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
  

The belief in a predetermined fate (part II) by F.E. Farwerck

The all-encompassing influence of fate meant that, with a few exceptions that will be discussed later, people generally did not resist it. In the Vatnsdæla saga, someone asked Grim what he thought of a particular journey. Grim responded that it would be futile to fight against a decree determined by fate. He accepted fate as something inevitable. In the same saga, Thorstein says: "After your death, there will hardly be anyone who will honor me, but everyone must seek their path according to the fate assigned to them." A phrase we frequently encounter in this context is also found in the Saga of the People of Kjalarnes, where it is said: "But now it must go as it is destined." When Thorarin, in the Njal Saga (ch. 13), wishes to marry a woman who had driven her first husband to his death, he is warned against it, but his response is: "There will likely be nothing to be done about it: it will have to come as it is destined."

Vatnsdæla Saga on a tapestry

This acceptance of fate, however, should not be interpreted as a kind of fatalism. The acceptance of fate shares with fatalism only the recognition of the inescapable nature of fate. However, while the fatalist simply gives up and allows fate to take its course, the attitude meant here is one of someone who, despite fate being determined, still does what must be done under the given circumstances. This difference in attitude depends not only on philosophical reflection but even more so on the character of the individual involved. The Oriental person is naturally a fatalist; the Germanic person is not. This is repeatedly evident in the Nordic sagas. For instance, in the Saga of King Sverrir Sigurdsson (ch. 16), we read the following: A farmer spoke as he accompanied his son to the warship and gave him good advice. He told him to be tough and brave in his trial as a man. "For a good name outlasts people by far," he added, "or tell me, how would you act if you went into battle and knew in advance that you were going to fall?" The son answered: "What else could I do but strike all around me with both hands?" The farmer continued: "But what if someone could tell you with certainty that you would not fall?"

The son answered: "How could I not give it my all to move forward?" The farmer then said: "In any battle in which you are involved, only one of two things can happen: either you fall, or you survive. Therefore, be brave, for everything is determined by fate. He for whom it is not determined that he must die, will not go to Hel (the ruler of the realm of the dead), and he who is destined to go there cannot escape it. But the worst thing is: to flee."

This conversation gives us a clear picture of the mindset that was apparently common in that time. Everything was determined by fate, but even if one knew that death was imminent and would strike in all circumstances, it was still not a reason to refrain from acting. The father, at the end, provides a rational argument for this: avoiding the fight would be dishonorable; but the son already intuitively responds from the beginning that he would fight to the utmost, even if there was no way out. However, the most remarkable thing is that we are not dealing here with ideas nurtured by a small circle of philosophers, but with a worldview that had permeated the entire society and was fully embraced even by the ordinary farmer.

People saw others as collaborators and executors of fate, but they also recognized themselves in this role. In the Laxdæla saga (ch. 58), Thorkel is attacked and defeated by Grim. Grim then says: "Things have turned out differently than you probably thought, for now your life is in my hands." Thorkel said he would not beg for mercy, "for fortune has been against me." Grim said: "I have caused enough misfortune, even if I leave this undone; a different fate is laid out for you than to die at this encounter of ours, and I will spare your life; reward me as you see fit." Grim apparently did not feel that it was he who granted Thorkel his life, but considered himself only the executor of Thorkel's, here favorable, fate. But the reverse also occurred, namely, that one allowed an unfavorable fate for someone else to be fulfilled by not intervening. In the same saga (ch. 49), Thorkel and his shepherd boy saw several men laying an ambush for Kjartan. The boy wanted to warn Kjartan, but Thorkel held him back, saying: "You fool, do you want to give someone life if death is destined for him?"

As mentioned, the inescapability of fate was felt most strongly at the hour of death, and for the state in which someone found themselves shortly before their death, there was an expression that has been passed down in Dutch with the word "veeg," which, although rarely used, still means "near death."

In the ancient North, the condition preceding death was called feigd. During this period, just before the moment when fate, which deeply influenced a person's life, became most apparent, powers of fate, such as the fylgjen (guardian spirits) and the valkyries, visibly appeared to people. This was a direct intervention of fate in human life, and although our ancestors did not have the widespread fear of the afterlife that is common today, the word feigd still had a sinister connotation. The one doomed to die lived in a peculiar intermediate state. It was believed that such a person was deprived of the guardian spirit that had accompanied them throughout their life and lived in a state of blindness, causing them to overlook all impending dangers. This blindness was also a clear sign by which someone destined to die could be recognized. Here we are apparently dealing again with an Indo-European concept, as the ancient Romans also had a proverb: "Whom Jupiter (the god of fate) wishes to destroy, he first blinds."

The belief that a vege (doomed) man must soon die is repeatedly found in the sagas. In the Reykdæla Saga (ch. 6), Askel says that things have turned out as he thought, and that the journey would have been better left undone. However, Vemund remarked that everyone must follow their fate; everyone could be content with their lot, and each must die if they were feigd. In Njal's Saga, Thord, the son of a freedman and the foster father of Njal's sons, kills Atli's murderer. When this becomes known, his foster son Skarphedin says: "He was surely already doomed to die, the one who fell at the hands of our foster father, who has never seen human blood before." We also find examples of the belief that a veeg (doomed) man no longer has a clear perspective on things. In the same saga (ch. 129), Njal and his sons are standing in front of their house as enemies approach for an ambush. The enemies consider that they will face a difficult fight if these three await them in front of the house, and Njal's sons also believe that it would be better to meet the enemy in open field. Njal, blinded by his veegness, prefers to defend against the enemy from behind the walls of his homestead. When his sons disagree with him, he laments: "Now it will happen that my sons will overrule me and no longer heed me. When you were younger, you did not do that, and you fared better for it." Helgi does not realize that his father is wrong and says, "Let us do as our father wishes; that will be best for us." But Skarphedin doubts it and replies: "I'm not so sure about that, for he is indeed veeg. But I would gladly give my father the satisfaction of burning with him, for I am not afraid of death." They then go inside, and the leader of the enemies remarks: "Now they are doomed, now that they have gone inside." Indeed, most of them perished in the burning homestead.

We also hear of other attitudes. There were people who tried to escape the influence of fate, and there are various indications that they sought to achieve this through magical means. These individuals apparently saw fate as an impersonal power standing above and beyond humans, and they evidently believed that they could become a counterforce to fate through magic. They likely thought that by invoking a law of cause and effect, even if not fully realized, they could introduce new causes that would cancel out the consequences of fate.

But outside of this exceptional group, people generally accepted fate as an untouchable force that, through its decrees, fulfilled the sacred order. They were so convinced of this that many statements in the North, as seen from the examples above, simply say: "It is determined," without mentioning the cause of this determination. These statements appear so frequently that we may regard them as expressions of a widespread belief.

The magical attitude towards fate undoubtedly stemmed from the often-felt tension between a fixed destiny and free will. But there are many indications that people sought the solution in a different direction as well.

Many apparently held the belief that what fate bestowed upon people belonged to them, that it was, by virtue of their nature, their share in the world's destiny. It was not a random fate striking them from the outside, but in every sense of the word, their own personal fate. Those who thought this way did not desire any other fate than the one that was theirs, as expressed in the words of Gisli in the Saga of Gisli the Outlaw, when he says: "A warrior seeks counsel, but nevertheless, I want what fate has allotted to me." And when Gisli must flee and leave his wife Ingjald behind, he composes (ch. 25):

Nevertheless, I gladly endure

the fate that comes to me...

...fear is entirely absent from me.

This willing acceptance of fate and the readiness to cooperate voluntarily in its fulfillment is also evident in the Frisian saga of Heriald Beroald, where it is said: "When matters stood thus, the sick Heriald suddenly noticed strength return to his arm. He rose from his bed, knowing that his time had come. He buckled on his armor, mounted his fiery steed, and entered the fray." The consequence of this was that he fell in battle. Here again, we see no attempt to escape the fate that was coming, but on the contrary, complete cooperation to fulfill it, even if it meant his own death.

This cooperation in carrying out fate was perhaps less a result of philosophical contemplation and more of a particular religious belief: that it was the duty of the gods and right-minded people to contribute to the unfolding of the sacred order of things. This, of course, also meant assisting in the execution of fate's decrees, and therefore cooperating in the fulfillment of one's own fate, regardless of how it might turn out.

In order to know how to act in certain circumstances to align one's actions with fate, a standard was naturally required, one by which actions could be judged. From the wealth of information available to us, especially from the saga era, it becomes clear that in the Old Germanic period, this standard was honor, though this concept did not fully align with our modern understanding. Honor commanded a specific attitude in all actions in life and was a factor that gave people significant influence in shaping their fate.

How important the concept of "honor" was in the old North is evident from the fact that the Old Norse language had more words for honor and its opposites, such as shame, than any other language in the world. For the concept of honor alone, there were no fewer than eleven synonyms; for the concept of shame, there were nine different words, and for concepts such as mockery, insult, and dishonor, there were no fewer than nineteen words available. Honor in the North, and likely among other Germanic tribes before Christianity, was not an abstract concept. It was not a factor that was sometimes considered and sometimes not; it had unconditional demands that were fulfilled to their utmost consequences. Even the death of the individual and their descendants was subordinate to honor, as evidenced by examples from Iceland and the Hildebrandslied.

The same compelling force of honor can be seen in Njal's Saga (ch. 129). When Njal had gone inside his house, the leader of the enemies asked to speak to him and his wife, Bergthora, offering them a safe escape. Njal's response was: "I do not want a safe escape, for I am an old man and barely capable of avenging my sons, and I do not wish to live in shame." When the leader then said to Bergthora, "Go outside, housemother, for I would not for anything let you burn inside," she replied: "I was given to Njal when I was young; then I promised that one fate would befall us." They both went back inside and perished in the flames.

Thus, honor was in all cases the standard for action, because a firm connection was seen between fate and honor. In addition to this, there were other means to determine what fate had in store for the future—not to escape it, but to consciously cooperate in its fulfillment. When in the Nibelungenlied, the river nymphs predict that none of the Burgundians will return from their journey, except the priest accompanying them, Hagen throws the priest overboard. But when he sees the man swim back to shore, Hagen realizes that the prediction will come true and that they are all headed for death. He does not turn back but, after crossing the river, destroys the ship to make any thought of retreat impossible, and rides with his comrades to their death.

Although over the last thousand years the concept of an all-encompassing, impersonal necessity has almost completely disappeared, the old view still occasionally surfaces even in modern times. Especially among poets, who live more from their inner selves than the average person, the connection between fate and the individual is often expressed. For instance, in Schiller's Wallenstein, we read the words: "The stars of fate are in your breast." In Hölderlin's Hyperion, the line appears: "To those whom fate speaks so loudly, they may also speak loudly back to fate." The heroic stance towards fate is evident in Geibel's words: "If there is anything greater than fate, it is the man who bears it unshakably."

F.E. Farwerck in Nehalennia, December 1956