Litha Intro

The celebration of the Summer Solstice, the border between spring and summer, is known by many Pagans as Litha, a name attested to in the 8th-century writings of the Venerable Bede. In the lands of the Anglo-Saxons, of whom Bede was writing, Litha was considered the midpoint of summer and is still celebrated as Midsummer Day throughout Great Britain. However, in America, due to climatic differences, the Summer Solstice marks the beginning of the season. Regardless, the evidence suggests that the solstice was celebrated with bonfires at least as far back as the Middle Ages, when written records of such practices begin. In his 1996 book The Stations of the Sun, historian Ronald Hutton offers a possible derivation of the term bonfire: a contraction of “bone-fire,” that is, a fire in which clean bones were burned instead of wood. He notes, “The stench of the burning bones… was thought to drive away dragons” (p.313). According to Hutton, a fire made of wood without bones is more properly called a “wakefire.” He finds convincing evidence of the widespread celebration of a pre-Christian fire festival at the Summer Solstice throughout England and Ireland, though much less so in Wales and the Scottish Highlands, except in areas with a strong Scandinavian influence.

Since the Summer Solstice is the longest day of the year (and consequently the shortest night), it seems appropriate that the theme of Litha celebrations should be “Light.” What does light mean to us? As human beings, it provides an awareness of our surroundings as well as clarity. And at this time of year, light is abundant. We can shine some of that light on the darker areas within us and re-evaluate—see if we are where we want to be or if there are things we need to work on. For the Planet Earth, sunlight provides sustenance. Plants depend on photosynthesis to feed themselves, herbivorous animals depend on the plants, and carnivores consume the plant-eaters. They in turn are consumed after death to provide nutrients to the soil in which the plants grow. Light keeps the cycles of life going, and that’s something worth celebrating. In some ways, the Summer Solstice feels like a high point; the sun is at its strongest, the light is at its brightest and lingers its longest. But we should be mindful of the shadows, for we are crossing over into the waning half of the year.

Litha Ritual

Celebration for Litha, the Summer Solstice

Opening Poem

Suggested reading: “The Sunflowers” by Mary Oliver

The Summer Solstice and the Meaning of Litha

Twice a year, the Earth reaches the balance point between day and night. On those days, the equinoxes, we celebrate the life-sustaining cycles of light and dark and reflect on the turning wheel of life and death. When the day and the night are of equal length, we are reminded of the equality of all living things—for they are all aspects of Gaea, our living world. We celebrate with flame, whether the flicker of candlelight or the roar of a bonfire, to remind us of the energy of the sun and the creative spark of the cosmos beyond.

Twice a year, too, the Earth transitions from lightness into darkness and then darkness into light. On these days, the solstices, we pause again, to celebrate the lesson the Earth teaches us: that all things are temporary and that change is inevitable. The summer solstice comes at a time of warmth and light, of lengthening days and shortening nights.

At Litha, our celebration of the summer solstice, we are reminded that no matter how demanding life gets, the night always returns. The day will always end and a new night will always begin. Life is often a struggle; we grasp and slip, fight and fail, win then lose. But tranquility, like the night, is always present, if we have the presence of mind to find it.

We are at the year’s high point; as the wheel turns around us, the days will now grow shorter and shorter until we are once again spiraling beneath the stars at Yule, the celebration of the winter solstice. Even as we anticipate the peace and rest of the long dark night, we celebrate the bounty of the Earth and the life-giving power of the sun. The fields are flourishing, the fruits and herbs are fragrant and full of life. And so we celebrate the richness and bounty of our own lives.

Today is the beginning of the waning half of the year; from now until the winter solstice the day will shorten and the night will lengthen. Today marks the start of the gathering dusk, with the promise that summer will come to an end. Now we shed our fears and worries and celebrate all that is and all that will be, the ideas and projects we have brought to fruition, the joys and sorrows that have grown from the seeds we planted.

As we walk the spiral, let us think about what it is we want to celebrate about this year. What did we hope to bring into our lives this year? What did we hope to let go of? Have we done the work that will yield a rich harvest in our own lives? In the bright sunshine of summer, what do we want to learn, to create, to nurture? This is the wonder of Litha, to honor all that we have made manifest in our lives, and to look forward to the restful night that is yet to come.

Walking the Spiral

In the light of the sun   The Earth is alive
In the warmth of summer   The Earth is alive
We celebrate together   The Earth is alive
With hope for the future   The Earth is alive
With confidence in ourselves   The Earth is alive
When the world is in bloom   The Earth is alive
When the animals play   The Earth is alive
When the leaves are green   The Earth is alive
When the rivers flow   The Earth is alive
When the soil is rich   The Earth is alive
With the seeds we planted   The Earth is alive
With the work we have done   The Earth is alive
We will reap our harvest   The Earth is alive
Summer is here once more   The Earth is alive
Our bodies are strong   The Earth is alive
Our minds are keen   The Earth is alive
Our hearts are open   The Earth is alive
Life will continue   The Earth is alive

(Repeat until all have completed the spiral walk.)  

Candle Lighting

I light this candle in the name of the Ancestors, the Guardians, and all the holy ones who walk the world. May its light guide all the kindly spirits to bless this place.

I light this candle in the name of learning. May its flame remind us to look towards the unknown with curiosity and an open mind.

I light this candle in the name of creativity. May its glow inspire us and give us the confidence to share our true selves with the world.

I light this candle in the name of friendship. May its light continue to bring us together, so that we might offer each other joy, comfort, and company.

I light this candle in the name of the sun. May its flame warm our spirit and stay with us in the months to come.

I light this candle in the name of the Earth. May it illuminate our path through the coming year and remind us to walk with peace and compassion for all Gaea’s children.

Closing Poem

Suggested reading: “The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry

The Word ‘Pagan’

At the beginning of his 1999 book The Triumph of the Moon, Ronald Hutton discusses the different theories that have been advanced regarding the origins of the terms ‘pagan’ and ‘heathen,’ which are used today to describe various nature-based religions and their adherents.

Until recently, there would have been no equivalent difficulty in defining the original meaning of the term ‘pagan.’ For over a hundred years writers had commonly asserted that the Latin word paganus, from which it was derived, signified ‘rustic’; a result of the triumph of Christianity as the dominant, metropolitan, and urban faith, which left the old religions to make a last stand among the more backward populations of the countryside. In 1986, however, the Oxford-based historian Robin Lane Fox reminded colleagues that this usage had never actually been proved and that the term had more probably been employed in a different sense in which it was attested in the Roman world, of a civilian; in this case a person not enrolled in the Christian army of God. A few years later a French academic, Pierre Chuvin, challenged both derivations, arguing that the word pagani was applied to followers of the older religious traditions at a time when the latter still made up the majority of town-dwellers and when its earlier sense, of non-military, had died out. He proposed instead that it simply denoted those who preferred the faith of the pagus, the local unit of government; that is, the rooted or old religion. His suggestion has so far met with apparent wide acceptance.

A similar problem attends the equivalent northern European term ‘heathen’. The frequent linkage of ‘pagan’ to rusticity has produced a similar popular connection of this other word with ‘heath’, as if it originally indicated people driven to worship the forbidden old divinities in wastelands and wild places. As the Oxford English Dictionary makes clear, however, ‘heathen’ is the English version of the term used throughout the Germanic language group in the early Middle Ages to signify a follower of a non-Christian religion. It was coined originally by the Goths, the first speakers of a Germanic tongue to undergo a mass conversion to Christianity. Unhappily, the similarity to ‘heath,’ so apparent in modern English and German, does not occur in Gothic. Experts have failed to discover any other likely linguistic origin for ‘heathen,’ and the matter will probably remain a mystery (p.4).

As with most of the actual practices of pre-Christian religions in northern Europe, even the etymology of these general terms is debated by scholars. The scarcity of evidence, either literary or archaeological, has long frustrated efforts to reconstruct these traditions in an authentic way. Fortunately, my conception of Scientific Paganism is not particularly concerned with such matters. Where we’ve come from is less important than where we’re going.

The Garden of Eden

Re-Translated from the Original by Tony Lewis

When the earth was young, the gods made the first human beings, breathing into them the breath of life and thereby giving them their souls. The gods then created a garden paradise called Eden for the first two humans to live in, filled with many trees to make the garden a beautiful place and to provide food for its inhabitants. In the middle of the garden, the gods put two special trees, the Tree of Life and the Tree of Wisdom.

The gods wanted the humans to help them take care of the beautiful garden, so the All-Father asked the Boy to come up with names for all the animals. But there were so many animals, the Boy quickly realized he needed help. The All-Father said the Girl would help him, but he warned the pair not to eat the fruit of the Tree of Wisdom, for once they did, it would be all over for them. Then, the All-Father told the rest of the gods, “It’s best that the humans remain innocent, for they’re not ready to know what we know.”

The Boy and the Girl were so innocent they went around the garden naked and it didn’t bother them. One day, though, the crafty Snake came upon the Girl when she was alone. Snake asked her, “So the All-Father said you can eat from any tree in the garden?”

The Girl answered, “Yes, any of the fruit trees. Except the two in the center. He said if we eat that fruit, we’ll be struck dead.”

Snake laughed. “The gods are going to strike you dead for eating some fruit? That’s ridiculous. They know that the day you eat the fruit of the Tree of Wisdom, your eyes will be opened. You will gain all the wisdom of the gods.”

The Girl thought that wisdom sounded like a good thing, and the fruit did look pretty tasty. She decided to eat some, and then she gave some to the Boy, and he ate it too. Suddenly, they realized they were naked and, filled with embarrassment, they wove together some leaves from a fig tree to cover themselves. When they heard the All-Father approaching, they were overcome with shame so they ran and hid.

The All-Father called out, “Hey, where are you?”

Sheepishly, the Boy and the Girl came out from behind the trees. The Boy said, “When I heard you in the garden, I was afraid… because I’m naked. So I hid.”

The All-Father said, “Oh, and who told you that you were naked? You weren’t eating the fruit I told you not to eat, were you?

The Boy pointed at the Girl and shouted, “It’s her fault! She gave it to me!”

The All-Father asked the Girl, “Why did you do that?”

The Girl blurted out, “Snake tricked me into eating it!”

The All-Father turned to Snake and said, “You trickster! They won’t thank you for this. In fact, they’ll probably hate you for it.”

Then he turned back to the Girl, sighed, and said, “You wanted the wisdom of the gods? Well, here it is. Eventually, you’re going to get pregnant and have babies. And it’s going to hurt. A lot. And the men around you are always going to want to tell you what to do. That’s just how life is.”

Then he turned to the Boy and said, “You know what? You don’t get to play in the garden forever. You’re going to have to work hard for most of your life just to scratch out a living. You’ll curse the weeds that sprout among your herbs and vegetables, and you’ll eat your meals with sweat on your face. That’s just how life is.”

Then the All-Father said to the rest of the gods, “Hey, look! Now the humans are as wise as we are! We’d better kick them out of the Garden of Eden before they foolishly eat from the Tree of Life as well and become immortal! Then their sufferings would never end!”

But before sending them out to make their own way in the world, the All-Father made tunics of leather for the Boy and the Girl so they would at least have some proper clothes. They had to grow up now, but they were still his children and he loved them.