One and Many Gods: Celtic Henotheism

There is one God, and there are many gods. And yes, I used the capital G, but before you brandish your pitchforks and drag me to the gallows for blasphemy, hear me out. God, or Día¹, is the entirety of the cosmos. Every flickering leaf on an oak, every guillemot cruising over the Atlantic, every star twinkling in the darkness. These are all Día. So, too, are the gods of the world. The fairies. Dagda and Morrigan. Lugh and Brigid. These divinities are great powers that shape the cosmos but are not Día Itself.² Día is the cosmos in its entirety. It is one and many, still and changing, and the will that breathes all creation into life and the matter that substantiates it. Día is all, and the gods, while powerful agents, are lesser.

In this brief jaunt into the wilderness of Celtic theology, I will start by defining Día’s nature with Its three paradoxical qualities:

• One and many.
• Still and changing.
• Willful and material.

After fleshing out Día's nature, I will clarify the distinction between this highest principle of existence and the lesser but still mighty gods of the Celtic pantheon.

Día as a Forest

To begin untangling this paradox, we’ll start by looking at something near at hand: a forest. Imagine yourself ambling through a sylvan cathedral in Country Kerry. The musty air filling your lungs. The branches aching in the wind. The leaves infused with Helios’ rays. The springy crunch of the floor. At a clearing bathed in light, a birch stretches upwards.

Is this birch a part of the forest? Yes, obviously. And as you spin around, taking in the chaffinches darting about in the branches, the ants marching through the detritus, the creepers sprawling across the floor, you realize that all of these are part of the forest as well. You look down and notice that even you are a part of the forest - at least for the time being. None of these things are the forest itself, but their unwitting and concerted existences constitute it. Remove all the trees, insects, soil, and air, and there’s no forest to be found. Remove one or ten, and it persists.

In the clearing, it is intuitively obvious that a forest exists as a single unit, much as a dog or a car exists as a single thing. That identity might be amorphous and difficult to pin down, but however vigorously one argues the existence of a forest away, in your direct experience of standing there, it exists. The forest is one thing.

As you look around you, it is also apparent that it is not just a forest. The chaffinches, birches, and breeze prove otherwise, just as when looking at a dog you recognize it as a single thing (a dog) with different parts (leg, nose, eyes, etc.). These individual things exist as a part of the forest, but that doesn’t erase their individuality. This differentiation within the forest is the many.

Thus, in the presence of the forest, you recognize that it is both one and many things.

Next, you notice how everything in the forest is constantly in flux. Without careful inspection, the forest appears to be a solid and persistent phenomenon, yet that sense dissolves as you tune into change. The intensity of the light flickers from minute to minute, depending on the position of the branches, the passage of clouds, the humidity in the air, and the strain of your eyes. You walk up to an old oak that seems as sturdy as a granite pillar and press your hand against it. Your breath settles; your attention sharpens. A vibration spreads through your hands from the bark, barely perceptible beneath the blood pumping in and out of your hands. There’s a rhythm to the tree’s hum. When a breeze kicks up, it spikes. When the wind stills, it drops to a neigh-imperceptible growl. The soundtrack of birds, insects, and plants rolls through your eardrums like waves along a beach. A hypnotic track of rhyming patterns. Wherever you fix your perception, change rises and falls before your eyes.

You imagine how this forest would look in the depths of winter, its branches barren of leaves, the sky painted overhead, desiccated leaves on the floor below. Then, spring arrives. Rain and sun intermingle with soil and branches. The first sprouts unfurl verdant from the earth. Tiny buds form on the tips of branches. A few months in, and the entire scene bursts with viridian force. Fresh green leaves and creepers. Grasses bent under their own weight. Bluebells sprinkled through the meadows. Moss glowing with life. And as the other seasons arrive, so too does the landscape change. No element is left untouched by their passage.

The forest is in a perpetual state of change.

Despite all these changes, it’s still the same forest. You wouldn’t weep when the forest transitions from spring to summer, no matter how passionately you argue that it, ultimately, isn’t the same thing. Intuitively, you still recognize it as the same thing with some slight alterations. Whether adorned with young leaves or the fading oranges of fall, whether a few giants fall or a troupe of foxes wanders through, the forest remains.

The forest is unchanging.

This is the paradox of stillness and change. The forest changes from one moment to the next. No facet is untouched, from the ground to the trees to the sky overhead, yet its identity and self persist in spite of the torrent. The forest is both still and changing.

Next, you notice that everything in the forest has a certain will and purpose. The oaks rise higher and higher and spread their branches further and further to soak up as much of the sun as possible. A wood mouse races along the floor gathering up seeds. A blue tit sings from the branches to mark its turf and out of sheer ecstasy.

Even the insentient possesses a certain intelligence and vitality that drives it. Rocks. The nitrogen in the soil. The clouds passing overhead. I will argue why this is so in more detail later, but for now, I offer three points to support this seemingly mad claim. First, all primitive peoples have seen the world as alive and infused with spirit, including the Celts. The fact that we are no longer capable speaks more to the effects of generations of captivity rather than its absurdity. Second, this is how mystics experience the world firsthand - as luminous, alive, awake, and willing itself towards some inscrutable end. Just as an ordinary man readily perceives this sense of will in living things, like their pet dog sitting beside their dinner table waiting for scraps or a mouse burrowing into the earth at the site of a kite, a mystic sees this in the world around them. Finally, try it yourself by leaning into a sense of the inanimate as alive and awake. Start with something magnificent, like a mountain, a beautiful piece of old wood, or a family heirloom - the type of things that a pagan would build a shrine for. You might find that it’s a lot more spirited than it appears on first glance.

Sensing it or not, the forest possesses its own purpose and will. It crowds out empty patches in the wake of a giant's fall. On its frontiers, it sends out pioneers to expand its domain. Incessantly, wave after wave, it throws itself into the empty space, pushing for a foothold. It coordinates all of its residents - often through violent conflict - to maximize life in its precincts, to suck the earth of all of its minerals and the air of all of its riches so that it might be as big, beautiful, and robust as possible, just as a bodybuilder exercises every resource and fiber to perfect his own form.

Will is consonant with matter. The material growth of an oak follows its will, and its material circumstances circumscribe its longings. The amount of sunlight available. Diseases spreading around. Deer populations grazing through the forest. These all shape what it is to become and seek.

In the forest, we witness the dual nature of will and matter. The forest possesses an inner fire that shapes the matter that constitutes it, but it is not a purely spiritual phenomenon. The oak is constrained by physical laws and is composed of atoms. The two exist in an uneasy harmony, but co-exist they do.

In this little exercise, we’ve covered the three features of the forest. It is:

• One and many.
• Still and changing.
• Willful and material.

Next, we’ll expand upon these conclusions and push them to their furthest reaches.

Día as Universe

Every object is composed of objects other than it. The human body is composed of the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, skin, hair, bones, muscles, and a host of other organs. Other things, in turn, compose these organs. And those tissues are composed of other things. At each level, these objects all share the same basic nature observed in the forest: they are one and many, still and changing, and willful and material.

These three marks also apply to increasingly complex systems: the earth, the sun, the Milky Way, the Virgo Supercluster, and so on until one reaches the limit of being: the universe itself, the totality of all things. They must because we observe them wherever we are privy to do so. As the Hermetic saying says, “As above, so below.” Día, as the universe, is one and many, still and changing, and willful and material.

Calling this Día might strike some as controversial, so allow me to explain. Día is the highest principle of life. Conflating Día with Lugh or any other god would be a categorical error, for they are of a different type (more on this later). Calling this totality the Cosmos or the Universe also falls short. These latter two terms imply an unintelligent physical process, whereas Día implies a creative intelligence ordering and animating all things. Cosmos has table vibes; Día has wolf and human vibes. Both terms are technically interchangeable, but Día makes a clear-cut with pure materialism. The universe is alive, willful, and material.

Now, let us turn to the implications of three marks as they apply to Día. First, Día is One. Just as the human body or a forest constitutes an undivided, single unit, so too does the universe. The cosmos is One, seamless, simple, whole, complete, perfect. Nothing in excess. Nothing lacking. Parmenides’ sphere serves as the best analogy. Every inch filled with the self-same substance: Being, Oneness, God. No empty space. No other. Just unadulterated Being.

But Día is not just One. Paradoxically, the One is also many. It is every facet of existence, ranging from the gods to black holes to red dwarfs to the street lights outside your home to the heart beating in your chest. Nothing is too small to escape Its presence and will.

Second, since God is composed of the many, It is also in a constant state of change. At any given moment, there are an infinite number of alterations. Black holes gobble up stars. Galaxies collide and sprawl across the emptiness of space. Planets are cast off from solar systems and reigned in and set to dance in the orbit of other celestial bodies. The seasons come and go. A pack of wolves runs down and devours a deer. The hair on your head thins, and your skin sags with each passing day. Plans for lunch race through your head. All created things exist in a perpetual state of flux.

At the same time, there is an underlying stillness behind all transformations upheld by the presence of Día. Nothing is happening. Nothing is changing. Everything is awash in the eternal essence. The entire universe, like a solid orb of iron, is entirely without alteration - still and quiescent. There is neither growth nor decay, birth nor death, gain nor loss. All is unmoving.

Finally, Being is will and matter. Everything in the universe, from the leaf trembling on a branch to a spider clinging to its web to a red dwarf spinning through space is willed into existence by God, moment after moment, in perpetuity. This feat might sound impossible, but consider how complex reaching for a pencil from a desk is? The intention activates a nearly infinite combination of atoms, cells, and tissues to achieve. Try to rationalize it, and it would seem impossible, but the proof is in the experience itself: you will your hand to move, and - wallah - the impossible happens.

The will does not and cannot conflict with material laws, just as when we reach out for the pencil. Our wishes might be contrary to material reality, but this is never the case with Día. Its will is fact. The disparity between our will and our reality is due to our own limited view. Día lacks such limitations, being and knowing all.

Día and Gods

Día is the highest principle of the cosmos and includes everything. The gods are a subset of primordial, intelligent forces that shape the cosmos. To clarify their relationship, let's return again to something a bit more concrete and familiar: the forest. In this case, God would be the forest, and the gods would be all the anthropods, all the chordates, all the oaks and birches, the soil, the rocks, and so on. Within the forest ecosystem, these creatures and objects play vital roles in its continued survival. Worms and fungi recycle dead plant matter. Apex predators, like bears and wolves, check populations. Oaks provide shelter, foliage, and a robust soil biome. The rocks provide steadiness and minerals necessary for plant growth. Each plays an essential role in allowing the forest to be the forest.

To say that these elements are diametrically opposed to each other would be an oversimplification. Their relationships are complex. Wolves, for example, aren’t fundamentally opposed to deer. In fact, wolves need deer; deer provide meat, but they are also gardeners and fertilizers. Without them, the undergrowth would choke out the life below, diseases would spread rapidly, and fires, when they struck, would devastate mature trees. The ecosystem would crumble, dragging the canines with them. Deer, despite the terror of their hunters, need wolves. In areas where deer have returned but wolves remain wiped out, deer numbers explode, diseases devastate their population, and genetic degeneration saps their strength across multiple generations. They are neither absolute enemies nor friends. “It’s complicated” sums it best.

The gods fulfill a similar role in the order and health of the cosmos. Since they are so close to the magnificence and grandeur of Día, they are similarly vast, powerful, and great. Their presence infuses much of the universe, not just our tiny planet spinning around a tiny star spinning around a moderately sized black hole. Like the different elements of a forest, each god plays its own role in creation. Lugh is an agent for justice, order, and excellence; Dagda for prodigiousness and might; Morrigan for death and chaos; Aenghus for love and intoxication; Brigid of family and abundance.

And like with Día or a wolf, their will is embodied through matter. They aren't simply abstractions floating around in the ether determining the fate of the cosmos due to their mysterious, energetic pull. They are as embodied and embedded as you are in your own flesh and bones, typing out emails, frying fish, and studying the history of the early Roman Republic on your couch. Vast resources are marshaled and unleashed at the behest of these gods.

Their relationship with each other is as complicated as the relationship between a worm, a wolf, a deer, and an oak. They all co-ordinate in executing the will of Día, but their relationships amongst themselves range from hostile to amiable. This fact is dramatized in the extant myths. The tatters that remain of the Celtic mythology spell an absence of much theistic drama, but among more intact Indo-European traditions, this tension is there in spades. Among the Greeks, there's incessant head-butting between Zeus and Hera over the former's paramours. Another conflict is between Hephastus, the ugliest of the gods, and his cuckolding wife, Aphrodite. These disputes spill out into the real world, as attested to in The Iliad, and shape the fate of nations, lands, and men.

Henotheism: One God and Many Gods

I call this view henotheism, borrowing from Friedrich Schelling. Heno is Greek for “one” and theism, “god.” Thus, one god(s). Traditionally, henotheism states that all gods are equal and different faces of the one supreme Being. This differs from monotheism, which states that there is only one true god and all others are false.

The view we’ve looked at differs slightly from the traditional reading of henotheism. Rather than all gods being equal to the highest Being, they are adjacent to but lesser than. Think king (Día) and his ministers (the gods). Fundamentally, the gods are no different from any other object of creation. Be it Lugh, a screwdriver on the kitchen counter, or a meteor shooting through space, all obey Día’s will and are infused with Its presence. The gods, with their complicated relations, generate the glittering variety of the universe through their incessant struggles and alliances in pursuit of dominance. Wherever we lay our eyes, we witness the handiwork of both Día and Its ministers. Día as the mastermind – the gods, the competing forces attempting to extend their domain and impose their will upon the world. Often times working in tandem to achieve their ends. Other times fighting furiously over opposing goals. Amidst these, the ten thousand things arise and pass away.

Notes

1. I prefer Día over the term God. For Westerners, the word God is worn out and bloated with Abrahmic associations. Employing the word in foreign theological systems is a bit like ordering vegan pizza. No matter how much you tell yourself that it isn't normal pizza, the comparisons and limitations will be baked into your response. A new word avoids that conceptual straight-jacketing, clearing the ground for a new vision of the divine. I landed on Día for three primary reasons. First, it's the Old Irish word for god that pre-dates Christianity. Second, it was used to describe both the Christian God and pagan gods. Finally, it is heavily attested to in epic and devotional literature from the earliest period. Día seems the best alternative, striking a balance between tradition, innovation, and freshness.
2. I am unsure of what pronoun to use for Día as the absolute principle of the universe. God is gender neutral as the One, but God also possesses both male and female aspects. For now, I have settled on "It" because the pronoun captures the inclusive and somewhat distant quality of Día. "He" or "she" would risk personalizing God at this high level. God is intimate and omnipresent, but conflating that with a particular God, as some Greek philosophers did, confuses more than it clarifies. As I will describe later, individual gods, by their nature, are partial and engaged in constant struggle for dominance. This is not Día. Día is everything.
   
   Though I disagree with Platonists on many points, It was also the pronoun preferred by them, so there is precedence for its usage. Unlike other philosophers, like Epictetus and Heraclitus, the Platonists were careful to distinguish God from gods. Thus, my choice here is both inspired and fortified by their selection.