Ancestor Worship is Not About Biology

There’s this notion among some Heathens (even, occasionally, progressive ones) whereby ancestry is reduced to biology. This is unfortunate for a few reasons.

First, it is anachronistic. There are interesting saga references by which an individual’s personal orloeg could be inherited by someone named after them – even if not related, in fact, even if the child of their enemy! So if ancestry can be determined by intentional naming, that’s much more complex and nuanced than the crass rigidity of biological reductionism, which really only emerged as a convenient way of legitimating colonial invasions in the last few hundred years.

Jettisoning biological reductionism opens up the realization that a connection to ancestry is rooted in an ongoing relationship, not mere static membership of a group based on some kind of (possibly quite arbitrary) putative genetic connection. After all, geneticists consistently find that there is more genetic variation within specified racial or ethnic groups than between different groups!

Biological reductionism implies that the work of being connected to the ancestors is done by default. This is a short step from basically ignoring the ancestral currents that might be present. If I recognize that ancestral connection is an ongoing conversation, one in which at best I am an equal partner, well that’s going to have a very different implication for what “ancestor worship” might mean to me.

When we look at traditional cultures we see an emphasis on regular personal and ritual practice aiming at maintaining and strengthening relationships with ancestral figures, be they specific individuals or more nonspecific (and that can include animal spirits, plant spirits, spirits of place, etc.). Ancestral connectedness is rooted in practice, not in labels. There is little room for the cultivation of reverence if we burden ourselves with the blinders of biological reductionism.

Secondly, biological reductionism, particularly in the context of painfully modern (and unscientific) racial categorizations, obscures the fact that ancestor worship is not about abstract categories and groupings (like “white” or “Asian” or whatever). It is about my personal, specific lineages, the specific threads of relationships that bind me to the weave of history.

So when the now openly white supremacist Stephen McNallen says he would never have had children with a Tibetan woman because he would want his descendants to “look like us,” he is missing something really obvious, namely that by having children with our hypothetical Tibetan lady, he would be melding lineages with that woman, and thus the Tibetan ‘them’ and McNallen’s white ‘us’ would be united, woven as one. His Tibetan-European children would look like “us,” because in his marital union his “us” would have expanded from what he had before.

Indeed, this applies even if two people of the same race marry, since as I noted genetic variation within groups is greater than between them. Thus, genetically speaking, McNallen might have actually promoted more uniformity in his genetic descendants precisely by marrying and procreating with someone of a different race! I am sure this nicety would be lost on someone as dim as McNallen, of course.

Thirdly, biological reductionism excludes the possibility of spiritual and philosophical ancestors. Figures such as C. G. Jung, Lao Zi, Sylvia Rivera, Milton Erickson, Friedrich Nietzsche, Peter Kropotkin, Nelson Mandela, and Marie-Louise Von Franz are all philosophical or spiritual ancestors to me, even though I am not biologically related to any of them.

Similarly, I have much deeper connection to the people I choose as family than almost all of my biological family – why should that be devalued in the name of biological reductionism? And that’s before I get to the Heathens I’ve known who are not of European descent yet who have taught me such profound lessons about the old gods and ways, and who are clearly and deeply connected to the Heathen current (much more so, in fact, than many, perhaps most, of the European-descended Heathens I have met).

And now I think about it, I have no Heathen blood relatives, so all of my experience of Heathen ritual and community has been shared with people I am unrelated to. Does our at-best distant ancestral similarity somehow undermine the very real depth and power of our relationships? I should think not.

In our book I write about how ancestor worship ultimately articulates an animistic vision of mutual symbiosis, interconnection, and relationship among all things. If I am really serious about worshipping my ancestors, it is arbitrary to say that they end at the elusive and ever-shifting boundaries of skin color or nationality.

Odin, Vili, and Ve are described as creating the first humans from trees. Those trees are ultimately formed from the remnants of Ymir’s corpse, since that is what the whole cosmos is shaped from. How can Odin be the ancestor of any human, therefore, if ancestry merely means biological relationship? Indeed, how can we call him a god when he is clearly described as being of giant stock? And yet we are assured that he is the Allfather, and the highest of the Aesir; apparently his kind of ancestrality transcends mere blood relatedness.

Thus ancestor worship, once it is freed from biological reductionism, opens an infinity of doors. But when it is burdened by biological reductionism it merely amounts to stagnation, hypocrisy, and denial. It takes fertile possibility and makes a barren waste of them.

Ultimately, reducing ancestry to biology is a move from the miser’s playbook. It’s anachronistic as far as Heathenry goes, and it stifles the free flow of the creative spirit. It reduces living relationships to empty, static formalisms. It violates both the primary sources and the philosophical foundations of Heathenry, assuming we understand the Heathen worldview to be based on a vision of wyrd as the interconnecting matrix of all.

Thus: it is really crucial that we divest the concept of ancestor worship from modern oppressive concepts of biological race. Not only for the above reasons (i.e. that biological reductionism undermines the quality of our Heathenry), but because biological reductionism threatens to reduce Heathenry and/or ancestor worship to being an excuse for hatred and bigotry. No thanks!

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The Crossroads and the Gallows

Odin by Jacob Hood 1893Gods upon gods upon gods. Big gods. Little gods. Perverse gods. Strange gods. Gods of mystery, mysterious gods. This cosmos is so full of the things called gods that one cannot walk for treading on one. Is there anything that is not god?

The little god of the toothbrush, no, that is the toothbrush. The little god that is the bathroom door, that is the stair case, that is the kettle, that is the shirt on your back, that is the oxygen molecules you absorb into every cell of your body, drawing over the surfaces of your lungs, into your blood, your heart, to the very limits of your capillaries, into every single cell, that life-giving divinity called Oxygen feeding the divinity called Your Body. Fall down in reverence.

The bad mood, the stained conscience, the mean thought. All divine beings. The good mood, the selfless deed, the languid afternoon in the long sun’s demise, all deities sublime. The familiar, the alien, the comforting, the disturbing. Gods.

They are stacked up together in fractal arrangements, endless recurring icons of magic and power. As above, so below; the structure of the tiniest is the structure of the ALL. Divine, gods all. One and many, both at the same time. Is this illogical? Illogic is the name of god. Is this contradictory? Contradiction is the name of god. (Logic and consistency are also the names of God, coincidentally).

Tragedy is a god, and serendipity is a god. Change is a god, one who facilitates all the others most eagerly. Change is, you might say, the crossroads of the gods, or perhaps the traffic cop of the gods as they comport themselves to and fro along the byways of Mystery, she who may well be the greatest of all the divinities (but who can claim to know such a thing?).

Change, the crossroad of the gods, itself a god. Standing by the crossroad called Change are two wooden pillars. They are joined by two crossed beams, forming an X between the tops of the pillars. A rope is tied to the X. A tattered, black-wrapped figure creaks and groans in the wind. It is the rope’s divine purpose to be the saddle of the figure, who is the rider of the horse called gallows. Gods stacked on gods stacked on gods.

This riding god is a crossroads god, for the crossbars of the gallows are a recursion of the crossroads of change upon which the whole sordid glory of life sings its marvelous and whimsical opera. This riding god, this dead god, hanged by the neck. And is that the broken end of a spear that thrusts from his side, like a phallus cutting through the ribs? I believe it is.

This riding, hanging, rib-fucked god is my god, god of the crossroads of change upon which vast epics and homely familiarities alike unfold. They gamble, these infinite stories, these tangled up threads. Gamble at the feet of the hanged god, at the crossroads of change. The horizon of mystery (which we call The Present) looms but never arrives. All of existence, every last bit of it, playing out in ever-more complex Mandelbrot sets below the swaying dead feet of the swaying dead god who rides the gallows.

My god, this rib-fucked god, dressed in his tatters. At his feet all of existence unfolds, stretching forth from the rim of the goddess Mystery to the rim of the goddess Mystery (id est Runa). Thus is he sometimes called All Father.

Not as though he is some patriarch, some dominator, some well-spring. No. He is weathered, weakened, withered. He is desiccated, drained, death incarnate. There is no romance in what this god is. It is a gallows-riding, wind-whipped, spear-fucked god. It is my god, or least the god that occupies my attention the most of the many gods that occupy my attention.

It is my beloved god, this god at who’s feet all the other gods unfold their hour upon the crossroads called Change as they dance from Mystery Past to Mystery Promised. I love him without varnish, without the dressings of human fear, power, or control. I do not need to make him into a pompous patriarch, would not thus deign to slander he who swings from the gallows, the blood drained from his veins. Mandrake takes root at his feet, where blood mixes with semen and seeps into earth. My beloved god, who gives life even in death.

He watches, accepts all that he sees as it is, sans alteration, sans erasure. Yet always remains unscarred, for he is not ruled by the waters that run across the river bed of his undead senses. Without judgment. Death affirms life.

See how the endless multitude of gods which comprise God pulse and throb and ebb and flow back and forth on the crossroads called Change in their voyage from Mystery to Mystery (id est Runa). See how the hanging, rib-ergi god watches. Is that the ghost of a smile that haunts his lips, curved as they are? Perhaps just the faintest hint of his love for all that he surveys? Who knows what molten life lies below that cold corpse shell? “Only death is real.”

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