Ritual Drama in the Northern Tradition
By Laure Lynch
Make-believe is one of the first games most of us play as children. It’s a simple game, requiring only a few props and a lot of imagination. Put on your mother’s too-big shoes, a fluffy boa, and some lipstick and you become a movie star, off for a romantic evening out on the town. Don a cowboy hat and toy gun and you’re on your way to a standoff with bandits in the old west. Some children may devise more elaborate plots than others (mine involved flying horses and historical figures from early imperial Rome, as I recall), but the point is that acting is one of our earliest creative impulses. The universal human need to transcend the immediate limitations of time and space, to escape from our current circumstances, however briefly, has led to the flowering of the arts in nearly every civilization the earth has known. And yet, there’s much more to this impulse than play-acting. The same creative, ecstatic impulse that leads to games of make-believe and later to the writing and performance of plays also leads to the willing suspension of disbelief that we call faith: the willingness to set aside our supposedly firm knowledge of our physical surroundings and limitations and reach beyond them to experience something else and other, something numinous and beyond the physical. When people first surrendered to this urge and reached beyond the veil that hides the spiritual world from the physical, they found themselves in contact with Gods, spirits, and other beings whose existence is not rooted in the material plane, and around these contacts religion was born. And so, drama and religion spring from the same root, and we should not be surprised to find that they often share the same premises and the same tools.
For thousands of years, sacred drama was the only form of drama there was. It was the means by which spiritual traditions, values and ethics were taught and learned. From the most ancient times, people have been aware that drama, poetry and art—by speaking to the heart and bypassing the critical mind--can communicate spiritual truths more directly and at a deeper level than mere pedantic lessons could ever accomplish. Religious leaders did not hesitate to take advantage of this fact, and sacred drama was used not only to convey religious teachings through reenactment of stories and myths, but also to open the performers and the audience to direct experience of the mysteries and the gods. The outward trappings of the performance—the costumes, settings, props, lights and music—interact with the power inherent in myth and the involvement of the performers and the community to create an atmosphere in which the divine and unseen realities can be experienced directly in a visceral way that goes deeper than intellectual understanding.
Scholars are divided on the extent to which ritual drama played a role in ancient Scandinavian and Germanic Heathenism. In his book The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia, Terry Gunnell argues that the dialogic poems from the Eddas were originally intended as dramatic performances, and were still being presented as such as late as the 13th century. Citing traditions such as the julebukk and other examples of seasonal miming, Gunnell traces connections between Skirnismal and a tradition of folk marriage, between Harbardsljod and an enacted poetic contest involving figures representing winter and summer, and between Fafnismal and Vafthrudnismal and costumed initiation ceremonies. He theorizes that folkloric traditions may have led directly to the development of the Eddic poems. Given the folk drama celebrations associated with Yule, it does seem likely that there may have been similar folk traditions for the celebration of other holidays and rites of passage, and that these simple traditions may had led to the development of more complex ritual dramas reenacting the stories of Gods and heroes. Gunnell also cites archeological evidence in the form of carvings and paintings representing dancing warrior figures dressed in horns and animal skins, which he claims paid a central role in Scandinavian ritual as late as the time of the Oseburg ship burial (c. 850), and points to the discovery of two full-sized 10th century animal masks in the harbor in Hedeby in 1991. (“Gryla, Gyllur, Groleks and Skelklers.”) In support of his theories, Gunnell also discusses such known performance contexts as seidhr.
Gunnell is not the first to have advanced similar theories. In her book The Elder Edda and Ancient Scandinavian Drama, Bertha Phillpots compares the Eddic texts preserved in fornyrdislag verse with those preserved in ljodahattr, arguing that the latter originated in pre-settlement Norway and would have been performed in religious rituals, particularly fertility dramas, with Skirnismal as the primary example. She suggests that effigies of the gods were used, with two or three actors taking the moving and speaking parts, along with a chorus possibly wearing bird or animal masks. The purpose of these plays, according to Phillpots, was to present myths at the seasonal festivals.
In Culture of the Teutons, Gronbech argues that “classical culture” (a group in which he includes not only the classical Greeks but also the Vedic and Teutonic peoples) is essentially active, and that thus “classical man” expresses piety not through prayer and devotion but through dramatic action. Such dramatic rituals not only represent the mythic event being portrayed, but also symbolize the history and luck of the clan. A portrayal of the victory of Sigurd over the dragon Fafnir thus ensures victory over all enemies of the clan, in all forms, in all future battles. In support of the idea that the Eddic poems were intended to be performed, Gronbech contends that they do not tell a continuous story as most epics do, but are instead a collection of scenes designed to enact a pattern of ritual sacrifice. The dramatic portrayal of events gives rise to recitals (possibly delivered by the thulr, or officiating person at the blot) that elaborate on the ritual acts, including bits of dialogue on wyrd, lessons in runic lore, and discussions of moral and practical wisdom.
Not surprisingly, some scholars take issue with this assessment of the role of ritual drama in Scandinavia. Stephen Mitchell (in a review of Gunnell’s book in Alvissmal) criticizes Gunnell of having a rather wide definition of drama that encompasses solo recitation, storytelling, children’s games of make-believe, ritual, spectacle, and the living art performances of modern artists. (And yet, I would argue that all of these are valid manifestations of the dramatic art.) Lars Lonroth (cited in an article by Rick McGregor) argues that the Eddic poems may have been cult texts, but may also have been performed as ordinary entertainment; his opinion is that “they have more to do with play-acting than religious ritual.” (However, when the “play-acting” concerns mythic stories of Gods and heroes, where exactly are we supposed to draw the line separating the mundane from the sacred?) And John Lindow declares flatly, “We have no indication of how, when, or by whom mythological eddic poems may have been used…There is no proof that they were ever used in any sacral, ritual context by followers of the aesir, and it is very unlikely that they could have been used in this way after the conversion.” (Quoted by McGregor.) Of course, Lindow appears to be blissfully unaware of the revival of Heathenism as a living religion in modern times.
Whether or not the Eddic poems were enacted as ritual drama by our ancestors, we are free to use or adapt them for that purpose today, and there are a great many benefits to be derived from doing so. If the line between religious ritual and shamanic practice is often blurred, the line separating sacred drama from shamanism is even more so. In some places in the world today, holy plays are still practiced in the traditional forms that have prevailed for thousands of years. In Bali and Tibet, the costumes and masks used in the plays become holy objects that are kept in temples when not in use, and given offerings of fruit and incense. Performers who wear the masks must be ritually purified before putting them on to enable them to safely carry the divine energy imbued within the costumes. During the performance, the performers merge with the divine energy, becoming a vessel through which the gods can reach out to the audience. Although the scripts for these plays always remain the same because the mythic tales are fixed, their effects on the audience are powerful and life-changing. Sick people in the audience have even been known to experience spontaneous healing. At the very least, the play offers a vehicle through which the audience can directly experience the presence of the gods. For these reasons, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to regard well-conceived and well-performed sacred drama as a potential form of shamanism. The presence of the divine may not reach the level of possessory work (or it may, depending on the performers!), but some of the same effects can be achieved, as the same time as the meaning and feel of a seasonal festival is communicated at a deeper level than most blots can achieve.
In their accounts of tribal shamanism, anthropologists invariably stress the importance of the shaman’s performance. While maintaining the ecstatic trance needed for consulting with Gods and spirits, the shaman must still remain in enough control of his physical and mental faculties to perform a ritual that will convince his non-shamanic patients and onlookers that what they are seeing is real, that the healing they expect is actually taking place, that the shaman has successfully contacted the spirits, negotiated the cure, and removed the source of illness. The shaman, of course, experiences the presence of the spirits directly, feels their power, sees the source of illness, and knows when he has succeeded in removing it. But the less spiritually-gifted members of his tribe are not so fortunate, and will only be convinced of the effectiveness of the cure if his performance is sufficiently impressive. Priests today face the same issue, whether or not we are shamanically-oriented. We may feel the presence of the Gods and the spiritual energies of the holiday, we may directly experience the act of blessing conveyed in a blot, but if we mumble our way through a ritual, our gestures are lackluster, and the ritual setting fails to set the proper mood, the people we’re performing ritual for may remain unconvinced. Even worse, for those priests who are not quite as adept at achieving contact with the Gods, a lackluster ritual may not be enough to persuade the Gods to bother showing up in the first place. This is where the tools of theatre can help.
Assuming that not everyone has the resources (or the people) needed to stage a full-fledged ritual drama, how do we go about incorporating some of the elements of ritual drama to enhance our seasonal celebrations and blots? And what distinguishes ritual drama from ordinary “play-acting”? Gronbeck states that ritual drama is made up of symbolic acts, as opposed to merely dramatic gestures; each gesture must have ritual significance. For example, when the gythja blesses the horn of mead and begins to pass it around the circle of worshippers, simply doing so in a stagy or exaggerated fashion is not enough to give her actions the weight of the sacred. However, if you bless the mead and present it as if you were Gunnlod granting Odin His taste of the mead of poetry, Sigdrifa giving rune-blessed ale to Sigurd, or Gerda offering a cup of mead to Skirnir as She agrees to marry Freyr, the same act suddenly takes on an entirely different significance. (The same significance would not be appropriate for all circumstances, of course, but would need to be adjusted according to the purpose of the blot.) To give another example, it is possible to simply perform the hammer rite with an impressive display of violent gestures and booming tones, and it is possible to invite the energies of Thor to hallow the space using you as a tool through which to accomplish this. (A friend of mine who is a Thor’s woman succeeds in doing the latter, and believe me, you can feel the difference!) This same principle could apply to many actions that could be incorporated into a blot: the handing out of apples at an Ostara blot that the gythja actually allows Idunna to bless through her, the handing out of Yule gifts by a gothi who allows Odin to be the gift-giver. In this way, the Gods can be invited to take an active part in the ritual. It is not necessary for the practitioner to be trained in possessory work or to allow anything close to full possession to occur; it is enough that the he or she be willing to act as a stand-in for the deity and to allow the weight of that to guide his gestures.
Gronbeck goes on to state that action and speech in a ritual drama“supplement one another so intimately that the drama comes into life through their interaction.” Speech is especially important here, though often overlooked. It is not enough that the participants can hear what you’re saying (although I’ve been to plenty of rituals at which even that posed difficulties); they must be made to feel what you are saying as well, and the only way this can happen is if you also feel it. Reading from a sheet will not often achieve this (nor will it help you marry your speech to your gestures in the way Gronbech suggests), so memorization is good! But even if you’ve managed to memorize every word of a 20-minute blot, you must avoid falling into the trap of reciting your “lines” as if by rote, which will rob them of all feeling and make them as emotionally significant as a recitation of the phone book. Keep in mind, during the ritual, who you are speaking to or for, and why! Allowing the Gods to speak through us, even in the pre-determined, scripted context of a ritual, is perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can offer Them. Achieving the harmony of speech and action Gronbech is talking about may also come more easily if we borrow a trick from theatre: blocking out the blot as if it were a dramatic scene. In blocking, an actor divides the scene into a series of “actions,” which are determined by whatever his character is trying to achieve during that section. Each “action” is then broken down and fully scripted, with all the character’s movements and gestures choreographed to enhance both the dialogue and the character’s inner intentions and motivations.
Gronbech’s next observation is that in ritual drama no line can be drawn between ritual actors and ritual implements. This underscores once again the importance of props in the effective creation of the “role” being performed. Careful and creative use of costumes and props not only helps put the actor (or in this case, the gothi or gythja) into a properly sacred frame of mind, but it can also help the “audience” (or blot participants) suspend disbelief by engaging their imaginations more fully. The significance of sacred costumes seems to be universal. In settings as widely ranging as Egyptian temples, ancient Greek tragedies, and Catholic mass, the actor/priest becomes the God (or His officiant, empowered to act in His name) when he puts on the appropriate costume. In my experiences in the theatre, I’ve seen the power of costume firsthand. When one college role I was cast in required me to wear the bathrobe and grey wig of a feeble old woman, I felt more like a feeble old woman (even though I was sixteen at the time). When the role called for the graceful dress and bouffant hairdo of a Southern belle, I felt more genteel and ladylike after I was fully costumed; in fact, the process of doing my hair and make-up provided me with a buffer zone during which I could ease into the role, putting on its inner characteristics as I put on its outward form. This same trick has been used by actors ever since the days of Greek theatre, when putting on the mask of Apollo enabled an actor to become Apollo (or at the very least, His vehicle) for the space of the performance. Through its repeated use in the role, such a mask became a charged and consecrated object, imbued with Apollo’s essence, which acted as a shortcut for the actor-priest to invoke the God’s presence. This donning of charged props and costume items (such as a floppy-brimmed hat for Odin, or a necklace for Freyja) is especially useful today for those attempting possessory work, but can also be adapted for the purpose of enhancing a simple blot. (After all, how many people attempt the hammer rite without a ritual hammer?) The setting of the blot (how the room is lit, how the altar is arranged, what colors are used, whether recels are burned and if so, which ones) should also be carefully considered here. If you hold your Yule blot by candlelight or the flickering lights from the Yule tree, with a spicy incense scenting the air, you’re already gone much further towards creating an atmosphere that will enhance the proceedings that if you’d left the overhead electric lights burning.
Finally, Gronbech states that ritual drama is distinguished by its use of metaphors and imagery. By the 11th century, poetic kennings had degenerated to the level of literary jargon and were little more than clichés, but Gronbech argues that earlier they each represented a dramatic scene and a myth encapsulated into an image. I suspect they may also have had shamanic uses as well; in an essay from the book Shamans Through Time, an anthropologist notes that the shamanic songs of the Yaminahua contain complex metaphors, such as “baskets” to represent jaguars, understandable only to shamans. The shamans can readily explain these metaphors (the jaguars are “baskets” because the pattern of their spots resembles the pattern woven into the baskets) and the reason given for the complexity is that to name something directly is to “go crashing into it,” whereas the use of metaphorical imagery (or “twisted language,” as they call it) allows the shaman to circle around the thing being named, and thus see that thing more clearly and completely. This immediately brought to my mind comparisons with the complex kennings in Norse poetry, and the intriguing possibility that they too may have originally had shamanic uses. In any case, poetic language is powerfully evocative, and the right verbal imagery can make or break a blot. Kennings used to invoke (or invite) the presence of a God can be carefully selected according to the purpose of the blot, and not just because they’re on the list of heiti you found online. The officiant’s description of the purpose of the holiday can be couched in language so vivid that it actually helps the participants see and feel the significance of the rite. The mead can be blessed in language that seems to convey blessing just in its very selection of words. Alliteration is a good tool to employ here, although I have seen it overused, and a smattering of Old English or Old Norse can also prove effective if not overdone. Remember that the blot won’t be as effective is no one has any idea what you’re saying, so err on the side of communication when it conflicts with pretty words; but otherwise, allow your words free reign to express the holiness of the occasion. Blot is certainly not the time for equivocation and qualifiers!
For those who do have the resources to put on a full-scale ritual drama, doing so offers an opportunity for both the performers and the audience to connect more deeply with the Gods, the lore, and the meaning of the holiday being celebrated. There are plenty of possibilities for adapting poems from the Eddas for seasonal celebrations, such as enacting Skirnir’s wooing of Gerd on behalf of Freyr for Charming of the Plough, or the theft of Idunna’s apples for Ostara. But those who cannot stage a complete ritual drama can still reap some of the rewards of doing so by borrowing a few tools from the actor’s arsenal and supplementing them with the spiritual know-how of the priest and the shaman.
(c) 2005
wodandis@gmail.com