhead Cross

The carving shows a mounted rider with a spear, who is likely meant to represent Odin, considering the four warriors depicted below him. Most notably, there are also two dogs on the side, beneath which two more warriors can be seen. These likely represent warriors from Odin’s army of the dead, the Einherjar, to which, despite Christianization, the deceased was still believed to belong. On the back of the cross, a carving has been deliberately removed, likely because it was deemed too pagan. However, on the other side, we once again find the wolf, with the harp-playing Eggþér depicted below it.

Finally, we present an image of a column in the crypt of the church in Freising, which depicts several scenes from Odin’s battle with the Fenriswolf and the wolf’s eventual slaying by Vidar (see image below).

Column in the crypt of Freising church

During Ragnarök, the wolf is said to break free and fight alongside the forces of destruction against the gods, the Einherjar, the light elves, and all other powers benevolent to humanity. In this battle, Odin is devoured by the beast, but his son Vidar avenges him. He pries open the wolf’s jaws by placing his foot inside its mouth—wearing a special shoe made from discarded leather scraps from shoemaking (which is why cobblers are not supposed to keep these pieces!). Vidar then slays the beast.

The sculptor of this column attempted to depict as many details as possible, which makes the composition seem somewhat unusual to us, as multiple moments of the story appear simultaneously and overlap in the carving. On one side, we see Odin, mostly swallowed by the wolf, and Vidar, whose distinctive shoe is clearly visible as he stabs the beast. On the other side, Vidar is shown placing his foot in the wolf’s mouth, grasping the creature, and in a third phase, stabbing it with his sword.

These examples could be multiplied many times over, but even from this selection, it should be clear that many elements from pagan traditions continued to live on in the building lodges during Christian times—undoubtedly forming part of their “secrets.”

F.E. Farwerck in Nehalennia, June 1958