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A Cautionary Tale for the New Pagani of the West

He called himself a pagan, but what he really was, was an ex-Christian.

My coven-sib was dating a guy who worked at the Renn Fest. Because he identified as pagan, she invited him to our Sunrise Yule brunch.

Alas, though, he had nothing to say about the Sun, the Wheel, or the Season. All that he wanted to talk about—and he wanted to talk a lot—were Jesus, the Church, and “Christianity”—as if such a monolith actually existed.

Needless to say, the relationship didn't last long.

Needless to say, we never invited him back.

As Norwegian Egyptologist Jan Assmann sees it, the defining distinction between religions is not monotheism or polytheism, but whether they're Primary or Secondary.

Primary religions—what we may call the Old Paganisms—arise directly out of human experience of That Which Is.

Secondary religions—the Abraham religions being prime examples—arise out of reaction against Primary religions. Such worldviews, Assmann notes, are inherently dangerous because they automatically come with an enemy attached. This helps explain the bloody swath that the children of Abraham have cut through human history.

(Check out your favorite news-site. They're still doing it today.)

It also helps define an important distinction between the Old and New Paganisms.

The Old Paganisms were, by definition, Primary Religions.

The New Paganisms—alas—not so much.

A piece of modern pagan history is up for sale.

It's a piece of my own history as well.

Cân-y-Lloer: “Song of the Moon.” That's the name of the stone-built 19^th century Welsh farmhouse that, for more than ten years, from the late 60s to the early 80s, was the headquarters of the Pagan Movement in Britain and Ireland, one of Britain's (and the world's) earliest New Pagan organizations.

These were the folks who gave me my start in things pagan. From them I learned the fine art of ritual, and how to think like a pagan. It's no real hyperbole to say that they gave me the gods themselves.

Oh, those were heady times, our goal nothing less than the transformation—the retribalization, the repaganization—of Western society. Back to the Gods, back to the Land, back to the Tribe: those were our touchstones.

50 years on, they still are. From an ocean and half a continent away, I look back now with fond nostalgia, contemplating our failures—and our successes.

“Can-y-Lloer—the isolated Carmarthenshire cottage where a pagan commune is being set up. The name means 'Song of the Moon,' a tribute to one of the gods of witchcraft,” reads the steamy caption accompanying the grainy photo in a tabloid of the day.

The Pagan Movement grew out of the Regency, which during the late 60s offered open pagan rituals in north London, and was itself “off of” Robert Cochrane's Royal Windsor Coven.

Though I've had other initiations since, if that constitutes a lineage, I guess that's mine.

Through a series of unlikely coincidences, I recently learned that Cân-y-Lloer, and surrounding properties, is now for sale. To judge from the estate agent's photos, it looks like it's in pretty rough shape. Still, for a mere £250,000, this piece of New Pagan history can be yours.