My relationship with religion has always been complicated. I spent most of my life claiming to be a Catholic-raised Atheist, but as I get older I realize that this is a gross oversimplification. While it is certainly true that Catholic tradition played an integral role in my childhood—my father and living grandparents all still practice with varying degrees of regularity—my family always placed much greater emphasis on values such as kindness and respect for others’ individual autonomy over religious dogma. I am eternally grateful to them for not only creating, but fostering, a space for me to examine spirituality critically, though it took a little maturity for me to not resent them for the cognitive dissonance necessary to the process.
As a child, I sang songs and shook hands with strangers, waiting excitedly for the day when I would be old enough to eat crackers and juice with my parents. By the time I was a teenager, however, I had dismissed organized religion entirely as a vehicle for rationalized atrocities against humanity. While I never thought any less of my classmates for their religious convictions, it would be disingenuous of me to not confess that I took great pleasure in ruthlessly dismantling any argument founded in religion, in any class, for any topic. (Sorry about that, guys.) When I got to college, I roomed with a Louisiana beauty, complete with bouncing curls and the voice of an angel. A voice that, you guessed it, was honed regularly in the pews of her local church.
Erin was an unexpected joy in my life, and we quickly became so inseparable that to this day, I periodically get a, “Hey, Erin!” when I pass by an acquaintance from undergrad. Hurricane Gustav hit New Orleans in the first week of our freshman year, and I evacuated to Jackson, Mississippi with her family. Talk about a crash course in Southern hospitality! This Minnesota girl was blown away first by the concern amongst neighbors—prayers made for the ones who stayed, who in exchange promised to protect the neighborhood in the immediate aftermath of the storm; then, at the Baptist shelter we stayed in the first night, where dozens of volunteers welcomed the displaced and doled out plates of homemade food that had clearly been prepared by nearly the entire congregation; and, continually, by the humble, hilariously awkward family who welcomed me into their fold without hesitation. In them, I found a model of love and goodness that, while familiar, was fundamentally different than anything else I had previously experienced. For the first time, my faith in my lack of faith was shaken. There was clearly something I was missing.
Thus began a journey of discovery—not just of myself, but of history and philosophy, as well. Readings and discussions on everything from the basic tenets of most major modern religions to how proselytization influenced the expansion of the Roman Empire has filled countless hours of my twenties. I occasionally go to church with Erin’s family, and the rituals of my childhood bring with them a sense of hope and peace. While I still tend towards rejecting organized religion, I no longer make the mistake of categorically dismissing spirituality, as well. In fact, I actively search it out and, if you’ll excuse the expression, pray for the day when it finally clicks for me.
This brings me to the end of last week, when I decided on a whim to spend my lunch break researching Norse mythology. (I know, I know, sometimes I have difficulty with how cool I am, too.) The world of Freya and Odin has always fascinated me, and I was tired of my knowledge being pretty much limited to what video game designers and movie directors thought was interesting. This was strictly the quest of a nerd, so I was taken somewhat off guard when the explanation of the Germanic tribes’ worldview sounded good. Really good. Like, better than what a lot of contemporary religious leaders are spouting into the abyss. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I buy into rocks with consciousness or that a storm is a personal experience with a divine force. But the lack of prescribed doctrine and the part about finding divinity on Earth both sound pretty good to me, and there’s a beauty in their cyclical view of time. Simplistically, the Norse spiritual cosmos is centered around Yggdrasil (pronounced “IG-druh-sill”), an ash tree which grows out of the Well of Urd. Its branches and roots contain the Nine Worlds (think Midgard and Asgard), and “Urd” translates to destiny. As Dan McCoy explains, “The Well of Urd corresponds to the past tense. It is the reservoir of completed or ongoing actions that nourish the tree and influence its growth. Yggdrasil, in turn, corresponds to the present tense, that which is being actualized here and now.... all beings who are subject to destiny have some degree of agency in shaping their own destiny and the destinies of others – this is the dew that falls back into the well from the branches of the tree, accordingly reshaping the past and its influence upon the present…. There is no absolutely free will, just as there is no absolutely unalterable fate; instead, life is lived somewhere between these two extremes.”
Although this was far from my first journey into Polytheism, I hadn’t previously considered how Old World religion could still be relevant today. There are an increasing number of individuals in our society eschewing the religions of our predecessors; perhaps, the religions of our ancestors can fill part of the void. My best guess at this moment is that we all have a tenuous connection to something greater than ourselves, and the drive to discover and understand it is buried as deeply within us as the need for sex and food. That experience is unique to each individual, and, frankly, it is galling to me that so many people have the hubris to assume their method is the “correct” one. The journey to and of spirituality is something no man, no book, and no single religion can lay claim to; the sooner we all figure out we’re working towards the same goal, the better off everyone will be.
