When a man comes to Forn Sidr—the Old Customs—he will realize before long that he brings a great deal of excessive baggage on the journey: beliefs and judgements that strike a very discordant note with the primal, ancestral way of life that he is taking up. These hindrances are likely not of his own making; they have been given to him by the maxims of Christianity, and whether he was a devout Christian or not, those same maxims have long steeped into the surrounding culture in which he grew up and have perhaps taken on new forms and expressions in a post-Christian—yet still very Abrahamic—age. Thus, he must undertake a process of purging himself of these false and inconsistent views in order successfully to embark upon a full realization of his potential as a Norseman, indeed, as a man. In this brief essay, I will show one of those prevalent assumptions that stunt a man’s growth as a man and reduces him to a perpetual infant: the idea of “I can’t”, or, put another way, the attitude of dependence.
The herdlike attitude of dependence, drilled into young men on a massive scale, is indeed a bequest of Christianity. The pages of the New Testament are replete with references to a condition of weakness and dependence on the part of fully-grown men; a condition that is not only proclaimed, but praised and extolled as a “virtue”. Consider the famous expression of Paul: “And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” (2 Cor. 12:9, KJV.) More emphatically, Jesus is quoted as saying “without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:5, KJV). From these and other seminal texts, Christian theology developed a doctrine of utter dependence on God for anything and everything; the dogmas of original sin and grace went so far as to tell the faithful that anything bad and worthless originated in themselves, whereas anything good and valuable could only have come from God. Thus, Jesus’ flock of spiritual sheep were taught in word and image to conceive of themselves as weak, needy, and dependent. Indeed, the image of father and child was proposed as a perpetual aspirational model; the “child” was never to grow up. Not only was it considered absurd and impossible, but indeed the very attempt was a blasphemous insult to the all-provident God.
Nor is this psychological self-crippling restricted to the pulpits of churches and the chalkboards of Sunday schools. However un- or anti-Christian contemporary society may be, it is nevertheless a true child of the Church. It is indeed, as philosophers have succinctly expressed it, a Christianity without God; in the post-modern “Church”, God has been replaced by the state, or at the very least, by institutions. Today in the West, and most especially in Anglophone countries, we see the development of an aggressive, all-provident state at a breathtaking rate. More and more residents of the country receive aid or support of some kind from governmental agencies; laws are passed each year which regulate the life of its subjects in matters of increasing minutiae. Whereas some political parties continue to vocalize the now-quaint maxims of self-determination and personal independence, the relentless drive of politicians, executives, and legislatures has been to promote “big government” and a “culture of compliance” (to anonymously quote one government bureaucrat) in which the government (and, as we have seen develop with remarkable alacrity in the past decade, big corporations) plays the role of the all-powerful, paternal, provident God, and Mr. Joe Q. Public is the compliant, obedient recipient of its condescending generosity, as a good, obedient child.
The result of all this ambient doctrine of submission and receiving is that today’s “men” are either reluctant to take initiative (likely because of stern action taken against them for attempting to do so in the past) or, worse, has developed a complex in which they believe they are unable to do anything for themselves, or to take the initiative in something dangerous (precisely because it is new and unknown). This man has to have his hand held, shown how step-by-step, and given permission from authority to do so. The natural excitement and sense of challenge of the new and unknown has given way to sheer terror, and the prospect of a task of self-determination and independence is met with a litany of reasons why it couldn’t work, and what could go horribly wrong. In this way, one of the prime characteristics of a primal man is lost: the drive to achieve, to struggle, to overcome, and to win and provide.
Forn Sidr, the ancestral culture and spirituality of Norsemen, however, takes a very opposite view. In Forn Sidr, the “gods”—let us properly call them Aesir to avoid theological confusion—are not condescendingly sitting on their gilded thrones, awaiting our petitions that they may benignly grant them. Neither do they promise us that in return for our devoted obedience, they will take care of our needs. No; instead what we have from them, as ancestors and exemplars, is ability and the capability of developing new abilities, to strive against obstacles and learn new things. A man is endowed by his primal nature with strength, determination, and discipline, raw materials which when exercised and focused, routinely result in remarkable outcomes. Where the contemporary male of the Church or the State says “I can’t” or “Give to me”, an intact man instead says “I can” or “I will”. He must engage his courage against the possibility of failure and make attempts, knowing that there is no greater teacher than failure. He must be imaginative and resolute, seeing the need at hand and either learning or inventing means to fulfil it. To sit on the ground and moan about one’s lack is the role of an undeveloped child; a man sets his jaw and goes about achieving.
This is not to say, of course, that Forn Sidr considers each man to be an island, a complete self-contained engine of success. Indeed not; in accord with nature once again, Forn Sidr recognizes that a man needs other men. “Bare is the back of a brotherless man,” goes the ancient Norse proverb; and Havamol declares, “On the hillside drear the fir-tree dies, all bootless its needles and bark; it is like a man whom no one loves; why should his life be long?” (Havamol 50, Bellows translation.) The difference between the attitude of a practitioner of Forn Sidr and that of the Abrahamic herd-man we have hitherto described may again be neatly placed into a familial analogy. Whereas the Abrahamic culture seeks to demote a man to the level of a receptive, obedient child, the Norse culture instead sees brothers; all contributing, all striving, all achieving. At the risk of feeding the fears of the psychologically-neutered male we have been outlining, the world is indeed a dangerous place, and survival and success are not guaranteed; but the possibility of both survival and success is greatly magnified by the company and support of other good men. “Young was I once, and wandered alone, and nought of the road I knew; rich did I feel when a comrade I found, for man is man’s delight.” (Havamol, 47.)
In closing, it is not inappropriate to point out that the primal, natural approach contained within Forn Sidr is far more in harmony with the inescapable nature of man than is the docile herd-man of Abrahamic heritage. Study after study, and real-life anecdote after anecdote, shows that a man by his nature is designed to strive and to overcome; without a challenge to face and to wrestle with, he sinks into himself; he atrophies; his life becomes a hazy blur, and his physical and emotional health nosedive. The man with a mission, however, is healthier and vital; he is educated by each mishap and failure, and he is excited and gratified with each new accomplishment. His mind is at greater peace with itself, and his body is strong and vigorous. If, then, you have answered the call of your blood and embarked upon Forn Sidr, you would do well to examine yourself in this regard. Are you, in point of fact, a man who practices self-reliance? Who relates to his fellow-men as brothers and supporters, and not as providers and permission-givers? As one who approaches the unknown and new as a challenge to be striven with, or as one who sees it as a fearful specter from which he must be rescued? Take, then, the path of courage, strength, discipline, and determination, and rid yourself of pusillanimity and cowardice, remembering yet another line of Havamol (#48):
The lives of the brave and noble are best,
Sorrows they seldom feed;
But the coward fear of all things feels,
And not gladly the niggard gives.