Copyright by Collin Laine Brown 2018

The Dissertation Committee for Collin Laine Brown Certifies that this is the approved version of the following Dissertation:

CONVERSION, HERESY, AND WITCHCRAFT: THEOLOGICAL NARRATIVES IN SCANDINAVIAN MISSIONARY WRITINGS

Committee:

Marc Pierce, Supervisor

Peter Hess

Martha Newman

Troy Storfjell

Sandra Straubhaar CONVERSION, HERESY, AND WITCHCRAFT: THEOLOGICAL NARRATIVES IN SCANDINAVIAN MISSIONARY WRITINGS

by

Collin Laine Brown

Dissertation

Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of The University of Texas at Austin in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

The University of Texas at Austin December 2018 Dedication

Soli Deo gloria.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I would like to acknowledge my wife Robin. She especially helped me through the research and writing process, and kept me sane through the stress of having to spend so much time away from her while in graduate school. I wish that my late father Doug could be here, and I know that he would be thrilled to see me receive my PhD. It was his love of history that helped set me on the path I find myself today. My academic family has also been amazing during my time in graduate school. Good friends were always there to keep me motivated and stimulate my research. The professors involved in my project are also much deserving of my thanks: Marc Pierce, my advisor, as well as Sandra Straubhaar, Peter Hess, Martha Newman, and Troy Storfjell. I am grateful for their help and support, and for the opportunity to embark on this very interdisciplinary and very fulfilling project.

v

CONVERSION, HERESY, AND WITCHCRAFT: THEOLOGICAL

NARRATIVES IN SCANDINAVIAN LUTHERAN MISSIONARY

WRITINGS

Collin Laine Brown, PhD

The University of Texas at Austin, 2018

Supervisor: Marc Pierce

Writings by 16th to 18th century Lutheran missionaries on the indigenous Sámi peoples of northern Scandinavia show a strong tendency to characterize all aspects of traditional Sámi spirituality as demonic “superstition” that posed a real, existential threat to the kingdoms of

Denmark-Norway and Sweden’s status as Lutheran Christian kingdoms following the

Reformation. These beliefs and practices, in their view, therefore needed to be stamped out. This dissertations views the theological rhetoric of these missionary works through the lens of

“superstition” (i.e. illicit religion) vs. “religion” (i.e. licit religion) as elucidated by Patristic authors such as Tertullian and Augustine, as well as the more recent theoretical model of

“syncretism” (i.e. religion blendings) vs. “anti-syncretism” (i.e. the backlash against religious blendings) from scholars such as Meyer and van der Leeuw. I argue that indigenous spirituality served as a canvas upon which these Lutheran missionaries cast many of their own theological

vi uncertainties regarding the fight against illicit religion which had begun centuries earlier with the

Lutheran Reformation.

Chapter 1 provides an overview of relevant research on historical missionary contact with the Sámi and a summary of important scholarship on the Western study of indigenous spirituality in general. Chapter 2 focuses on the most salient Lutheran missionary authors of this period. It situates these authors’ works within their historical contexts, and presents the writers’ depictions of Sámi spirituality. Chapter 3 outlines the methodological considerations of both of the theoretical frameworks used in this dissertation to analyze missionary sources on Sámi spirituality. Chapter 4 uses the theoretical frameworks as outlined in the previous chapter to analyze the relevant missionary works. By doing this, it shows that almost all of these missionary writers categorized indigenous Sámi spirituality as “superstition” and strongly condemned any perceived syncretistic blendings. Chapter 5 is a comparative analysis of German Lutheran missionaries in Papua New Guinea in the 20th century. This chapter provides a similar analysis of a Lutheran mission in a different part of the world and in a different time that bears strong similarities to the Scandinavian Lutheran missions to the Sámi.

This dissertation uses these models of “superstition” vs. “religion” and “syncretism” vs.

“anti-syncretism” to track how missionary portrayals of Sámi spirituality and the conversion process changed throughout the course of missionary activity, thereby showing how changing theological attitudes over from the 17th through the 20th century affected missionary attitudes.

vii Table of Contents

Introduction: Theological narratives in Scandinavian missionary writings ……………...... 1

Who are the Sámi? ………………………………………………………………...... 2

Theoretical lenses ………………………………………………………………...... 3

Comparative analysis ……………………………………………………………...... 5

Importance to the field ……………………………………………………………………6

Outline of dissertation …………………………………………………………………….7

Chapter 1: Previous research on Sámi-missionary interactions …………………………...... 9

Earliest missionary descriptions of Sámi spirituality ……………………………………10

Missionary tactics in missions to the Sámi ……………………………………...... 15

Scandinavian Lutheran missions as part of the colonial project ………………………...15

Sámi beliefs and practices ……………………………………………………...... 18

Definition of the concept of “religion” …………………………………………...... 23

Syncretism in missionary theology ……………………………………………...... 28

Sámi noaidit as followers of aberrant “religion”………………………………………...29

“Superstition” vs. “religion” …………………………………………………………….42

Conclusion ………………………………………………………………………………49

Chapter 2: Methods and Definitions …………………………………………………………….52

“Superstition” vs. “religion,” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism”…………………..54

Syncretism ……………………………………………………………………………….55

Syncretism in missions ………………………………………………………………….58

Anti-syncretism ………………………………………………………………………….65

viii Anti-syncretism in missions ……………………………………………………………..67

Demonization of pre-Christian beliefs and practices ………………………...... 68

Conclusion …………………………………………………………………...... 71

Chapter 3: Scandinavian Lutheran missionary writings on Sámi traditional spirituality………………………………………………………………………...... 74

Missionary sources on Sámi belief ……………………………………………………...75

Missionary sources on Sámi practice ………………………………...... 101

Noaidi: priest of the Sámi, priest of the devil …………………………………...... 101

Sámi rituals, Sámi sacraments …………………………………………………………109

Conclusion ……………………………………………………………………...... 118

Chapter 4: Analysis of missionary writings …………………………………………...... 119

What missionary sources say about Sámi spirituality ………………………………….120

Conclusion ……………………………………………………………………...... 143

Chapter 5: Comparative analysis: A German Lutheran missionary contact situation in Papua New Guinea ……………………………………………………………………..149

History of Lutheran missionary activity in Papua New Guinea …………...... 152

Pilhofer’s description of indigenous New Guinean spirituality ……………………...... 155

Pilhofer’s definition of “religion” as a concept ………………………………………..162

Reports of “magical” practice in Pilhofer and Keyßer ………………………...... 165

Cargo cult and the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft ………………...... 168

Conclusion ……………………………………………………………………………..174

Concluding Remarks …………………………………………………………………………...179

Works Cited ………………………………………………………………………...... 191

ix INTRODUCTION

Theological Narratives in Scandinavian Lutheran missionary writings

Oh you confounded Drum, tool and instrument of Satan, cursed are your depicted Gods: cursed your ring and ‘baja’: cursed your hammer and drumstick: cursed anyone who serves you with beating, and anyone who avails himself of divination and have their inclination for it. Each beat that is made upon you, is and will be a Satan’s beat in hell for them, among the spirits of the damned who shall torment and torture them, so that no executioner in such a way can torment and handle the one who is given in his hands: no snake bite makes such pain: no scorpion with its bite such ache: nothing in the world can be thought out to be such punishments, even if the pains of the whole world could be brought together, as is the pain and torment of the damned in hell. (Rydving, Drum-Time 81, cf. Forbus 87)1

By the beginning of the 17th century, the kingdoms of Denmark-Norway and Sweden had both recently become Lutheran following the inception of the Lutheran Reformation in

German-speaking Europe.2 While Sweden did play a decisive role at the end of the Thirty Years’

War (1618-1648), Scandinavia in general was not involved in armed conflict in defense of

Protestantism, unlike the Continental Lutheran and other Protestant forces. By the end of the

Thirty Years’ War, the Scandinavian kingdoms faced the task of ensuring that all of their subjects were orthodox, practicing Lutherans. The state churches of both Denmark-Norway and

Sweden turned their gaze northwards to the indigenous Sámi peoples who had been living in

Scandinavia for centuries.

1 ‘O tu fördömde Trumma satans redskap och instrument, äro tina afmålade Gudar: förbannade tin ring och baja: förbannad tin hammar och trumkäpp: förbannad then som tienar tig med slag, och den som deraf sig betienar och låter slå ja alla de som samtyckia till sådant slag och spådom, och hafwa sin lust däraf. Hwart och ett slag som på tig skier, är och blifwer dem skola slå pina och martera, att ingen bödell kan så plåga och handtära den, som i hans händer gifwen är: intet Ormestyng giör sådant ve: ingen Scorpion med sitt bett sådant qwahl: ingen ting i werldene uptänkias till sådant straff, om man än hehla werdsens plågor förena kunde, sosom de fördömdas pina och plåga i helfwetit är’ (Forbus 87). A baja is an object sometimes used by noaidit in drum divination. It was placed on the drum and would move across the drum’s surface and land on certain figures depicted on it (Rydving 81, fn. 53). 2 Denmark-Norway became Lutheran in 1536, and Sweden in 1593 (Ekstrand 252; Johansen 182).

1 Who are the Sámi?

The Sámi are the original inhabitants of Scandinavia, and arrived in the region along with other Finno-Ugric speaking groups already by c.3300 B.C. (DuBois, Nordic 13). Unlike the

Balto-Finnic groups that began to mix both culturally and linguisticly with Indo-European newcomers to the area starting around 2700-2600 B.C., the inland populations of Finno-Ugric speakers (i.e. Sámi) retained much of their older hunter-gatherer lifestyle (DuBois 14). DuBois

(14) writes, “The decisive divergence of the shared Finno-Ugric language of the region into a coastal proto-Balto-Finnic and an inland proto-Sámi language occurred at this time (c. 2000

B.C.), reflecting a cultural and economic division which is clearly observable in the archaeological evidence of the last millennium B.C.” Strong contact remained between both populations, however.

In the Middle Ages, ethnic Scandinavians (i.e. the descendants of the Norse) often ascribed great magical power to the Sámi (Old Norse finnar ‘Finns’). Following the conversion of the Norse, the reputation of the Sámi for magic remained, although their magical power took on the strong connotation of evil, diabolical magic. In the 12th century, the Historie Norwegie

‘History of Norway’ (61) describes Sámi noaidit “shamans” by telling the reader that, “A person will scarcely believe their unendurable impiety and the extent to which they practice heathen devilry in their magic arts.”3 This idea of the evil, magical character of the Sámi persisted into the Lutheran period, and strongly colored the ways in which the Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries wrote about indigenous Sámi spirituality.

3 ‘Horum itaque intollerabilis perfidia uix cuiquam credibilis uidebitur, quantumue diabolice supersticionis in magica arte excerceant’ (Historia 60). When quoting from this work, this dissertation uses the English translation included within the same 2006 edition of the Historie Norwegie by Inger Ekrem and Lars Boje Mortensen. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own.

2 Although seasonal migration along with their reindeer is thought to be the traditional economic model of many Sámi groups, by the beginning of the Lutheran missions in the early

17th century they had modified this lifestyle somewhat to “reindeer herding based on dairy husbandry, which did not require the long distance seasonal migrations that became common later, and which could be combined with hunting and fishing in nearby areas” (Hansen & Olsen

289). In the latter half of the 20th century, Sámi in Norway have established their own parliament

(sametinget) in 1989, although the poltical situation in the country still favors the Norwegian parliament (stortinget) in making decisions concerning the use of Sámi lands (cf. Hætta 183).

Theoretical lenses

Following the conversion of the Scandinavian kingdoms of Denmark-Norway and

Sweden to Lutheranism, the risk of divine punishment for the Scandinavian kingdoms if they allowed non-Lutheran religion to persit was seen as a real one, and Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries gave detailed descriptions of the illicit, “superstitious” beliefs and practices that they saw among the Sámi. Unfortunately, the only records of indigenous Sámi spirituality4 that exist from the 17th through 19th centuries were written by non-Sámi who held this view of non-

Christian religion. As such, it is necessary to approach these missionary texts through the theological lenses that the missionaries themselves were using. This dissertation therefore uses two theoretical frameworks to analyze how these missionaries wrote about and depicted Sámi spirituality. The first involves looking at how missionaries constructed indigenous Sámi spirituality as “superstition” (i.e. illicit religious beliefs and practices). On the other side of this spectrum the missionaries placed the Lutheran Christianity that they were bringing to the Sámi as

4 To avoid any potential terminological pitfalls, throughout this work I use the expression “Sámi spirituality” when discussing the traditional beliefs and practices of the Sámi.

3 “religion” (i.e. licit religious beliefs and practices).5 This project explores how these two terms have evolved from their start in pre-Christian Roman context, through their adoptions by the early church, and up until the Early Modern period when the Scandinavian missions to the Sámi began.

As to the second point, this dissertation also makes use of the more recent religious theoretical structure of “syncretism” (i.e. the blending of religious beliefs and practices) and

“anti-syncretism” (i.e. the backlash that follows when the religious prestige group perceives religious blendings). The Scandinavian Lutheran missionary records speak often of rituals that look very similar to Christian sacraments such as communion and baptism, and depict these.

Sámi ceremonies as evil inversions of licit, Christian practices. Here, at least in the minds of the missionaries, it seems that Sámi were mixing elements in a syncretistic manner from their indigenous spirituality with the newer Lutheran Christianity that was being preached by the missionaries. These missionaries then condemned these perceived illicit blendings with anti- syncretistic rhetoric. As with the dichotomy of “superstition” vs. “religion”, this dissertation provides a foundation for “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism” in the scholarship, and then applies it to the Scandinavian Lutheran missionary writings on Sámi spirituality. Because of the several missionary authors covered here, this dissertation applies these theoretical lenses to multiple accounts of indigenous spirituality. As such, this will necessitate an amount of repetition throughout this dissertation. This dissertation also uses the term “syncretism” to describe real or perceived religious blendings, and does not use the term in an analytical manner. Because these missionary writings were written by non-Sámi who largely viewed indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices as illicit “superstition,” this project does not view these missionary writings as authoritative or factual. Instead, it uses them as windows into the misisonaries’ theological

5 Throrought this work, the terms “religion” and “syncretism” are used as descriptors, not as tools for analysis.

4 worldview. By viewing these sources in this way, this dissertation provides insights into how the missionaries’ theology influenced their portrayal of indigenous Sámi spirituality.

Comparative analysis

The final thematic chapter looks at a missionary-contact situation between Lutheran missionaries and indigenous people from modern Papua New Guinea. This is an interesting comparative example, as there are many similarities between the contact situation in northern

Scandinavia and Papua New Guinea. In both instances, Lutheran missionaries began working to convert indigenous peoples, and depict the traditional spirituality of these indigenous peoples in very similar ways.

The German Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft worked among multiple groups of people in the country beginning during the German colonial era in the late 19th century and continuing through the first half of the 20th century. Although this encounter involved German missionaries operating with a more modern Lutheran framework, there are a striking number of similarities in the way they conceived of and wrote about indigenous Papuan spirituality. The spiritual dangers of the indigenous peoples continuing in their native spirituality were paramount for the missionaries. Likewise, the missionaries were even more worried about the syncretic

“cargo cult” movements among the converts, which (according to missionary writers) sought to combine elements of Christianity with the animistic religious traditions of Papua New Guinea.

This dissertation shows how different Lutheran missionary groups from the Early

Modern as well as the Modern period conceived of indigenous spirituality largely as illicit

“superstition.” Similarly, both the Scandinavian and the German Lutheran missionaries were afraid of what they saw as illicit religious blendings of indigenous spirituality and Lutheran

5 Christianity. Both the dichotomies of “superstition” vs. “religion” and “syncretism” vs. “anti- syncretism” are applied to missionary writings on Sámi and Papua New Guinean indigenous spirituality to gain insight into how these religious concepts influenced the missionary anthropology used by both of these missionary groups to depict the spirituality of those being missionized. By casting their own theological uncertainties onto the indigenous spirituality that they encountered in the field, these Lutheran missionaries were able to find an outlet for their own religious fears concerning the persistence of illicit belief and practice within areas that were at least officially Christian.

Importance to the field

The vast majority of what Western scholarship knows about indigenous Sámi spirituality comes from sources not written by Sámi, as it was not until the 19th century when Sámi authors such as Lars Levi Læstadius and Johan Turi began to write about the traditional beliefs and practices of the Sámi. The field is left in the situation where one must rely on these sources to reconstruct pre-Christian Sámi spirituality. Thus, it is important for these sources to be critically analyzed in light of the theological mindset of those authors who were writing about the Sámi, as many of the depictions of indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices. This project does so using these theoretical lenses to contextualize these missionary depictions of Sámi spirituality.

These missionary writings also reveal how Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries of the

17th-19th century viewed religious outsiders. In these writings, the missionaries often depict indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices as inverted, illicit Lutheran Christianity. This inverted

Lutheranism also often looks very similar to forms of Christianity practiced by confessional opponents of the Lutherans coming out of the Reformation (e.g. Roman Catholicism,

6 Anabaptism). By examining these missionary writings, this dissertation shows how these kinds of polemicized narratives appear in descriptions of indegnous religious traditions that presumably would have predated the arrival of any form of Christianity in the region.

Additionally, the Scandinavian Lutheran missions to the Sámi were one of the first instances of Lutherans attempting to convert non-Christians to Lutheranism. During the

Reformation, Lutherans sought to convince Roman Catholics to convert to their Protestant interpretation of Christianity. Here, Lutherans were coming into contact with indigenous people who were Christianized to a certain extent, but according to the missionaries were still largely practicing their traditional beliefs and practices. These Scandinavian Lutheran missions were thus an early “field-test” of speading Lutheranism to indigenous peoples, which was continued in later Lutheran missions to other, non-European regions such as the mission to the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea by the German Lutheran Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft in the 20th century.

Outline of dissertation

This dissertation begins with a review of relevant modern scholarship on the Sámi and the missionary activity among them beginning in the Early Modern period up through the 19th century. The second chapter outlines the methodology used in this project, with particular attention paid to the theoretical lenses discussed briefly above. The third chapter present depictions of indigenous Sámi spirituality from missionary writers, with special emphasis on those missionaries who describe Sámi beliefs and practices using Christian terms and theoretical structures. The fourth chapter applies the methodology outlined in chapter two to these missionary writings to analyze how missionaries to the Sámi cast their own theological

7 paradigms onto indigenous Sámi spirituality. Chapter five presents the comparative analysis of the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft to indigenous peoples in Papua New Guinea as summarized above.

8 Chapter 1:

Previous Research on Sámi-Missionary Interactions

This chapter reviews and analyzes the relevant scholarship pertaining to the conversion of the Sámi, and introduces the movements within religious studies pertaining to the theoretical approaches of this dissertation. In the context of the conversion of the Sámi, an overview of the history and developments during the roughly 200-year history of Dano-Norwegian and Swedish missions to the Sámi is given, along with an outline of the missionary writings that serve as primary sources for this project. In regards to theoretical aspects, this chapter presents an outline of the themes of licit and illicit religious practice, magic, and syncretism within the narrative of the conversion of the Sámi.

While the study of the Christianization of Northern Europe has occupied an important place fields such as history, archaeology, and philology for some time, the majority of research for a large part of the 20th century has focused on the efforts to convert and “civilize” the

Germanic, Celtic and Balto-Slavic peoples who had not had an extensive cultural exchange with the (officially) Christian Western Roman Empire before its decline in the 5th century. Much of this religious change occurred during the Middle Ages, when the Roman Catholic Church often attempted to Christianize regions by converting the nobility first and using that political power to advance their cause (Sawyer et al. 8). One can see this missionary strategy at work in the

Christianization of Scandinavia under the reigns of Olaf Tryggvason (reign 995-1000) and Olaf

Haraldsson (reign 1015-1028, also known as St. Olaf) of Norway. Both of these kings sought to convert the people under their control by destroying places associated with pagan worship and establishing churches in their place.

9 Authorities put pressure upon all subjects of the now Christian rulers to conform to the new religious and secular paradigm, driving the previously accepted pagan customs underground. Open resistance to Christianization could well result in strict punishment. While there are many example of harsh consequences for not following the religious and societal re- organization that came with Christianization, Olaf Tryggvason’s torture and killing of the sorcerer Rauð demonstrates the severity with which authorities carried out forced conversions.

Rauð is also an interesting character, in that he ís described as having many Sámi followers who assist him with their magic (DuBois, Nordic 182). The Icelandic chronicler Snorri Sturluson records how, when Rauð refuses to convert, Tryggvason commands a hollow angelica stalk to be placed down Rauð’s throat, a snake put down the stalk, and a glowing hot iron held against the opening. The extreme heat then causes the snake to eat its way out of Rauð’s belly (Sturluson,

Óláfs Saga Tryggvasonar, Ch. 80). This illustrates the sometimes brutal manner of conversion.

This legacy of forced conversion to Christianity is seen throughout the history of missions to the

Sámi, and in the missionary writings used here.

Earliest missionary descriptions of Sámi spirituality

Crucial in the history of the Christianization of Scandinavia are the Sámi, the indigenous people of Finno-Scandinavia. While early missionaries and ethnographers wrote about traditional

Sámi beliefs and practices, it was only in the latter half of the 20th century that scholars began to write about the period of intense religious change (and often persecution) that came as a result of increased missionary efforts amongst the Sámi starting in the early 18th century. Much of this newer scholarship comes from Norway and Sweden, and attempts to provide a more balanced view of the Christianization of the Sámi, providing Sámi perspectives when possible. Although

10 the most intense period of missionary activity began in the early modern period, contact had existed in Scandinavia between Christianized Norse and the Sámi since the high Middle Ages.

One of the first recorded attempts to Christianize the Sámi was in 1313, when King Haakon V of

Norway decreed that that those who converted to Christianity would have their fines reduced for offenses committed (Hansen & Olsen 315-6). Aside from the establishment of churches along the northern Norwegian coast, not much missionary activity took place among the Sámi for the next few centuries. In 1500, a parish priest claimed concerning the churches in the area around

South Troms that there were Sámi who were “full of necromancy and who, to a great degree, inflict damage and persecution on the Christians” (Hansen & Olsen 316, cf. Keyser et al. 443).6

What “necromancy” meant for this priest is unclear, although presumably any non-Christian religious practice could count as such.

In the Swedish context, Hansen and Olsen note sparse missionary contact with the Sámi through colonists in Norbotten. The archbishop of Uppsala was said to have baptized an unspecified number of “Finns and Lapps” in 1345 during a visit to Tornio (Hansen & Olsen

316). 7 The last Catholic archbishop of Sweden, Johannes Magnus (served 1524-31), took renewed interest in the conversion of the Sámi and wrote a letter to Pope Clement VII to lend support, but to no avail (Hansen & Olsen 317). Following the Reformation and the implementation of Lutheranism as the official confession in Sweden, more missionaries were sent to Sámi ethnic areas, but it was not until the reign of Karl IX (1604-1611) that a more permanent church presence was established (Hansen & Olsen 317). Two seminaries were

6 Here, though, it should be noted that the priest most likely exaggerated his claims of pagan practices in order to advance his own position (Hansen & Olsen 316). 7 The term “Lapp” is a racial slur and is not the term Sámi choose to call themselves. I therefore only use the term when quoting from another source. In addition, the terms ‘Finn’ and ‘Lapp’ are apparently sometimes used interchangeably by missionaries. Rydving indicates that “‘Finns’ is the term used in the Danish-Norwegian sources for resident fiskesamer ’fish-Sámi’, while ‘Lapps’ in these texts mean the nomadic fjällsamerna ‘mountain Sámi.’ – ‘“Finner” är den term som i de dansk-norska källorna används om bofasta samer och fiskesamer, medan “lapper” i dessa texter betecknar de nomadiserande fjällsamerna’ (Rydving, Källskrifterna 33; fn. 73).

11 founded to train Sámi boys to become pastors, and by the early 17th century the first materials for learning southern Sámi were made available (Hansen & Olsen 317). By the end of the 17th century, many Sámi still continued in their indigenous beliefs and practices, which spurred the

Dano-Norwegian and Swedish authorities to launch missions to the Sámi (Hansen & Olsen 324).

While there were Swedish missionaries to the Sámi who worked in Sweden as well as

Norway, the majority of the Lutheran missionaries to the Sámi were Dano-Norwegian. In 1714 the Danish-Norwegian Union established the Mission Collegium to propagate the faith among the pagans within the kingdom (Hansen & Olsen 326). A group of seven pastors known as the

Seven Stars, who lived in northwestern Norway and in the Trøndelag region, took charge of the

Collegium (Hansen & Olsen 327).8 They were known for their militant pietism, and “criticized what they understood as indifference among the clergy, negligence from the authorities, lack of church discipline, and insufficient education” (Hansen & Olsen 327). They also rejected hitherto innocent activities, such as play and dance. By taking this stance, the Seven Stars criticized the

Bishop of Nidaros, Peder Krog, who served 1689-1731 (Hansen & Olsen 327). The main member of the Seven Stars was Thomas von Westen (1682-1727). He was appointed as lector in theology at the Latin school in Trondheim, and was intended to be the local substitute (vicarius) for the Collegium (Hansen & Olsen 327). Thirteen separate districts were established in northern

Norway, constituting a mission organization separate from the Nidaros bishopric in Trondheim.

In effect, von Westen served as an independent bishop within the older diocese (Hansen & Olsen

327, cf. Lysaker 1987:245). Like von Westen, Bishop Krog agreed that Christianity needed to be strengthened among the Sámi. One main area where they differed was in regards to the language

8 Hansen & Olsen (327, fn.39) write that the seven stars here has a double connotation, referring both to the seven members of the group, as well as to the Norwegian name for the Pleiades, which in Norwegian is named after the seven daughters of the Greek god Atlas. The name “Seven Stars” could also refer to John’s vision in Revelation 1:20: “As for the mystery of the seven stars that you saw in my right hand, and the seven golden lampstands: the seven stars are the angels of the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches.”

12 policy of the missionary efforts. Krog argued that the Sámi could be reached in Norwegian, while von Westen thought the Sámi would be more likely to accept Christianity if proselytized in their native tongue (Hansen & Olsen 327). This “Norwegianization question” created lasting strife between missionary authorities from the late 17th century up until the second half of the

19th century, when the pro-Norwegian policy won out (Hansen & Olsen 328). In the Finno-

Swedish context, Swedish was never much of an option as the missionary language and Sámi languages were used instead, although in Finland Finnish became the liturgical language in Sámi areas (Hansen & Olsen 328).

Combined with the Latin school that von Westen served at in Trondheim, the Mission

Collegium established the Seminarium Scholasticum in 1717, wherein missionaries were trained

(Hansen & Olsen 328). After the school was shut down due to conflict with the Bishopric of

Nidaros, von Westen opened a private Seminarium domesticum ‘Domestic Seminary’, which in turn served as the forerunner to the Seminarium Lapponicum ‘Seminary of the Lapps’ established in 1752 (Hansen & Olsen 328, cf. Steen 1954:198-211, 264-5). After overcoming resistance from Bishop Krog, von Westen supported the mission by levying a mission tithe on all churches in the Kingdom of Denmark-Norway. In addition, von Westen managed to have all surplus funds from the Dano-Norwegian church diverted to support the mission (Hansen &

Olsen 328, cf. Lysaker 1987:246).

Von Westen took three long journeys to Sámi areas of the kingdom, the first being to

East Finnmark in 1716, where he met the missionary and teacher Isaac Olsen (ca. 1680-1730)

(Hansen & Olsen 328-29). Olsen had begun ministering to the Sámi in the area after originally coming to the small fishing village Kjelvik to serve as a tutor for a pastor’s family. He also had a distinct advantage over von Westen and other missionaries in that he had learned a good deal

13 of the North Sámi language in addition to “a relatively good knowledge of their manner of living and religious conceptions.” In fact, he “gave von Westen his first real introduction to Sámi religion” (Hansen & Olsen 328). Olsen’s contact with von Westen proved beneficial, as he was transferred first to Trondheim (the seat of the Bishopric of Nidaros) and then to Copenhagen where he served as a cultural informant and translator for the Mission Collegium (Hansen &

Olsen 328). Olsen wrote about his efforts in East Finnmark in his Om Lappernes Vildfarelser og

Overtro ‘On the Fallacies and Superstition of the Lapps.’ This source is a valuable resource on the indigenous beliefs and practices of the Sámi before von Westen began the majority of his missionary work (Hansen & Olsen 328-9).

On von Westen’s second journey (1718-19), he again visited Finnmark, as well as Troms and Nordland (Hansen & Olsen 329). His last journey (1722-23) proved important, as von

Westen met Jens Kildal (1683-1767) who was a missionary in Lødingen and Ofoten (both in the

Nordland province). Kildal also married a Sámi woman, which afforded him a deeper insight into Sámi practices than other ethnic Norwegians of the time. Kildal’s insight into Sámi ways inspired von Westen to begin writing about indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices for the Mission

Collegium, although he never was able to publish any of his writings during his lifetime (Hansen

& Olsen 329). His colleague Hans Skanke (1679-1739) compiled von Westen’s manuscripts after his death and wrote Epitomes Missionis Lappinica ‘Summary of the History of the Mission to the Lapps,’ a history of von Westen’s missionary efforts amongst the Sámi in 1730. However,

Skanke failed to include more detailed information concerning where the beliefs and practices were recorded, and sadly von Westen’s original materials were lost during the great fire of 1793 in Copenhagen (Hansen & Olsen 329, 331; cf. Qvigstad in Nordnorske samlinger, vol. V, 38).

14 Missionary tactics in missions to the Sámi

The meeting of the Sámi and the missionaries constituted what Ringgren (11) calls a

“missionary situation,” wherein “a religion with claims of absoluteness, or at least of superiority, strives consciously to push aside and replace other religions” (cf. Rydving, Drum-Time 54).

Ringgren (11-12) splits missionary situations into two main categories, as follows:

“1. The superior attitude: ‘you are wrong, we have the truth.’ This presupposes a feeling of superiority, the missionary has behind him a powerful, well organized community, and he addresses himself to people who are unsophisticated with little self-confidence. It would also apply to a very self-confident sect in a pluralistic environment.

2. The attitude of amelioration: ‘our views are basically the same, but they are better and deeper than yours.’”

The attitude of most Dano-Norwegian and Swedish missionaries appears to have been located in

Ringgren’s first category. Resistance to the acceptance of Christian belief and practice was often met with harsh consequences. Prior to 1726, Sámi convicted of having performed elements of their traditional spiritual practices could even be put to death in Denmark-Norway, although this punishment was rarely applied (Rydving, Drum-Time 55). Between 1670 and 1750, only one person was executed for “sorcery” in Swedish Lappmark (Rydving, Drum-Time 56).

Scandinavian Lutheran missions as part of the colonial project

Even if the Sámi were not executed for practicing their traditional spirituality, their indigenous practices were decidedly suppressed. Most violence and threats of violence against the Sámi took place in the context of the legal systems of Denmark-Norway and Sweden

(Rydving, Drum-Time 54). This was aided by the fact that missionary activity among the Sámi during this period was both a religious undertaking and an expression of either Dano-Norwegian or Swedish state power. Aside from the funding that tithes brought to the missions, the

15 missionaries were also helped by the official status of their respective state churches.

Following the Reformation, both the Kingdom of Denmark-Norway and the Kingdom of

Sweden had converted to Lutheranism.9 Without a clear boundary between secular and ecclesiastical authorities, the missions to the Sámi sought to extend and solidify the kingdoms’ control over their northern territories and to Christianize their subjects. In addition to the missionaries’ role in bringing Lutheran Christianity to the Sámi, they also played a role in ensuring that the Scandinavian kingdoms were able to expand their control of Sámi areas and obtain tax revenue from the Sámi. For example, in Sweden in the late 17th century, the clergy of the Swedish State Church participated in implementing the Lappfogdeinstruktionen ‘Lapp Bailiff

Instruction.’ As part of this new policy, “each ‘Lapp Township’ was to pay a fixed sum in taxes…” (Storfjell 132). Storfjell continues by saying that, “This, in turn, opened up more land for settler appropriation” (132, cf. Kvenangen 51-53). These additional territories and revenues proved to be very useful to both Denmark-Norway and Sweden.

The secular dimensions of Sámi missions became clear during the Great Northern War

(1700-1721). Denmark-Norway and Sweden found themselves on opposite sides of the conflict, and each kingdom attempted to connect the Sámi in their lands to the life of their respective state churches (Hansen & Olsen 331). During the border negotiations at the end of the war, this would ensure that each side could claim different Sámi groups as their “own” by calling on each group’s ecclesiastical jurisdiction (Hansen & Olsen 331). This was made difficult by the Sámi who migrated across national boundaries throughout the year. In the Dano-Norwegian context,

Sámi would often attend church services in Sweden as it fit their traditional reindeer-herding migration patterns as well as market cycles (Hansen & Olsen 332). Additionally, it was reported

9 Sweden accepted the Lutheran Augsburg Confession in 1593 (Ekstrand 252). The Kingdom of Denmark and Norway officially became Lutheran in 1536 (Johansen 182).

16 that mountain Sámi living in Finnmark in Denmark-Norway moved to Russia after the beginning of the Dano-Norwegian mission so that “they could go on with their idolatry and witchcraft”

(Hansen & Olsen 332, cf. Tanner 60).

All inhabitants of the kingdoms were expected to follow the same laws regarding morality and religious practices. Any beliefs or practices that fell outside the purview of the official Lutheranism became “superstition” or “sorcery” (Rydving, Drum-Time 55). Widén (15 fn.) writes concerning this covenant model of governance, “In accordance with models of the

Old Testament, the relation with God was at that time ... regarded as a treaty between God and the whole people. From this it followed that if the authorities did not punish sin and wipe out all idolatry etc. in their state, it brought God’s anger and judgment on the whole country” (cf.

Rydving, Drum-Time 54-55). Despite the concerted effort by Dano-Norwegian and Swedish authorities to stamp out Sámi indigenous practices, laws that specifically reference individual practices of the Sámi were rarely enacted (Rydving, Drum-Time 54-55). For example, in

Jokkmokk in Swedish Lappmark Sámi could be punished for “superstition” and “witchcraft” if they did not attend church often enough during the year. Those who were found to have practiced indigenous rituals were summoned to a district court (Rydving, Drum-Time 56).

For von Westen and other missionaries, the method of converting the Sámi from “idolatry and witchcraft” involved recording the details of Sámi belief and practice, followed by the suppressing those beliefs and practices thereafter (Hansen & Olsen 331). Missionaries would ask

Sámi who had already converted for the names of those who still performed indigenous practices. By 1711, a system of “holiday watchmen” was established, who would report

“violations of Christian norms and any kinds of practicing the Sámi spirituality to the authorities and the clergy” (Hansen & Olsen 331, cf. Hammond 28-34). If someone showed signs of

17 wanting to repent and convert, they met privately with a missionary and were prompted to reveal all information about Sámi practices. The missionaries demonized very many of these practices, and the potential convert was encouraged to admit the practices’ diabolical nature. Upon explaining the practices, the conversion was finished with prayers and a sermon from the missionary (Hansen & Olsen 331). Kildal writes that von Westen recorded all of the information learned from the confessions he presided over in a “Book of Confessions” (Hansen & Olsen 331; cf. Nordnorske samlinger, v. 5 126-52).

Sámi beliefs & practices

The worldview that missionaries encountered when they started recording Sámi beliefs and practices was very different from their own. Hansen & Olsen (336) note that the extant records from this period likely contain “translations” into concepts and ways of thinking that more closely matched those of the missionaries. They point out that it is also probable that Sámi adapted their descriptions of their indigenous beliefs and practices to sound as close to

Christianity as possible in order to reduce the amount of punishment they would receive (Hansen

& Olsen 336). This, along with the missionaries’ exchanging notes with one another, led the extant records to be far more uniform than actual practice was (Hansen & Olsen 337). Because it seems that both the Sámi and the missionaries were purposely skewing the descriptions of indigenous Sámi belief and practice, I contend that none of the missionary portrayals of Sámi spirituality should be viewed as completely factually accurate or authoritative. They are, however, the best sources of information available to the scholarship.

The view of Sámi cosmology presented in missionary records consisted of two worlds, the seen and the unseen. These worlds, while different, were not mutually exclusive and often

18 overlapped (Hansen & Olsen 337). Divine beings and spirits from the unseen world could have a significant impact on life in the visible world. Spirits could live in and animate many things that to the missionaries would have solely been inanimate such as rivers, plants and mountains, in addition to animals. As such, a proper and healthy relationship between humans and the natural world was necessary. There were three main divisions in the recorded Sámi cosmology. The upper world was the home of the highest god, “the world’s sovereign” (called Verarelden ålmaj in South Sámi and Dierpmis in North Sámi), who presided over all existence (Hansen & Olsen

339). In missionaries’ writings, he was responsible for maintaining the fertility of the whole world, which was accomplished by either his or his son’s sending a soul to the mother goddess,

Maadteraahka (Máttaráhkká), who created a fetus around the soul and sent it to one of her daughters (Hansen & Olsen 339). Also in the highest sphere, there lived the god of wind

Biegålmaj (Bieggagállis) and the god of thunder Hovrengaellies (Hansen & Olsen 340).

The middle plane was the earth, where humans lived. Along with humans there were other gods, like the hunting god Liejpålmaj (Leaibolmmái ‘the Alder man’) and the water god

Tjaetsieålmaj, who controlled lakes and fishing (Hansen & Olsen 340). In addition, the mother goddess Maadteraahka, along with her three daughters (Sáráhkká, the goddess of pregnancy;

Juoksáhkká, the goddess of the hunt; and Uksáhkká the goddess of the door) resided there

(Hansen & Olsen 341-342). Skanke (189) writes in his Epitomes Missionis Lapponica that she

“is the first and the last, the Beloved and the most dependable, that in all their ways they turn to”

(Hansen & Olsen 342).10 She was later partially associated with the Virgin Mary during contact with Christianity (Hansen & Olsen 342; cf. Friis 37, Dunfjeld 241).

10 ‘...Sarakka er den første og den sidste, den Kjæreste og den tilforladeligste, som de i alle deres væsener holde sig til’ (Skanke 189).

19 Lastly there was the realm of the dead, which was divided into three spheres (Hansen &

Olsen 338). Those who had died were thought to continue living, and could intervene in the affairs of the living (Hansen & Olsen 337-338).11 Manuscript sources mention Jápmiid-áibmu, where souls went to receive a new body. The second sphere was Ruohttaáibmu, an unpleasant place ruled by the “demon” of death Ruohtta. In one version, this was the place for those who had not followed the gods while alive. Lastly, there was a place of happy rest where a few continued to live much as they did on earth, except with large reindeer herds and abundant game and fish. In South Sámi this sphere is called Saajveaajmoe, and was often located at certain holy mountains (Hansen & Olsen 342). Running through all these spheres was the “world tree” (Lat. axis mundi), which connected and mediated between them. Within the recorded Sámi worldview, the endpoint of the world tree was the Vearalden tjuold, or North Star (Hansen & Olsen 38).12

The invisible worlds could at times become visible, allowing for interaction across them.

As such there were various rituals that kept the different worlds in harmony (Hansen & Olsen

337-338), normally performed by the noaidit (sing. noaidi), the ritual specialists and the primary individuals whom missionaries and other state authorities sought to silence (Hansen & Olsen

338, Rydving, Drum-Time 70).13 The journey between worlds served to reinforce the relationship between a community and the gods, and to restore any imbalance that might occur. According to

Myrvoll (145),

11 Hansen & Olsen (338) point out that this cosmological view bears striking resemblance to the missionaries’ Christian one, and note that certain records list five main realms instead of three. 12 The Sámi world tree is “strongly reminiscent” of Yggdrasil, the sacred tree from Norse mythology (DuBois, Introduction 54). 13 The North Sámi term noaidi tends to be used more commonly in the scholarship, however Rydving focuses primarily on the Lule Sámi context, and uses the Lule Sámi version noajdde. I use the N. Sámi singular noaidi and the plural noaidit here (cf. Hultkranz, “Means” 39).

20 The noajdde had the ability to find out what was the cause of the sickness, and he could also move between the seen and unseen planes of reality; both to the realm of the gods and to the dead in order to deal with them if necessary ... In the pre-Christian Sámi society the noajdde was a healer, especially of serious illness. With this health and healing became closely associated with religion and the understanding of reality. The noajdde had not only as his task to be a religious leader and master of rituals; he was also a healer and a soothsayer (Myrvoll 145).14

Sámi turned to the noaidi to “solve the community’s crises and conflicts, illness famine and ill fortune” (Hansen & Olsen 343). The noaidi was appointed by the spirits and was the one who would normally perform sacrifices, although these and other rituals could also be performed by others. It was common to pay noaidit for their services, although they could not become rich

(Rydving, Drum-Time 70-71).

Noaidit could also retrieve the souls of those who had recently died. One of the earliest records of soul retrieval by a noaidi is found in the anonymous Historia Norwegie ‘History of

Norway’ from the latter half of the 12th century (Historia 8). While intended primarily to provide information regarding the deeds of Norwegian kings, it also includes an aside about the practices of the “Finns,” a term used to refer to any of the Finno-Ugric speaking peoples in Scandinavian records of the Middle Ages (as noted above). The author records that some “Christians” (i.e.

Christianized Norse) were eating with Finns during trading, when their hostess suddenly fell down and died (Rydving, Drum-Time 63). The Christians began to grieve for the woman, but a

“magician” among the Finns draped a cloth over himself to begin his incantations. He then

“raised aloft in his outstretched hands a small vessel similar to a riddle, decorated with tiny figures of whales, harnessed reindeer, skis, and even a miniature boat with oars...” (Rydving,

14 ‘Noajdden hadde kompetanse til å finne ut hva som er årsaken til sykdommen, og han kan også bevege seg mellom den synlige og den unsynglige delen av virkeligheten; både til guddommene og til de avdøde for å forhandle med dem om nødvendig ... I det førkristne samiske samfunnet var noajdden helbreder, specielt ved alvorlig sykdom. Dermed ble helse og helbredelse nært knyttet til religion og virkelighetsforståelse. Noajdden hadde ikke bare som sine oppgaver å være religiøs leder og rituell mester, han var også helbreder og sannsiger.’ Hansen & Olsen (343) note that the noaidi was most often a man, but that there were also female noaidit, particularly in the East Sámi area (Hansen & Olsen 343).

21 Drum-Time 63). The author explains that this boat would allow the “demonic spirit” to travel the great distances to reach the woman’s body. The “magician” then chanted for a very long time and leapt around and ultimately fell to the ground foaming at the mouth; killed after his spirit had taken on the form of a whale, only to have been attacked by a rival noaidi’s rival spirit in the form of a gand.15 Another specialist in magic was consulted, and performed similar practices, with a more favorable outcome. The second magician survived his ordeal, and the soul of the woman was returned to her (Rydving, Drum-Time 63).16

The second earliest account of soul retrieval by noaidit was written by Johan Ferdinand

Körningh, a German-Swedish convert to Catholicism, who traveled through Lappland from the summer of 1659 to February of 1660. The purpose of his journey was to plan a possible Catholic mission to the Sámi, although he concealed this. Körningh travelled to Tornio in present-day

Finland, and was received by the Lappmark pastor Johannes Tornæus (Hansen & Olsen 345).

Körningh writes that during the noaidi’s journey a large fire was built, and the noaidi then took off his clothes. He began to shout, hit himself, and touch the fire without being burned. After some time he collapsed, and left for a time before returning to the world of the living. A second person came to sing over the noaidi, enumerating different animals (much as in the example from Historia Norwegie, 63) while the noaidi’s soul traveled to faraway places. If the singer failed to sing every word that stood for the path of the noaidi’s soul properly, it was said that the noaidi would certainly die (Körningh 45). The similarities between these two accounts recorded approximately 400 years apart suggest that the noaidi tradition persisted for a long time. One could also reasonably assert that the noaidi tradition predated even the early account in the

15 The Norwegian word gand denotes a magical projectile (Hultkranz, “Means” 56) 16 These “incantations” were most likely joik, a form of Sámi singing that evokes people, places, and animals, which can also have a ritual connotation (Pentikäinen, Kalevala 182).

22 Historia Norwegiae by quite some time, as the Sámi had been in northern Scandinavian since c.

3300 B.C. (DuBois, Nordic 13).

Hansen & Olsen (346) label the practice of the soul journey is “a central element of

Northern Eurasian shamanism, of which the Sámi spirituality is a part.” As support for this, they cite shared “central ideas about how the universe was organized,” in that Northern Eurasian shamanism and Sámi spirituality both view the universe as being split up into multiple realms, through which a ritual specialist can travel. (Hansen & Olsen 342). As the ritual specialist involved in many aspects of indigenous Sámi spirituality, the noaidit could in a sense also be classified as “shamans.”

Definition of the concept “Religion”

“Religion” was one of the main things that the Lutheran missionaries were attempting to bring to the Sámi, and it was something that they did not see in the indigenous beliefs, practices, and traditions among the Sámi, meaning that they presumably believed that the Sámi lacked this

“religion.” Because of the great importance of proper, licit religion in the rhetoric of Lutheran missionary writings, it is crucial to examine how scholars of religious studies have defined

“religion.” For many Christian missionaries, “religion” constituted licit belief and practice, but because much of the earlier study of indigenous peoples was conducted either by Western academics or missionaries themselves, it is more difficult to determine what it meant for those being missionized. Jonathan Z. Smith (269) points out that from the beginning of European colonialism, the question of what non-Christian beliefs and practices actually constituted was crucial to the missionary and colonial endeavor. In A Treatyse of the Newe India (1553), the second earliest report of the “New World” in English, the author Richard Eden tells of the

23 natives of the Canary Islands that “At Colombus’ first comming thether, the inhabitantes went naked, without shame religiō or ‘knowledge of God’” (Smith 269, cf. Eden). A similar account in conquistador Pedro Cieza de León’s Crónica del Perú- (‘Account of Peru’) describes the indigenous peoples of the northern Andes as “’observing no religion at all, as we understand, nor is there any house of worship to be found’” (Smith 269, cf. de León 93).17 Also, in early

Christian writings on the nature of religion (e.g. Augustine’s De vera religion ‘On True

Religion’), “the noun forms religio/religions and, most especially, the adjectival religious and the adverbial religiose were cultic terms referring primarily to the careful performance of ritual obligations” (Smith 269). By the early modern period, this earlier definition of “religion” had changed. In 1755, Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language defined “religion” as

“’virtue, as founded upon the reverence of God, and expectations of future rewards and punishments’” (Smith 271). Smith writes that notions, such as “reverence” in the definition above, “have all been evacuated of ritual connotations, and seem more to denote a state of mind, a transition begun by Reformation figures such as Zwingli and Calvin who understood ‘religion’ primarily as ‘piety’” (271). This Protestant shift in focus from practice to belief can be seen in the primary sources written by missionaries to the Sámi, where conversion meant not only abstaining from traditional practices and a radical shift in their traditional worldview.

Smith (276) points out that the majority of terms for classifying religions fall into a dualist paradigm:

By the time of the fourth-century Christian Latin apologists, a strong dual vocabulary was well in place and could be deployed interchangeably regardless of the individual histories of the terms: ‘our religion’/’their religion,’ with the latter often expressed through generic terms such as ‘heathenism,’ ‘paganism,’ or ‘idolatry’; ‘true religion’/’false religion’; ‘spiritual (or ‘internal’) religion’/’material (or ‘external’) religion’; ‘monotheism’ (although this term, itself, is a relatively late construction)/ ‘polytheism’; ‘religion’/’superstition’; ‘religion’/’magic’ (276).

17 ‘No guardan religión alguna, a lo que entendemos, ni tampoco se les halló casa de adoración’ (de León 93).

24

This dualist tendency was used “massively and intensely” by Protestant polemicists in their attacks on Roman Catholicism during and following the Reformation (Smith 276). It is also very often present in missionary depictions of the Sámi, where any belief or practice that did not fit into the normative Lutheran practice of the period was most often considered “superstition” and/or “witchcraft.”

With this dualistic paradigm came the tendency to read binary divisions into all religious discourse: “One of the more persistent strategems was the conversion of the epistemological duality natural/supernatural into a characterization of the object of belief (as in ‘nature worship’) and the placement of these two terms in a chronological relationship” (Smith 276-77). Thus, the natural world became to be viewed as mankind’s first deity, with later deities manifestations of the earlier veneration of the natural world. The nineteenth century (the period in which the later missionaries such as Lars Levi Læstadius worked among the Sámi) saw the advent of more nuanced classifications of “’natural’ religious categories, especially for ‘primitive’ peoples, those held to be ‘nature peoples’ (Naturvölker)” (Smith 277). Smith continues by saying, “‘Natural’ religion was segmented into fetishism, totemism, shamanism, anthropomorphism, preanimism, animism, family gods, guardian spirits, ancestor worship, departmental gods, to name a few”

(Smith 277). This category itself was refined by later scholars, e.g. in his 1876 Studies in the

Philosophy of Religion, the Scottish theologian Andrew Martin Fairbairn divided “Spontaneous or Natural Religion” into “Primitive Naturalism,” e.g. the religions of the ancient Greeks,

Hindus, Germanic tribes, and the Slavic peoples, and “Transformed Naturalisms,” e.g. later

Greco-Roman, Egyptian, and Chinese religion (Smith 277).

If there were “natural religions,” then it is fitting that other 19th century scholars would need to then define the category of the “high religions” that came after these presumably more

25 “primitive” forms of religion. Smith writes that these higher religions “could be designated

‘spiritual,’” and as such they “required a different technique for their division, one that recognized history” (277). The American Sanskritist William Dwight Whitney argued for a division (again, on dualistic grounds) between those “race religions” that are the product of the collective history of a certain group of people, and those religions that can be traced back to individual founders. Here, the “natural religions’ would serve as examples of “race religions” and faiths such as “’Mohammedism,’ Buddhism, and Christianity” as the latter (Smith 277; cf.

Whitney 451). Likewise, Fairbairn later reformed his schema into two ultimate categories for all religions: “spontaneous or natural religions” and “instituted religions” (Smith 278). The latter consisted of “two classes, each characterized by the same powerfully positive Protestant term:

“‘Reformed Natural’ (including the archaic religion of Israel [‘Mosaism’], Zoroastrianism,

Confucianism, Taoism), and ‘Reformed Spiritual,’ limited only to the new triad (Buddhism,

‘Mohammedanism,’ and Christianity)” (Smith 278). Any other religion was considered a form of

“natural religion,” a class that was ultimately a stand-in for the earlier category of “idolatry”

(Smith 278).

According to Smith (280), within the context of Western religious scholarship, all

“primitive” religions may be lumped together, because they have not had the historical power that the “higher religions” have: “From the point of view of power, they are invisible.” Here it would be safe to say that in the interaction with Lutheran missionaries, indigenous Sámi spirituality has not held a position of power in relation to the political status of Lutheranism.

Instead, Lutheranism was in the position of power in the religious interactions between missionaries and the Sámi.

26 The 20th century witnessed both a theological and an anthropological attempt to overcome the historical propensity within the field to rank religions according to their similarity

(or dissimilarity) to Western religions,. The German Lutheran theologian Paul Tillich describes

“religion” as “ultimate concern… manifest in the moral sphere as the unconditional seriousness of moral demand [,]… in the realm of knowledge as the passionate longing for ultimate reality[,]… in the aesthetic function of the human spirit as the infinite desire to express ultimate meaning. [Religion is not] special function of man’s spiritual life, but the dimension of depth in all its functions” (Tillich 7-8; cf. Smith 280-81). Likewise, Melford E. Spiro defines “religion” in an anthropological sense as “an institution consisting of culturally patterned interaction with culturally postulated superhuman beings” (Spiro 96; cf. Smith 281). While these newer definitions are more inclusive than previous ones, they still attempt to create an overarching category of religion into which all examples of humans’ relationships with supernatural forces can be organized.

Smith provides another option for determining what “religion” is, when he argues that

“religion” is essentially a term coined by scholars in order to help them conceptualize the theological and societal implications of the supernatural. It is “a second-order, generic concept that plays the same role in establishing a disciplinary horizon that a concept such as ‘language’ plays in linguistics or ‘culture’ plays in anthropology” (Smith 281-2). As such, religion is a term for individual scholars to define based on the needs and goals of their research. This dissertation takes Smith’s approach, as the term “religion” has been used in many different ways by different scholars over the ages, meaning that there is no “one size fits all” definition that can be employed. As noted above, in line with this traditional Sámi beliefs and practices are referred to

27 as “Sámi spirituality” here. This project also does not use the term “religion” in an analytical manner, but instead as a descriptive term to describe a set of beliefs and practices.

Syncretism in missionary theology

When two disparate religions and/or worldviews come into contact during a missionary situation, a variety of outcomes can occur. One possible result is the complete death of the religion that is unable to maintain its adherents. Ringgren (11-12) writes that one of the hallmarks of missionary tactics is claims by the missionaries of absoluteness (or at least superiority) over the religion of those they are seeking to convert. Within the context of the

Sámi-missionary encounter, most of the missionaries made this claim and were very inhospitable to any notion of a religion other that Lutheran Christianity being practiced in the kingdoms of

Denmark-Norway and Sweden. This mindset presupposes a belief on the part of the missionary that he “has behind him a powerful, well organized community, and that he addresses himself to people who are unsophisticated with little self-confidence” (Ringgren 11). As discussed in later chapters, the majority of missionaries to the Sámi fall into this category. As noted above,

Ringgren (11-12) writes that a second missionary attitude is one of amelioration, in which the missionary believes “our views are basically the same, but they are better and deeper than yours.” Historical exceptions to the general rule include the Swedish pastor Pehr Högström (see below), who argued that Sámi caught practicing their traditional lifeways should be merely instructed in faith, as opposed to being subject to capital punishment (Rydving, Drum-Time 79-

81).

Another result of contact between religions involves some amount of syncretism, in which elements from one religion are transferred and re-appropriated into the other. Ringgren (12)

28 writes that “missionary activity often, maybe mostly, creates a kind of syncretism,” since “the way in which newly Christianized people understand Christianity is structured by the same thought pattern of their old religion, since there is no other frame into which they could fit the new ideas.” The threat of syncretism played a significant role in the backlash against indigenous

Sámi belief and practice, and this reaction “was particularly strong against Saami who used

Christian terminology when they tried to explain elements in their own religion...” (Rydving,

Drum-Time 82). Examples of this included noaidit referring to the noaidi-gadze as angels, and noaidit claiming that they were sent by God (82). In addition to this instance of apparent syncretism of indigenous Sámi belief and Christianity, Hansen & Olsen write that the mother goddess Maadteraahka was partially associated with the Virgin Mary during contact with

Christianity (Hansen & Olsen 342; cf. Friis 37, Dunfjeld 241).

This project follows Ringgren’s ideas concerning the two main types of missionary attitude towards non-Christian religion. The Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries viewed themselves as supported by their state churches, and in that they viewed the Sámi as being unsophisticated barbarians. This project also agrees with Rydving, in that many of the instances where the most missionary backlash against real or perceived blendings of Sámi spirituality and

Lutheranism can be seen are those instances where the Sámi incorporated Christian elements into their indigenous beliefs and practices. As with the term “religion,” this project uses the term

“syncretism” to describe real or perceived blendings of religions, not as an analytical tool.

Sámi noaidit as followers of aberrant “religion”

The geographic and linguistic proximity between the Sámi and the Finns has led some to consider possible connections between the place of ecstasy and shamanic practices in both

29 cultures. Pentikäinen ties the Sámi noaidi to the Finnish shamanistic tradition as presented in the

Kalevala, the epic poem of Finland.18 As in the Sámi tradition, the Finnish shamans (Finn. tietäjä) used trance techniques to travel between the spiritual realms (Pentikäinen, Kalevala 179).

In the Kalevala and other Finnish poetry, the Sámi are portrayed as shamans of great power, and

Lappmark (also known as Finnmark) in Norway has long been seen as the “land of witches”

(Pentikäinen, Kalevala, 182-83). Although difficult to show conclusively, Pentikäinen writes that because of the connection between the Sámi and “witchcraft,” it was common for 19th century scholars to attempt to connect Lappmark (i.e. the land of the Sámi) with the mythological

Pohjola from the Kalevala, the region where the evil witch Louhi lived (Pentikäinen, Kalevala,

184).19

The connection between Sámi and “witches” had far more historical consequences than only the study of the Kalevala, and not all shamans were necessarily seen as being good in nature

(the etymologically connected modern Finnish term noaita means “witch,” which hints in this direction). In multiple traditions throughout the world there are stories of “evil” shamans, and these exist in the Sámi context as well. DuBois (Introduction 95). notes two folktales recorded in

Just Qvigstad’s Lappiske eventyr og sagn ‘Lappish folktales and stories’ as evidence of this.

Qvigstad mentions a type of noaidi called a boranoaide ‘eater-noaidi,’ can do nothing else besides harm and even kill people with their power (Qvigstad, Vol. III, 435). Qvigstad recounts the story of a specific boranoaide named Karen-Ola, who “was a very nice person, but all the same he ate many people, because he was an eater-noaidi [boranoaide]” (Qvigstad, Vol. III,

18 The Kalevala is a collection of runot ‘poems’ collected and published by Lönnrot in 1849. It is commonly viewed as the seminal text containing the “ethnic memory” of the Finns (Friberg 11-12). Elias Lönnrot’s Old Kalevala was first published in 1835 and he and Læstadius corresponded actively (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 45). 19 Hagen (227) cites a verse from Milton’s Paradise Lost (Book II, line 665) which speaks of “Lapland witches” as an example of the association of the “Lapps” with witchcraft.

30 429).20 Karen-Ola was seen as having “been responsible for the death of his son, the blinding of his wife, and the death of a nephew as well” (DuBois, Introduction 96). Like noaidit in general, boranoaidit were not always male. Qvigstad also records the story of a female noaidi who murdered a former suitor through her powers (DuBois, Introduction 213; Qvigstad vol. II, p.488-

91). When a noaidi friend of the murdered suitor confronted her about her crime, they launched into a magical duel in which they attempted to best the other by transforming in to a series of animals and fighting in different places. The friend eventually killed the murderer.

Isaac Olsen writes that the better gifts a noaidi would receive for their services, the better effects his rituals would produce (Hultkranz, “Means” 56). The downside of this was that when a noaidi was still “just as powerful in his magic,” when he was not properly compensated by their clients, and that he could “repay them harshly with sickness, misfortune, and other plagues...”

(Olsen 13).21 The angry noaidi would accomplish this by means of his gand (Hultkranz, “Means”

57; cf. Historia Norwegie 63). Bäckman (56) writes that the respective danger of a particular noaidi did not rest in their own will, but rather depended upon the will of their helping spirits.

This meant that even when the noaidi’s power caused negative physical and spiritual effects, it was not necessarily out of (a conscious) ill will. Olsen (49) writes concerning this phenomenon,

“[even] if the Noid does not think ill of a person with whom he has become angry, the Noide- gadze [the noaidi’s spirit helpers] immediately carries out his thoughts without his commanding them, and the Noid is unable to control or direct them” (cf. Hultkranz, “Means” 56),22 as in the story of the noaidi Ole Per Nixsøn, who became angry after his daughter married a man not to

20 ‘Karen-Ola var en riktig snildt menneske, men allikevel åt han mange folk, fordi han var eternoaide’ (Qvigstad, Vol. III, 429) 21 ‘...nock saa mægtig i sin trolldom...” “...betalle dem straxt igien med suigdomme, u-lycke og andre plager...’ (Olsen 13) 22 ‘...Ja om Noiden ickun tencker ondt om Et menniske som hand bliver vred paa, saa for retter Noide-gadze de straxt som hand tencker uden befalning og Noiden kand icke Raa med dem eller styre dem...’ (Olsen 49; cf. Hultkranz, “Means” 56).

31 his liking, and his helping spirits killed his daughter, much to his horror (Hultkranz, “Means” 56; cf. Olsen 49).

This is not to say that negative effects of the noaidi’s power were not always the result of their overzealous spirit helpers; rather the ability of the noaidi to cause harm to others led to them being viewed as a “wizard” (Hultkranz, “Means” 57). He cites Lappus’ example of a noaidi who, having lain down presumably in a state of ecstasy, dispatched his helper spirits to poison springs in order to kill an enemy (Hultkranz, “Means” 57; Lappus 20). In Hultkrantz’s view,

“This was the way in which a shaman became a wizard. He was potentially dangerous, and he had dangerous, morally indifferent helping spirits” (Hultkrantz, “Means” 57). Bäckman, in turn, cites the missionary Hans Skanke (1679-1739), who wrote that “these priests and prophets of witchcraft among the Lapps are called noaidi, whom the horrible devil himself calls directly to his service...”23 (Skanke 205; cf. Bäckman 81).

In numerous writings by missionaries and non-Sámi, it is generally assumed that noaidit operated in the same manner and for the same reasons that the “witches” of Scandinavian folklore did: the noaidit were thought be actively working together with diabolical forces to the detriment of Christians. The witch trials conducted in northern Norway during the late 17th and early 18th centuries provide many examples of belief by non-Sámi in a connection between the noaidi and the “witch.” Hagen (“Arctic”) cites the legal case brought against Anders Poulsen from Vadsø in 1692, in which the traditional Sámi drum (runebomme) played a significant role in the conviction of both men.24 At least in the minds of the court authorities and the

23 ‘Disse Trolddoms Præster og Propheter nævnes hos Lapperne Noider, hvilke den Leede djevel selv unmiddeligen kalder til sine Amter...’ (Skanke 205). 24 “In the South Sámi areas, an oval-shaped frame drum made from pine ort spruce was common, reinforced behind with cross staves. The North Sámi variant was fashioned from hollowing out the burl of a pine or spruce tree, and thus had a smaller rounder shape and a different back. Both the frame drum (gievrie) and the bowl drum (goabde)

32 missionaries, the runebomme was the best recognizable physical example of lingering belief and practice.

In the witch trial against Poulsen, the defendant was called upon to play his runebomme to show the court how he performed his magic (Hagen, “Arctic” 229). Poulsen proceeded by crossing himself and his instrument, and prayed quietly in Finnish, before Poulsen exhibiting outwards signs of ecstasy, such as crying and loudly drumming on the runebomme while imploring his spirits (presumably here noaidi-gadze) not to fear the Norwegians present.

Poulsen’s exhibition sufficed for the court to condemn him for having “‘pracised his evil and godly sorcery’” (230). Deputy bailiff Olle Andersen, the head of the prosecution, pushed for

Poulsen to be burned at the stake, even Poulsen’s idolatrous actions could not lead to conviction for sorcery under the current anti-sorcery statute in Denmark-Norway (Hagen, “Traces” 311).

Although he had indeed engaged in an illegal practice, Poulsen had done no damage to anyone’s health or property, and thus he was kept in custody and was required to forfeit all his property and reindeer (Hagen, “Traces,” 311-12).

Poulsen only lived for one more day, since on the day after his trial, Villum Gundersen struck Poulsen three times in the head with an axe as he slept (Hagen, “Traces” 312). Villum was a servant of the district governor Lilienskiold, who claimed that Villum was mentally ill. Vilum himself claimed that since Poulsen was convicted of idolatrous actions, he deserved to die.

Despite the brutal nature of Gundersen’s crime, the court determined that he was “without his senses when he committed the murder” (Hagen, “Traces” 312, cf. Tingbok 10a-15b), which relieved Gundersen of any guilt associated with his killing of a suspected sorcerer, and in turn caused Poulsen’s family to push for Gundersen’s death. This was denied, most likely because of

were completed with a drum hed made of leather from a non-reproductive reindeer cow or a calf” (DuBois, Introduction, 186).

33 the majority view that Poulsen was a convicted sorcerer who deserved death (Hagen, “Traces,”

312). For the prosecuting authorities, the worst part of the affair was that Gundersen had

“obstructed the just execution of a sorcerer” (Hagen, “Traces” 312).

In many ways, Hagen used the witch trial against Poulsen to deconstruct the concept of the “shaman” as a spiritual role the sense as explained by Rydving and de Waal Malefijt above,

(at least as scholars like Rydving [Drum-Time 70] and de Waal Malefijt [229] have used it to describe Sámi noaidit). Hagen further points out that in the trial proceedings there was nothing to suggest that Poulsen’s playing of the runebomme had anything explicitly to do with the ecstatic states of trance that have become one of the prototypical characteristics of the “shaman.”

If ecstasy is regarded as a hallmark of shamanism, then Poulsen the noaidi cannot be identified as a “shaman” (Hagen, “Traces,” 231). After all, “none of the Sami involved in the persecution of witches in northern Scandinavia received information from remote places in a state of deep trance,” and notes that the sound of the runebomme does not seem to have produced any sort of altered state of consciousness in Poulsen (Hagen, “Traces,” 231-2).

For Hagen, the larger issue at stake is determining whether the Sámi charged with witchcraft were actually shamans, or whether “the whole concept of the Sami shaman as a sort of go-between between two worlds is more or less a fabrication of some eighteenth-century missionaries” (Hagen, “Traces” 232). He also points out that the majority of the historical accounts of noaidit were written by foreign scholars, travellers, and missionaries, many of which involve Sámi shamans beating their drums at the foot of mountains while dancing with demons in a diabolical trance (Ecstasi Diabolica) (Hagen, “Traces,” 232). Even the medieval accounts of

Sámi beliefs and practices were recorded largely by clerics attached at least in some way to the

Church. Hagen goes on to argue that those modern scholars of religion who attempt to classify

34 noaidit as “shamans” inadvertently perpetuate the skewed view that trance states are a foundation of shamanism (Hagen, “Traces,” 232). Ultimately, Hagen states that Poulsen’s drumming could be considered shamanism, but it must be a shamanism that is devoid of a deep trance. To Hagen, the runebomme was merely a divinatory tool that was played to bring about desired effects and instead of Poulsen travelling on a shamanic journey to speak to his helper spirits, he summoned them to himself (Hagen, “Traces,” 233).

Many saw Poulsen as an example of the worst kind of Sámi sorcerer, in line with the prevailing view of the period. Poulsen was to have “awakened the demons by playing upon his drum: each beat supposedly echoed in the ears of Satan” (229). The court bailiff Niels Knag said that these were “able to cast spells upon people with the greatest of ease because the incarnate devil abides with them,” although he also includes in this category those “who can speak to trees and stones” (Hagen, “Traces” 314). Here it would seem that, for Knag, anyone who had contact with helper spirits was just as damned as those who were thought to sell their souls to the devil in exchange for preternatural powers. While certain church authorities such as the Swedish pastor

Pehr Högström (1714-1784) attempted to take a somewhat more tolerant (or at least less antagonistic) view of indigenous Sámi belief and practice, the majority opinion was in line with that of Knag in the trial of Poulsen, namely, that all varieties of indigenous Sámi belief and practice at their core consisted of diabolical magic (Rydving, Drum-Time 79-81).

Rydving (Drum-Time 81) notes that this conviction was so strong that it was known to produce pointed outbursts of frustration by those in charge of the Christianization of the Sámi. In many cases, Christian writers made use of explicitly Christian polemical language to condemn

Sámi indigenous practice. A prime example of this hatred of indigenous Sámi life is found in the

35 writings of Henrik Forbus (1674-1737), the Finnish parish priest of Liminka, who wrote the following condemnation of the runebomme (cited above and repeated here for convenience):

Oh you confounded Drum, tool and instrument of Satan, cursed are your depicted Gods: cursed your ring and ‘baja’: cursed your hammer and drumstick: cursed anyone who serves you with beating, and anyone who avails himself of divination and have their inclination for it. Each beat that is made upon you, is and will be a Satan’s beat in hell for them, among the spirits of the damned who shall torment and torture them, so that no executioner in such a way can torment and handle the one who is given in his hands: no snake bite makes such pain: no scorpion with its bite such ache: nothing in the world can be thought out to be such punishments, even if the pains of the whole world could be brought together, as is the pain and torment of the damned in hell (Rydving, Drum-Time 81, cf. Forbus 87).25

As can be seen in this quote, the helper spirits (noaidi-gadze) became fallen angels, and the noaidit became sorcerers serving the devil himself. The runebomme itself became a powerful symbol of the lingering pre-Christian religion among the (at least nominally) Christian populations of Denmark-Norway and Sweden. The demonization of Sámi belief and practice many times connected to the larger Protestant polemic of the period, e.g. when the Norwegian missionary Thomas von Westen wrote that they were Archisynagogi Satanæ ‘a synagogue of

Satan’ (Rydving, Drum-Time 83, cf. von Westen “Bref”).26 When von Westen encountered re- naming ceremonies (see below) among the Sámi, the Dano-Norwegian Mission Collegium requested more information on this practice. At the end of August 1723, von Westen provided them with a report on the practice, in which he called the practice Anabaptismus magicus-

25 ‘O tu fördömde Trumma satans redskap och instrument, äro tina afmålade Gudar: förbannade tin ring och baja: förbannad tin hammar och trumkäpp: förbannad then som tienar tig med slag, och den som deraf sig betienar och låter slå ja alla de som samtyckia till sådant slag och spådom, och hafwa sin lust däraf. Hwart och ett slag som på tig skier, är och blifwer dem skola slå pina och martera, att ingen bödell kan så plåga och handtära den, som i hans händer gifwen är: intet Ormestyng giör sådant ve: ingen Scorpion med sitt bett sådant qwahl: ingen ting i werldene uptänkias till sådant straff, om man än hehla werdsens plågor förena kunde, sosom de fördömdas pina och plåga i helfwetit är’ (Forbus 87). A baja is an object sometimes used by noaidit in drum divination. It was placed on the drum and would move across the drum’s surface and land on certain figures depicted on it (Rydving, Drum-Time 81, fn. 53). 26 Here von Westen seems to be referencing Revelation 3:9: “I will make those of the synagogue of Satan who say that they are Jews and are not, but are lying- I will make them come and bow down before your feet, and they will learn that I have loved you” (NRSV).

36 ‘magical Anabaptism’ (Rydving, Drum-Time 123, cf. von Westen, “Forklaring” 480 ff.).

Whether it was comparing indigenous Sámi traditions to Judaism or to Anabaptist practice, these examples from the writings of von Westen are indicative of the missionary strategy of explaining non-Christian practice in light of earlier confessional battles and anxieties.

Further, these traditional Sámi naming ceremonies serve as useful examples of the interplay between indigenous practice and Christian polemic. In both the North and South Sámi areas, it was common for Sámi to receive two names: one for the traditional Sámi world, and another for the Christian world that was being imposed upon them (Rydving, Drum-Time 115).

The most detailed existing sources on Sámi naming rituals were written in the Lule Sámi context.

So great was the Christian influence upon the Sámi, that even many noaidit had their children baptized (Rydving, Drum-Time 115). Perhaps because of this ubiquitous practice, the nature and practice of Sámi naming practices remained hidden from local clergy for a long time. While the existing sources were written about the South Sámi area and show some variation in regards to form, Rydving (Drum-Time 115) writes that it is still possible to present several common elements of the rituals. The child first received its traditional Sámi name, where its mother would pray to the birth goddess Saaraahka and would wait to be given a child’s name (Rydving, Drum-

Time 115-16). The father could also use the runebomme or some other tool of divination, or the parents could go to a noaidi for assistance in determining the child’s name (Rydving, Drum-Time

116).

The second naming ceremony was in effect a re-baptism ceremony. It began with the child’s Christian baptism, wherein the child received its Scandinavian name. When the parents brought the child home from the church, the second ceremony began. First, a woman or girl usually washed off the Scandinavian (i.e. Christian) name, and then gave the child a sjiele, a ring

37 of brass or silver, which would serve as a nimmesjiele ‘name- sjiele’, and as proof that the child had been freed of Christian baptism (Rydving, Drum-Time 116). The Scandinavian name had now washed off, and it was considered very offensive for a Sámi to be called by their

Scandinavian name by another Sámi. The second part of the re-naming ceremony involved the child’s receiving another Sámi name, which would be kept from non-Sámi. Interestingly enough, this portion of the ritual used water, much as in the Christian baptism.27 The mother would pour water over the child and bestow a new Sámi name on it, while the father would make the necessary sacrifices (Rydving, Drum-Time 116). Rydving writes that, “in connection with the naming, the child... received a certain theriomorphic guardian spirit, a nimmeguelie ‘name fish.’

(Rydving, Drum-Time 116-17)

In the early 18th-century the Norwegian minister Isaac Olsen (ca. 1680-1730) recorded that he himself had seen children become sick and cry after being baptized (Rydving, Drum-

Time 117, fn. 96; cf. Olsen 17). He recorded a supposed North Sámi a formula used to wash off baptism:

... now I wash off from you this baptism and this name, that the old priest had put upon you [N. Sámi ‘báhp(pa)-áddjá leai bidjan dutnje’] and this name will go away into the dirt, into filthy dung and to the unclean and nasty places, and it will be and fly away into river rapids and into waters and into lakes, and beaches and down into the earth... (Rydving, Drum-Time 117, cf. Olsen 17).28

27 See Amundsen for a more detailed discussion of the connections between the Sámi and the Christian naming rituals. 28 ‘... nu vaser ieg af dig denne Daab og dette Nafn, som ”pap ajum leej bium dunne”, der er som Præst beste faderen har lagt paa dig, og dette Nafn skal fare hen i skiedt og skarn, i skiedt dounger og paa de ureene og slemme steder, og det skal være og flye hen i Elf forser i vand og i siøe, og strand og ned i Jorden...’ (Olsen 17). Because Rydving does not provide an English translation of the entire of this formula, I have expanded his translation here.

38 Since the Christian name had been cast off the child, it received a name of a departed family member. This name carried the connotation of a particular skill (noaidi, hunter, fisher, etc.) and would endow the child with related powers (Rydving, Drum-Time 117).29

While the overall classification of Sámi indigenous practice was that it was inherently demonic, this also varied depending on the Sámi group and the author (Rydving, Drum-Time

79). As stated above, the missonary Pehr Högström (1714-1784) is somewhat of a historical outlier in his approach to reproving those Sámi who continued in traditional practices (Rydving,

Drum-Time 79). Edsman writes that in 1742 in the Åsele parish in Swedish Lappmark, Högström suggested that suspected Sámi should not be tried for “tricks and superstitions,” but instead that they should be instructed in faith (Edsman 128, cf. Fahlgren 213). While progressive for this period, Högström’s suggestion was viewed as suspicious by the Ecclesiastical Office of

Lappmark, which seems to have been a sign of changing views about traditional Sámi beliefs and practices. As recorded in an extensive report from Åsele in 1739-40 on the use of the runebomme for divination, the county administrator Hans Renhorn (1659-1725) used the rate of decomposition of reindeer horns from sacrificial sites as a benchmark to determine that the Sámi had been in Sweden for a very long time (Edsman 129). Following the comparativist religious theory of the period, Renhorn attempted to interpret the sacrifice of reindeer by the Sámi as an ancient loan from the Hebrew sacrifice of animals as recorded in the Old Testament (Edsman

129). Here it would seem that Renhorn was at least attempting to show that traditional Sámi practices were perhaps originally descended from ancient Jewish rituals. Whether this meant that

Renhorn was taking a milder view of indigenous Sámi spirituality is difficult to say. If the

29 The refusal of clergy to use Sámi names as baptismal names could perhaps have contributed in part to the intricate naming and re-naming involved in the above mentioned ceremonies. However because the records of such practices were recorded by culturally Christian Scandinavians, this would be very difficult to prove. It also should be noted that it was not until Pehr Högström (1714-1784) that this attitude started to change and Sámi were allowed to be baptized with Sámi names (Rydving, Drum-Time 121, cf. Högström 137).

39 missionaries believed that Sámi rituals were descended from ancient Jewish rituals, then they would have at least started out as licit rituals. This being said, it is very unlikely that any aspect of indigenous Sámi spirituality was ever historically connected to ancient Judaism. The condemnation of them as demonic seems to have slowly changed into a view of them as confused or childish attempts at true “religion” (see discussion of “religion” in the minds of missionary writers below).

This change in the reception of Sámi spirituality is also seen in an earlier court case in

Sweden that serves as being one of the first trials in Scandinavia dealing with supposed Sámi

“sorcery,” in which insanity as a legal concept played a role. Edsman (134) writes that in Pite

Lappmark30 in 1705, the vicar of Silbojokk, Pehr Noraeus Fjellström, leveled a legal complaint against a 60 year-old Sámi named Anders Påhlson Kierrok from Simisjaur. Kierrok claimed that he was Jesus, and that anyone who spoke against him spoke against God himself. Authorities eventually brought Keirrok to trial on charges of blasphemy at the court in Härnösand, and when pressed Kierrok stated that he had been ordered by God to call himself Jesus. Kierrok repented and blamed his comments “on malicious neighbors, on relatives who had provoked him, and on his own feebleness of mind” (Edsman 135). Others confirmed to the authorities that Kierrok was not of sound mind, and was prone to outbursts and running naked in the forest. Because of the blasphemous nature of Kierrok’s crimes, the court initially sentenced him to death, but the Svea

Court of Appeals in Stockholm overturned this ruling due to Kierrok’s insanity. In January of

1706 Kierrok was sentenced to life imprisonment, or until he “came to his full senses” (Edsman

135). By October of that year, Kierrok was deemed sane enough to be released. These more progressive changes in how the Scandinavian legal systems handled cases of “idolatry” and

30 A historical district of the Kingdom of Sweden encompassing the municipalities of Arjeplog, Arvidsjaur, Malå in the middle of modern Swedish Lappmark.

40 “superstion,” however, were not uniform and the earlier trend of harsh condemnation and punishments for these charges remained strong for quite some time.

In this period of highly charged religious polemic directed at the Sámi, the tables were occasionally turned and the church authorities became the ones accused of witchcraft and sorcery. Edsman (131) gives the example of Sjul Granberg, the chaplain of Sorsele in Sweden, whom a Sámi woman named Anna accused of having cursed her ability to control her reindeer, namely that Granberg wanted wolves to devour her herd. In his explanation for her accusation,

Granberg stated that he had taken offense when she refused to let him buy a reindeer for his household, even though she had a healthy herd. During his reproval, he had said to her, “God will probably punish you or give you bad luck with your reindeer for such an uncharitable deed”

(Edsman 131). Two witnesses confirmed that Granberg had used the word “wolves,” although this was apparently not directed at anyone in particular. Later Anna was asked if she still wanted to formally accuse Granberg of witchcraft, but at this point she had changed her mind (Edsman

131).

While this is an example of the belief of certain Sámi that Christian clergy could bring about negative real-world circumstances through some sort of mystical means, pastors were also sometimes thought to be able to employ their supernatural skills for more beneficial purposes.

Högström himself was viewed by some Sámi laypeople as a kind of noaidi, and was asked at least once to “read away” sicknesses much in the same way that “the wise” (presumably another word for noaidi) did (Rydving, Drum-Time 78, cf. Högström 167 f.). In his Om Lappernes

Vildfarelser og Overtro ‘On the Aberration and Superstition of the Lapps,’ Isaac Olsen writes that in the Vadsø in Norwegian Finnmark a pastor named Ludvig Christian Paus (ca. 1674-1745)

“had a zealous spirit”, and when he encountered an evil spirit had “good abilities to deal with

41 such a thing... ” (Olsen 58, cf. Rydving, Drum-Time 78). Olsen (58) continues by saying Paus

“could with God’s word and Spirit drive away such apparitions of the devil and devilry and

Lappish sorcery.... “31 So great were Paus’ spiritual gifts that he could banish these demons when the Sámi noaidit (here depicted as being in league with the devil) could not. Unlike in

Högström’s account where he dismisses the belief that has some sort of supernatural power over illness, here Olsen depicts Paus as a heroic exorcist. It would seem that the depiction of pastors’ supernatural abilities varied considerably depending upon whether an author wanted to steer laypeople away from superstition (as was presumably the case with Högstrom), or impress upon them the superior nature and power of Christianity.

“Superstition” vs. “Religion”

The various forms of argumentation in the examples above of Lutheran Scandinavian missionaries attempting to cast indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices as somehow demonic and the noaidit as servants of the devil closely resemble earlier theological debates regarding licit

(lawful) and illicit (unlawful) beliefs and practices within Christianity that came to be re-cast and re-defined during and following the Protestant Reformation. Indeed, the polemic found in missionary writings on the Sámi are largely concerned with Sámi spirituality in a localized sense, and moreover with “religion” in a universal sense of the concept. Thus, both of these uses of

“religion”, as it pertains to the Sámi-missionary encounter, require further investigation into the historical debates surrounding “religion” and “magic” within the Christian context, as well as how Western scholarship as applied “religion” in non-Western contexts.

31 ‘... hand hafde Een Iffrig aand, og gode gaver til at handle med saadant... og kunde med guds ord og aand bort drive sligt Dievelens spøgeri og Dieveleskab og lapperi...’ (Olsen 58)

42 Within Christian theology, the dividing line between licit and illicit belief and practice has often been tricky to locate. Numerous theologians in the history of Christianity have wrestled with this border, and these disputations have had a lasting impact upon their respective denominations. At the core of the debates reside the two concepts of “superstition”32 (superstitio) on one hand, and “religion” (religio) on the other. One of the earliest theologians to study this distinction was St. Augustine, whose statements had a lasting impact upon not only Roman

Catholic doctrine but on various Protestant (here, Lutheran) theologies as well.

According to Daxelmüller (82), for Augustine and other early church fathers the study of the mechanism of magic (magicology) was intrinsically bound to the study of the operations of demons (demonology), and pagan gods were merely demons in disguise. Likewise, Minucius

Felix writes that, “these unclean spirits or demons, as it has been shown by Magi and philosophers, have their lurking places under statues and consecrated images…” (Minucius

Felix, Octavius, XXVII, 1).33 Not only do demons take the guise of the pagan gods, they also

“animate the fibres of entrails (i.e. haruspicy), govern the flight of birds (i.e. augury), determine lots, and are the authors of oracles mostly wrapped in falsehood” (Minucius Felix, Octavius,

XXVII, 1).34 Therefore, anyone who sought the intervention of the elder gods was guilty of trafficking in demons (Daxelmüller 82). Not only was this an example of false belief (i.e. that there were multiple gods worthy of worship and devotion), but it also constituted false practice

(i.e. offering services and/or sacrifices to these demons in the guise of gods); false practice which gave demons the ability to produce what appeared to be miraculous outcomes.

32 NB: For the purposes of much of historical Christian theology (as well as within this discussion of scholarship on the subject), the concept of “superstition” was largely synonymous with that of “magic.” 33 ‘Isti igitur impuri spiritus, daemones, ut ostensum magis et philosophis, sub statuis et imaginibus consecratis delitiscunt…’ (Minucius Felix, Octavius, XXVII, 1). 34 ‘extorum fibras animant, avium volatus gubernant, sortes regunt, oracular efficient, falsis pluribus involute’ (Minucius Felix, Octavius, XXVII, 1).

43 However, Augustine makes use of pre-Christian categories within this schema designed to indicate illicit, pagan belief and practice. Kahlos (157) writes, “for the Roman elite and legislators, the Roman civic religion was religio, whereas foreign, provincial or popular beliefs and practices were bundled under the term superstitio.” She notes that superstitio encompassed a much wider variety of beliefs and practices, and that “superstition as such was not illegal, whereas magic (i.e. maleficium) was often understood as illegal activity that could be punished by death” (Kahlos 157). Later Christian authors (such as Augustine) simultaneously subverted and made use of this schema in polemical writings. Whereas in pre-Christian Rome maleficium

“magic” consisted of performing supernatural rituals in order to cause harm, Augustine expanded the previous notion of ‘maleficium,’ which he called superstitio ‘superstition’ (Kahlos 157-8).

The term superstitio could be applied to the practice of malicious magic (maleficium), the continuing practice of pagan religions, in addition to beliefs and practices held by Christians such as the apotropaic use of the cross, which was common across many groups in the

Mediterranean world at the time (Kahlos 169-70).35 When someone made use of superstitious means, rites, or practices, they opened themselves up to contact with demons (Daxelmüller 92).36

Thus, for Augustine superstitio was not merely an incorrect manner of religious expression; it gave evil spirits power to work supernatural acts. Even then, however, demons could not work true “miracles.” After their fall from grace, they were instead were constrained by their nature as apostate angels to only be able to perform false (i.e. preternatural) wonders, which in turn were designed to lead men away from true belief and practice (i.e. religio) (Daxelmüller 90, 92).

35 Even here, though, theologians were not always in agreement. Augustine gave some ground by advising readers of his Tractates on the Gospel of John (7.7, 7.12) to use copies of the gospel instead of amulets to heal ailments (Kahlos 170). Likewise, St. John Chrysostom chastised Christians for using the cross to repel evil spirits, while others such as St. Athanasius supported certain of these practices. For Athanasius, “by making the mere sign of the cross, one was able to banish the deceits of demons. He also remarked that where the sign of the cross appeared, magic was weak and witchcraft had no strength” (Kahlos 169, cf. Athanasius, Incarnation 47; Life of Anthony 78). 36 By the time of Augustine this notion was not new. Tertullian noted over a century before Augustine that the whole world was filled with demons (Kahlos 155)

44 Augustine’s definition of superstitio as a category that contained maleficium, yet at the same time was broad enough to include any sort of wrong belief and practice, is of paramount importance for the study of theologians’ responses to lived religion during the early modern period. Augustine also exerted considerable influence upon St. Thomas Aquinas’ understanding of the agency of evil spirits, particularly as it pertains to the notion of the demonic pact

(Daxelmüller 92). For Aquinas, even the most harmless of superstitions could bring about demonic activity, whether by an express pact with the devil in exchange for supernatural power

(pacta expressa), or by a pact implied by the individual’s superstitious actions (pacta tacita)

(Daxelmüller 124). Using this idea as his starting point, Aquinas approaches the concept of false religion as expressed in superstitio from two angles. Firstly, fides ‘faith’ is not the same as religio ‘religion.’ Fides denotes the faith that a believer possesses, and either a lack of faith or improperly placed faith constitutes infidelitas, or superstition (Daxelmüller 124).

Aquinas also bases his definition of religio on Aristotle’s notion of virtue as the middle point between the two extremes of too much or too little. For example, Aquinas’ superstitio divinativa ‘superstition of divination’ fails to qualify as religio precisely because it presumes that a created being (through any ability outside of God’s) can know what will happen in the future.

If diviners do succeed in learning what will happen in the future, it is only through the agency of demons (Daxelmüller 124).37 Aquinas’ theology of the mechanism of evil within the world was of paramount importance for later medieval and early modern Catholic theology concerning superstitious beliefs and practices. Catholic and Protestant theologians, in turn, both relied on

Augustine’s ideas to clarify their positions regarding licit and illicit religious expression within

37 Cf. Aquinas, Summa theologia, II.II 92,2: ‘omnis divination ex operatione daemonum provenit’- “All divination comes from the operation of the demons.”

45 their own groups. By condemning the practices of the other group, they called upon these earlier traditions within Christian theology.

The history of Christian responses to non-Christian belief and practice, however, has not been one purely of condemnation. In some cases, practices that the Church was unable to root out were co-opted and made licit (Hen 193, Flint 59-84). Kahlos writes that, “Constantine... distinguished between practices that were ‘remedies sought for human bodies’ and devices for protecting harvests against rain and hail – these were allowed – and magic that was aimed at killing or seducing someone...” (Kahlos 161). While not a theologian, Constantine’s monumental status within the Western Church as the first Christian Roman emperor could well have helped set the precedent of allowing certain practices, while condemning others.

Kahlos notes that this trend of Christianizing as opposed to outright condemning grew within the Middle Ages. Examples of this phenomenon in action can be found in period documents pertaining to the Christianization of the peoples of Northern Europe. Flint has argued that this change in what exactly constituted superstitio was a part of official papal policy, and cites Pope Gregory I’s (590-604) Libellus responsionum ‘Booklet of Answers’ as evidence for this (Hen 194). This booklet contains Gregory’s famous letter to Abbot Mellitus of Canterbury, in which Gregory writes concerning the conversion of the “English” (i.e. Anglo-Saxons) that instead of destroying the temples formerly dedicated to pagan gods, the Church should sprinkle them with holy water to exorcise any diabolical attachments from them. In addition, the relics of

Christian saints were to be translated into the former temples (Bede 57).

As a benefit of this conversion tactic, “When this people see that their shrines are not destroyed they will be able to banish error from their hearts and be more ready to come to the places they are familiar with, but now recognizing and worshiping the true God” (Bede 57; cf.

46 Hen 194). However groundbreaking innovations such as these in the missionary strategy of the

Church were at the time, they were not without their problems. The Church ultimately would only go so far in its Christianization of pagan practices, though pagan practices were quick to adapt to the change in (at least official) religion. At the same time, the Church had to combat these new, Christianized forms of pagan beliefs and rituals (Hen 194-5). For example, medieval practitioners of divination attempted to re-cast their art by dubbing it sortes sanctorum ‘lots of the saints’ in hopes that the Church would accept it as licit. During the first Council of Orléans

(511), however, the Frankish bishops concluded

If and cleric, monk or layman shall think he should observe divination or auguries or casting of lots (sortes), which they say are ‘of the saints’ (sanctorum) to whomever they should believe they should make them known, they are to be expelled from the Church’s communion with those who believe in them (Hen 195, cf. Hillgarth 103).

That in the above quotation the Council addresses both clerics and monks alongside the laity in its warning against casting lots, seems to suggest that (aside from pronouncing anyone who took part in superstitious practices such as these anathema) it was sometimes very difficult for the

Church to actually control expressions of religious life. Davies (21-22) notes that despite the

Church’s eventual victories against public pagan worship, it had difficulties clearly distinguishing and maintaining a “line of practice between religious devotion and magic.”

This difficulty in determining “religious devotion” (i.e. licit belief and practice) and

“magic” (i.e. illicit belief and practice) continued to vex the Church, and was one of the main theological battlefields of the Reformation. In Germany and Scandinavia, many devotional practices from Catholicism survived the official conversion to Protestantism, much as pagan practices survived the official conversion of Northern Europe in the early Middle Ages. For example, the springs at Inderøy in Norway were held to contain regenerative powers by nature of their being blessed by St. Olav well into the Protestant period, and the veneration of saints

47 continued in Iceland even after the acceptance of Lutheranism in 1541 (Stokker, Rituals 85;

Hood 157-8).

Luther himself was not immune to this, and underwent folk canonization and became a

Lutheran saint in practice if not in official doctrine. Many considered Luther a prophet, and because of this he was able (in the minds of some) to intercede for his followers when in trouble

(Scribner, “Incombustible” 347). Like saints in the Catholic and Orthodox traditions, this intercession sometimes appeared in wonders that were worked through images of Luther. An example of this is from 1657 in Strasburg, when a butcher’s apprentice was said to have thrown a knife at an image of Luther in anger, only to have the knife rebound and take out his eye

(Scribner, “Incombustible,” 350). The affinity for items associated with Luther was not limited to images of the reformer, but also to relics from his life. A piece of a coat that Luther was to have worn as a boy was on display in Eisleben in the church of St. Peter and St. Paul until the 19th century, and in 1699 Gottfried Arnold wrote about the practice of cutting splinters from Luther’s bed in Eisleben to keep as relics (Scribner, “Incombustible” 351; cf. Arnold pt.II, p.47). Like the

St. Olav springs in Norway, there were multiple “Luther Springs” that were reported to have healing powers (Scribner, “Incombustible” 351; cf. Gruppe 307-9).

While such practices could also be interpreted as merely pious expressions of the

“uneducated,” they could also evidence what Scribner calls “Catholic survivals,” i.e. aspects of popular religion in Protestant areas where there was little actual change due to the Reformation

(Scribner, “Impact” 276, 289). This phenomenon of “survivalism,” however, was not neat and easily defined, but rather consisted of “a complex pattern of continuity, revival, adaptation and creativity” (Scribner, “Impact” 326). The concept that items could be set aside from the profane world and consecrated in a manner that imbued them with sacred power lived on, resulting in the

48 creation of a Protestant sacramental worldview strikingly similar to the Catholic one (Scribner,

“Impact” 286, 299). While these “survivals” were popular among some, officially they were still

(for the most part) condemned as illicit and superstitious. In fact, “Popular magic [in Protestant areas] was condemned as false belief, but as Protestant false belief” (Scribner, “Magic” 326).

This classification, as well as much of the missionary writings on indigenous Sámi belief and practice, harkened back to Augustine’s definition of superstitio not merely as magic

(maleficium), but as any sort of false or illicit religious expression (cf. Daxelmüller 82). This project follows Daxelmüller, in that very much like Augustine and Aquinas, the Scandinavian

Lutheran missionaries viewed illicit (here, non-Lutheran) belief and practice as “superstition.”

This “superstition” often had diabolical connotations, and by extension so did those people (here, the Sámi).

Conclusion

In the scholarship surrounding the history of Christian missions to the Sámi, the Sámi perspective is rarely considered. This is likely for a combination of reasons. One is, as Hansen &

Olsen have pointed out, that Western scholarship has chosen to exclude the Sámi perspective from most histories of Scandinavia. When the Sámi are mentioned, it is usually only to provide comparative examples to the history of the Norse and their descendants, i.e. modern Icelanders,

Faroese, Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes (Hansen & Olsen 2). Within the specific context of the history of the Scandinavian Lutheran missions, most works focus solely on the experiences of the missionaries. As discussed in this chapter, this is firstly because of the almost total lack of earlier sources written from a Sámi perspective on the Sámi-missionary contact situation. The vast majority of the existing sources were written by non-Sámi, so it fits that historical analyzes

49 must make do and account for the lack of early, Sámi perspectives. Indeed, this dissertation also finds itself in this situation. On top of this, the vast majority of the missionaries to the Sámi did not speak a Sámi language, which would undoubtedly have affected their ability to understand

Sámi spirituality.

While some scholars (such as Hansen & Olsen, Rydving, and Hagen) connect the conflict between the indigenous Sámi peoples and the Lutheran missionaries to the drastic differences in worldviews between these two groups, much research provides a more general view of the effects of the Sámi on the missionaries and vice versa. Most of these sources note Sámi resistance to forced conversion efforts and the subsequent backlash against those Sámi who refused to give up their traditional lifeways, or those who refused to convert in the way that the missionaries and Dano-Norwegian and Swedish wanted. However, the more intricate details of how the confrontations between indigenous beliefs and practices and missionary theologies tend to be overlooked by current scholarship. Unlike these earlier works that focus on the effects of the missions upon traditional Sámi life, I instead look at how the missions affected the missionaries themselves. Relatively little has been written about this aspect of the missionary- contact situation between the Sámi and the Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries. This is important, as a holistic understanding of any cultural contact situation between two often very different worldviews (here, Scandinavian Lutheranism and traditional Sámi spirituality) requires analysis of both sides. It is hoped that this dissertation will add this important missionary perspective to the scholarship on this encounter.

The following chapter presents the two main theoretical frameworks for this project:

“superstition” vs. “religion,” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism.” It outlines these terms in detail, using important texts written on both structures to show explain how this dissertation uses

50 both of these lenses to analyze the primary sources presented in this chapter. The next chapter also explores how Christian missionaries have demonized indigenous spirituality, and how these frameworks have played out historically in missions in other parts of the world.

51 Chaper 2:

Methods and Definitions

This chapter discusses the methods and definitions used here to analyze the relevant primary sources left behind by missionaries to the Sámi from the 17th to the 19th century. These methods and definitions draw from previous religious scholars who have examined the dynamics present when different religious worldviews (such as indigenous spirituality and Christianity) come into contact with one another. This chapter discusses those scholars who have worked on the bi-directional dynamic of missionary contact situations, wherein the missionaries and those being missionized mutually impact and influence one another. The missionary situation among the Sámi from the 17th through the 19th centuries falls into this category, with the Sámi being confronted by the Lutheranism of the missionaries and the missionaries coming face-to-face with what they overwhelmingly interpreted as idolatry and witchcraft. For both parties, this period was one that necessitated a defense against outside religious and cultural pressures.

As stated in the previous chapter, this project focuses on the effects of the religious structures of the missionaries on their writings about this encounter, due to the almost total lack of sources written from a Sámi perspective from the period of Lutheran missions. The only extant sources from this particular missionary contact situation come from the missionaries themselves, and thus a critical evaluation of the missionary mindset is necessary for this chapter.

The methodology for the analysis of primary sources pivots around their perceptions of the licitness (or lack thereof) of religious practice among the Sámi. As such, this chapter makes use of theoretical works and case studies of religious contact that have not yet been applied to the context of the Sámi-missionary encounter. Leopold & Jensen’s Syncretism in Religion: A Reader

52 contains multiple essays from scholars on the internal dynamics of syncretic blendings. Other works, such as Hultkrantz’ article based on his fieldwork among the Shoshoni and Birgit

Meyer’s study of the conversion of the Ewe people of Ghana, provide insights into missionary contact situations similar to the one between Lutheran missionaries and the Sámi. While these works treat different historical encounters, they fit well with the focus of this project on missionary reactions to indigenous beliefs and practices. Using these previous studies gives the present work a broader, more comparative, theoretical viewpoint. Additionally, using these works will connect this study to the larger body of literature within religious studies concerning religious hybridization and change. By using these works to help analyze the primary sources in this project, this chapter compares the religious dynamics present in these other studies with the historical missionary contact situation between Lutheran missionaries and the Sámi. This contact situation has hitherto been unstudied in this light.

In this chapter, I define terms and concepts that are important for this project and recount historical variations in the terms’ meanings. Some of the concepts discussed in this chapter have appeared in previous sections, such as the dichotomy between religion and superstition. Others are new, yet equally relevant. Of these, the most pertinent are syncretism, anti-syncretism, and licitness. Throughout this dissertation, I use the lens of missionary ethnography to interpret my primary materials, particularly as framed in Birgit Meyer’s work on 20th-century missionary activity among the Ewe in Ghana. Additionally, I discuss parallels from other missionary contact situations from around the globe during the early-modern and modern eras. While these other contact situations are not directly historically connected to the missions to the Sámi, they bear many strong similarities in how the internal dynamics of the missionaries’ theology affected the way in which the missionaries portrayed indigenous spirituality. These are important to discuss

53 here, since they provide comparative context for this analysis of Scandinavian Lutheran missions to the Sámi.

As discussed briefly elsewhere, the concepts of “religion” and “superstition” played important roles in the development of Western Christian notions of licit and illicit religion.

Although both of these concepts have already been discussed, because of their profound importance for this project they are discussed briefly here as well. Consciously or unconsciously, these two concepts have influenced the manner in which missionaries wrote about indigenous

Sámi belief and practice. Certain modern theoretical works surrounding “syncretism” and “anti- syncretism” (such as Leopold & Jensen and Stewart & Shaw) during periods of religious encounter map nicely onto the tension between what missionaries saw as the true “religion” and what they perceived of as “superstition” among the Sámi. These works are discussed below.

Aside from what missionaries saw as the rampant idolatry inherent in Sámi belief and practice, the missionaries seem to have been equally appalled by what they saw as Sámi attempts to blend

Christian and indigenous Sámi religious concepts (i.e. belief) and rituals (i.e. practice).38

“Superstition” vs. “religion,” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism”

This project views the Lutheran missions to the Sámi through the filter of the tension between licit “religion” and illicit “superstition,” as well as syncretistic and anti-syncretistic movements in both the indigenous and missionary population. These tensions came about largely as a result of the increased religious contact between Sámi and non-Sámi during this period. The dichotomies of “superstition” vs. “religion” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism” do not

38 An example of this is the story of Thor Gubbe and the devil in Læstadius (92-93, cf. Högström 178) discussed in more detail below, in which Thor Gubbe is the offspring of the devil and a girl. Missionaries such as Læstadius found such blendings particularly dangerous, as they constituted both idolatry and a confusion of orthodox Christian belief and practice.

54 describe religious tension in the same way. These two theoretical systems deal with similar tension as a result of religious mixing, yet ultimately have different foci. The dichotomy of

“superstition” vs. “religion” essentially deals with the purported licitness of beliefs and practices within a particular religious system. The dichotomy of “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism,” however, attempts to view the question of purity from outside a particular religion. Because this dissertation analyzes the ways in which the theology of the period affected the religious ethnographies of the period, viewing the source material in terms of the conflict between the concept of “syncretism” and “anti-syncretism” offers a unique way to look at how the theological anxieties and pressures that arose during post-Reformation Lutheranism played a role in shaping how Lutheran missionaries recorded and characterized the indigenous spirituality with which they came into contact.

Syncretism

Syncretism as a concept has signified a variety of different cultural and religious phenomena depending on those who have used it. Because of its multiple connotations at different points in history, it is important to trace briefly its development from its beginnings to its current usage within the field of religious studies. Like the concepts of religio and superstitio,

“syncretism” has its origins in the pre-Christian Classical period, and was originally a concept that had cultural saliency within a pagan society, which was then repurposed and given a

(sometimes) Christian meaning. The first recorded usage of the term is found in the writings of the Greek-Roman historian Plutarch (46-120). In his work De fraterno amore/περί φιλαδελφείασ

‘On Brotherly Love’, Plutarch describes how the normally vying factions of Crete would band together in order to fight a common enemy:

55 Then this further must be born in mind and be guarded against when differences arise among brothers: we must be careful especially at such time to associate familiarly with our brothers’ friends, but avoid and shun all intimacy with their enemies, imitating in this point, at least, the practice of the Cretans, who, though they often quarreled with and warred against each other, made up their differences and united when outside enemies attacked; and this it was which they called ‘syncretism’ (Plutarch 313).

In this first instance of the term, syncretism denotes a coming together of previously warring groups, and this sense of the word was still present during the Reformation period. In a letter to

Erasmus (1466-1536), the notable Lutheran reformer Phillip Melancthon (1497-1560) wrote, concerning their common enemies, “It is no more than fair that we close ranks” (‘Aequum est nos quoque synkretizein’, Rudolph 69, bold face added). Erasmus himself had set about propagating what he called bonae littrae ‘the good science’ (Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 14), which consisted of a mixture of Christian humanism and Greek philosophy, and his use of the term synkretizein is fitting for someone so knowledgeable of Ancient Greek language and culture. This notion of putting aside differences is important for later uses of the term, as discussed below. Leopold and Jensen write that, “It was in defense of good science that he proposed the reconciliation (synkretizein) of scholars against the barbarians” (Leopold & Jensen,

“Introduction to Part II” 15; cf. Moffat 155).

In the decades following the beginning of the Reformation, however, the term’s connotations began to shift from denoting practicality in times of conflict to signifying illicit religious mixing. In the 17th century, syncretism began to be seen as a “false peace” between the different Catholicism and Protestantism, as well as between the different Protestant groups

(Rudolph 69). In this period the term begins to be used predominantly in a religious sense. For instance, in 1616 the German Jesuit Adam Contzen (1571-1635) viewed syncretism as an attempt to create a “false peace” between the warring factions within Western Christianity in order to solidify their position in the face of foreign enemies (Rudolph 69). This “false peace”

56 was unpopular, as it threatened to set aside contentious theological debates; something that the

Catholic and Protestant parties were unwilling to do.

A noteworthy instance of this usage was the Helmstedt theologian Georg Calixt (1586-

1656). While both Erasmus and Calixt sought unity amongst all Christians, Calixt was condemned by both the Catholic and Protestant camps (Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part

II” 15). Like Erasmus, Calixt saw the revelation of universal truth in pagan philosophy (in particular within Aristotelian thought), and he attempted to shift this argument onto the contentious religious environment of his day. If paganism could have partial access to true religious knowledge in the time before the advent of Christianity, then surely fractured Western

Christianity could culminate in the “continuation of the Reformation as the restoration of the universal truth that was once present in the old Church, antiquitas ecclesiastica, which, in

Calixt’s view, had been corrupted through history by erroneous human interpretations and the

‘tyranny of the papacy’” (Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 15; cf. Engel 123).

In line with the strongly polemical nature of theological discourse during the period,

Calixt’s efforts to reconcile the formerly united Western Christian Church were met with outright hostility. Leopold and Jensen write, “The allegation against Calixt was as much one against an apostatized Lutheran. His theology was regarded as dangerous and pro-Catholic”

(Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 15-16; cf. Schmid 337). McNeil (272) notes that

Calixt’s syncretic theology refused to be associated with either camp, as it “seemed to repudiate not only medievalism, but the Reformation itself.” What had started out as a term denoting the putting aside of differences and coming together based on common beliefs, had become what

Rudolph (68) calls a “theological invective” designed to exclude mixed or illicit religion. As the

Reformation progressed, the strong differences between Catholicism and Protestantism (as well

57 as the divide between the various Protestant factions) made for a polemically charged atmosphere. It fits that, within the highly contentious religious landscape of Reformation-era western Christendom, a term originally meaning a putting aside of theological differences would become a pejorative for any “contaminated” form of religion.

Syncretism in missions

The Reformation legacy of syncretism as a polemically charged concept continued to play out in the missionary field. As might be surmised from the often intense cultural exchange that occurs as a result of the meeting of different groups, the contact between Christian missionaries and indigenous peoples could create situations in which aspects of Christianity become intermingled with indigenous lifeways. While many of the Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries covered in this project wrote about this phenomenon, it is not unique to the Sámi- missionary encounter. Many examples of missionary records from other sociohistorical contexts witness of religious blendings as an unintended result of missionary activity.39

As stated above and repeated here for convenience, Ringgren (11-12) indicates that attitudes of missionaries tend to fall into one of the following categories:

1. The superior attitude: ‘you are wrong, we have the truth.’ 2. The attitude of amelioration: ‘our views are basically the same, but they are better and deeper than yours.’

39 An example of this is the male initiation rituals among the Ngiang of Papua New Guinea. Jewish notions of ritual circumcision brought by contact with stories from the Christian Old Testament from missionaries have merged with indigenous Ngiang traditions to create a syncretic set of rituals, wherein “the Bible has become an important source of legitimation of their ritual activities” (Kempf 113).

58 As a “religion with claims of absoluteness,” the attitudes displayed by historical Christian missionaries tend to be situated in the “superior attitude” (Ringgren 11).40 The descriptions of illicit, syncretistic blendings in missionary writings also normally evidence this. This attitude of superiority sets the stage not only for a missionary interpretation of syncretism (wherein missionaries see “syncretism” when members of their indigenous congregation start to incorporate Christian elements into their perspectives), but also for the backlash of anti- syncretism as well. In this instance, if syncretism is rampant and inherently evil, then it is perfectly natural for the missionaries to distinguish “licit” Christianity from “illicit” syncretic religion.

Crucial to the relationship between syncretism and anti-syncretism is the notion of

“licitness” of religious beliefs and practices. Stewart & Shaw (1) note that regional variations of religions such as Christianity and Islam have been prime target for being categorized as syncretistic by missionaries and theologians. They state that for these writers, syncretism is often connected to notions of “inauthenticity” or “contamination” (Stewart & Shaw 1). The inclusion of elements perceived as non-Christian challenged missionary notions of the licitness of doctrine and practice, and as such was often met with strong condemnation of missionaries. As presented in the previous chapter on primary sources, there are several instances of perceived illicit religious blendings of the “Christian” and the “Sámi” as recorded in the writings of Scandinavian

Lutheran missionaries.

These fears surrounding religious blendings are not limited to this historical context, but go back to the early Church. Perhaps the earliest recorded controversy surrounding syncretism within Christianity was the controversy regarding Gentile converts to the faith in the first

40 Although almost all of the missionaries discussed in this dissertation fall into this category, not all instances of Christian mission exhibit a superior attitude. St. Paul’s sermon at the Aeropagus in Athens (Acts 17:16-34), in which he cites pre-Christian Greek belief as a precursor to the full truth of Christianity is a notable exception.

59 century. Before this, the vast majority of male Christians were Jews, and as such were already circumcised. With increasing numbers of Gentile believers, a group within the budding church began pushing for obligatory circumcision for all male Christians (Acts 15:1). Leaders of the church (including Saints Paul, Peter, and James the Just) organized what is now referred to as the

Council of Jerusalem or the Apostolic Council (Acts 15:6). After much debate, St. James the Just declared concerning circumcision that the church “should not trouble those Gentiles who are turning to God, but we should write to them to abstain only from things polluted by idols and from fornication and from whatever has been strangled and from blood” (Acts 15:19b-20,

NRSV). Here, a concession was made and Gentile believers were allowed to break from Jewish law as it pertained to male circumcision (although the prohibition against the consumption of blood remained). On the other hand, religious dietary restrictions were preserved in that new converts were admonished to abstain from foods contaminated by pagan rituals.

A later European example of blendings resulting from a Christian mission can be found in the largely forced conversion of the Saxons by the Franks during the early Middle Ages.

During multiple military campaigns by Charlemagne from 772 and 804, the Saxons were one of the last western Germanic groups compelled to submit Christian rule and to the authority of the

Church (Karras 553). As opposed to other Germanic-speaking peoples (e.g. Lombards, Anglo-

Saxons, Burgundians, and the Franks themselves), the Saxons had not come into had enough cultural contact with Christianized Rome for Christianity to make substantial inroads (Karras

553-54). As such, official conversion to Christianity was “a sudden operation, carried out under

Charlemagne’s military banner” (Karras 554).

The swiftness of Christianization in this instance did little to ensure the licitness of both belief and practice of the religion among the Saxons. Pre-Christian practices were outlawed and

60 baptism was required of all Saxons on pain of death (Karras 554). While it can often times be difficult to determine examples of surviving pre-Christian Germanic belief and practice among the Saxons, the harsh penalties for relapses into pre-Christian Germanic religion seem to indicate that this was a continuing problem for missionary efforts (Karras 559), e.g. in the changes made to burial practices after conversion, when Saxons adopted Christian funerary rites, but persisted in burying their dead in the same gravesites as during pre-Christian times (Karras 561).

Hultkrantz records similar instances of religious blending as a result of more recent missionary activity. Based on his fieldwork among the Shoshoni people of Wyoming, he notes the less-than-successful missions ranging from the beginning of contact with whites up until the modern day. A combination of early contacts with Catholicism via converted Iroquois trappers, a small Mormon presence, and a relatively small Episcopalian mission, led the Shoshoni to incorporate elements from Christianity into their indigenous beliefs and practices (Hultkrantz,

“Pagan”). Hultkrantz (“Pagan” 17) writes that the brief contact with Catholicism introduced the notion of keeping the Sabbath along with the practice of kneeling while praying. While these religious aspects came from Christianity, they were “implanted into an already existing Plateau

Indian religious movement, the so-called Prophet Dance, and transformed by the latter”

(Hultkrantz, “Pagan” 17).

Christian doctrines as taught to the Shoshoni by the Episcopalian mission were also integrated into an indigenous framework. According to the Episcopalian missionary Dr. John

Roberts (whom Hultkrantz met shortly before Roberts’ death in 1949), the Shoshoni’s knowledge of scripture and Christian doctrine was incomplete (Hultkrantz, “Pagan” 29). The concepts of Christ and the Holy Trinity were perplexing, and the figure of the devil was viewed from an indigenous Shoshoni perspective (Hultkrantz, “Pagan” 29-30). Instead of a fallen angel,

61 the Shoshoni called the devil ižapö ‘coyote’ or ‘prairie wolf’, i.e. the devil had become syncretized enough to assume effectively the role of the traditional Shoshoni trickster figure

(Hultkrantz, “Pagan” 30). Likewise, the Christian clergyman was viewed by the tribe as the puhagan ‘medicine man’, because he offered prayers for the sick (Hultkrantz, “Pagan” 30). In both instances, the Christian notions became imbedded within Shoshoni culture.

In all, “religious syncretism, in the wider sense of this term, is an expression for cultural contact, and in most cases it presupposes an advanced acculturation …” (Hultkrantz “Pagan”

15). He argues that Christianity is not an experienced religion in the same way that indigenous

(in this specific instance, Shoshoni) religion can be. Instead of focusing on rituals intended to help with everyday life (e.g. a sacrifice to ensure bountiful crops), Christianity tends to emphasize correct practice (i.e. orthopraxy) and (especially in its Protestant forms) correct belief

(i.e. orthodoxy), both with the focus of an eternal life beyond this one. Because of this, when a religious worldview that focuses on specific beliefs and practices (such as the Christian one, which places emphasis on orthodoxy and orthopraxy) comes into contact with a religion has more of a experiential and practical focus, elements taken in from the missionary religion tend to be concentrated on enhancing the religious experience of the latter. In the case of the contact between indigenous Shoshoni spirituality and Western (largely Protestant) Christianity, the

Shoshoni incorporated Christian symbols into their spirituality to make it more attractive in the context of the (at least largely culturally) Christian United States (Hultkrantz “Pagan” 22). This appears to also have happened in the Sámi-missionary contact situation, where Sámi began to place the new religion of Christianity within an indigenous worldview and syncretize elements of both religions.

62 Many encounters leading to syncretic religious blendings exhibit what van der Leeuw calls “transposition.” For van der Leeuw (99), transposition is a facet of syncretism that entails a

“variation in the significance of any phenomenon, occurring in the dynamic of religions, while its form remains quite unaltered.” These transpositions occur primarily during reformations and missions. During these times, preexisting religious structures are upset, with new, competing religious structures vying to take their place. An example of this can be found in Protestant reevaluations of the sacrament of Communion during the Reformation (van der Leeuw 100).

While the Lutherans retained communion, it was transposed from its former Roman Catholic interpretation of transubstantiation (i.e. the Eucharistic elements of bread and wine are truly the body and blood of Christ) to a new Lutheran meaning (i.e. the body and blood of Christ are truly present in the meal).41

Whereas van der Leeuw speaks of “transposition,” Meyer uses the notion of “translation” to describe a very similar syncretistic phenomenon. In her writing on the translation of Christian religious terms into the language of the Ewe people of modern-day Ghana, she notes that

“meanings [i.e. of religious concepts and terms] change through translation and it is impossible to find terms which objectively mirror the original one” (Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 62).

While this has been the bane of translators (both religious and secular) for millennia, Meyer extends the linguistic metaphor to the changes that occur in the religious worldview of the missionized people during the missionary encounter. She writes, “Mutual intelligibility between two languages is neither a given nor an impossibility, but something to be constituted by intersubjective dialogue across cultural boundaries” (Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 62). If the

41 Compare Catechism 1376 (“… by the consecration of the bread and wine there takes place a change of the whole substance of the bread into the substance of the body of Christ our Lord and of the whole substance of the wine into the substance of his blood. This change the holy Catholic Church has fittingly and properly called transubstantiation”) and Augsburg Confession, Art. X (“Concerning the Lord’s Supper they teach that the body and blood of Christ are truly present and are distributed to those who eat the Lord’s Supper.”).

63 dialogue across cultural boundaries is the situation that necessitates a “translation,” then

“translation … can be understood as interpreting and transforming the original statement, and thereby creating something of a new quality” (Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 62).

To apply both these notions of “transposition” and “translation” to the Christianized

Saxons and Shoshoni discussed above, the pre-Christian gravesites became infused with new,

Christian meaning. Here, indigenous Saxon burial practices are both transposed and translated into a new, Saxon Christianity. In the Shoshoni case, the Christian clergyman is both transposed with indigenous, Shoshoni meaning and translated into a new form of the puhagan ‘medicine man.’ Likewise here, the clergyman is transposed into indigenous Shoshoni spirituality. It would thus seem that transposition as a syncretistic phenomenon can function in either direction, as well as potentially in both directions at once.

A potential downside or weakness to “syncretism” as a religious concept lies in the historical malleability of the term. Leopold and Jensen therefore argue that none of these historical definitions of syncretism can be used to define the phenomenon for the critical study of religions (“Introduction to Part II” 16). They note multiple difficulties associated with the term, such as the problems surrounding how one should measure the extent to which a particular religious system has become syncretized (Leopold & Jensen, “General Introduction” 5). It would seem that the underlying challenge of syncretism is its lack of a common denominator among scholars (Leopold & Jensen, “General Introduction” 7).

Of particular interest here is Pakkanen’s statement that syncretism is a “theoretical invention,” and thus has no bearing on actual religious reality (Pakkanen 86). She has (perhaps correctly) criticized the use of the concept as “explaining syncretism with syncretism” (Pakkanen

87). Instead of this, Pakkanen opts for viewing syncretism as a heuristic tool (Leopold & Jensen,

64 “General Introduction” 6; cf. Pakkanen). Leopold and Jensen (“General Introduction” 6) add that

“a category only proves useful if it can say something new about the object in question,” and note that “a narrow connection between category and object makes for narrow explanations.”

They conclude that the value of any category (here “syncretism”) should lie in its ability to tell us what a phenomenon is, as well as to explain why and how it is that way (Leopold and Jensen

“General Introduction” 6).

This creates a similar situation to that of the historical definition of “religion,” where the meaning of the term is so flexible that it becomes very difficult to use in different socio-historical contexts. Smith (281-282) writes that, because of this uncertainty behind the term, “religion” is a term coined by scholars in order to help them conceptualize theological and societal implications of the supernatural. As such, it is up to individual scholars to define the term based on their needs and goals. In this light, this dissertation seeks to overcome the limitations of “syncretism” as outlined by Leopold and Jensen above by defining syncretism as the perceived blending of elements of one religious system with those originating from a foreign one. In this manner, the definition of syncretism employed in this dissertation focuses on the perceived threats against the licitness of Christian belief and practices in the minds of the missionaries, as opposed to defining syncretistic religious expression solely as a term seeking to define an objective, religious phenomenon (cf. Stewart & Shaw 7).

Anti-syncretism

If, in the context of the missionary encounter, the combined threats to orthodox belief and practice that missionaries perceive among their flocks constituted syncretism, then the pushback against those aberrant beliefs and practices by the missionaries constitutes anti-syncretism.

65 Stewart & Shaw (7) write that the study of syncretism is essentially one of “the politics of religious synthesis.” As emissaries of a particular faith, missionaries are concerned with the defense of religious boundaries. When these borders are crossed, battle lines are drawn around the licit form of the particular religion. Stewart & Shaw write that, “anti-syncretism is frequently bound up with the constructions of ‘authenticity,’ which is in turn linked to notions of ‘purity’”

(7). While it would seem that to be “pure” is to be “authentic,” Stewart & Shaw contend that

“’authenticity’ or ‘originality’ do not necessarily depend on purity” (7). If, instead of “purity,” one looks at a particular religion’s “uniqueness”, the purity model is disturbed. In the sense that they are all different from one another, each individual religions (or form of a particular religion) is unique from the rest. Looking at “uniqueness” concentrates on the particular characteristics of a form of religion, as opposed to looking at its “purity,” which instead wants to make a theological argument about the particular form of religion’s orthodoxy. Following this theoretical model, a form of religious expression that one group (usually the one in the position of power) views as syncretic is as equally unique as the “pure” form of that religion (Stewart & Shaw 7). In order to avoid the problems noted by Stewart & Shaw (7), this dissertation focuses instead on the purported licit (or illicit) nature of the beliefs and practices that Lutheran missionaries witnessed among the Sámi they were trying to convert.

The term “syncretic” has remained theological invective within Western religious scholarship (Stewart & Shaw 7; cf. Rudolph 68). However, the question of “authenticity” lingers.

Stewart & Shaw (7) note that within the Western scholarship, “the implicit belief remains that assertions of purity speak out naturally and transcendentally as assertions of authenticity.” Here, being an “authentic” example of a religion is reduced to being the same as the “pure” form of the same religion. As to the missionary contact situation between the Sámi and Lutheran

66 missionaries, it is crucial that this dissertation critically approach not only the missionary condemnation of indigenous Sámi lifeways as “superstition” (i.e. illicit and thereby impure religion), but the often strongly anti-syncretistic stance of missionary accounts of Sámi spirituality. While missionaries to the Sámi were most likely not conscious of the framework of

“syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism,” their status as emissaries of a new religion tasked with converting the Sámi to Lutheran Christianity speaks to the applicability of this theoretical model to this period of religious change. Similarly, the multiple instances of the term overtro

‘superstition’ present in missionary writings attests to the presence of these concepts within their theological worldviews.

Anti-syncretism in missions

Much as Calixt suffered condemnation during the Reformation due to his attempts to set aside theological differences in order to rally the forces of western Christendom, anti-syncretism appears in many writings left by missionaries of various denominations who encountered beliefs and practices that did not adhere to their understanding of orthodox Christian religion. Because of the intense cultural interaction and hybridization that arose as a result of European colonialism, missions organized by colonial powers can provide many examples of anti- syncretistic rhetoric. Some noteworthy ones are briefly discussed below.

Leopold and Jensen write that with the increase of Christian missions alongside colonial ventures outside of Europe, the notion of syncretism as a detrimental result of failed missionary activity began to be seen (Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 16). Early Catholic missions tended to view syncretism in an irenic sense similar to that of Calixt. During early missions in present-day Mexico, Franciscans and Dominicans sought “to settle the Indians

67 around churches … and convert them by colourful ceremonies” (McManners 305-08; cf.

Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 16). In China Jesuits such as Matteo Ricci (1552-

1610) attempted to bring in elements from Confucianism to make Christianity more culturally compatible (Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 16). Likewise, in Japan the Jesuit

Francis Xavier (1506-1552) adapted Christianity to Japanese culture in hopes of converting

Japanese lords. Because of the great need for political support for the mission, “local customs not directly contradictory to Christianity were to be accepted” (McManners 315; cf. Leopold &

Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 16). In China, for instance, Ricci wore the clothing of a

Confucian scholar, and adapted Confucian practices (such as the ritual honoring of ancestors) to fit within a Catholic context (Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 16-17). The Jesuits championed the recruitment of clergy from indigenous populations during the 17th century, but by the early 18th century the Jesuits had fallen out of favor and Rome abandoned their more irenic policies (Leopold & Jensen, “Introduction to Part II” 17). Leopold and Jensen

(“Introduction to Part II” 17) note that, despite this anti-syncretic change in Catholic missionary policy, Catholicism has historically been more open to the inclusion of non-Christian elements than Protestantism. While this is difficult to demonstrate conclusively, the Protestant missions to the Sámi contain a relatively large amount of anti-syncretistic polemic. The analysis chapter examines how this polemic fits within both of these theoretical frameworks.

Demonization of pre-Christian beliefs and practices

In line with Ringgren’s “superior attitude,” one of the most commonly realized aspects of anti-syncretism in missionary writings is the casting of indigenous spirituality as evil. This

“diabolization” (cf. Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 63) can be found in records from Christian

68 missions going back to the Early Church, and continues to be active in modern missions as well.

Early Christian examples of the diabolization of pagan religion is found in the writings of

Minucius Felix, who writes that “unclean spirits” find their hiding places “under statues and consecrated images” (Octavius, 27). Here, even the physical culture associated with pagan belief and practices was inherently contaminated by unclean spirits in the guise of gods.

An example of this process from the early Middle Ages can be found in the baptismal vow that the Saxons were required to take during their largely forced conversion to Christianisty reviewed above. The vow is recorded in the Indiculus superstitionum et paganiarum ‘Small index of superstitions and paganism’ as follows: “And I renounce all the deeds and words of the devil, Thunær and Wōden, and Saxnōt, and all those fiends that are their companions” (Simek

276).42 In this oath, the newly Christianized Saxons were not only required to renounce the

(presumably) three main gods of their people along with all others, but also to declare that these pagan deities were fallen angels, which in turn implies that the Saxons were, in fact, worshippers of demons. If this were the case, then it follows that they were worthy of punishment and in need of forced conversion, at least in the minds of the Frankish forces.

Similar situations have occurred in many areas of Christian missionary activity. Writing in the context of missions to the Ewe people in modern-day Ghana by German missionary groups (such as the Pietist Norddeutsche Missionsgesellschaft), Meyer points out that “the missionaries, in an effort to convince the Ewe to convert, preached that the Devil was the power behind the gods and ghosts hitherto worshipped by them” (Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 63). In a later work, Translating the Devil, Meyer notes that the demonization of popular religion had begun previously in Germany. Pietists saw both Catholics and Protestants as both guilty of

42 ‘End ec forsacho allum diaboles uuercum and uuordum, Thunær ende Uuôden ende Saxnôte ende allum thêm unholdun thê hira genôtas sint’ (Simek 276).

69 superstition and witchcraft because of their belief in spirits and their use of rituals to ward them off (Meyer, Translating 49). The Pietists then brought this theological mindset of ever-present demonic forces to their missionary work among the Ewe. The Monatsblatt of the Norddeutsche

Missionsgesellschaft states:

There is an authority of darkness, an influence of diabolical powers. It is more pronounced among those who worship idols and who are thus subject to the direct control of darkness. These are the heathens surrounding us, separated from God, but all the more bound to the Devil (Meyer, Translating 83; Meyer’s emphasis).43

Rather than banish the pagan powers from Ewe belief, this missionary tactic instead caused all pre-Christian spirits to be retained within Ewe Christianity under the category of the “Devil”

(Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 63). Meyer writes that by doing this the Ewe were given a way to transition from their pre-Christian beliefs to Ewe Protestantism (63-64). She also notes that, “this has been repeated over and over again in the diffusion of Christian religion all over the world”

(64).

The Pietist Christian view of the “Devil” as pervasive evil did not exist as such within indigenous Ewe belief, thus making it necessary for the missionaries to translate not only the term, but also the concept of “the Devil” into the new indigenous context. This act of translation, however, occurred in a manner that the missionaries were most likely not expecting. Meyer writes that due to this, the terms “no longer mean what they meant in either the source or the target language” (Meyer, “Beyond Syncretism” 62). This is strikingly similar to other missionary contact situations, such as Saxon burial practices (Karras 561), Shoshoni beliefs surrounding

43 This excerpt cites from two Pauline letters. The first is 1 Corinthians 10:20: “No, I imply that what pagans sacrifice, they sacrifice to demons and not to God. I do not want you to be partners with demons” (NRSV). The second is from Ephesians 6:12: “For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (NRSV). Meyer found this source in the Archiv der Norddeutschen Mission in Bremen. The original source was unfortunately unavailable to me and I have therefore relied on Meyer’s translation and discussion here.

70 Christian clergy (Hultkrantz 30), and Sámi interacting with Christianity in a typically Sámi way

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 25). In this way, syncretism as a result of mission can result in forms of indigenous Christianity that are simultaneously divergent from both traditional indigenous lifeways as well as from the European versions of Christianity brought by missionaries.

Conclusion

This work places the perceived licit (as well as the perceived illicit) nature of both Sámi indigenous spirituality, as well as the newly forming varieties of Christianity among the Sámi as recorded by the missionary writers covered in the chapter on primary sources at the forefront of its methodology. By keeping the notion of the licitness of religious belief and practice in mind, this project will show how the longstanding Christian terminology surrounding both “religion” and “superstition” played a significant role in the missionary portrayals of Sámi spirituality during the Early Modern period. Additionally, it explores how anti-syncretic, missionary reactions to real or perceived syncretic blendings of the “Christian” and the “Sámi” in the religious lives of the people they were attempting to convert.

These missionary portrayals of the Sámi constitute examples of what Meyer (Translating,

60) refers to as “missionary ethnography.” She notes that since the majority of sources in missionary contact situations are written by the missionaries themselves, any sort of accurate view of pre-contact indigenous spirituality can be difficult. Writing specifically about missionary writings on Ewe religion Meyer (Translating 60) writes, “Rather than mirroring actual Ewe religious deeds and practices, the descriptions echo the missionary bias which not only influenced the missionaries’ perception of this religion, but also their actual communication with

71 the Ewe.” In the same vein, this dissertation project approaches the missionary writings on Sámi spirituality from the 17th-19th centuries via Meyer’s “missionary ethnography.” This dissertation places particular emphasis on the theological frameworks and worldviews that the Scandinavian

Lutheran missionaries brought with them to their missionary work among the Sámi, as well as

(more crucially) how these frameworks influenced how the missionaries categorized and portrayed Sámi spirituality. While the focus is primarily on missionary portrayals of Sámi spirituality, the importance the missionaries placed on licit religious belief and practice makes their representations of Sámi spirituality ideal for gathering greater insight into Scandinavian views (both missionary and otherwise) of this period.

The following chapter applies the theoretical models outlined here to the depictions of indigenous Sámi spirituality as recorded in these missionaries’ writings. It draws from the writings of the Scandinavian Lutheran missionary authors presented in the previous chapters.

Their descriptions of Sámi beliefs and practices that portray the indigenous spirituality as evil are of prime importance, in line with the focus on missionary diabolization described above.

Additionally, the following chapter focuses on how missionary writers placed indigenous Sámi spirituality together with other forms of what for them was illicit religion. Here, confessional differences between Lutherans and other Christian denominations play a role in the characterizations of Sámi spirituality, as well as fears of the Sámi mixing the Christianity being brought by the missionaries with native understandings of the material and spiritual worlds.

The following chapter examines the missionary writings left behind by Lutheran missionaries such as Thomas von Westen, Hans Skanke, Isaac Olsen, and Jens Kildal among others. The portrayals of indigenous life are compiled and synthesized into a more cohesive view of the missionary conception of Sámi belief and practiced. Of particular importance are

72 depictions of indigenous Sámi spirituality that portray their beliefs and practices as illicit, dangerous “superstition.” Also of importance in the following chapter is the condemnation of what the missionaries saw as the illicit blending of the “Sámi” and the “Christian.” This in turn will allow for more holistic theoretical analyses of the early anthropology in which the missionaries engaged in the chapter of this dissertation dealing with my theoretical methods and definitions. These missionary descriptions will in turn allow for an analysis of the theological foundations upon which the missionary writers stood in the fourth chapter.

73

Chapter 3:

Scandinavian Lutheran missionary writings on Sámi traditional religion

Asnoted above, the majority of the earlier sources concerning the Sámi were written by non-Sámi, specifically by missionaries of the state churches of Denmark-Norway and Sweden.

Because of this, the extant view of Sámi belief and practice (as well as the sometimes profound changes in these that resulted from conversion) represents a predominantly Christian and ethnically Scandinavian perspective. This poses a problem for any sort of truly objective diachronic analysis of changes within Sámi belief and practice with the establishment of

Lutheran Christianity as the predominant religion in Sámi areas of northern Scandinavia, as genuinely Sámi perspectives on traditional lifeways do not begin to appear until the mid-19th century. A potential solution (made use of here) is to shift the focus away from the actual beliefs and practices within Sámi groups during the period of Christianization, and instead focus upon the beliefs and practices that those missionaries, travelers, and church officials who came into contact with the Sámi thought the Sámi possessed. This will contribute to an intellectual history of Lutheran missionary writings and conversion tactics, as opposed to a history of religious change amongst the original inhabitants of Scandinavia.

From the beginnings of concerted conversion efforts in Scandinavia starting in the early

17th century and lasting through the early 20th century, missionaries wrote about a variety of aspects of Sámi life, ranging from their reindeer herding techniques to garment production. Of particular interest to this project are those letters, sermons, pamphlets, and books written by non-

Sámi that provide descriptions of Sámi beliefs and practices. While some works focus more on the structures of belief behind Sámi religious practices, the majority of the primary sources used

74 for project have sections devoted to the enumeration (and largely the condemnation) of these practices. In this vein, this chapter concerns itself with examples of missionary writing that reveal how missionaries conceived of these beliefs and practices within in the theological categories of religio (i.e. “religion,” licit belief and practice) and superstitio (i.e. “superstition,” illicit belief and practice). Firstly this chapter presents how missionaries used these theological categories as they pertained to Sámi belief, and follows with how those missionaries portrayed

Sámi practice. This chapter presents missionary depictions and characterizations of indigenous

Sámi spirituality from relevant primary sources, with the sources being organized chronologically.

Of particular importance to this chapter were those sources that attempted not only to record instances of Sámi spirituality, but also to theorize and describe Sámi spirituality in a systematic manner. These parts of the primary sources are discussed in separate sections within this chapter, and the main sections of this chapter are “Sámi belief” and “Sámi practice.”44 “Sámi belief” deals with how the writers conceived of Sámi gods and spirits, as well as the different realms of Sámi cosmology. In “Sámi practice”, particular focus is placed upon how the missionaries viewed the noaidi as the ritual specialist or “priest” of the Sámi. Additionally, this last section looks at Sámi rituals (which missionaries referred to as “sacraments”).

Missionary sources on Sámi belief

Much as in sources from the Early Church concerning the dominant Roman culture of the day, the Lutheran missionaries who wrote about the Sámi saw “superstition” in many aspects of

44 This chapter could also have been organized according to larger, more theoretical terms such as “superstition” or “syncretism.” I have chosen to distinguish between missionary depictions of Sámi “belief” and “practice” because this is how the majority of missionaries devide their descriptions of indigenous Sámi spirituality. Since this dissertation focuses on these missionary descriptions and not on what Sámi spirituality actually was like, I follow the missionaries in this respect.

75 life among their indigenous flocks. While their reason for recording any and all instances of

Sámi lifeways to a certain extent seems to have been to gain a fuller understanding of the variety of folk culture within the kingdoms of Denmark-Norway and Sweden, it also served the greater purpose of exposing any and all instances of afguderi ‘idolatry’ in their respective realms. As stated above, the fear of God’s retribution for the continued practice of non-Christian

(specifically non-Lutheran) religion was a real one in the minds of Scandinavian monarchs and state churches (Widén 15 fn., cf. Rydving, Drum-Time 54-55). It was thus paramount that all of their subjects were properly catechized and living godly, Christian lives.

These fears of divine retribution appear often in missionary writings, and manifest themselves often in the strong anti-Sámi sentiment present there. Some of these concrete forms were the spiritual beings whom missionary writers listed as the false gods that the Sámi continued to serve in spite of divine, ecclesiastical and royal decree. These consisted of purported otherworldly entities (such as deities or the spirits of the dead), who (depending on the missionary) may or may not have been demonic powers in disguise. The inherent spiritual danger these false gods posed was amplified by the actions of those who believed in and served in said deities. These more concrete missionary fears sometimes took the form of people such as the noadit, whom missionaries readily identified as the main servants of the false gods and heads of Sámi ritual life; at other times ecclesiastical anxieties were focused on the physical implements of idolatry, e.g., sacred places, objects used during sacrifices, or tools for divination such as the runebomme. Following this format, this chapter begins with an exploration of how missionaries conceptualized Sámi beliefs, followed by a critical analysis of how the more concrete examples of cultic life were handled in missionary writings. This dissertation chose the missionary accounts of Sámi spirituality presented here based on the detail with which they

76 described the pre-Christian beliefs of the Sámi, their rituals, and how the Sámi blended

Christianity with their pre-Christian religion. It uses the works of Johannes Tornæus (1625-?),

Johannes Schefferus (1621-1679), Isaac Olsen (c.1680-1739), Thomas von Westen (1682-1727),

Jens Kildal (1683-1767), Hans Skanke (1679-1739), and Lars Levi Læstadius (1800-1866).

Johannes Tornæus was one of the early missionaries to the Sámi who wrote extensively about their beliefs, practices, and lifestyle. His birthplace and date are unknown, although it is known that he began his studies at the University of Uppsala on February 16, 1625 under the name Johannes Jonæ Bothniensis, which he later changed to Tornæus to signify that he was from

Torneå. He received his master’s degree in 1632 and became a pastor in 1640 in the Nedertorneå parish in Sweden, which lies near the modern Finnish border (Tornæus 6). At the time of the writing of his 1653 work Berättelse om Lapmarkerna och deras Tillstånd ‘Accounts of the

Lapmark regions and their current state’, Tornæus had already worked for 32 years as a pastor in

Torneå (Tornæus 7).

Tornæus’ work concerns itself with many aspects of Sámi life, from their origins as a distinct group of peoples to their hunting and fishing practices, as well as their spirituality.

Tornæus writes that the Sámi worship Seitär (sing. Seita), which he describes as general deities

(both male and female) and notes that one can find their idols made of a variety of materials such as stone and wood (Tornæus 27). The Sámi give these Seitär all their devotion, and sacrifice the best of all they have (most notably reindeer) to them (Tornæus 27). Tornæus (28) also notes that these Seitär have different names in different regions.

Like Kildal and Læstadius, Tornæus attempts to draw connections to classical Greco-

Roman myth and practice in his descriptions of Sámi life.45 In his view, while the Seitär are

45 This is similar to Tacitus’ portrayal of Germanic religion in light of Roman religion in his Germania. He writes, “As for gods, Mercury is the one they worship the most, and on certain days they think it right to propitiate him even

77 demons in disguise, they lack the power to make their idols speak and answer those noaidit who attempt to acquire knowledge from them. In order to work around this, the Sámi created instruments through which the Seitär or demons could speak. This, he notes, is just like what happened with the Oraculum Apollonis (the Oracle of Apollo), otherwise known as the Oracle at

Delphi (Tornæus 29). Additionally, Tornæus mentions the Caananite god Ba’al in connection to the Sámi Seitär, writing that those who spend all day waiting for signs from the Seitär are just like the “prophets of Ba’al” (Tornæus 37),46 a reference to the prophet Elijah’s competition with the prophets of Ba’al recorded in the Old Testament (1 Kings 18:20-40).47

Of the earliest writings on Sámi belief, Johannes Schefferus’ 1673 Lapponia ‘Lapland’ provides the longest description of what the Sámi were thought to believe. Schefferus’ Lapponia reworks the Presterelasjonere ‘Pastoral Reports,’ the collection of reports by Swedish clergy on the Sámi (Storfjell 132). The growing military and commercial power in Sweden during the reign of Queen Christina (1632-1654) had begun to attract scholars to enhance and expand academic life in the kingdom, and as part of this movement Schefferus, who was originally from

Strassbourg, became professor of law and rhetoric at the University of Uppsala in 1648

(Ahlström I; Löw 9). Queen Christina gave Schefferus his position at Uppsala to compile and rework the Presterelasjonere into one volume, which became the Lapponia (Storfjell123-32). In preparation for his Lapponia, Schefferus began to study Sweden in earnest. The Peace of

Westphalia (1648), which marked the end of the Thirty Years’ War, was signed in the same year

with human victims. Hercules and Mars they appease with lawful animals. Part of the Suebi sacrifice also to Isis …” (Germania, 9.I) 46 ‘Baals propheter’ (Tornæus 37). 47 When Ahab the King of Israel continued to worship Ba’al, Elijah assembled the priests of Ba’al and challenged them to a competition. Two bulls were brought in and placed on wood to make an offering. Ba’al’s prophets prayed long and hard for their god to set fire to the offering, even cutting themselves to assuage him. After much time, they were unable to light the offering. Elijah had water poured three times on the offering as well as in a trench surrounding it in order to God in order to make it all the harder to light the offering. Despite this, God heard Elijah’s prayers and burnt the offering as well as the water in the trench.

78 that Schefferus went to Sweden. With Swedish troops having been quite active on the Protestant side during the war, rumors on the Catholic side of the conflict had sprung up concerning the

Swedes’ prowess on the battlefield. Some said that Sweden’s military successes were due to “the witchcraft of Lappish sorcerers in the armies of Gustavus Adolphus” (Ahlström I).

In a simultaneous effort to curb such views of Sweden as a barbarous and pagan land and to portray his adopted homeland as a shining beacon of civilization in the north, Schefferus read everything he could concerning the current living situation and beliefs of Sweden’s Sámi inhabitants. Despite his many efforts to gain the most accurate knowledge of Sámi in Sweden,

Schefferus himself never traveled north to study them, meaning that he was relying largely on hearsay for his conclusions. However, his account still displays an interesting characterization of

Sámi spirituality. He requested that the local bailiffs and clergy of the regions of the kingdom with Sámi residents send him field reports, and he came into at least cursory contact with the

Sámi who came south to Uppsala during the winter to sell their goods (Ahlström). Schefferus produced his Lapponia in 1673, which was subsequently translated and published into German,

Dutch, French and English.48 Ahlström notes the peculiar dichotomy that Schefferus presents in his study of the Sámi. On one hand, they lived in relative peace compared to the rest of Europe, and due to a physiological difference in their bodily fluids they had no skill in fighting. On the other hand, the Sámi retained their pre-Christian ways, which includes commercia cum demonibus ‘commerce with the powers of darkness’ (Ahlström II). Contemporary stories of magical and arcane events resulting from “Lappish” wizards were to be taken seriously by the author; so much so that Ahlström (II) categorizes Schefferus’ work as “a thrilling book on black magic disguised as ethnography.”

48 The English quotations from Schefferus given here come from Acton Cremer’s 1674 translation The History of Lapland.

79 In this light, Schefferus provides a description of Sámi worship. In the 25th chapter (“Of the Religion of the Laplanders”), he seems to be aware of the often contentious and ongoing

Christianization process in the north when he states that it took a long time before they could be called Christian. He also seems to have been aware of the uncompleted nature of conversion among the Sámi, since he notes that they in effect possess two religions: the newer, Christian one and the older traditional one (Schefferus 21). Perhaps as a result of such a long and contentious meeting of religious worldviews, Schefferus had difficulty distinguishing between the religious beliefs of the Sámi and the neighboring peoples, most notably those of the Finns and the pre-

Christian Norse. As an example of this, he writes that the Sámi and the Finns both called their highest god Jumala (Schefferus 21-22).49 He additionally attempts to connect other Sámi deities to pre-Christian Scandinavia equivalents, noting that “the Laplanders had a God whom the

Swedes call Thor…”, who was himself not quite unlike Jumala (Schefferus 22-23). Thor is also called by the “Lapps” Tiermes, which Schefferus writes literally means “any thing that makes a noise” (Schefferus 7). This is then supposedly connected to Thor and Jupiter’s connection to the natural elements of thunder and lightning (cf. Læstadius, Fragmenter 15).

The second main god of the Sámi is recorded by Schefferus (37) as Storjunkare, whose name means “great lord” in Swedish. The Sámi in Norway refer to him by this translated name, which Schefferus attributes to the growing adoption of Norwegian by the Sámi. Storjunkare is supposed to be the second-in-command to Tiermes, and is believed to bestow abundant reindeer on those who revere his name (Schefferus 37). Further, different Sámi groups often have different names for the same gods, thus connecting Storjunkare to the Seita (cf. Tornæus above)

(Schefferus 36). According to Schefferus (38), the third major deity for the Sámi is the Sun,

49 Jumala is still the name for God in Finnish, cf. Læstadius, Fragments 96.

80 referred to as Baiwe in Sámi.50 He explains that the worship of the sun “is common to them with all other Pagans…”, and that the Sámi “worship him chiefly for his light and heat” along with the sun’s power to give life to all of nature (Schefferus 38).

In chapter 26 (“Of some remains of Paganism in Lapland at this time”), Schefferus gives a brief description of Sámi beliefs concerning the dead. On their contact with the Christian belief in the resurrection of the dead, he writes, “they fancy to themselves that men and beasts go the same way; and will not be perswaded that there is any life after this” (Schefferus 35) – although directly thereafter he records that “Notwithstanding they believe that something of a man remains after he is dead, but they know not what it is; which was the very opinion of the

Heathens, who there feign’d their Manes to be somewhat that did remain after death” (Schefferus

35, cf. von Westen, “Bref” 2).51 In a similar fashion, he notes that besides these “Manes” the

Sámi worship “Spectres and Demons, which they say wander about Rocks, Woods, Rivers, and

Lakes, such as the Romans describe their Fauni, Sylvani, and Tritons to be” (Schefferus 35).

Along with these the Sámi were to have believed in multiple kinds of genii loci, spirits tied to certain locations whom were believed to have particularly active in the time surrounding

Christmas (Schefferus 35). As with his drawing connections between Roman gods and the gods of the Sámi, in these examples Schefferus draws a connection between the Sámi belief and classical examples of Roman superstitio.

The next scholar considered here, Isaac Olsen, was born around the year 1680 and studied grammar and rhetoric in Trondheim. He then became a private teacher at the household of a pastor in western Finnmark in 1703 (Olsen 3). After this, Olsen traveled through Dano-

50 It is unclear which (if any) Sámi language Schefferus is using for these deity names, although in light of his brief contact with Sámi in Uppsala, it could perhaps be guessed that the names are in Southern Sámi. 51 The Oxford Dictionary of Ancient Greece and Rome defines manes as ‘holy spirits of the dead’ or the ‘good ones’ (”Death”).

81 Norwegian Finnmark and studied the culture of the Sámi that lived there. During his travels, he worked together with missionaries such as Thomas von Westen in their efforts to expose the rampant afguderi of the Sámi and convert them to Christianity. His efforts were so appreciated by the missionaries of the Dano-Norwegian state church, that he was sent to Copenhagen in 1718 to teach at the seminary for missionaries there (Olsen 4). Olsen also translated a large part of

Luther’s Small Catechism and the Athanasian Creed into Sámi, as well as the Gospel of

Matthew, two chapters of the Gospel of John, and three chapters of Genesis (Olsen 4-5). In 1717 he became an interpres et informator lingvæ Lapponicæ ‘interpreter and tutor in the Lappish language’ at Trondheim (Oslen 4). Despite the considerable amount of Christian materials that he translated into Sámi, Olsen was dismissed as a translator in 1720 for lack of ability. In light of this, Olsen left Copenhagen in 1722 and managed to find a position as a sacristan at the Vår Frue

Kirke ‘Church of Our Lady’ in Trondheim. He remained at this position until his death in 1730

(Olsen 5).

The majority of Olsen’s Om Lappernes Vildfarelser og Overtro ‘On the Errors and

Superstition of the Lapps’ names and condemns the various physical religious practices (e.g. divination by means of runebomme, etc.) of the Sámi. When he does discuss Sámi gods, it is always intended to expose them for the evil spirits they are. Like the majority of missionary writings on the Sámi, Olsen connects any and all Sámi deities to Christian demons. He writes of the “devils that teach them [the Sámi] magical arts and manifest themselves before them and help and instruct them, the Sámi suppose that they are God’s angels” (Olsen 10).52 The noaidi- gadze (spirits who assist noaidit) bear the brunt of this condemnation, as they are labeled “a kind

52 ‘…Dievele som lærer dem troldkonsten og aabenbarer sig for dem og hielper og under viser dem, de samme fomeener de at skulle være guds Engle’ (Olsen 10).

82 of devil among the Finns and Lapps” (Olsen 30).53 One particularly notorious type of noaidi- gadze is the Perkel-gadze, which Olsen (67) describes as the devil’s own gadze (cf. Modern

Finnish perkele ‘devil, fiend’). Olsen writes that the noaidi-gadze teach their noaidit magical spells and are the cause of much harm for the Christians in Finnmark.

Jens Kildal (1683-1767) served as a missionary in the Nordland and Salten provinces of

Denmark-Norway. He was a friend of his superior Thomas von Westen and both collaborated not only in converting the local Sámi of the region, but also in compiling ethnographical data on their Sámi parishioners. Kildal’s missionary work there was particularly successful, and the Sámi there destroyed and burnt their sacrificial sites and built a church in Herjangen at their own expense (Steen 121). Their conversion particularly impressed von Westen (“Forklaring” 839), who remarked upon passing through Kildal’s parish that “from raw and wild barbarians, they had become Christian people” (cf. Steen 121).54

Kildal published his Afguderiets Dempelse, og den Sande Lærdoms Fremgang ‘The

Suppression of Idolatry and the Advancement of the True Doctrine’ in 1730, three years after the death of von Westen. The work is written as a sermon and uses much of the material gathered by von Westen between 1722-1723 (Steen 32-33). Like many of the other missionary writings examined here, Kildal’s Dempelse seeks to expose and condemn what was seen as the rampant idolatry among the Sámi. As such, Kildal explains that “the gods that they had worshiped until that point (i.e. until they encountered Christianity) were devils” (Kildal 104).55 Despite this blanket rejection of all Sámi deities as demonic, Kildal does provide a fairly detailed description

53 ‘Det er Et slags Dievele i blant finnerne og lapperne hvilken som kaldis paa finsk Noaidi-gadze…’ (Olsen 30). Olsen (67-68) furthermore writes that the Sámi word gadze could possibly be connected with the Old Norse word gast as well as the German word Geist, both of which mean ‘ghost, spirit’. 54 ‘fra raae og vilde Barbarer, vare de blevne christne Mennesker’ (von Westen, “Forklaring” 839). 55 ‘…at de guder, som de, til den tiid, havde dyrket, vare dievle’ (Kildal 104).

83 of the main gods. He also compares them to Greco-Roman deities and describes the means by which the demons behind the Sámi gods work against the missionaries.

In the beginning of his work, Kildal provides the reader with a general overview of Sámi religious belief. Drawing upon the mythographical work that von Westen conducted, Kildal mentions certain deities that feature prominently in other missionary writings. The first of these is the god Maymenradien, whom Kildal describes as the “counseler of the world (this is Jupiter)”

(Kildal 105).56 Another deity that receives much attention from Scandinavian missionaries during this period is the goddess Sarakka, whom Kildal categorizes as the “woman of childbirth- the one who moves the child from the mother during childbirth; she is Juno” (105).57

As can be seen in the examples cited above, like most other of the missionary writers discussed here, Kildal translates Sámi deities not just in terms of their function within Sámi belief and practice, but also into their classical Mediterranean counterparts. To support his work to convert the Sámi, Kildal calls upon conversion narratives from the Old and New Testaments, as well as early Church history (Kildal 114). Using the figure of St. Philip the Evangelist, who expelled demons in first century Samaria, Kildal (114) connects these demons to the pagan gods of Samaria. In the case of the Sámi gods, Kildal associates them with the gods of the ancient

Scythians, who at the time were thought to have migrated northwards and settled in Scandinavia

(114-15). These Scythians were renowned for their idolatry, and offered sacrifices and service to demons under the names of Maylmenradien and Jove, among others (Kildal 115). These same demons were the ones to whom Israel and Ephraim sacrificed on hilltops. Kildal (115) makes a further connection to Old Testament idolatry when he writes, “Just as Jeroboam had sacrificed to

56 ‘…Verdens raadere (denne er Jupiter)’ (Kildal 105). 57 ‘…skile-qvinde (denne skiller barnet fra moderen i barnsnød; hun er Juno’ (Kildal 105).

84 devils of the march, so these northern Scythians sacrificed to these march-devils….”58 Like the

Scythians gods and goddesses, the Sámi still possess the very same deities. As evidence for the demonic nature of these deities, Kildal (116) cites St. Paul concerning food offered to idols: “No,

I imply that what pagans sacrifice, they sacrifice to demons and not to God. I do not want you to be partners with demons” (1 Cor 10:20, NRSV). This quote from St. Paul could be interpreted as saying that when pagans sacrifice to their gods, they are actually sacrificing to demons, and thus by using this quote, Kildal could be saying that the Sámi gods were, in fact, demons.

Unlike the majority of the missionaries discussed here, Kildal also provides more concrete, detailed accounts of conversions of the Sámi. He records some of the strange phenomena that occurred when his friend Thomas von Westen was missionizing. Certain Sámi who had either already converted or were on their way to converting would complain to von

Westen that demons would harass them at night (Kildal 130). The evil spirits would strike them while asleep and try to drag them from their beds, precisely because those Sámi had forsworn these same demons (in the guise of the Sámi gods). This was presumably designed to frighten the

Sámi converts into worshipping the demons in the guise of the gods again (130). These converts asked von Westen to spend the night in the same room, which resulted in the demons staying away. This, in turn, became somewhat of a logistical problem in the mission, as more and more converts wanted to sleep in the same room as von Westen, so many, in fact that there was not enough room for them all and some had to sleep in the houses of other missionaries.

Kildal provides the reader a format for prayers in the style of von Westen that was intended to exorcise and banish these demons:

58 ‘saasom Jeroboam havde ofret til marke-dievle, saa har og disse nordiske landers Schythær ofret til disse marke- dievle…’ (Kildal 115) The Old Testament king Jeroboam established new temples dedicated to the worship of golden calves in Bethel and Dan, out of fear that his people would return to Jerusalem to worship at the temple there (1 Kings 12:26-30). Later, a curse is put upon both Jeroboam and his altar at Bethel as punishement for his idolatry (1 Kings 13:1-5).

85 “The Holy Cross of Our Lord Himself bore our sins, etc. and this verse of the Savior’s prayer: When we are also tempted, let us stand, that Satan … us, etc. item this verse: That the world was full of devils, and they wanted us, etc.” (Kildal 149)59

In an interesting aside, Kildal continues by criticizing the way that demons were adjured in the contemporary folk belief and practice. He says:

Here there is no other means, by which one can force the devils to acquiesce and give themselves up, than prayer; but when one banishes the devils, he no longer pays attention, but rather he spits at him (i.e. the demon), and reviles him; so are those exorcism, that one shouts over devils to no effect; otherwise it is ultimately so, that when the words of exorcism over the devils are prepared to renounce them, then the renunciation is seen as being of greater effect than otherwise (Kildal 149-50).60

The next missionary to consider, Hans Skanke, was born in Trondheim in 1679, and graduated from school there in 1699 (Lexikon 622). After working as a private teacher for a time,

Skanke went to Tromsø in the summer of 1701. While he was there, Skanke says that he “needed

14 days to learn the Finnish [i.e. Sámi] language well enough so that he could understand them, and shortly thereafter he could also speak with them” (Lexikon 622). In 1705 Skanke became assistant to Bishop Krog and followed him on parish visits throughout all of Finnmark (Lexikon

622). After the death of Thomas von Westen in 1730, Skanke was tasked by the Dano-

Norwegian Mission Collegium with writing a history of the missions among the Sámi in the kingdom (Steen 50). Using von Westen’s papers and records, Skanke wrote the Epitomes

Historiæ Missionis Lapponicæ ‘Summary of the History of the Mission to the Lapps’ between the years of 1728 and 1730 (Steen 50).

59 ‘Det hellige Kors Vor Herre selv bar for vore synder etc. og det vers af Frelserens bøn: Naar vi og fristes, lad os staae, at satan os ey etc. item det vers:’ Der al verden fuld af dievler var, og vilde os etc.’ (Kildal 149) 60 ‘Her er intet andet middel, hvor ved man kand faae dievlene til at vige, og give sig tabt, end Bønnen; men at man forbander dievelen, det agter hand ikke meer, end man spytter til ham, og forhaaner ham; saa ere de forbandelser, som man raaber over dievlene af ingen kraft; ellers er de endelig saa, at naar det ord forbandelse over dievlene legges til det ord, at forsage ham, da synes forsagelsen, at være af større anseelse, end som ellers’ (Kildal 149-50).

86 Of primary interest here is Skanke’s Epitomes Pars Prima, in which he seeks to provide readers with a general overview of Sámi religious belief. On the pantheon of the Sámi, Skanke

(181) writes that the highest and most powerful gods are Radienatsie and Radienkjedde. Other important aspects of Sámi mythology include less powerful deities like the various female akka spirits (e.g. Madderakka ‘mother goddess,’ Sarakka ‘goddess of birth’), as well as Saiwo ‘the other world’, Jabma-aimo ‘the world of the dead’ and the Saiwo-olmai ‘those who live in

Saiwo,’ in addition to Rutu, the one who dwells in the underworld (Skanke 181-83).

The radien element in the names Radienatsie and Radienkjedde signifies “power and might,” and both of these deities rule over the whole world (Skanke 182). While Radienatsie was the ruler over all the world, Radienkjedde (also known as Rararkjed) was his son. Despite

Radienatsie’s immense power, he gave Radienkjedde the power and responsibility to create all things (Skanke 182).61 Skanke notes the similarity in the father-son relationship of Radienatsie and Radienkjedde and the Christian belief in God the Father and Christ as God the Son, which in his view was “added and borrowed from the Norwegian Christian article of faith concerning the

Trinity” (Skanke 185).62 Skanke adds that there are those noaidit who have “confessed the

Christian Triune God under the name of the three persons name, Jubmelen-atsje, that is, God the

Father, Jubmelen-barne, God’s Son, and Jubmelen-ailes Woeigni, God the Holy Ghost…”

(186).63 Although these noaidit acknowledge the Christian God, they only do so in part, as they still place symbols for each of the Persons on their runebomme and hold them to be independent gods. This description seems to point to Skanke’s (and many other missionaries’) anxieties

61 This is not always the case; Kildal notes some noaidit believe that Radienatsie and Radienkjedde are in fact the same person (Skanke 184). 62 ‘tilføyet of laant af de Nordske Chrisnes Troes Artikel om Tre-Eenigheden’ (Skanke 185). 63 ‘bekjende den Tre-Enige Gud under de 3de Personers navne, Jubmelen-atsje, ded er, Gud Fader, Jubmelen-barne, Guds Søn, og Jubmelen-ailes-Woeigni, Gud den Hellig Aand…’ (Skanke 186)

87 surrounding syncretic mixing during the missionary encounter, as considered in detail in the following chapter.

Interestingly, whereas Kildal (105) refers to the goddess Sarakka as the Juno of the Sámi,

Skanke (189) classifies her as “Venus.”64 He writes that she is beloved of the Sámi, and that she is given part of all they eat and drink. Above all, she is honored and worshipped by pregnant women. Special wine and porridge that have been dedicated to Sarakka were consumed during childbirth in order to honor the goddess and ask her blessing (Skanke 189). Women chiefly offer her “roosters and hens, reindeer calves, and female dogs…” (Skanke 189).65 In line with the deity’s uniquely feminine qualities, only women take part in these sacrifices (Skanke 190).

Skanke classifies the belief in Saiwo as an old superstition among the Sámi. Saiwo was thought to be located in mountainous regions (Skanke 190). The inhabitants of Saiwo were the

Saiwo-olmai, and according to Skanke these were the ones who helped make the divination and magic of the noaidit possible. During confession certain Sámi admitted to having been to Saiwo themselves, where they drank, danced, joiked, and divined with the Saiwo-olmai (Skanke190-

91).66 Along with this, they would see people they knew or to whom they were related, as well as share some tobacco and schnapps with those in Saiwo (191). Skane (191) writes that these stoore elusiones ‘great illusions’ were perpetrated by Satan to deceive those “heathen folk.”67

Additionally, Sámi also retain belief in Jamik-aimo- “the realm of the dead” (Skanke

190), which can also be called Sarakka-aimo ‘the land of Sarakka’ (Skanke 194). He notes that there is another realm (which from Skanke’s description appears to be somewhat related to

64 ‘Lappernes Venus’ (Skanke 189) 65 ‘Hane og høne, og reinskalve, og Hunkjøn af Hunde…’ (Skanke 189) 66 Joik is a kind of musical expression unique to the Sámi, “a way of remembering – it connects a person with the innermost feelings of the theme of the yoik, and may thus communicate between times, persons, and landscapes…” (Gaski 191). 67 ‘Hedenske folk’ (Skanke 191)

88 Jamik-aimo) that goes by a variety of names, such as Rutaimo ‘land of Rutu,’ Mubben-aimo

‘land of Mubben,’ Fudnos-aimo ‘land of Fudnos,’ and Kjaps-aimo ‘land of Kjaps.’ Skanke writes that Rutu, Mubben, and Kjaps all refer to evil spirits and as such these spiritual realms are not places of peaceful rest after death (Skanke 194, 196). Furthermore, he writes that it appears that the Sámi acquired this belief in a place of torment after death from Christians, who told them about the Christian devil and hell (Skanke 194).68

I now turn to Lars Levi Læstadius, a unique figure in the history of Lutheran missions to the Sámi. In his origins, his theological grounding, and in his methods, Læstadius stands apart from the majority of Scandinavian missionaries to the Sámi. He was born in Jäckvik in modern- day Norrbotten County, Sweden in 1800 (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 24). His father spoke

Swedish, his mother Southern Sámi.

What is most important here is the fact that – besides the spoken language- in his childhood Lars Levi Læstadius had an opportunity to become deeply acculturated to so many essential elements of the Sami world view, life style, and mentality that his ‘cultural mother tongue’ became and remained one that he shared with the other Sami in his Southern Sami environment (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 24-25).

According to Pentikäinen, the question regarding Læstadius’ Sámi identity has been largely ignored, despite being of profound importance for any sort of holistic understanding of both

Læstadius’ written and missionary work (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 24). As an ecologist,

Læstadius was able to listen to the “language of nature,” which blended together with the Sámi oral tradition that he was exposed to from birth. This syncretism appears in Læstadius’ ethnographical and theological work. Pentikäinen (“Introducton” 25) categorizes Læstadius as a religious person who believed in the supernatural world and experienced it in a “typically Sami

68 Skanke notes the Sámi belief in Radien-aimo ‘land of Radien,’ which Skanke calls “God’s heaven” (‘Guds Himmel’). He also ascribes this belief to influence from the Christian idea of heaven (Skanke 194).

89 way.” His life and many experiences working amongst other Sámi played a crucial role in his religious and spiritual life (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 24).

Læstadius pursued many fields of study, but is best remembered as the leader of

Læstadian revivalism, a religious movement that sought to purify the Swedish State Church

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 26). As protest of this, he promoted many “low church” (i.e. reduced emphasis on liturgy and proscribed ritual) aspects already present in Sweden in order to point to what he saw as the “dead” high church ritual in the kingdom at the time (Pentikäinen,

26). For his 1843 doctoral dissertation Crapula Mundi ‘The World’s Hangover,’ Læstadius wrote twelve theses laying out what he saw as areas still in need of reformation within the church. For

Læstadius, the mystical nature of the Christian religion had been lost, and as such he railed against the theological rationalism of the Swedish Enlightenment. This is clearest in his third thesis, when he writes, “Because the immortality of the soul cannot be proven with certainty, it remains a matter of faith” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27). In a similar manner, Læstadius focused on the religious fervor and intention of those called to be Christians. For him, it was not enough simply to believe in Christianity to be considered a Christian. Instead, to be a practicing

Christian one had to strive at all times to follow Christ and abstain from all “intentional sin”

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27). A further example of this pietistic fervor can be found in his

House Postilla Sermons, wherein Læstadius continually speaks of those Christians who have

“fallen from grace” (i.e. have committed willful sins) and who must undergo grueling repentance in order to be assured of their salvation.

A main tenet of Læstadian revivalism was the notion of “Sacral Succession,” otherwise referred to as the “Order of Grace” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29). This doctrine begins before

90 the Ascension, when Christ entrusted St. Peter with the Office of the Keys.69 The Keys were then passed from Peter to the early church. After the martyrdom of Peter, the Catholic Church became corrupted and as such true Christianity was persecuted and only survived by going underground

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29). During the Reformation true Christianity rose again, specifically through the figure of Martin Luther. Pentikäinen (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29) writes that, “Martin Luther occupies a central, almost mythical, position in Læstadian teaching as the man who brought the hidden truth back into the open” (cf. Scribner, “Incombustible,” 347).

This true teaching was forced back into hiding yet again. Læstadius was attempting to bring this back out into the light, in the face of much opposition from both Swedish society and the State

Church (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29).

This “true” Christianity in Læstadianism was contained in a smaller, pure group within the established Protestant churches; the ecclesiola in ecclesia ‘small church within the church’

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29). Pentikäinen writes that, “According to Læstadius, humans are completely sinful, but may find salvation through conversion and absolution, which is orally proclaimed by the true congregation of the believers” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29). For

Læstadius, conversion did not begin and end with baptism. In Crapula Mundi he writes that,

“The conversion of an adult person cannot take place without the person knowing it,” and “The person who has become converted is, therefore, capable of remembering the crucial moments of his conversion” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 31). This was a departure from the doctrine contained in Lutheran credal documents. For example, article IX of the Augsburg Confession states that baptism is to be administered to children. Læstadius himself experienced such a conversion when he came into contact with a Sámi woman who was a member of the läseriet

69 Compare here Matt. 16:18-19: ”And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (NRSV).

91 ‘The Readers’, a popular revivalist group of Herrnhutian and pietist persuasion led by Rev. Per

Brandell, Pastor of Nora (Pentikäinen, “Introduction”30). The woman, whom Læstadius calls

“Maria,” came for private confession in the church at Åsele, where Læstadius was working as pastor at the time. The woman’s recounting of her experiencing God’s grace had a deep effect upon Læstadius, and he felt inexorably changed by this profound religious experience

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction”30-31).

Within this firmly pietist worldview, it was Læstadius’ duty to bring his fellow Sámi to the true faith. Despite his strong foothold within a firmly Christian world, Læstadius used his doctoral thesis as a means to assert his simultaneous identity as a Sámi. In it he criticizes the settler colonialism of the Scandinavian kingdoms by stating that, “A Lapp is a man of better quality than a new settler or a non-Lapp” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27). This sentiment can be seen in many aspects of his writings, such as in his fight for temperance in northern Sweden.

Pentikäinen writes that Læstadius’ fight against the “brandy monster” at first was primarily a fight against a foreign substance that was spoiling “the original nature people and nature religion,” than the strictly doctrinal movement it later became (Pentikäinen, “Introduction”27).

During his time as a revivalist leader, Læstadius also engaged in some syncretic blending of the

“Sámi” and the “Christian” to allow him to preach effectively to his Sámi parishioners

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction”25). For example, in his sermons he makes use of the term maahinen

(pl. maahiset), which originally denoted a type of earth spirit and had undergone pejoration following Christianization to mean a spirit that stole children, to refer to those “unconverted”

Sámi who were present. If they were to become true Christians by means of a profound conversion experience, it was implied that then they would cease to be maahiset (Pentikäinen,

“Introduction” 25; cf. Outakoski).

92 Though best-known as a revivalist and theologian, Læstadius was also a naturalist with around 6500 plants by the time of his death (Pentikäinen, “Revisited” 110), as well as a philologist and an innovator in the study of Sámi languages, having learned three Sámi languages (Southern Sámi, Fell Sámi, and Pite Sámi; Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 23) and inventing the Kota Lappish orthography (Pentikäinen, “Revisited”110). Lastly, Læstadius was a mythologist and mythographer, which Pentikäinen calls his “least known career” (Pentikäinen,

“Revisited” 110). Out of his life-long study of Sámi belief and practice came his Fragments of

Lappish Mythology ‘Fragmenter i lappska mythologien,’ which was written between 1838 and

1845 (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 33). It was only over 150 years later that his Fragments was actually published, first in the original Swedish in 1997 and then in English translation by Börje

Vähämäki in 2002.

The Fragments falls within the same methodological paradigm as Elias Lönnrot’s

Kalevala and (to a lesser extent) Schefferus’ earlier Lapponia (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 33).

All three of these works seek to synthesize a cohesive mythology of their respective peoples; the

Finns in the case of the Kalevala and the Sámi in Læstadius and Schefferus. Fragments is divided into three main parts; consisting of the ‘Doctrine of Deities’ Gudalära, the ‘Doctrine of

Sacrifice’ Offer-lära, and ending with the ‘Doctrine of Divination’ Spådoms läran. Læstadius provides his definition of mythology in the ‘Reminder to the Reader’ Erinran till Läsaren. By mythology he means “a general popular belief in supernatural beings and forces” (Læstadius,

Fragments 62).70 If this popular belief does not pertain to general folk belief but only to

“fantasies of individuals”, it should not be included within a mythological study (62).71

70 ‘en allmän folketro på öfernaturliga väsenden och verkningar’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 16). For all quotes from Læstadius in English, I use Börje Vähämäki’s 2002 translation of Læstadius’ Fragmenter i Lappska Mythologien. 71 ‘personers fantasier’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 16).

93 Using this as his starting place, Læstadius takes a brief look at Greco-Roman mythology and notes the many mythological themes and supernatural beings, which consisted of “deified and metamorphosed human beings” (Læstadius, Fragments 62).72 He writes that because of the numerous variations on these themes and beings, that in no way could all of them fit within the general folk belief of the pre-Christian Mediterranean (Læstadius, Fragments 62). Unlike the majority of earlier missionaries, who usually draw vague connections from Sámi belief to classical myth, Læstadius shows his philological colors by drawing connections between Sámi belief and Finnish mythology. Both Finnish and Sámi languages belong to the Finno-Ugric language family, and Læstadius uses this linguistic similarity to argue for and expound upon the similarities between Sámi and Finnish religion. Læstadius comments freely upon the contemporary scholarship on Finnish mythology when he writes that the Finnish runot (the individual poems that make up the Kalevala) have a fair amount of “poetic ornamentation that does not belong to the myth, only to the poem” (Læstadius, Fragments 64).73 He adds that, “The poet or rune singer is the one who has given the myth color. Nothing can be removed or added without ruining the entire content” (Læstadius, Fragments 65).74 In contrast to this, Læstadius contends that Sámi mythology is “relatively free of poetic ornamentation,” and as such provides a more accurate view of Finno-Ugric pre-Christian belief (Læstadius, Fragments 64).75

As can be guessed from the section titles, the majority of Læstadius’ Sámi mythology is contained within his “Doctrine of Deities.” Like many of the other missionary writers covered here, he discusses the Sámi gods, their roles within Sámi belief, and how they are worshipped.

Læstadius’ formulation of this mythographical information diverges sharply from earlier

72 ‘förgudade och metamorphoserade menniskor’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 16). 73 ‘Poetisk grannlåt. som icke tillhör mythen utan dikten.’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 18) 74 ‘Det är poeten eller Runemästeren den, som gifvt mythen Färg. Der kan ingenting tagas bort eller läggas till, utan att skämma bort hela sammanhanget.’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 19) 75 ‘temmeligen fri från all Poetisk grannlåt’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 18).

94 writings, as he often seeks to correct what he views as mistakes of earlier writers who either did not speak the language or did not understand the religio-cultural functions of these deities well enough to paint an accurate picture of Sámi belief and practice. It is likely that Læstadius was more accurate in his description of Sámi mythology than the other missionary writers covered here. He was himself Sámi, and was raised in a bilingual and bicultural Sámi-Swedish household. It is also likely that there were aspects of Sámi belief and practice that he did not cover, or did not portray accurately. While there is no real way of proving this, it seems logical that Læstadius could only portray the Sámi spirituality that he witnessed during his life – after all, it is likely that there were multiple variations in religion between the various Sámi groups, and it would have been difficult for Læstadius to capture all of this variation within one work.

Additionally, even though he was Sámi and was versed in Sámi languages and culture, Læstadius was still a pietist missionary who viewed indigenous Sámi spirituality as something detrimental to both the Sámi spirit and soul. It is also highly probable that this colored his depictions and descriptions of Sámi spirituality.

Many times Læstadius constructs this new means of mythography around philological arguments An example of this can be found in Læstadius’ discussion of the name of the highest god Radien (cf. Maylmenradien, Radienatsie, Radienkjedde above). While Kildal glosses Radien as “counselor”, Læstadius points out that this is not originally a Sámi name and instead connects it to Swedish råda ‘reign’, which leads to the conclusion that “Radien would not be a genuine

Lappish deity, but a borrowed one” (Læstadius, Fragments 74).76 Like Skanke, he writes that the father-son relationship between the gods Radien Attje and Radien Kiedde is most likely a newer

76 ‘Radien [skulle] icke vara någon äkta Lappsk Gudomlighet, utan än lånad’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 24). If Radien were to be derived from a Sámi word, it would have to be radje or raje, both of which mean ‘border’ (Læstadius 74).

95 development in Sámi belief as a result of contact with Christianity (Læstadius, Fragments 75),77 in this case, a borrowing of the Christian concept of God the Father and God the Son.

Læstadius discusses other gods that appear in the writings of other missionaries; however, as with Radien he attempts to give a more detailed view of Sámi belief and fill in perceived gaps within the contemporary scholarship. He notes that the female Akka deities (e.g.

Madderakka, Sarakka) are a type of god that reside upon the earth (Læstadius, Fragments 80).

As in other missionary accounts, Madderakka is the head of other female deities, most notably her daughter Sarakka, who gives souls to children in their mothers’ wombs (Læstadius,

Fragments 83). In a similar fashion, Læstadius discusses the worship of the sun by the Sámi, contending that “The truth about the worship of the Sun can no longer in our time be determined with certainty” (Fragments 77).78 Although Læstadius himself never witnessed any practiced related to the worship of the sun, he notes that others such as Schefferus (38) have recorded solar worship (Læstadius, Fragments 78). Ultimately, Læstadius concludes that, “As far better civilized peoples have elevated the Sun to the status of a god, it is no wonder that the Lapps, who most need the light and warmth from this celestial body, have honored her with some form of worship” (Fragments 78).79 Despite this conclusion, Læstadius provides no further details about the deification of the sun within Sámi spirituality.

An additional class of deity that Læstadius describes which previous accounts do not is the Aileikis Olmak, who are the deities of sacred days (Fragments 78). Friday, Saturday, and

Sunday were held as sacred in indigenous Sámi belief; with the god of Friday being Frid-Ailek,

77 cf. Skanke 184: ’Radienatsje’ and ’Radienkjedde.’ 78 ‘Huru det må hänga i hop med Solens dyrkan, kan numera icke med någon säkerhet afgöras’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 27). 79 ‘Då vida bättre Civiliserade Nationer Uphöjt Solen till Gudomlighet, så bör man icke undra, att Lapparne, som bläst behöfva ljus och värme af denna himla kropp ärat henne med någon slags dyrkan’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 28).

96 Lawa-Ailek the god of Saturday, and Sodna-peiwe-ailek (also called Burres) the god of Sunday.

The most powerful of these was Sodna-peiwe-ailek, followed by Lawa-Ailek and Frid-Ailek

(Læstadius, Fragments 78). In Læstadius’s view, the whole concept of these sacred days is a

Christian, specifically Roman Catholic, loan. He writes:

The idea of the three Ailekis Olmak is presumably taken from Catholicism, from the worship of saints, All Saints’ day, etc. The three Ailekis Olmak, therefore, according to my simple way of thinking, are a vague representation of some Roman Catholic Saint icons, further confused by diffuse concepts of trinity. It is apparent in the entire Norwegian Lappish mythology that the Lapps in that region absorbed much from Catholicism, which was unavoidable in Helgeland and in the vicinity of Trondhjem (Læstadius, Fragments 79-80).80

The theme of religious syncretism continues to appear in Læstadius’ work. Like Schefferus, he examines the worship of Tiermes, who is also called Thor Gubbe ‘Old Man Thor,’ among the

Sámi. Referencing Högström (178), Læstadius (92) recounts Thor Gubbe’s creation story

(mentioned above). Once when a girl sat down at the base of a tree, the devil came and talked to her. While at first she did not recognize him, she then noticed that he had horns and tried to get away. The devil took her by force, following which she became pregnant and gave birth to a child with an extreme case of colic (Læstadius, Fragments 92). God came and took the child up to heaven, where the child was asked to whom he wanted to be helpful. The child replied that he wanted to help his mother (i.e. the girl) and be hostile to his father (i.e. the devil). As such, Thor

Gubbe “races through the air, splits mountains, and puts trees on fire when they (the trolls) hide under them” (Högström 178; cf. Læstadius, Fragments 92-93).81 Læstadius views this story (and

80 ‘Men ideen om de 3 Ailekis Olmak är förmodligen tagen af Chatolicismen, af helgones tillbedjande, Allhelgona dag, o.s.v. De 3 Ailekis Olmak, äro således efter min enfaldiga tanka, en dunkel föreställning om några katholska Helgona bilder, confunderade men en lika dunkel föreställning om treenigheten. Man kan se af hela den Norrsk- Lappska Mytholo[gi] att Lapparne på den sidan insupit mycket af Katholicismen, hvilcket icke kunde undvikas i Helgeland och närheten af Trondhjem’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 29). On the Ailekis Olmak and the Trinity see also Skane, 185. Note also that the historic Nidaros bishopric at Trondheim (formerly Nidaros) had been a seat of ecclesiastical power since the Middle Ages (cf. Hansen & Olsen 327). 81 ‘far i luften och klyfver Berg, samt slår eld i trän, då de (Trollen) göma sig under dem’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 41; cf. Högström 178).

97 therefore the deity itself) as not originally of Sámi origin, and connects it to folktales about the devil that were told among Swedes and Norwegians: “I doubt that the Lapps could have imagined any evil spirit with horns. But via papacy the Devil has been given both horns and cloven hoofs” (Læstadius, Fragments 93).82 Here it seems that Læstadius is attributing any sort of folkloric images (which he would likely classify as superstitious) of the devil among the Sámi to the influence of Roman Catholic missions (his writing often takes a polemical, anti-Catholic stance).

Whereas earlier writers sometimes noted similarities between Sámi gods and gods from other traditions, Læstadius attempts to get to their historical and etymological roots. Like

Schefferus (22-23, 37), Læstadius connects Tiermes/Thor to the god Jubmel; just as the name

Thor is an onomatopoetic rendering of the sound of thunder (the natural element to which Thor was connected), the (presumably Southern) Sámi word Jubmel means “roar” or “rumble”

(Læstadius, Fragments 93).83 As an explanation for this mytholographical and etymological phenomenon, Læstadius points to his readers’ experiences upon hearing thunder for the first time as children, since “a child must inevitably imagine a large, sublime, supernatural and powerful being that generates such rumbling” (Fragments 94).84 Læstadius also adds that, “I have seen the same happen to many an adult person among the common folk” (Fragments 94).85

82 ‘Någon ond ande med Horn, tror jag knapt Lappen har kunnat föreställa sig. Men i och genom Påwedömet har den onde fått både Horn och klor.’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 41) 83 de Vries writes that aside from the name of the god, ‘Þórr’ also could denote “thunder” (de Vries, “Þórr”). As an example of this usage of the word, Læstadius provides the common sentence, ‘Atjekatsch jubmel,’ i.e. “Thunder rumbles” (Fragments 93). 84 ‘Ett barn, som första gången hör åskan, måste ovillkorligen dermed förena föreställningen om ett stort, herrligt, öfvernaturligt och mägtigt väsende, som åstadkommer ett sådant dån’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 42-43). 85 ‘Det samma har jag sett hända mången fullväxit menniska bland allmogen’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 43).

98 It would seem here that Læstadius equates belief in such beings with a childlike inability to engage in higher-level rational thought. In the tradition of Schefferus, Læstadius also seeks to connect Sámi and Finnish mythology:

The savage, uncivilized human being must inevitably imagine a real living being as the cause of the awe-inspiring rumble. It follows then that Jubmel was the first deity the Lapp could imagine. Its kinship with Jumala of the Finns appears to confirm this. It can hardly be doubted that Ibmel, Immel, Jubmel, Jummel, and Jumala originally denote the same being. If one assumes that the Finns and the Lapps originally denote the same being. If one assumes that the Finns and the Lapps originally were the same people, then Jubmel and Jumala must have originated at a time when there were only minimal differences between the two peoples. If, on the other hand, one assumes that the Lapps and the Finns are not of the same race the one must have borrowed Jubmel or Jumal from the other. In any case, Jubmel must be very old, since he is one of the few deities these peoples have in common (Læstadisu, Fragments 95).86

Although this attempt perhaps resembles Schefferus’ in its intent, here Læstadius again makes use of his philological talents to bolster and support his argument. In a similar way, he revises and expands upon earlier non-Sámi mythographic notions of Seite (cf. Tornæus 27-28,

37), contending that whereas some earlier writers claimed that the word Seite was derived from the Greek deity Zeus, the word is more likely related to Old Norse seiðr, a word denoting magic

(Læstadius, Fragments 95; cf. de Vries, “seiðr”).

Like Schefferus and Skanke before him, Læstadius gives an overview of Sámi beliefs pertaining to life after death. As in other missionary mythographical works, Læstadius describes

Saiwo as those spirits and deities that dwell in Jabma-aimo, the netherworld (Fragments 108, cf.

Jamik-aimo, discussed in Skanke, 190). He places any such spirits in the lowest rung in his Sámi

86 ‘ty ovillkorligt måste den råa obildade, menniskan föreställa sig ett verkligt lefvande väsende såsom ordsak till det vördnads bjudande bullret, hvaraf också följer, att Jubmel låter naturligast härleda sig af samma Jubma; att Jubmel, varit den första Gudomlighet, som Lappen kunnat föreställa sig, synes mer än sannolikt. Dess gemenskap med Finnarnes Jumala, tyckes bekräfta det samma; ty att Ibmel, Immel, Jubmel, Jummel, och Jumala, ursprungligen beteckna ett och samma föremål, kan väl knapt betviflas. Antager man nu, att Lappar och Finnar Ursprungligen varit en och samma Nation, så måsta Jubmel eller Jumala hafva tillkommit på en tid, då det var obetydlig skillnad mellan dessa bägge Nationer. Antager man åter, att Lappar och Finnar icke höre till en och samma menniskoras, så måste endera hafva lånt Jubmel eller Jumala, af den andra. I hvilcket dera fallet som häldst, måste Jubmel vara mycket gammal, efter han är en ibland de få Gudomligheter, som dessa Nationer hafva gemensamt’ Læstadius, Fragmenter 43).

99 pantheon. Additionally, beings associated with Saiwo could be found in the mountains and in the passe, i.e. sites associated with cultic activity. The Saiwo were considered by the Sámi to be rich and powerful beings with access to supernatural power, and were communicated with by noaidit in order to gain spiritual insight and ensure the well-being of the living (Læstadius, Fragments

108-109). While Læstadius begins his description of Jabma-aimo and the Saiwo with the above explanation, he later goes into more detail concerning the exact nature of the spirits existing out side of the material realm. He writes that the Sámi possessed a more complex view of underground beings when compared to other peoples, in that those spirits residing within Jabma- aimo were actual deceased souls of humans who were once alive (Læstadius, Fragments 109).

The Saiwo, on the other hand, were a kind of hybrid being with both spiritual and material natures. Saiwo beings could be roughly anthropomorphic and live in family groups like humans, or they could also be otherworldly animals (Læstadius, Fragments 109, 111).

Læstadius writes concerning those souls living in Jabma-aimo that “It shall reveal to us that the ancient Lapps not only believed in the immortality of the souls but even the resurrection of the dead or the renewal of bodies after death” (Fragments 133).87 Citing Leem, Læstadius notes that in Jabma-aimo in the realm of the mother of death (Jabma Akko) those who have died receive new bodies free of corruption and death (Læstadius, Fragments 133, cf. Leem). These then would go back to Radien, the highest god. There were, however, others who were farther down in the earth than Jabma-aimo who would be forced to stay there. Sadly, Læstadius here does not provide a more detailed account of what he perceived as Sámi eschatology and primarily cites what other writers recorded on the subject.

87 ‘Den skall visse oss, att den gamle Lapparne icke allenast trodde själarnas odödlighet utan äfven de dödas Upståndelse, eller en kropparnes förnyelse efter Döden’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 76).

100 In sum, Læstadius provides the most detailed account of Sámi belief out of any of the missionary writers covered in this project. His intimate knowledge of multiple Sámi languages and his status as a Sámi himself enabled him to produce a more thorough and nuanced account; however, his status as a missionary and pietistic revivalist also led him to write many of these beliefs off as backward, if not outright uncivilized and demonic (see the discussion of missionary reactions to Sámi practices below).

Missionary sources on Sámi practice

While it was important to the missionaries to record and analyze indigenous Sámi beliefs in order to understand the religious mindset of their prospective converts, their non-Christian practices received just as much (if not more) attention and condemnation in Scandinavian missionary writings of this period. In this context, Sámi religious practice denotes not only the superstitious actions performed by Sámi as part of their indigenous lifeways, but also anything related to or used in these practices, ranging from the various paraphernalia used in cultic practice (e.g. the runebomme) to the individuals involved in these practices (i.e. the noaidit).

This section of the chapter focuses on how missionaries conceptualized these aspects of Sámi religious life, and more importantly how missionaries crafted arguments against them by calling upon their Lutheran theology.

Noaidi: priest of the Sámi, priest of the devil

Much of the missionaries’ ire was directed at those people who were involved (in varying capacities) with indigenous beliefs and ceremonies. While anyone caught practicing their traditional lifeways ran the risk of being prosecuted by the secular and ecclesiastical authorities

101 of the Dano-Norwegian and Swedish kingdoms, the noaidit were particularly sought out and condemned by missionary writers. As the ones seen as being most privileged with access to the invisible worlds, noaidit performed rituals intended to keep the different realms in harmony

(Hansen & Olsen 337-338). While they fulfilled a crucial role within Sámi societies, church officials quite often saw them as dark magicians in league with the devil who were capable of calling up demons to plague faithful Christians. As a result, missionaries demonized the noaidit as part of their larger condemnation of indigenous Sámi spirituality.

The reputation of Sámi as accomplished sorcerers goes back at least to the Middle Ages.

As noted in the literature review, one of the earliest account of a noaidi’s rituals is found in the

12th century Historia Norwegie ‘History of Norway’. In addition to recounting the glorious deeds of Christian warrior kings like Olaf Tryggvason (reign 995-1000) and Olaf Haraldsson (reign

1015-1028, later known as St. Olaf), the Historia Norwegie also includes an aside that provides a glimpse into the perception of the Sámi by their Norwegian neighbors. In addition to the account of a soul retrieval by a noaidi as covered in the literature review, the author writes concerning these same noaidit that,

A person will scarcely believe their unendurable impiety and the extent to which they practice heathen devilry in their magic arts. There are some who are worshipped by the ignorant masses as though they were prophets, since, whenever questioned, they will give many predictions to many folk through the medium of a foul spirit they call gand, and these auguries come true. Furthermore they attract to themselves desirable objects from distant parts in an astounding fashion and miraculously reveal hidden treasures, even though they are situated a vast distance away (Historia 61).88

In the 16th century, Olaus Magnus devoted part of his Historia de gentibus septentrionalibus ‘Description of the Northern Peoples’ to descriptions of Sámi sorcerers

88 ‘Horum itaque intollerabilis perfidia uix cuiquam credibilis uidebitur, quantumue diabolice supersticionis in magica arte excerceant. Sunt namque quidam ex ipsis, qui quasi prophete a stolido uulgo uenerantur, quoniam per immundum spiritum, quem ’gandum’ uocitant, multis milta presagia, ut eueniunt, quandoque percunctati precident. Et de longinquis prouinciis res concupiscibiles miro modo sibi alliciunt, nec non absconditos thesauros longe remoti mirifice produnt’ (Historia 60).

102 (presumably noaidit). According to Magnus, they were most known for their ability to control the weather through magical means, e.g. when pagan beliefs were still widespread among the

Sámi, they would cast favorable winds on traders’ ships in exchange for payment (Magnus,

Description 173). While Magnus provides descriptions of this wind magic, he contends that,

“through the restraint of the law these people of the North have never, since the acceptance of

Christianity, been seen to practise magical skills openly; nor have they passed it on and taught it to others, on peril of their lives” (Magnus, Description 173).89 This is curious, as Magnus’

Historia was published in 1555, before the majority of concerted missionizing had begun among the Sámi (Magnus, Description xxxvi). Presumably these practices (assuming Magnus’ description accurately portrays an instance of Sámi ritual) would still very much be in use at this period, as the active repression of indigenous Sámi belief and practice had not yet begun in earnest. Why Magnus portrays this magical practice as dying out is unclear, although he could have wanted to show that Christianity was gaining ground in northern Scandinavia at this time.

Tornæus discusses the role of noaidit and their runebomme (also called Quobdas or

Kannus in Sámi) in Sámi ritual in a chapter of his Berättelse entitled “On the Lapp-Drum man and his practice; as well as how magic is taught” (Tornæus 29).90 In regards to the Sámi who prayed to their Seite in hopes of divinatory answers he writes,

89 ‘Sed hæc gens Aquilonaris arte hac post susceptum Christianismum legis coërtione nunquam in aperto visa est uti: nec aliis eam sub vitæ periculo tradidit in disciplina’ (Historia 120). It is interesting here to note the similarities between the wind magic attributed to the Sámi and that of classical myth, e.g. Aeolus giving Odysseus a bag of winds to help him reach his home in Homer’s Odyssey. 90 ‘Om Lapp-Tumman och des Bruck; Så och huru Trållkonsten läres’ (Tornæus 29).

103 … the devil now had no power to speak and answer verbally through these Seite, just as it happened through the Oracle of Apollo; therefore, in order to likewise lead the poor, unenlightened people astray, he fashioned this means, that he would show them his will concerning that which they desired to know, in that he has given them a tool for this purpose, which is called Quobdas and Kannus by the Lapps, but Lapp-drum, or more correctly, magic-drum (Tornæus 29).91

Thus, for Tornæus the noaidit accomplish what the idols could not, namely give the devil purchase in this world by carrying out “devilish matters and Satan’s deception,”92 primarily through teaching and practicing the “arts of Satan” (Tornæus 31).93

The noaidit demonized by Tornæus were seen as not just a spiritual danger to the

Christianity among the Sámi, as missionaries feared that the noaidit would bring others down with them. Olsen devotes a section of his work to the trold skolen ‘School of magic’, into which

Sámi from coastal areas (siø finnerne) supposedly placed their children. Thise school was believed to have been located in into the fields, marks, and mountains among the Sámi of the mountains (fieldfinnerne) (Olsen 25). Olsen notes that the noaidit of the mountain-Sámi “are more powerful and more talented than the sea-Finns” (Olsen 25),94 primarily “because they have a better location and more time to become competent in magical arts and the Devil’s teaching”

(Olsen 25).95 He then claims that the children who study at these schools live in the fields, mountains, and hillsides. They reside “among mountain-, mark-, hill-, and water trolls, and among the Noaidi-gadze and other devils and trolls,” and within a few days become the very best

91 ‘Effter som diefwulen nu ingen macht hade at igenom dessa ’Seitär’ mundteligen tala och swara, såsom igenom ’Oraculum Apollinis’ skedt är: derföre, till at lijkwäl förföra det arma förmörkade Folket, han det medlet påfunnit, at medh tecknade uppenbara dem sin wilia öfwer der som dhe åstundade at wetta, i det han dem gifwit hafwer ett wärketygh där till, som af Lapparna sielfwa kallas ’Quobdas’ och ’Kannus,’ men af oss Lapp-trumma, eller rättere Tråll-trumma’ (Tornæus 29). 92 ‘diefwulska Saker och Satans bedrägerij’ (Tornæus 31) 93 ‘Satans konsten’ (Tornæus 31) 94 ‘krafftigere of konstigere Een siø finnerne’ (Olsen 25). 95 ‘thi de har bedre tid og leilighed at øve sig i trold konster og Dievele lærdomme’ (Olsen 25).

104 noaidi (Olsen 26).96 The devil himself oversees all diabolical pedagogy in these schools, and

“tyrannizes these poor, blinded barbarians and heathens” (Olsen 28).97

In line with the noaidit’s reputation for divination with the runebomme, missionary writers also needed to confront and condemn this practice. Kildal relies upon patristic demonology concerning divination when he writes about the noaidit: “The devil is such a great natural philosopher [‘Physicus’], that he is able to know ahead of time if a particular year will

(according to the natural causes preordained by God) produce bounty… ” (Kildal 117).98

According to Kildal (117-118),

when the devil knows ahead of time that God will grant a year of growth, he then fills the noaidit up with the lie, that it is not God but himself (the devil) who will make this a bountiful year, if he (the devil) receives sacrifices according to this. Then they (the noaidit) make offerings to him, and the good, bountiful year comes, which God gives; but not the devil because of the offerings; … this is the lie of the devil to the noaidit, that he gives bounty (117-18).99

This, in turn, connects thematically with the anti-magic theologies of both Tertullian and

Augustine. Tertullian writes that every angel (both holy and fallen) is as if it were winged, and it can be everywhere in an instant. As such, demons “sometimes want to appear as doing what they merely report; and they are obviously are at times the authors of mischief but never of good”

(Tertullian, Apologeticus, XXII, 8).100 Likewise, Augustine contends that, as fallen angels, demons possess bodies of air, and as such they have much finer sensory perception and can

96 ‘hos bierge, marcke, backe, og vande trolle, og hos Noaidi-gadze, og andre Dievele og Trolde’ (Olsen 26). That Olsen describes these trolls and devils as living in the mountains and hillsides suggests that he is in fact describing the continuing belief in the Saiwo among the Sámi. 97 ‘tyraniserer med diße arme forblindede barbarer og Hedninge’ (Olsen 28). Olsen places all lesser trolls under the control of the devil. 98 ‘Dievelen er en stor Physicus til, at kunde mærke førud hva væyr, paa et vist tilkommende (efter de af Gud forordnede naturlige aarsager), vil falde ud til grøde-væyr…’ (Kildal 117). 99 ‘naar dievelen veed, førud, at Gud vil give et got grøde-aar, saa opfylder hand Noyderne med den løgen, at, ikke Gud; men hand (dievelen) vil giøre dem dette aar grødigt, om hand faar offer af dem. De ofre da til ham, og get gode grøde-aar kommer, som Gud giver; men ikke dievelen, for deres offer skyld; … der er dievelens løgen for Noyderne, at hand giver grøde’ (Kildal 117-18). 100 ‘Sic et auctores interdum videri volunt eoram quae adnuntiant. Et sunt plane malorum nonnunquam, bonorum tamen nunquam’ (Tertullian, Apologeticus, XXII, 8).

105 travel much faster than humans, who possess an earthly body (De divinatione daemonum, III.7).

In a similar manner, demons that are conjured with the forbidden divinatory arts only appear to foretell the future. Thus, if through magical means a demon were to foretell a magician something that then later came true, it would only be because the demon had stolen that foreknowledge from heaven. Because demons are evil and can only foretell future evil, that holy foreknowledge would become perverted and thus illicit.

Skanke also connects diabolical powers to the powers of the noaidit. He refers to the noaidit primarily within the context of their status and role within Sámi cultic life, and he provides ample detail surrounding the depravity of their rituals (see below). He writes that “these priests and prophets of magic are called Noaidi by the Lapps, whom the evil devil himself directly calls to his own offices…” (Skanke 205).101 That the devil calls those potential noaidit to his services, seems to be an inversion (whether conscious or not) of the process of ordination within Skanke’s Lutheran tradition: just as pastors were called to the ministry by God, so were noaidit called to be “priests” of the Sámi by the devil.

Skanke (200) writes that sacrificial rituals must all “be performed by a Noid, who is their priest and who is well practiced in and experienced with customs pertaining to sacrifices, and they call him Blotmanden ‘man of sacrifice.’”102 Aside from sacrifices, the noaidit as Satans

Propheter ‘the prophets of Satan’ also perform all divination and prophecy, and that whatever the noaidit predict and teach is held as having come from the gods themselves (Skanke 208). In addition to describing noaidit as both priests and prophets, Skanke employs another Christian religious term when he writes that they also serve as Satan’s patriarchs (Skanke 205). He claims

101 ‘Disse Troldoms Præster og Propheter nævnes hos Lapperne “Noaider,” hvilke den Leede djevel selv unmiddeligen kalder til sine Amter…’ (Skanke 205) 102 ‘forretes af een ”Noid,” som vel er øvet og bevant med offer-skikkene, hvilken da er deres Præst, og Ham kalde de “Blodmanden”…’ (Skanke 200) ‘blót’ was a Old Norse term denoting ritual sacrifice (Simek, ”Opfer” 328-30).

106 that these patriarchs rule over the rest of the noaidit, in what appears in his view to be a diabolical approximation of an ecclesiastical structure similar to Christianity.

Læstadius also refers to noaidit as the “priests of the Lapps, who carried out sacrifices, and they were considered patriarchs…” (Læstadius, Fragments 200).103 He notes that these individuals were “feared more than death itself” (Læstadius, Fragments 200).104 Because of this status of noaidit within Sámi culture, Læstadius devotes a large portion of the third part of his

Fragments (“Doctrine of Divination”) to an examination of the practices and abilities attributed to the noaidit. Læstadius himself seems somewhat ambiguous regarding the reality of a noaidi’s magic, although he strongly condemns any such practice. He writes, “This treatise does not deny the possibility of a true art of divination or prophecy or that certain individuals may receive messages from the spirit world … although the laws of Moses sternly prohibit any kind of contact with the dead” (Læstadius, Fragments 199).105 Læstadius also concedes the inherent danger of his recording such practices, as some of his readers could well have attempted to learn sorcery from the information contained in his book (Fragments 199).

When discussing noaidit, Læstadius differentiates between true noaidit and charlatans and he writes that true noaidit are very rare (Fragments 200). He does allow for the possibility of some of their purported abilities, such as prognostication. Læstadius cites an example from

Tornæus’ text, wherein a Sámi man brings Tornæus a runebomme that he is giving up. The man states: “Although I am giving this away, and do not intend to make another drum for myself, I

103 ‘De voro Lapparnes prester, som förrättade offren, och ansedde som Patriarcher…’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 138). 104 ‘man fruktade för en Trollkarl som för Sjelva döden.’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 138). 105 ‘Uppenbarelsen nekar icke möjligheten af verklig spådomskonst, eller vissa individers förmåga att stå i Rapport med andverlden, föranledd af naturliga eller ock förhvärfvade Sjukdomsanslag i Organismen, ehru de var strängeligen förbudit i Mose Lag, att hafva något Umgänge med de döda’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 137).

107 will continue to see things occurring elsewhere” (Læstadius, Fragments 201; cf. Tornæus 21).106

As proof of this, the Sámi man recounts the details of Tornæus’ journey up to that point (which the man should not have been able to know) at length. Despite the veracity of the man’s visions,

Tornæus tells him that all of his revelations were false, because he did not want the man to claim any basis for supernatural powers acquired by means of the devil (Læstadius 201; cf. Tornæus

21). Læstadius then provides additional examples of noaidit possessing uncanny abilities.

Ultimately, he is at a loss to explain away all of these examples: “A prophecy which without reason or prerequisite explicable conditions was fulfilled to the last detail, requires interacting influences lying outside time and place” (Læstadius, Fragments 204).107

While he does allow for the spiritual reality of noaidit’s magical abilities, Læstadius differs from earlier missionary writers in his attempt to find psychological (or perhaps para- psychological) explanations for some of the noaidi’s purported powers. He argues that the cause of the shamanic state that noaidit entered was “over-stimulation” that exacerbated “a strange weakness of the nerves” (Læstadius, Fragments 207).108 The trance state itself was the goal of the shamanic rituals, and true noaitit did not necessarily need instruments (such as the

‘runebomme’) in order to reach what Læstadius calls magnetiska sömn ‘magnetic sleep,’ although they could assist themselves getting into this state by means of physical objects and/or psychoactive substances (Fragments 209-10). As noted in DuBois (Introduction 171), the most commonly recorded entheogen among noaidit was hard alcohol. Læstadius cites an account where a noaidi uses alcohol in an entheogenic fashion to ease the transition between

106 ‘Ändock jag denna nu bortgifver och gör mig ingen Anna Trumma, så ser jag likväl ”nimirum absentia” (även frånvarande)’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 139). 107 ‘En förutsägelse, som utan anledning eller föregående premiss inträffar till punct och prikka, förutsätter ett försättande utom tid och rum’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 141). 108 ‘öfver-retligt’- ’besynnerlig nerfsvaghet’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 144).

108 psychological states while preparing for a healing ritual (Læstadius, Fragments 210; cf.

Leem).109

Læstadius is unsure as to what causes the mental state associated with the noaidit, but theorizes it could be due to their isolated lifestyle, poor nutrition, or an inherited condition

(Fragments 207). His consideration of possible psychological explanations thus sets him apart from other earlier writers, in that he is open to ascribing at least some of the noaidit’s powers to non-diabolical causes. Despite this, Læstadius is highly critical of the role of the noaidit within

Sámi culture. The noaidit ultimately were the ones responsible for leading those Sámi not yet converted astray, and Læstadius laments that “the will-power of the crowd of unbelievers who cannot cast themselves upon the protection of Providence is so slight that a noaidi’s threat has more effect upon their nerves than God’s threat in the word” (Fragments 223).110

Sámi rituals, Sámi sacraments

Much of the missionary writing on Sámi spirituality makes ample use of the dichotomy of religio vs. superstitio, especially when missionaries wrote specifically about the physical manifestations of Sámi spirituality. Many of the descriptions of these reflect the theological standpoint of the missionaries themselves. Traditional Sámi practices often take on forms that are strikingly similar to Christian rituals in these records. While one might expect missionaries to highlight parallel practices in both the Sámi and the Lutheran Christian traditions, this is not the case. Missionaries firmly condemned these Sámi practices as fanciful misunderstandings at best and as demonic inversions of the Christian faith at worst.

109 Note the similar cultic connotations behind the Old Saxon word alu and wider Indo-European notions of ecstatic religious experience as explored in Murphy, “Secular beer, sacred ale.” 110 ‘Så liten Själstyrka har oftast den otrogna hopen, som icke kan anförtro sig helt och hållet i den skyddande Försynens vård, att en hotelse af en Trollkarl verker mera på hans nervsträngar, än Guds hotelser i Ordet’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 159).

109 Of all the Christian practices that appear to have influenced non-Sámi portrayals of Sámi spirituality, the sacraments of Communion and Baptism appear the most often within missionary writings during this period. This is fitting, as during the Reformation Lutherans maintained a sacramental understanding, whereas other Protestant groups (e.g. the Anabaptists) sought to remove Sacraments from the church. The Lutheran church clung tightly to the status of Baptism as necessary for salvation, as can be seen in Lutheran confessional documents (e.g. Augsburg

Confession, Art. IX; Apology of the Augsburg Confession, Art. IX, 51). Likewise, they preached the true presence of the body and blood of Christ in the elements during Communion (Augsburg

Confession, Art. X; Apology of the Augsburg Confession, Art. IX, 54).111

Several missionary writers discuss baptism among the Sámi. Sometimes non-Sámi writings deal with the baptism of Sámi converts to Christianity. Schefferus (32) praises the success of the missions to the Sámi by citing their reverence to baptism, and notes, “They are careful in observing Sundaies, refraining both themselves and their Cattel [i.e. reindeer] from all work on that day … They very much reverence and frequent the Sacraments, especially that of

Baptism which they never defer …” Unfortunately, Schefferus does not provide any more information regarding the supposed Sámi inversion of Christian baptism.

Most of the missionary discussions of baptism among the Sámi, though, do not primarily deal with the application of Christian baptism by missionaries. Far more important for the missionaries are the perceived Sámi reactions to baptism, especially the tendency to “re-baptize” their children after undergoing Christian baptism (although the practice described by missionaries seems to be more of a naming ceremony). Olsen writes that the motivation to counteract the Christian ritual originates from diabolical intervention within the minds of Sámi

111 Lutheran confessional documents also hold Confession and Absolution to function in a manner similar to the other two sacraments, although the Augsburg Confession states that “an enumeration of all sins is not necessary” (Augsburg Confession, Art. XI).

110 parents. When the time comes for a child to be baptized, the parents bring it to a church (which

Olsen [17] claims they do not out of Christian belief, but rather because of the legal penalties for not baptizing one’s children). If a child begins to cry or get sick after being baptized, they believe that the child is suffering because of the name it was given (Olsen 15-16). When this happens, demonic spirits come to the parents either in dreams or in other manifestations and “say that the child has not received the correct name with which it should live, but rather it is suffering because of the name” (Olsen 16).112

Likewise, if the child’s Christian name is not washed off, the demons trick the parents into believing that the child will die. Because of this, Olsen writes that Sámi bring their children to a noaidit, who then re-baptizes the child. For Olsen the sicknesses that newly baptized children sometimes succumbed to are not just an excuse used by Sámi in order to justify the re- baptism, but rather legitimate health concerns: “I have truly seen myself that this occurs with the children of the Finns when they are baptized by the priest, immediately after this they struck by sickness, with which none other than the Devil himself torments the children so, in order to make them baptize them again” (Olsen 17).113 Here, Sámi beliefs in supernatural beings and occurrences often are not merely the notions of the uneducated. Instead, all these aspects of Sámi indigenous belief and practice are actually instances of concentrated demonic activity.

Like Olsen, Kildal recounts that the primary motivation for the Sámi to re-baptize their children is sickness: “When some noaidi (or another idolatrous Lapp) finds out through divination or in a dream, that a sick child has gotten its sickness from the baptism of a priest and

112 ‘siger at barned har icke faaet det rette Nafn, som det skal leve paa, men det leeder effter Nafn’ (Olsen 16). 113 ‘ieg har og sandeligen self seet at det er saaledis fatt med finne børnene naar de er døbte af Præsten, saa bliver de straxt antastet med siugdom, hvilket intet andret er end Dievelen self som saa piner børnene, i den henseede at de skal døbe dem om igien’ (Olsen 17).

111 from the name that the priest gave the child, the idolatrous Lapp re-baptizes it…” (Kildal 140)114

In order to re-baptize the child, the noaidi places a nemo skielo ‘name-ring’ into water, spoons it out of the water, and places it on the child. He then says, “I baptize you in the name of

Maylmenradien (of Kiorvaradien, or another god) and you shall have the name N. (a common or everyday name) and with this name you shall have good health (the child will always have the nemo skielo with them)” (Kildal 141).115 This description of re-baptism, in turn, is very similar to the version by Rydving cited above (cf. Rydving, Drum-Time 116).

Læstadius does not speak much of Sámi re-baptism; rather, he cites several of the earlier missionaries covered here regarding the existence of and belief surrounding the ritual. This being said, he takes a stance on the practice that displays a strong confessional allegiance. In his view,

“The practice of baptizing and re-baptizing a child was by no means invented by the Lapps: both baptizing and re-baptizing are borrowed from Roman Catholicism” (Læstadius, Fragments

173).116 Here it appears that Læstadius is blaming Roman Catholicism for having put the notion of re-baptism into the minds of the Sámi, as well as claiming that the Roman Catholic Church also practices re-baptism.117

114 ‘Naar enten en Noyd, ved runen, eller en anden afgudiske lap, i drømme, faar den videnskab, at et sygt barn har sin sygdom af Præstens Daab, og af det navn, som Præsten har lagt paa det; da omdøber en afgudiske lap det…’ (Kildal 140). 115 ‘Jeg løuker dig i navn Maylmenradiens (Kiorvaradiens, eller en andens) og du skal have det navn N. (et gement og brugeligt navn) og med det navn skal du have god helse (nemo skielo skal barnet altid bære paa sig)’ (Kildal 141). 116 ‘Men sjelfva idén att Döpa och Döpa om Barn, torde väl ingalunda vara Lappens eget påfund: både döpandet och omdöpandet äro ursprungligen lånta af Catolicismen’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 115). 117 It should be noted here that it has never been part of the teaching or practice of the Catholic Church to re-baptize individuals seeking to become part of the church (Catechism, 1272): “Incorporated into Christ by Baptism, the person baptized is configured to Christ. Baptism seals Christian with the indelible spiritual mark (character) of his belonging to Christ. No sin can erase this mark, even if sin prevents Baptism from bearing the fruits of salvation. Given once for all, Baptism cannot be repeated” [my emphasis].

112 In a similar vein, Thomas von Westen classifies this practice as Anabaptismus magicus

‘magical Anabaptism’ (Rydving, Drum-Time 123, cf. von Westen, “Forklaring” 480 ff.),118 It would seem that von Westen is making a polemical, confessional argument here by comparing the Sámi ritual of baptizing a second time with the Anabaptist tradition of waiting until a catechumen is an adult before performing baptism, and of rebaptizing those catechumens originally baptized as infants. Anabaptists were a branch of Radical Protestants who believed that a catechumen had to be able to profess their Christian faith verbally before baptism (Estep

201). This idea diverged starkly from the Patristic tradition, since Anabaptists such as the Swiss

Brethren Conrad Grebel (c.1498-1526) argued that “baptism does not save, as Augustine,

Terullian, Theophylact, and Cyprian have taught, dishonoring faith and the suffering of Christ in the case of the old and adult, and dishonoring the suffering of Christ in the case of the unbaptized infants” (Williams and Mergal 80-81).119

This stance also was part of a break from the Lutherans. Grebel also writes, “water does not increase our faith, as the scholars at Wittenberg [i.e. Lutherans] say” (80-81). Here von

Westen uses the theological invective of “Anabaptism,” and makes it even more illict by adding

118 Sadly, this source from von Westen is only kept in a few libraries in Europe, and I was unable to acquire a copy of it. A comparison of this source with the other missionary opinions on Sámi re-baptism remains a compelling area for future research. 119 One could argue that Acts 19:15 specifically endorses re-baptism: “While Apollos was in Corinth, Paul passes through the interior regions and came to Ephesus, where he found some disciples. He said to them, ‘Did you receive the Holy Spirit when you became believers?’ They replied, ‘No, we have not even heard that there is a Holy Spirit.’ Then he said, ‘Into what then were you baptized?’ They answered, ‘Into what then were you baptized?’ They answered, ‘Into John’s baptism.’ Paul said, ‘John baptized with the baptism of repentence, telling the people to believe in the one who was to come after him, that is, in Jesus.’ On hearing this, they were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus.” (NRSV). While this could have been the case, it seems more likely that St. Paul here wants to make sure that these disciples have been correctly baptized in the name of Jesus Christ. A similar missionary example of this can be found when Jesuit missionaries were allowed back to Japan after Christianity’s having been officially banned in the country. They had to make sure that the Hidden Christians who had persisted in their belief in secret had been baptized using the licit formula. To confirm that these Christians were licitly baptized, the missionaries went to different Hidden Christian communities and collected the baptismal formuals to see if they were valid (Turnbull 75-76).

113 the adjective “magical” onto it. Thus, the Sámi were not only Anabaptists; they were Anabaptists who practiced magic to attempt to remove the holy, Christian baptism from children.

While Sámi re-naming ceremonies attracted much of the ire of ecclesiastical authorities, the practice (or set of practices) that missionaries conceived of as “Communion” or “Eucharist” received perhaps even more condemnation in writings on Sámi beliefs and practices. It is difficult to accurately reconstruct the exact role of these sort of rituals for the Sámi, or indeed if this type of ritual ever truly existed, as it was only recorded by missionaries. In a manner similar to his discussion of the Sámi’s relationship to Christian baptism, Schefferus writes concerning the reception of Communion within their communities that, “They likewise pay much reverence to the Lords Supper, and to the ceremonies of Confession and Absolution, which are always used before that Sacrament, which they now are really partakers of, whereas in the times of Popery they received it without any solemn consecration” (Schefferus 32). Aside from the critique of the

Roman Catholic Eucharist, Schefferus does not provide any more information about the supposed Sámi inversions of the sacraments. While one might also think from Schefferus’ description that the Sámi received this second of the Lutheran sacraments faithfully, the majority of missionary writers paint a very different picture.

Olsen describes a practice common among the Sámi for the initiation of noaidit. The training of children in magical arts from a young age is a common trope in Olsen, and he continues this in his description of what in Sámi is called Rup malle or Noide buorromus, a special kind of food and drink that the Sámi make and give to their children in order to foster the children’s magical ability (Olsen 29). In addition to making children strong in magic, this food and drink also allows them to find animals in the wild and fish in the streams. Those who consume it will become physically strong and will not be likely to become sick (Olsen 29).

114 Unfortunately, Olsen does not provide any information regarding the exact nature of Rup malle or Noaide buorromus. He does, however, note that those who consume this become forpacttet

‘bound in a pact’ with the noaide gadze, and thereby with the devil himself (Olsen 29). This description is strikingly similar to the Patristic understanding of superstitio as entering the guilty person into a pact with the devil (cf. Daxelmüller 86, 124).

Olsen does not explicitly call this practice “Communion,” “Lord’s Supper,” or

“Eucharist,” but it does bear a strong resemblance to rituals that other missionary writers describe as “Sacrament.” Kildal mentions this practice, but provides so few details as to what it may have looked like that it is difficult to obtain a comprehensive view of the purported ritual.

He first notes this in the context of the distribution of surviving indigenous Sámi rituals when he writes, “Moreover I have not learned of any Lapp, in the South or in the North, who has committed idolatry; however the sacrament of Maylmenradien’s and of Sarakka’s altar perhaps was performed in the South, but not in the North” (Kildal 113-114).120 Kildal later writes, “Every morning on their way to church, before they come to church to go to God’s table, a portion of

Lapps try to eat the body of Maylmenradien in bread or cheese, and to drink the blood of

Sarakka in water” (141).121 In Kildal’s description, the inversion of Christian norms appears quite clearly. The Body of Christ (which in the Lutheran tradition is seen as being truly present in Communion hosts) has been replaced with the body of the Sámi deity Maylmenradien.

Likewise, the Blood of Christ (viewed within Lutheranism as being truly found in Communion wine)122 is changed to the blood of the birth goddess Sarakka.123

120 ‘J øvrigt undertages ingen lap, sør eller nor, fra, at have brugt afgudsdyrkelse; men Maylmen-radiens og Sarakkas alterens sacrament har kun været brugt sør i landet; men ikke nor.’ (Kildal 113-14) 121 ‘Een deel lapper pleyer, om morgenen paa deres kirke-vey, førend de kommer til kirken, at gaae til Guds Bord, udj brød, eller ost, æde Maylmenradiens legem, og i vand drikke Sarakkas blod.’ (Kildal 141) 122 cf. Augsburg Confession, Art. X: “Concerning the Lord’s Supper they teach that the body and blood of Christ are truly present and are distributed to those who eat the Lord’s Supper.”

115 Skanke treats both of the alleged Sámi sacraments at the same time. Like Kildal, Skanke notes the important role of the goddess Sarakka in these rituals. Unlike Kildal, Skanke makes no mention of the god Maylmenradien, but puts Sarakka (“the Venus of the Lapps,” as noted earlier) at the forefront of the Sámi pantheon, and notes that a portion of whatever they eat or drink is given to her in sacrifice (Skanke 189). Her importance is so great that, “she is continually in the mouths of the Lapps; they make prayers unto her, implore her for her help in all their affairs, hold her as their comfort and refuge; moreover, Sarakka is the first and the last, the most beloved and the most reliable, to whom they cling with all their beings” (Skanke

189).124

Because of their great reverence for her, the Sámi involve Sarakka in their communal life. When a woman is expecting to give birth, a place is prepared for Sarakka to come and sleep among them. Before the birth, the pregnant woman drinks Sarakkas viin ‘Sarakka’s wine’ and eats Sarakkas grød ‘Sarakka’s porridge’ (Skanke 189). Once the child is born, it is offered up to the service of Sarakka, and is baptized in her name in order to ensure her favor and good health will be bestowed upon it (Skanke 190). Like other missionary writers, Skanke also notes that this

Sámi baptism is performed when the child becomes sick for no clearly identifiable reason.

Skanke writes that, “In her drink and food they take communion in the sacrament of her altar; and the most terrifying aspect of this is that, whereas we say that it is the body and blood of

123 Catholic Eucharistic theology differs from the Lutheran understanding in that “by the consecration of the bread and wine there takes place a change of the whole substance of the bread into the substance of the body of Christ our Lord and of the whole substance of the wine into the sunstance of his blood” (Catechism, 1376). The Roman Catholic Church calls this ”transubstantiation”, while Lutherans call their understanding ”sacramental union” (Epitome of the Formula of Concord, Art. VII, 2). 124 ‘Denne er ideligen i Lappernes munde, hende giøre de bøn til, hende anraabe de i alle deres anliggender, hende holde de for deres trøst og tilflugt; og korteligen, Sarakka er den første og den sidste, den Kjæreste og den tilforladeligste, som de i alle deres væsener holde sig til’ (Skanke 189).

116 Christ, they say it is Sarakka odsjo ja wuerre [‘Sarakka’s body and blood’]… ” (Skanke 190).125

Skanke adds, “They pray that she may lie under the Christian Communion, and after

Communion they pray, that she should be merciful to them and forgive them of the sin of having taken communion with the Christians, as has been unanimously mentioned in individual confessions” (Skanke 190).126

In a seeming reversal of the usual missionary paradigm, the Sámi in Skanke’s description here feel compelled to confess the sin of having participated in a Christian religious ritual.

Additionally, Skanke’s description of the Sámi belief surrounding Sarakka’s communion in many ways mirrors the theological language regarding the Real Presence of the body and blood of Christ within the Lutheran understanding of the Eucharist.127 The Apology of the Augsburg

Confession states that “the body and blood of Christ are truly and substantially present and are truly offered with those things that are seen, bread and wine.” (Apology, Art. X) In Skanke’s description, the Sámi pray that Sarakka may exist within what would otherwise be the normal elements. Out of all the missionary writers covered in this project, Skanke provides the most detailed description of these Sámi “sacraments.” Even so, it is difficult to determine the exact nature of these rituals, let alone if they ever actually existed in any form similar to what Skanke and the other missionaries claim.

125 ‘I Hendes drik og Mad communicere de for Alterens Sacramente; og ded som forskrekkeligere er, at istedenfor vi Christne siige, ded er Christi Legeme og Blood, saa siige de, ded er ”Sarakka odsjo ja wuerre” …’ (Skanke 190) 126 ‘Hende de tilbede lige under den Christne Communion, og efter Communionen afbede, at Hun vil være dem Naadig og forlade dem den synd, at de med de Christne have communiceret, som haver været manges eenstemmige bekjendelse’ (Skanke 190). 127 cf. footnote 123.

117 Conclusion

The primary sources analyzed here display an overwhelmingly negative view of indigenous Sámi belief and practice. The manner in which missionaries wrote about Sámi spirituality map nicely onto the theological frameworks in which they operated. The ubiquitous presence of the devil was a common worldview for the vast majority of the missionary writers, and the Sámi very often played the role in missionary records as his agents in this world. Often the respective beliefs and practices within indigenous Sámi spirituality take on the shape of non-

Lutheran (e.g. Anabaptist or Catholic) beliefs and practices. At other times, the aberrant aspects of Sámi spirituality are seen by the missionaries as inversions of orthodox Lutheran doctrine.

These inversions often appear in descriptions of Sámi mixing elements of Christianity and indigenous spirituality. These depictions seem to have been intended to reinforce the licitness of

Lutheran doctrine and practice. Sámi idolatry could also well have functioned as an admonishment to those Scandinavian Lutherans who held superstitious beliefs and broke from accepted religious practice. As stated above, the threat of God’s wrath was seen as very real, and the Scandinavian kingdoms would not tolerate any non-Christian (specifically non-Lutheran) religion being practiced. By casting the Sámi as demonic, the Scandinavian state churches could also legitimize their rule over Scandinavian religion, as well as the state powers to which they were connected.

118 Chapter 4:

Analysis of Scandinavian Lutheran Missionary writings on Sámi traditional religion

This chapter applies the methods and definitions of concepts and phenomena important to this dissertation to the Scandinavian missionary writings as outlined in the Primary Sources chapter. The theoretical frameworks presented above provide meaningful insights into how

Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries recorded and (more crucially) how they categorized indigenous Sámi spirituality. Particular emphasis is placed upon the instances from the primary sources covered in this project that seem to display the theological and religious studies dichotomies of “superstition” vs. “religion”, as well as “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism.” Both of these frameworks are defined and outlined in the methodological chapter. In this chapter, I approach the most relevant examples from the primary sources covered in the second chapter in chronological order, analyzing them in light of these antagonistic theoretical structures.

In this case, the indigenous Sámi spirituality with which Scandinavian missionaries came into contact was idolatrous in the eyes of the missionaries. These posed a serious threat to the status of the kingdoms of Denmark-Norway and Sweden as Lutheran Christian countries, opening these kingdoms up to the impending wrath of God (Widén 15 fn., cf. Rydving, Drum-

Time 54-55). Likewise, the blendings of Christian and Sámi symbols, beliefs, and practices that the missionaries encountered threatened to undermine all of the missionaries hard work spreading Lutheranism among the Sámi. In many ways, this threat was even more dangerous than the threat of prolonged idolatry, as it meant a dilution and contamination of Lutheran teachings that had been hard-won on the Continent. Much of early Lutheran theology was

119 focused on returning Christianity from what Lutheran theologians saw as the perverted, illicit

Christianity of Rome. A lapse in vigilance threatened that the same would happen to the renewed

Lutheran faith as missionaries spread it in Scandinavia among the Sámi.

The writings left by Lutheran missionaries evidence strong fears of rampant pagan superstition as well as syncretism among their Sámi flocks. These fears appear to perpetuate themselves, in that the missionaries who were afraid of idolatrous and syncretic religion found more and more of the same. With every discovery of aberrant belief and practice, the missionaries became increasingly afraid. This threatened the success of their mission to bring

Lutheran Christianity to indigenous people who had only experienced partial Christianization under Roman Catholicism during the Middle Ages. It was thus imperative for the missionaries to stamp out every instance of illicit religion among the Sámi.

What missionary sources say about Sámi spirituality

This section analyzes how missionary writers portrayed and characterized Sámi spirituality. Although many of these same authors wrote about other aspects of Sámi lifeways, the majority of their ire was centered on Sámi spirituality. As discussed above, the concept of

“religion” has taken on many forms and served many functions over its history, to the extent that

Smith (281-282) contends that it is up to individual scholars to define “religion” within the context of their research. I therefore define “religion” as it pertains to the Sámi as their traditional, indigenous beliefs and practices pertaining to otherworldly, spiritual matters. This is in order to avoid pitfalls from earlier religious scholarship on the Sámi and other indigenous non-

Christian groups, where often the non-Christians in the missionary contact situation are

120 portrayed as having no real “religion.” This poses a problem, as it implies that the non-Christians do not have intricate, complex spiritual traditions and that they are “simple” or unintelligent.

While this is the particular definition of “religion”used here, within the theological worldview of the missionary writers referenced here “religion” evidences its older, more polemical definition.128 In the wake of the Lutheran Reformation, the focus of proper “religion” shifted somewhat from ritual performance (as it had in the Early Church and the Middle Ages) to a term primarily denoting correct belief.129 This can be seen specifically in Lutheran doctrinal stance that salvation can only be accomplished sola fide ‘through faith alone’. While this does not mean that Lutheran missionaries to the Sámi did not decry what they saw as superstitious practice, this new Protestant focus is reflected in the amount of space they devoted to describing the structure of Sámi belief. For the missionaries, wrong belief (i.e. “superstition”) was at the core of what was flawed about Sámi spirituality. According to them, the aberrant practices that they saw among the Sámi stemmed from a perverted system of beliefs. It seems likely that the missionaries devoted more space to the description of these beliefs in order to more effectively combat them as the root of what they viewed as Sámi “superstition.”

A trend found in almost all of the missionary accounts covered in this project is the diabolization of indigenous Sámi spiritual entities. As discussed in the previous section, this same phenomenon has occurred at multiple points throughout the history of Christian missions

(cf. Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 62). While its presence within the records originating from the

Sámi-missionary encounter is not necessarily unique within this global historical context, this contact situation provides us with many insights into how this diabolization played a significant

128 As discussed previously, “religion” has historically been seen as only belonging to Christianity, or at the very least to a religion that has intricate theological traditions and relies upon scripture, e.g. Judaism or Islam (cf. Smith 271). 129 This change in the definition of “religion” can be seen in the shift in preference from Religion to Glaube ‘belief’ in German during this period (Smith 271).

121 role in influencing the effects of “religion” vs. “superstition” and “syncretism” vs. “anti- syncretism” within the missionaries’ theologies.

As briefly outlined above, the vast majority of missionary writers viewed the Sámi as engaging in what Ahlström (II) refers to as commercia cum demonibus ‘commerce with the powers of darkness.’ While Tornæus’ work is designed primarily to give the reader an overall description of the Lapmark region of Sweden and its inhabitants, a few places in the text hint at the theological framework that was influencing Tornæus’ report. He explicitly connects the belief in the Seite and its performance in the magic of the noaidit to diabolical activity (Tornæus

29). His reference to the “prophets of Ba’al”130 calls to mind Elijah’s competition with (and humiliation of) the prophets of Ba’al recounted in 1 Kings 18:20-40 (Tornæus 37).131 Tornæus’ use of this story is noteworthy on multiple levels. First, with it he seems to be suggesting that those who worship the Seite’s and conduct idolatrous rituals should be disparaged, much as

Elijah does in the Biblical account. This is fitting, considering Tornæus’ task as a missionary called to bring the Sámi out of their ignorance and into the light. On a second level, though, the reference can be read as supporting his categorization of the Sámi gods as demons. In the Old

Testament story, Elijah does not just demean the priests of Ba’al; he demeans their master Ba’al.

By insulting the Sámi who continued to worship the Seite, Tornæus seems to be insulting those

Seite as well (appropriately, since to Tornæus the Seite were, in fact, demons.

In addition to ascribing a demonic nature to all indigenous Sámi spiritual entities,

Tornæus’ demonology comes through in his analysis of the means by which the noaidi sought and received answers from their Seite. Concerning the noaidi’s use of the runebomme to receive answers from the spirit-realm, Tornæus (29) writes that “the devil now had no power to speak

130 ‘Baals propheter’ (Tornæus 37). 131 As argued in Chapter 3, fn. 47

122 and answer verbally through these Seite….”132 Here it appears that Tornæus holds to the notion that the devil was bound in his ability to directly influence the physical world. The devil could not physically make the Seite speak, because “God has destroyed and overturned Satan’s kingdom through his [i.e. Satan’s] servants and worshippers” (Tornæus 38).133 Despite this decisive victory, the devil was still able to lead astray “the poor people living in the dark”134 (i.e. the Sámi) through the illusions of the noaidi and his runebomme (Tornæus 29; cf. Skanke 191).

Tornæus’ theology surrounding the devil could connect to Martin Luther’s demonology.

Tornæus’ status as a Lutheran pastor places him within the theological lineage that followed

Luther. Although Luther was writing over a hundred years before Tornæus, Tornæus was still operating within an early modern Lutheran context with many of the same theological assumptions and concepts as Luther himself. Oberman (156) writes on Luther’s view of the devil as incorporeal that “As powerful as the Devil is, he cannot become flesh and blood; he can only sire specters and wallow in his own filth … Both the demonic, intangible adversary of God and the Son of God are present in the world, but only Christ the Son is corporally present.” This was not to say, however, that the devil did not pose a serious threat, even for Christians. For Luther, a primary way in which the devil operated in the world was through sensory illusion. In his commentary on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians, Luther speaks of “the power of diabolical illusion” and the ways in which the devil seeks to bring people to despair by confusing their senses (Luther, Galaterbrief 125).135 Luther (Galaterbrief 125) notes that these illusions can even become so great as to drive faithful Christians to commit suicide. Similarly, Tornæus notes the real spiritual danger of allowing idolatry and superstition to persist in Lapmark. The devil

132 ‘diefwulen nu ingen macht hade at igenom dessa “Seitär” mundteligen tala och swara…’ (Tornæus 29). 133 ‘Altså hafwer Gudh Satans Rijke genom hans egna Tiänare och dyrkare förstört och kullkastet’ (Tornæus 38). 134 ‘det arma, förmörkade Folket’ (Tornæus 29). 135 From Martin Luther’s Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians, 3:1 ‘die Kraft der teuflischen Blendung…’ (Luther, Galaterbrief 125).

123 required a human intermediary (here, the noaidit) to carry out these illusions, because (following

Luther) the devil was constrained by God and unable to physically interact with the world. This did not mean, however, that the devil’s power was to be underestimated. These diabolical illusions carried out by the devil with help from the noaidit threatened to keep the Sámi living in spiritual darkness.

Olsen also follows the general trend of demonizing all aspects of indigenous Sámi belief and practice. In his account of Sámi belief and practice, he writes that “There is a kind of devil among the Finns and Lapps that is called in Finnish [i.e. Sámi] Noaidi-gadze…” (Olsen 30).136

Olsen (10) spends a fair amount of time describing the means by which the ‘noaidi-gadze’ teach the Sámi to perform magic. While these spirits are still firmly demonic for Olsen and he strongly condemns any Sámi who contact them, he also seems to approach these Sámi with slightly more compassion than other missionary writers. Olsen (10) writes that these spirits purposefully confuse the Sámi into thinking that these spirits are, in fact, angels of God.137 While this echoes 2

Corinthians 11:14 (“Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light,” NRSV), Olsen takes the comparison one step further by showing his reader that these Sámi are likewise the victims of the illicit magic practiced within their culture, which might soften his stance towards the Sámi themselves. Why Olsen seems to take this stance is unclear. It could perhaps be that he wanted to use the Sámi a cautionary example for what happens when one persists in “superstition.” It is not only those around the superstitious person that suffer as a result, but the superstitious person as well.

136 ‘Det er Et slags Dievele i blant finnerne og lapperne hvilken som kaldis paa finsk Noaidi-gadze…’ (Olsen 30). 137 ‘…Dievele som lærer dem troldkonsten og aabenbarer sig for dem og hielper og under viser dem, de samme fomeener de at skulle være guds Engle’ (Olsen 10). Here it seems that Olsen is presupposing that the Sámi had a belief in beings called “angels” within their pre-Christian religion. He writes that the Sámi suppose the spirits are God’s angels (Olsen 10). If this were the case, then this would require that the Sámi knew what a Christian angel was in order for the demons to trick the Sámi into believing that the demons were angels. As it stands, it seems very unlikely that the Sámi would have believed in Christian angels before the advent of Christianity in the region.

124 Despite his apparently more compassionate stance, Olsen in no way takes a positive view of indigenous Sámi spirituality. If anything, he retains many of the common tenets of Western

Christian demonology, as established during the Early Church and the Middle Ages. Much like the patristic writer Tertullian, Olsen portrays demons as hiding under the guise of divinity.

Concerning the spirits invoked by magicians during their rituals, Tertullian asks, “Will it not be a worthier supposition that it is they [i.e. the spirits] who make themselves into gods what they do what wins credence for gods, than that gods should be on a level with angels and demons?”

(Tertullian, Apologeticus, XXIII, 2).138 Much in the same way, Olsen here writes how the noaidi- gadze hide their demonic nature to impress the Sámi into worshipping them.139 To do so for

Olsen is an example of superstitio, illicit religious belief in and service to fallen angels parading as helpful spirits, rather than licit belief and service due to God alone.

Also curious in Olsen’s account of Sámi “superstition” is his detailed description of the trold skolen ‘troll school’ of the noaidit. Here, Olsen sets the noaidit on par with the ‘magicians’ troldmæsterne (literally ‘troll-masters’) who supposedly run the center for the training of children in the magical arts (Olsen 25). The fieldfinnerne ‘Sámi of the mountains’ were said to

138 ‘Non ergo dignius praesumetur ipsos esse qui se deos faciant, cum eadem edant quae faciant deos credi, quam pares angelis et daemonibus deos esse?’ (Tertullian, Apologeticus, XXIII, 2) 139 Olsen’s view of the noaidi-gadze themselves is also interesting in light of witch trials in England during this period. The witch trial of Anders Vadsø in 1692 is a prime example of a Sámi noaidi being brought up on charges of witchcraft for participating in rituals associated with traditional Sámi spirituality. Those present at the trial viewed Poulsen as a dark sorcerer, who was in league with the devil and sought to harm Christians (Hagen, “Arctic” 229). The noaidi-gadze were demonic spirits who carried out harmful, ungodly actions at the behest of the noaidi. This view of the noaidi-gadze as unholy helper spirits that sorcerers command is surprisingly similar to the predominant view of witches’ familiars in England during the Early Modern Period. Familiars were small, demonic spirits who helped witches carry out their magic, and who fed off their witch masters as reward for their help (Levack 93). There seems to be a striking similarity between the role of familiars within contemporary theological discourse concerning witches and missionary views on the noaidi-gadze. Aside from the similarities in both kinds of spirits’ functions, the fact that they both appear in witch trials during this period lends support to the notion that the missionaries and ecclesiastical authorities in Scandinavia equated the noaidit (along with anybody else who continued to practice traditional Sámi spirituality) with those witches who entered into a pact with the devil in exchange for preternatural powers. It could be that by doing so, missionaries and church officials were able to use the previously established trope of the Sámi as powerful, magical people into new fears surrounding the purity of Christianity in the Kingdoms of Denmark-Norway and Sweden following their conversion to Lutheranism.

125 have the most powerful noaidit, so much so that the sea-Sámi were said to have sent their children there to learn from them. “Sea-Sámi” are the Sámi who traditionally live in the coastal areas of northern Norway. “Mountain Sámi” are those who traditionally live inland. This was

“because they have a better location and more time to become competent in magical arts and the

Devil’s teaching” (Olsen 25).140 In this school, students become versed in diabolical magic by living amongst “among mountain-, mark-, hill-, and water trolls,” as well as among the noaidi- gadze helper spirits and various other demons (Olsen 25).141 According to Olsen (25), there were more than one of these “troll schools” in mountain Sámi territory.

Olsen’s description of this “troll school” equates the trolls and noaidi-gadze with demonic forces in the Christian sense. While he does not explicitly connect these Sámi wizards to other types of sorcerers, Olsen’s “troll school” bears a strong resemblance to tales about the

Black Book Minister (svarteboksprest) in Scandinavian folklore and folk belief of the period.

The Black Book Minister was a Lutheran pastor who could banish the devil if he ever appeared

(Stokker 92). The devil would appear for various reasons, often as a result of some sinful activity

(commonly card playing). Sometimes the Black Book Minister would be called in to banish the devil when he refused to leave; other times the Black Book Minister himself would be the one to cause the devil to appear, whether inadvertently or on purpose (Stokker 92). The reason this folklore trope is important to mention in this discussion of Sámi witchcraft, is that the Black

Book Minister was said to have learned to conjure and adjure the devil at a school of dark sorcery in Wittenberg, Germany. Wittenberg was a center of Lutheran thought from the beginning of the Reformation, and many Scandinavian clergy went there for seminary (Stokker

92-93). Thus, in the folk consciousness of the period Wittenberg became the place where the

140 ‘thi de har bedre tid og leilighed at øve sig i trold konster og Dievele lærdomme’ (Olsen 25). 141 ‘hos bierge, marcke, backe, og vande trolle’ (Olsen 25).

126 same seminarians would learn how to use the Black Book, a grimoire containing many different types of spells. The Black Book Minister was trained in the Black School of Wittenberg, a dark equivalent of the seminary of Wittenberg, where they were taught magic by the devil (Kvideland

& Sehmsdorf 287).142 According to Bugge (43), “All the ministers who had studied at

Wittenberg had the Black Book and could loose and bind both people and the Devil” (cf. Stokker

93, fn. 3).143

Olsen’s description of this “troll school” closely resembles the contemporary Black Book

Minister legends. Whereas the Black Book Minister learns magic from the devil far away from

Scandinavia in Wittenberg, the sea-Sámi send their children away to the troll schools to essentially do the same. However, instead of the apprentice magicians being members of the clergy, here those seeking diabolical power are the unconverted and superstitious Sámi. It could well be that this is a version of the folklore trope told from a pastoral point of view (Olsen was himself a pastor), whereas folktales concerning the Black Book Minister at Wittenberg constitute the lay version of this trope. In any case, the similarities of hidden schools of black magic remain strong in both versions.

Olsen describes Sámi rituals as essentially perverted and illicit versions of Christian sacraments. This is very fitting with the theological framework of “religion” and “superstition” outlined in the previous chapter, as “superstition” within a patristic, Western Christian sense was essentially perverted “religion.” Following this theme of perverted Christian practices, Olsen writes that the main motivation behind Sámi parents’ washing off their children’s Christian baptism was diabolical (Olsen 17). He posits that demons trick the parents into believing that the

142 The legendary Dr. Faust was believed to have also studied at the seminary in Wittenberg. A Prussian folktale tells that Faust was warned by the Lutheran reformer Philipp Melanchthon to stop dabbling in dark magic. Faust threatened to make all of Melanchthon’s pots fly out of the kitchen through the chimney to spite him (Grässe 391). 143 ‘Alle de Prester som havde lest i Wittenberg havde Svarteboka og kunde løse og binde baade Mennesker og Djævlen’ (Bugge 43).

127 child will die if it keeps the Christian name it receives with baptism. This then necessitates the parents’ bringing the child to a ‘noaidi’ to have a new name given to it (Olsen 16-17). For Olsen, this is an example of illicit belief and practice. The demons lead the Sámi into “superstition” to keep them from coming to Christianity. Here, diabolical forces delude the Sámi into thinking that

Christian baptism (as an example of licit “religion”) is dangerous to the child. The Sámi now are in a situation where they view “superstition” (i.e. their naming rituals) as licit, and licit “religion” in Lutheran baptism as illicit. This characterization by Olsen not only matches up with earlier theology concerning the distinction between “religion” and “superstition”, but it also connects back to Luther’s demonology regarding “the power of diabolical illusion” (Luther, Galaterbrief

125). Thus for the missionaries, the Sámi were under the power of demons, and as such were led to believe and practice the opposite of what is right and true (i.e. licit “religion”).

In a similar way, Olsen (29) reports a ritual called either Rup malle or Noaide buorromus among the noaidit that is supposed to help children grow in their magical ability. While Olsen does not provide details about the ritual, he does mention a type of special food and drink that the children would consume. Although Olsen does not explicitly call this practice a kind of Sámi communion, his description evokes a strong sacramental sense. Just as Lutherans partake in the body and blood of Christ during licit, Christian communion, so do those Sámi partake in an illicit, perverted version of the Lutheran sacrament. This illicit ritual causes those Sámi who take part in it to become bound (forpacttet) to the noaide gadze who are in reality evil spirits (29). In

Olsen’s mind, those who do this enter into a pact with the devil because of their superstitious beliefs and actions.

Much like Olsen, Kildal directly connects the spirits of Sámi indigenous spirituality to

Christian demons. In his Afguderiets Dempelse, Kildal (104) explicitly states that, “the gods that

128 they [i.e. the Sámi] had worshiped until that point were devils.”144 Like the other missionary writers, Kildal demonizes Sámi gods and spirits, presumably in order to cast indigenous Sámi spirituality as demonic “superstition.” What seems to separate Kildal from the other missionaries covered here is his attempt to discover the genesis of Sámi afguderi ‘idolatry’. It is interesting that Kildal cites the then-popular Scythian hypothesis from the field of historical linguistics to theology as evidence for the history of Sámi idolatry. The Scythian hypothesis stated that the

Scythians of the Black Sea region, as identified by Herodotus and Strabo, were speakers of the original language of Europe (Burman 81). Scandinavian scholars during the early modern period, such as Olof Rudbeck the Elder (1630-1702), saw the Scythians as the ancestors of the Swedes and placed their ancestral homeland in modern-day Scandinavia (Burman 81).145

Following this, Kildal (115) writes that the Scythians stayed in the northern regions of

Europe, and brought their religion with them. His contention that the Scythians brought the god known to the Sámi as Maylmenradien to the Sámi provides a historical background for Sámi idolatry, which also connects to the contemporary Scythian theory on the origins of the peoples of Europe. Additionally, Kildal connects Maylmenradien with the Roman god Jove (Jupiter) when he writes that,

Now just as some of the Samaritans sacrificed to devils under the name of Jove, a people who originated from the Scythians and who remain in the northern lands (as Schefferus has said) also sacrificed to the devil under the name Maylmenradien/Jove … and just as Israel and Ephraim sacrificed to the devil on mountain tops, so these Scythians of the northern lands have sacrificed to the devils, which have convinced them [i.e. the Sámi] through various assumed forms, that they [i.e. the devils] lived in the mountains… (Kildal 114-15).146

144 ‘…at de guder, som de, til den tiid, havde dyrket, vare dievle’ (Kildal 104). 145 Burman (81-81) notes, “Although Rudbeck was not a follower of the Scythian hypothesis, he shares ideas with it and may have been aware of the theory.” At the very least, the Scythians were on the minds of Scandinavian scholars of the period. 146 ‘Nu saasom nogle af Samaritanere havde ofret til dievelen, under navn af Jove, saa har og et folk som Scheferus siger, at være komet af de Scythær, hvilket opholder sig i nordiske lande, ofret til dievelen, under navn af Maylmenradien, Jove … og saasom Israel og Ephraim havde ofret til dievelen paa berge-toppe, saa har og disse

129

Kildal connects the illicit religious practices of the Scythians to the Old Testament idolatry practiced in the Northern Hebrew kingdom as described in the book of Hosea, specially Hosea 4:

13 (“They sacrifice on the tops of mountains, and make offerings upon the hills,” NRSV) and

Hosea 4: 17 (“Ephraim is joined to idols,” NRSV). It should also be noted that Kildal seems to be changing the Scythian theory somewhat by equating the Scythians with the Sámi, as opposed to following the prevailing view that ethnic Scandinavians (i.e. the Germanic-speaking population of the Nordic region) were the descendants of ancient Scythians (cf. Burman 81). The reason for this appears to be rhetorical. If Kildal could cast the superstitious Sámi as the idolatrous Scythians, then he could use this popular ethnographic and linguistic theory of the period, while still remaining within the predominant theological opinion of the period by viewing non-Christian religion as diabolical and illicit.

Much like Tornæus and Olsen, Kildal portrays various devils confusing and tricking the

Sámi into thinking that they are actually deities to be worshipped (cf. Tornæus 29). Indeed,

Kildal (114-115) speaks of devils assuming the forms of helper spirits to keep the Sámi trapped in idolatry. For Kildal, the pervasive presence of evil spirits among the Sámi lies firmly within

Lutheran tradition. In the prayer that Kildal gives the reader to keep these spirits at bay, he writes, “That the world was full of devils, and they wanted us…” (Kildal 149).147 While this outlook accounts for much of Kildal’s description of the Sámi and their religion, it also is very similar to Martin Luther’s demonology. Oberman (156) writes that, for Luther, the world was full of the devil and his fallen angels. This can also be seen in Luther’s famous hymn Ein’ feste

Burg ist unser Gott ‘A Mighty Fortress is Our God’ : “And though the world be full of devils nordiske landers Scythær ofret til dievlene, hvilke i adskillige paatagne skikkelser have indbildet dem, at de have boet i fielde …’ (Kildal 114-15). 147 ‘Der al verden fuld af dievler var, og vilde os’ (Kildal 149).

130 who want to devour us, then we fear not, for we shall prevail…” (Luther, “Burg” 31).148 It appears here that Kildal is taking inspiration both from Luther’s demonology and from Luther’s wording.

At the same time, Olsen diverges from this previous strain of Lutheran demonology. In

Olsen’s writings, evil spirits are able to interact with the material world. Here his view of Sámi

“superstition” appears very similar to that of the early church father Minucius Felix. In his

Octavius, Felix argues that demons are able to “animate the fibres of entrails [i.e. haruspicy], govern the flight of birds [i.e. augury], determine lots, and are the authors of oracles mostly wrapped in falsehood” (Octavius, XXVII, 1).149 According to Luther, despite the constraints that

God places on him, the more one grows in faith in Christ, the closer the devil draws to disrupt and destroy that faith (Oberman 156). Luther’s “power of diabolical illusion” was strong enough to lead people astray, but not enough to physically interact physically with the world (Luther,

Galaterbrief 125; Oberman 156). Oberman (156) writes that for Luther, anyone who thought of the devil as being corporeally present in the world was being superstitious.

While Kildal does not go so far as to say that demons have physical bodies, he clearly states that they were able to interact with the physical world. He includes a vivid account of demonic activity during Thomas von Westen’s mission to the Sámi, in which he describes how demons would harass those Sámi who were converting to Christianity (Kildal 130). This demonic activity was not limited to illusions or temptations. The Sámi who were giving up their idolatrous ways were pulled physically from their beds and plagued by demons. Although Luther himself was just one voice out of many and his demonology was not always consistent, Luther

148 ‘Und wenn die Welt voll Teufel wär, und wollt uns gar verschlingen, so fürchten wir uns nicht so sehr, es soll uns doch gelingen...’ (Luther, “Burg” 31). 149 ‘extorum fibras animant, avium volatus gubernant, sortes regunt, oracular efficient, falsis pluribus involuta’ (Minucius Felix, Octavius, XXVII, 1).

131 does seem to think that the devil is only able to trick the mind (see also Roberts 210, fn.22). Here

Kildal breaks from this trend in the Lutheran tradition somewhat by allowing for physical demonic activity. This also sets him off from Tornæus and Olsen, who follow Luther’s lead in constraining the devil’s power to interact with the physical world.

The only way that the Christian Sámi were safe was to be near von Westen himself

(Kildal 130). Those Sámi who were (or had previously been) involved with their indigenous spirituality were tainted by their superstitio. The illicit nature of Sámi belief and practice made them ideal candidates in the mind of Kildal (and presumably of von Westen as well) to be the targets of both spiritual, as well as physical, demonic attack. In this account, von Westen is the representative of the other end of the dichotomy. Not only is von Westen immune to demonic attack, but his status as an ordained pastor and missionary also extends to those at-risk Sámi in his proximity. By sleeping in von Westen’s tent, they become safe from the evil spirits (Kildal

130).

Kildal also describes rituals that sound very much like inverted and illicit, Sámi versions of the Lutheran sacrament Communion. He calls this the “the sacrament of Maylmenradien’s and of Sarakka’s altar” (Kildal 114).150 Before Sámi would go to church and take Christian

Communion, they would invert the Christian sacrament by eating “the body of Maylmenradien in bread or cheese, and to drink the blood of Sarakka in water” (Kildal 141).151 The Sámi would attempt to undo the spiritual work of the sacrament by supplanting their own version. Here the fears of superstition as well as syncretism are present in Kildal’s writing. The illicit belief in the

Sámi deities leads the Sámi to illicit practice in their pagan ritual. At the same time, the pagan ritual is an inversion of a licit Christian sacrament. The elements of the body and blood of the

150 ‘Maylmen-radiens og Sarakkas alterens sacrament’ (Kildal 114). 151 ‘udj brød, eller ost, æde Maylmenradiens legem, og i vand drikke Sarakkas blod’ (Kildal 141).

132 Christ are changed to the body and blood of Maymenradien and Sarakka. This syncretic blending changes the nature or the ritual from Christian to pagan. Both the superstitious and syncretic aspects of the Sámi sacrament work together to condemn the practice in the eyes of Kildal.

Fears of opening contact with demonic spirits by superstitious and syncretic beliefs and practices also can be found in Skanke’s writing. Skanke writes that the Sámi share tobacco, schnapps, and other luxury items with those who had died (191). In doing so, those Sámi would open up a means for the devil to work store elusiones ‘great illusions’ among them, with the intent of keeping the Sámi trapped in their superstition (Skanke 191). Believing in Saiwo and carrying out actions following that belief (here, the offering of goods to deceased relatives) is enough in the mind of Skanke for evil spirits to be given purchase to act in the world. Aside from being strikingly similar to the theology of early church fathers such as Tertullian, Menucius

Felix, and Augustine concerning “superstition” as illicit religion, Skanke also seems to be (likely unbeknownst to him) using a notion of the demonic pact that is very similar to Aquinas’, who argued that any sort of superstitious belief or activity could bind a person in a pact with the devil.

This pact could be on known to the human in exchange for preternatural power (pacta expressa), or one passively brought about by the human’s superstitious actions (pacta tacita)

(Daxelmüller 124). If a person was not aware that their beliefs and/or actions were in fact superstitious, then they were in an implied pact with demons (pacta tacitum). If the person was quite aware that they were entering into a pact with demons for preternatural power, then they were involved in a pact of which they were conscious (pacta expressa) (Daxelmüller 126).

While Skanke was operating within an early Lutheran theological framework, here it seems that his demonology converges somewhat with that of Aquinas in that both allow for superstitious actions opening up the possibility for demonic activity. Perhaps an explanation for

133 these similar demonologies can be found in the important status of Augustine for Aquinian, as well as for Lutheran, theology. In his De doctrina christiana ‘On the Christian Doctrine’,

Augustine writes that any sort of use of magical signs and symbols involves entering into an

“agreement or covenant made with the demons for the purpose of consultation and of compact by tokens [i.e. magical signs]” (Augustine, De doctrina christiana, ii., 20). Aquinas makes use of this passage from Augustine in his Summa Theologica (Aquinas, Summa Theologica, II-II, Q 96,

A 1, resp.; see also Roberts 90, fn 82). Daxelmüller writes, “Thomas Aquinas connected his teaching concerning the nature of superstition with Augustine’s theories on the actions of demons. Like Augustine, he understood superstition as a system of symbols for communicating with demons…” (Daxelmüller 126).152 Daxelmüller (126-127) likewise notes, “This semasiological and demonological interpretation of ‘superstitio’ and the premise that demons could have influence over all earthly occurrences made superstition into a sinister, social threat for mankind; the dark side of the witch craze was one of the effects of this move.”153

In Skanke’s writing, the devil also works among the Sámi by calling those noaidit to his service (Skanke 205). As stated previously, Skanke’s framing of the recruitment of noaidit in terms of a calling greatly resembles the process of ordination within the Lutheran tradition, where pastors are called to the clergy by God. Here, the inverse of this is happening, with potential noaidit being drawn into service of the devil. Thereafter the status of the noaidit is that of Satans Propheter ‘Satan’s prophets’ (Skanke 208). Like the other missionary writers covered in this project, here it seems Skanke wanted to show adherents to indigenous Sámi spirituality as

152 ‘Thomas von Aquin band seine Lehre über das Wesen der Superstition an die dämonologischen Theorien des Augustinus. Wie dieser begriff er den Aberglauben als ein Zeichensystem zur Kommunikation mit den Dämonen’ (Daxelmüller 126). 153 ‘Diese semasiologische und dämonologische Interpretation der superstitio und die Voraussetzung, daß die Dämonen auf alle Geschehnisse in der irdischen Welt Einfluß besäßen, (“Omina, quae visibiliter fiunt in hoc mundo, possunt fieri per daemones”), machte den Aberglauben zu einer unheimlichen sozialen Bedrohung für den Menschen; die Schattenseite des Hexenwahns war eine der Folgen’ (Daxelmüller 127).

134 superstitious devil-worshipers who carried out black magic and were in dire need of religious correction and salvation.

Læstadius differs from the other missionary writers covered here in many ways; in particular his perspective on, and use of, indigenous Sámi spirituality. When one views

Læstadius’ writings on Sámi spirituality through the theoretical lenses of “superstition” vs.

“religion” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism” as outlined in the previous chapter, one is struck by the seemingly strange way that Læstadius participates in and breaks free from both of these paradigms. His perspective on Sámi “superstition” is unique among the missionary writers covered here for a few reasons. The first of these is that Læstadius himself was of Sámi heritage

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 24). None of the other missionary writers to the Sámi could make this claim. His connection to the Sámi worldview influenced his work not only as a pastor to the

Sámi, but it also impacted the way he approached his many other fields. As a naturalist,

Læstadius was able to listen to the “language of nature” by blending Sámi oral tradition with

Western science (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 25). As a theologian, he created a uniquely Sámi

Christian worldview, in which he the supernatural world of indigenous Sámi spirituality continued to exist within the new religion of Christianity (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 25).

Læstadius was also a mythologist and philologist. Whether his status as part Sámi influenced his recording of Sámi mythology is difficult to say. It seems he titled his work

Fragments of Lappish mythology for a reason; much of the supposedly more intact pre-Christian religion of the Sámi peoples had been fragmented. At the time of his mythographic work, the

Sámi had been heavily Christianized (if not converted to active belief in Christianity), and

Læstadius notes different beliefs and practices that he feels are a result of contact with Christian neighbors. That being said, Læstadius does try to reconstruct as many of these fragments of Sámi

135 mythology as possible, in line with the growing field of philology. Fragments of indigenous

Sámi spirituality were crucial to his reconstruction efforts, as they provided small windows to a previously intact worldview. In a similar manner, Læstadius uses the fragments of Sámi religious terms that survived Christianization to help get a glimpse of how the beliefs behind these words might have worked. Both of these methods were the cornerstone of philological study of his era.

While his Sámi background gave him the unique perspective of having both ethnic

Scandinavian (Swedish on his father’s side) and indigenous Sámi (Southern Sámi on his mother’s side) heritage, it did not necessarily soften Læstadius’ stance on indigenous Sámi spirituality as anything other that “superstition.” He is still quick to condemn beliefs and practices he considers incorrect or detrimental to the mission of the church among the Sámi, as when he writes that the Sámi still are more convinced of the efficacy of the noaidi’s power than

“God’s threat in the Word” (i.e. Biblical prohibitions against witchcraft) (Læstadius, Fragments

223).

Læstadius casts much of pre-Christian Sámi spirituality as misplaced at best. While he is perhaps not as harsh towards those Sámi who still clung to their indigenous beliefs and practices, he still rarely finds anything redeeming in Sámi spirituality. Læstadius allows for the noaidi’ possessing real preternatural power, and although he himself does not write that the indigenous rituals of the noaidit were in fact illicit, dark magic, he does cite an account from Tornæus’ work that is telling of Læstadius’ stance on the issue. In the story, Tornæus tells a noaidi that all of his revelations gained by use of the runebomme were false because of their having been revealed by the devil (Læstadius, Fragments 201; Tornæus 21). Læstadius’ use of Tornæus’ verdict on the diabolical nature of the noaidi’s revelations shows at the very least an openness to this theological view. In any case, Læstadius treats many indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices as

136 spiritually dangerous. He even worries openly that by recording these beliefs and practices he might encourage some of his readers to begin to learn sorcery (Læstadius, Fragments 199).

Aside from the spiritual dangers of indigenous Sámi spirituality, Læstadius frames many of these beliefs and practices as psychologically dangerous. He explains the ecstatic trance state of the noaidi’ as being due to “a strange weakness of the nerves” made worse by “over- stimulation” (Læstadius, Fragments 207).154 In light of Læstadius’ championing of temperance, it is fitting that he also cites an account of a noaidi’ using alcohol to ease the transition between states of mind in preparation for a healing ritual (Læstadius, Fragments 210; cf. Leem). If alcohol led to sinful behavior such as dancing and gambling, then it makes sense that it could also lead one into sinful spiritual practices as well. Læstadius continues by suggesting that this mental failing could be a result of an isolated lifestyle, poor nutrition, or an inherited condition

(Læstadius, Fragments 207). If this indeed were an inherited condition in Læstadius’ theology, this would seem to imply a kind of constitutional failing on the part of the noaidit (and by extension, the Sámi as a whole). This appears to be new in the history of missionary writings about indigenous Sámi spirituality. For Læstadius, physical and mental problems are also able to account for illicit beliefs and practices. The other, earlier missionary writers covered in this dissertation only portray Sámi “superstition” as a result of spiritual deficiency. Why Læstadius does this is unclear, although it could be that the fact that he was writing later, in the 19th century allowed him to be open to considering other potential causes for the survival of illicit Sámi spirituality.155

His Fragments exhibit an apparent dichotomy or break in his thought concerning the

Sámi. On one hand, he approached Christianity in a very Sámi way by incorporating elements of

154 ‘öfer-retligt- besynnerlig nerfsvaghet’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 144). 155 Further research is needed to determine why this was the case for Læstadius.

137 pre-Christian Sámi spirituality into a hyper-pietist strain of Protestant Christianity. Læstadius’ fight against the “brandy monster” in Swedish Lapland was first and foremost a struggle against a foreign people (here, the Scandinavian powers of Denmark-Norway and Sweden) who sought to sully “the original nature people and nature religion” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27). Only later did the temperance movement become part of Læstadian doctrine. Likewise, Læstadius writes in Crapula Mundi that the Sámi are men of better character than the Swedish and Finnish settlers to Lapland (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27). In these examples, Læstadius seems to be setting the Sámi apart from their Scandinavian and Finnish neighbors, claiming that they were damaged by their contact with their Christianized neighbors.

By railing against the “false” Christianity of the Swedish Church and the abuses of colonization by the Swedish crown, Læstadius could be arguing (or perhaps just implying) that the Sámi are superior in character and religion to the Christianized Swedes. In retaliation against what he sees as rationalist theological sickness within the Swedish State Church, one of

Læstadius’s twelve theses in Crapula Mundi states that, “Because the immortality of the soul cannot be proven with certainty, it remains a matter of faith” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27).

Læstadianism as a religious movement is marked by a strong focus on maintaining the purity of an individual’s beliefs and actions. To simply be baptized and believe was not enough to be considered a Christian. One had to abstain from all “intentional sin” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction”

27). To fail in this task entailed intensive repentance by standing up in Læstadian congregations and verbally asking for and receiving forgiveness from one’s fellow Christians. One would then be received back into the fold by those faithful Christians (cf. Læstadius’ House Postilla

Sermons).

138 Inextricably bound to this notion of a Christianity intensely focused on personal piety is

Læstadius’ theology of “Sacral Succession,” which one can easily see as a critique of entrenched,

Swedish State Lutheranism. In his view, the Keys of St. Peter became corrupted after the martyrdom of Peter and were passed to those “true” Christians who had to go underground out of persecution. Those who had the Keys were part of a select group of “true” Christians, whom

Læstadius calls the “Order of Grace” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29). According to Pentikäinen,

Martin Luther was the one who brought the “hidden” and “mystical” teachings out of hiding into the open (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29). Although the Swedish State Church was officially

Lutheran, this lineage was in name only. Læstadius and other members of the “Order of Grace” sought to bring these hidden truths back into Swedish religion and society. It seems that

Læstadius was setting the Sámi apart from those Christians who had, in his mind, been deluded by the Swedish State Church.

True to his distinctly Sámi approach to Christianity, Læstadius made use of indigenous

Sámi spirits to help keep his Christian flock on the path to purity. Before contact with

Christianity, it is likely that the maahiset were simply spirits of the earth that had a positive role as helpers of the Sámi (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 25, cf. Outakoski). The maahiset also appeared as beautiful women in the wilderness, very similar to the Swedish and Norwegian hulder (pl. huldre).156 With Christianization the maahiset (along with the huldre) became the unwashed and hidden children of Eve who stole children and replaced them with their own, much like the changelings of the British Isles. During his sermons, Læstadius would refer to those unconverted Sámi present as maahiset (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 25), presumably in an effort to call them to repentance. Pentikäinen notes that the listeners seem to not have noticed

156 Huldre (lit. ‘hidden ones’) were nature spirits that were simultaneously seductive and frightening. It is a common trope in Scandinavian folklore for a man to (knowingly or unknowingly) marry a hulder (Kvideland & Sehmsdorf 214)

139 that these spirits were formerly seen as helpful and had become evil through Christianization.

What was important was that the term remained the same. During fieldwork among the Sámi in the 1960’s, Pentikäinen repeatedly heard the maahiset used in this manner. Whether Læstadius meant for his Sámi parishoners to take his use of the maahiset literally or not, he seems to have set a precedent in Læstadian Christianity as practiced by the Sámi. The Læstadian Sámi held that the maahiset (along with other Sámi spirits) were absolutely real “because even Læstadius spoke about it” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 25).

This phenomenon of the incorporation of pre-Christian spirits into indigenous forms of

Christianity can also be seen in other missionary contact situations between Christianity and indigenous spirituality. As Meyer has shown, the modern pietist Christianity brought to the Ewe people of Ghana by German pietist missionaries is marked by its incorporation of pre-Christian spirits. What used to be the gods of the Ewe came to be seen as evil spirits as an effect of

Christianization (Meyer, “Beyond syncretism” 63). In both the Ewe and Sámi examples of this phenomenon, elements of the indigenous spirituality are syncretically transposed into the new indigenous variant of Christianity. Often this blending involves a demonization of those indigenous elements; in these examples the pre-Christian spirits become demons. Surprisingly, this syncretic blending is often done in an effort to curb “superstition” among the converted indigenous peoples. “Superstition” as illicit religious practice and belief is combated through validation of aspects of the indigenous spirituality, but only as far as those aspects seek to keep the converted in the true “religion.” Both “superstition” vs. “religion” and “syncretism” vs. “anti- syncretism” are at play here; however, “syncretism” is being used to fight “superstition.” This is another facet of Læstadius and his theology that sets him apart from the other, earlier missionary writers covered in this dissertation.

140 At the same time, Læstadius’ teachings and revival movement engaged in anti- syncretism. It is safe to say that Læstadius’ revival movement focused intensely on the purity of the Christian faith. The State Church Lutheranism had made too many concessions in its theology (by following rationalist trends) and in its culture of piety (by allowing Christians to consume alcohol, along with other sinful behavior). Here the theoretical framework of syncretism and anti-syncretism seems fitting. Læstadius perceived the more modern trends within the Swedish State Church as “syncretism,” a blending of licit “religion” and “worldly” contaminants that needed to be corrected through his anti-syncretic revival movement. Here though, Læstadius’ anti-syncretism centers equally on illicit belief and practice coming from the non-indigenous (here, Swedish) side of the Sámi-missionary contact situation, as it does on impurities coming from the indigenous side. The muddied Swedish State Church faith of the

Scandinavian colonizer seems to be just as much of a threat to the salvation of the Sámi as surviving “superstitions” drawn from indigenous Sámi spirituality.

The State Church Lutheranism of the Swedes was not the only religious threat coming from a non-Sámi source. Læstadius points out more than one element present in Sámi belief and practice that he considers a survival from contact with Catholicism prior to the Scandinavian kingdoms becoming Lutheran. Elements of Catholicism posed a great threat to Læstadius because they represented the fallen type of Christianity that Lutheranism, and later

Læstadianism, sought to free itself from. These supposedly Catholic elements tend to be centered around what other missionary writers along with Læstadius saw as Sámi approximations (or inversions) of Christian sacraments, although they could pertain to other aspects of Catholic belief and practice such as prayer to saints. As noted above, Læstadius argues that the sacred three days of the Ailekis Olmak (Friday-Sunday) are most likely taken from Catholicism, because

141 each day of the Ailekis Olmak was devoted to a Sámi god (Læstadius, Fragments 80).157 For

Læstadius (Fragments 79), this smacked of the Roman Catholic practice of saints’ days. The idea of the three Ailekis Olmak themselves were “a vague representation of the Roman Catholic Saint icons, further confused by diffuse concepts of trinity” (Læstadius, Fragments 79-80). How exactly the Ailekis Olmak were related to icons of saints is unclear, and Læstadius does not provide any more details on this, although it it does provide a glimpse into the role that

Catholicism played for Læstadius as he went about his mythographic work.

Beliefs and practices that he saw among his fellow Sámi that resembled elements of

Christianity (specifically Catholicism) were likely to be due to contact. While this seems plausible considering the long-standing contact between Christianized Norwegians, Swedes, and

Finns with the Sámi, here Catholicism is one more illicit type of religion to which the Swedish

Sámi have been exposed. It is noteworthy that Læstadius writes that the Sámi in Norway absorbed more Catholic elements into their mythology, presumably due to their proximity to the bishopric of Trondheim (Læstadius, Fragments 80). Thus for Læstadius, the Swedish Sámi are not as lost as the Sámi “over there,” who have even more Catholicism hiding in their religion.

In regards to Sámi sacraments, Læstadius writes that “The practice of baptizing and re- baptizing a child was by no means invented by the Lapps: both baptizing and re-baptizing are borrowed from Roman Catholicism” (Fragments 173).158 As stated above, baptism as a child was not enough to be saved in Læstadianism; one had to come to faith in a conscious way

(Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 29, 31). That Læstadius groups baptism with Sámi re-baptism betrays his dislike for the high-church Lutheran understanding of sacraments within the Swedish

157 The god of Friday was Frid-Ailek, the god of Saturday was Lawa-ailek, and the god of Sunday was Sodna- peiwe-ailek (also called Burres) (Læstadius, Fragments 78). 158 ‘Men sjelfva idén att Döpa och Döpa om Barn, torde väl ingalunda vara Lappens eget påfund: både döpandet och omdöpandet äro ursprungligen lånta af Catolicismen’ (Læstadius, Fragmenter 115).

142 State Church of the period, as well as ties the practice to (what Læstadius saw as) the illicit practices of the Catholics. This seems to be a rhetorical move in which Læstadius casts the blame for these “superstitious” practices among the Sámi onto the colonizing forces in northern

Sweden. If contacts with the previous Christian peoples of Scandinavia were the source of these

“superstitious” beliefs and practices surrounding baptism, then the Sámi were victims of religious and cultural colonization, as well as political colonization. This is very much in line with Læstadius’ belief that the “the original nature people and nature religion” of the Sámi was in need of protection from foreign influences (cf. Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27). It also fits with Læstadius’ statement that “A Lapp is a man of better quality than a new settler or a non-

Lapp” (Pentikäinen, “Introduction” 27). If the ecclesiola in ecclesia ‘small church within the church’ could convert the Sámi to this “true” Christianity, then perhaps the Sámi could then bring the rest of Sweden back to proper, licit faith.

While Læstadius views much of indigenous Sámi spirituality as “superstition,” it seems that “superstition” for him has a different connotation than for the previous missionaries covered in this project. He tends to portray those who continue in their indigenous Sámi spirituality as mentally unstable or slow-witted. Previous Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries covered here were not of Sámi heritage, and as such would most likely have not taken this approach. It could also be that, because Læstadius also was from the 19th century when psychological explanations for erratic or irrational behavior began to be more accepted than diabolical ones, these explanations appear in his writing.

Conclusion

The Reformation’s desire to return Christianity to a purer form likely played an important role in this push for purity in the newly Lutheran kingdoms. Luther was adamant that the Roman

143 church was corrupted beyond repair, and thus it was imperative that the church be transformed to recover its former licitness (Oberman 42-43). It is fitting that a reforming movement within

Western Christendom that sought to return the church to licit doctrine and practice would display anti-syncretic tendencies. Luther speaks often of the defilement of Christianity by Rome. For example, in a letter to his friend Spalatin, Luther writes that “everyone in Rome has gone crazy; they are ravingly mad and have become inane fools and devils” (Oberman 43).

This desire to cleanse the church can be seen in the motivation for the Scandinavian

Lutheran missions to the Sámi. Instead of fighting extensive theological, rhetorical, and military campaigns against Catholic forces, the Scandinavian kingdoms relatively quickly converted to

Lutheranism. While Sweden did play a decisive role towards the end of the Thirty Years’ War, on the home front both Denmark-Norway and Sweden did not see much religious conflict.159

Because of this, it could well be that there was not as much of a spirit of defiance in the face of ungodly forces who sought to pervert “true,” licit Christianity as one finds in the writings of

German Lutheran reformers. It seems that the anti-syncretic zeal of the Reformation found an outlet in the missions to the Sámi. Instead of campaigning against the “idolatrous” Catholics who were defiling the church on the continent, Scandinavian Lutherans could fight what they say as the rampant “superstition” amongst the indigenous peoples who had been living in the

Scandinavian kingdoms all along. In both settings, the push for reformation of aberrant religion and the struggle against “superstition” remained the same.

The missionary writings on indigenous Sámi spirituality take on a highly polemical tone.

The primary expressed purpose of these writings appears to have been intended to provide

Christian Scandinavians with information about their pagan neighbors to the north. In reality

159 Some Catholics did leave Scandinavia after the conversion to Lutheranism, such as Johan Ferdinand Körningh who later attempted to convert the Sámi to Catholicism (cf. Körningh).

144 though, it seems that these writings were really anti-syncretic statements against the (perceived or real) blendings of indigenous Sámi and Lutheran Christian religion that had been occurring as a result of religious and cultural contact. Even at the beginning of Lutheran missions to the Sámi in the early 17th century, this contact had existed for hundreds of years. Following the conversion of Denmark-Norway and Sweden to Lutheranism, these missions sought to ensure that all subjects of their kingdoms were pious Christians, with appropriate beliefs and who engaged in licit religious practices.

For the Lutheran Reformers and later Lutheran missionaries alike, beliefs and practices outside of their accepted Christian positions were illicit “superstition.” “Superstition” was dangerous, not just in that it confused non-Christians (or newly converted Christians) in desperate need of salvation, but moreover because it brought those individuals into contact with demonic forces. It is likely that the missionaries came to the Sámi expecting some sort of diabolical paganism, due to the Sámi’s reputation throughout Northern Europa as wizards and sorcerers (cf. Ahlström I). They appear to have found exactly that when they arrived in the Sámi regions of Denmark-Norway and Sweden. It is likely that this reputation, along with the missionaries’ preconceived notions around “superstition” and illicit religion, greatly affected the way in which the missionary writers covered here portrayed indigenous Sámi spirituality. For most of the missionary writers covered here, Sámi spirituality was evil because it involved rendering service to false gods.160 These false gods were in reality evil spirits who sought to turn the Sámi away form licit Christian religion. This theological position has strong connections to

Christian thought regarding non-Christian religion that began to be expounded by early church fathers (e.g. Tertullian, Minicius Felix, Augustine).

160 The Scandinavian missionary writers covered here refer repeatedly to the Sámi dyrkelse of false gods. The word dyrkelse here can mean ”worship,” but can also mean ”cultivation.” For missionaries, the Sámi cultivated idolatry through their superstitious beliefs and actions.

145 In light of the legacy of belief in Sámi wizards and the reenergized anti-syncretism of

Lutheran Christianity, the harsh condemnation of indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices by missionary writers is not surprising. Connected to this are the comparisons that missionaries made between the Sámi and other non-Lutherans in order to condemn Sámi beliefs and practices.

Thomas von Westen’s classification of Sámi naming rituals as Anabaptismus magicus ‘magical

Anabaptism’ shows a simultaneous likening of the Sámi to both the Anabaptists (whom the

Lutherans railed against) and practitioners of illicit magic (Rydving, Drum-Time 123, cf. von

Westen, “Forklaring” 480 ff.). In a similar manner, Læstadius places blame on Catholicism not only for the practice of re-baptism among the Sámi, but also for an illicit understanding of baptism in general. In each example, the missionary equates a Sámi “superstition” to some other religious outsider already known to Lutherans.

These missionary writings show the anti-syncretic spirit of the Lutheran Reformation. To say that this anti-syncretism was all uniform in its appearance, however, seems to be inaccurate.

There appear to be at least two main kinds of anti-syncretic polemic present in the missionary writings covered here. Over the course of the roughly 200 years of Scandinavian Lutheran missions to the Sámi, perspectives on indigenous Sámi spirituality seem to have changed; reflecting both different theological movements within Scandinavian Lutheranism and changing perspectives on “religion” in general and mental illness within Western scholarship. All the writers covered here who were active before Læstadius fall within the same general theological opinion regarding indigenous Sámi spirituality. While there are some minor variations on the theme, these missionaries view any aspect of Sámi spirituality as being inherently

“superstitious.” As illicit “superstition,” the Sámi who took part in rituals and continued to believe in their traditional religion were guilty of trafficking in devils. They brought diabolical

146 oppression not only upon themselves, such as those Sámi converts who are attacked by evil spirits as recorded by Kildal (cf. Kildal 130), but also threatened to bring the wrath of God upon those kingdoms that allowed such illicit religion to continue. It seems contemporary fears of divine punishment for the Scandinavian realms allowing idolatry remained quite active among the vast majority of these missionary writers (Widén 15 fn., cf. Rydving, Drum-Time 54-55).

Thus, the Sámi who continued to practice their indigenous spirituality posed a serious threat to the spiritual as well as physical well-being of their ethnic Norwegian and Swedish neighbors.

Læstadius changes and subverts his earlier anti-syncretism somewhat. The danger for

Læstadius of indigenous Sámi spirituality seems to be more one of spiritual and psychological delusion, as opposed to the overt diabolical threat present in many of these other, earlier missionary writings. While he does condemn many pre-Christian Sámi beliefs and practices, he also repurposes them within a new, pietist Christian perspective. Læstadius uses syncretism

(here, the repurposing and blending of Christian and Sámi worlds) to help finally convert his fellow Sámi away from the perverted and fallen Swedish State Church Lutheranism, as well as from their indigenous “superstition.” While Læstadius had his beginnings in the Luther Swedish

State Church, Læstadianism differs significantly from its parent denomination. One could argue that this would disqualify Læstadius from consideration as a Lutheran missionary, but this would go beyond the scope of this current project.

In all, the theological dichotomies of “superstition” vs. “religion” and “syncretism” vs.

“anti-syncretism” play significant roles in all of the missionary writings on Sámi spirituality covered in this project. They inform how missionary writers conceived of indigenous Sámi beliefs and practices, and influenced the manner in which the writers portrayed Sámi rituals to those writers’ ecclesiastical audience. While they sharply offset Sámi “superstition” from “true,”

147 licit Lutheran Christian “religion” in these writings, it would be a mistake to always equate fears of “syncretism” with illicit “superstition.” The overall anti-syncretistic spirit of these writings shows that this was usually the case, yet Læstadius provides a major exception to this rule by his use of syncretic Christian-Sámi blendings to further his strain of Christianity. The next chapter examines a later missionary contact situation between Lutheran missionaries and indigenous spirituality. In the early 20th century, German Lutheran missionaries of the Neundettelsauer

Missionsgesellschaft came to modern-day Papua New Guinea and established churches there.

During their time in-country, the missionaries wrote about the indigenous spirituality that they encountered in ways that are surprisingly similar to those by the earlier Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries to the Sámi, thus making possible a fruitful comparison to the earlier situation.

148

Chapter 5:

Comparative analysis: A German Lutheran missionary contact situation in Papua New Guinea

This final thematic chapter focuses on another historical instance of Lutheran missionaries interacting with and writing about indigenous peoples and their religious beliefs and practices, namely the Lutheran mission to present-day Papua New Guinea undertaken by the

German Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft ‘Neuendettelsau Missionary Society’ in the late

19th and early 20th centuries. While the Scandinavian Lutheran missions to the Sámi from the 17th through 19th centuries had no direct bearing upon the Neuendettelsauer mission, the presence of these two missions offers the opportunity to compare and contrast how two different Lutheran missions from two different time periods interacted with and wrote about the religions of two historically unconnected groups of indigenous peoples. This German Lutheran mission to Papua

New Guinea serves as an interesting comparison to the Scandinavian Lutheran missions to the

Sámi because of the many similarities between the relevant descriptions of indigenous spirituality. Additionally, the missionaries of the Neuendettelsauer mission expand upon the perspectives found in the accounts from the earlier Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries. These aspects make both of these compelling examples to compare in this chapter.

This chapter uses the same methodological framework as the earlier chapters, relying heavily on the interaction between the two main theological dichotomies of “superstition” vs.

“religion” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism.” Here again these missionary writings on indigenous spirituality are analyzed through the lens of (real or perceived) licit religion (i.e.

149 “religion”).161 Likewise, examples of (real or perceived) illicit or idolatrous religion in these missionary writings serve as support for this dichotomy as having been active in the minds of the missionary writers. This is important in that its presence seems to have fueled anti-syncretic backlashes on the part of the missionaries against what they saw as syncretic blendings of licit

Christianity with illicit, indigenous spirituality. In turn, this sees to indicate that both of these theoretical dichotomies were active in both of these missionary contact situations.

Similarly, examples of (real or perceived) religious blending (i.e. “syncretism”) noticed by missionaries often elicited a backlash against this mixing (i.e. “anti-syncretism”). The intention here is to analyze a different historical example of Lutheran missionaries’ writing about the native religion of indigenous peoples while still using these same two theoretical frameworks. This chapter is not intended to provide a full analysis of missionary writings on the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea, but rather to serve as a beginning point for future research on Lutheran missionary writings on a larger scale. The similarities between these two

Lutheran missions point to other possible connections to other Lutheran missionary contact situations in other parts of the world such as Namibia, Kenya, and India. As such, this chapter is also somewhat constrained in scope and length when compared to the previous investigation in this dissertation of missionary portrayals of Sámi spirituality. Additionally, because the

Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries used terms such as “superstition” and “idolatry,” this chapter also uses these terms in this chapter when discussion similar reactions to indigenous spirituality by these German Lutheran missionaries. As with the discussion of Scandinavian

Lutheran reactions to non-Christian religion, this chapter uses these terms not as objective,

161 Recall the definitions of “religion” from previous chapters. As noted, this dissertation follows Smith in his view that it is up to individual scholars to define “religion” within the context or their research (Smith 281-82). In line with this, this dissertation defines “religion” as a group of spiritual beliefs and practices associated with living out those beliefs.

150 religious descriptors but instead as indicators for the missionaries’ underlying theological presuppositions and frameworks.

This chapter draws heavily on the first and second volumes of Georg Pilhofer’s (1881-

1974) Die Geschichte der Neuendettelsauer Mission ‘The History of the Neuendettelsauer

Mission’ as its main primary source. Pilhofer wrote the three-volume history of the

Neuendettelsauer Mission from 1961-63 for the Evangelisch-Lutherische Missionsanstalt

Neuendettelsau ‘Evangelical Lutheran Missionary Institute in Neuendettelsau.’ Pilhofer was himself in the mission field in Papua New Guinea for the missionary society and his work is one of the most detailed pieces written on the history of the mission in modern-day Papua New

Guinea. Pilhofer’s work must also be taken as it is, namely as an account of missionary activity in Papua New Guinea written from a distinctly missionary perspective. Pilhofer’s own missionary biases are readily apparent, as are discussed below. Thus, as with all of the missionary sources used in this dissertation, this work cannot be treated as an authoritative study of indigenous spirituality in Papua New Guinea in any factual sense. Here again it is probably best if none of the records written by missionaries of indigenous spirituality in Papua New

Guinea are taken as objective, due to the apparently strong influence of religious polemic on the part of the missionary writers.

This work suits this comparative chapter well, however, as Pilhofer’s theological mindset shines through quite strongly in his descriptions of native religion in the region and the missionaries’ efforts to convert local tribes there. His evaluations of indigenous spirituality are almost always negative, and involve making connections to dark, diabolical forces seeking to keep the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea in spiritual bondage. This evidences a

151 worldview on the part of Pilhofer and the other missionaries he cites, wherein the indigenous peoples are locked within “superstition” and are in need of the true “religion” of Christianity.

Moreover, Pilhofer’s work remains one of the most extensive sources on German

Lutheran missions in Papua New Guinea. In it, he draws from his own experiences in-country, as well as from other missionaries writings, and consolidates them into a historical narrative of the missionary society’s respective successes and struggles in bringing Lutheran Christianity to

Papua New Guinea. The work also offers the reader with descriptions of the lives of the indigenous peoples of the region. This is of particular interest to this chapter, as many of these descriptions contain evaluations of indigenous life that seem to reveal both of the theoretical frameworks used in analyzing Scandinavian Lutheran writings on the Sámi. By this, I intend to show how the dichotomies of “religion” vs. “superstition” and “syncretism” vs. “anti- syncretism” can apply to the analysis of Lutheran missions as a worldwide phenomenon in different time periods.

History of Lutheran missionary activity in Papua New Guinea

The Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft was established in Neuendettelsau, Germany by the Lutheran pastor Wilhem Löhein in 1827. The society started out within a Germanophone context, supporting churches in Basel, Switzerland and later sent missions to North America, where German Lutheran immigrants needed German-speaking pastors for the new churches in the U.S. and Canada (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 13). In 1853, the society established a seminary in

Neuendettelsau to train pastors to be sent on missions. The Neuendettelsauer

Missionsgesellschaft both supported German Lutheran congregations in North America, and sought to convert indigenous peoples there. For instance, in 1845 the society attempted to

152 establish a mission to the Cayuga people near Saginaw City, Michigan (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1:

15). A small mission was formed there, but began to suffer when the main missionary Baierlein left to a mission in the East Indies in 1853. Pilhofer writes that one of the main reasons for the growing difficulties in converting the indigenous peoples there was the “continually increasing movement of white settlers to Michigan, and the forced expulsion of the Indians” (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 1: 15).162 The Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft, along with the Bayerischen

Zentralmissionsverein ‘Central Bavarian Missionary Association’, sent another mission to Native

American tribes on the Powder River near the Rocky Mountains in 1859 (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1:

16). This mission was also a failure, due to attacks from local tribes and the killing of the main missionary Bräuninger. The missionary station was closed a year later.

After these failed attempts in North America, the Neuendettelsauer Missonsgesellschaft shifted its focus to Australia (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 14). It was around this time that the society began to send some of their missionaries from Australia to modern-day Papua New Guinea. The

Neuendettelsauer Missonsgesellschaft was not the first missionary group to establish a missionary presence in the country, as other Christian groups had earlier sought to convert local peoples there. Early Catholic missionaries were the first Christian missionaries to attempt to convert local peoples around 70 kilometers north of Finschhafen on the east coast of Papua New

Guinea, although Pilhofer writes that the mission failed in a short time because of the “long distance [from Finschhafen] and the hostile disposition of the natives” (Geschichte 1: 39).163 In

1855, the Dutch Reformed Utrechtsche Zendingsvereeniging ‘Utrecht Missionary Association’ sent missionaries to Papua New Guinea, and a Methodist mission came from Australia to the

Bismarck Archipelago in 1874. Catholic missionaries returned to Papua New Guinea in 1882,

162 ‘das immer stärkere Eindringen der weißen Siedler in den Staat Michigan und die Zurückdrängung der Indianer’ (Pilhofer 1: 15). 163 ‘... der weiten Entfernung und der ablehenden Haltung der Eingeborenen’ (Pilhofer 1: 39).

153 and established a mission in the Bismark Archipelago as well (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 39). Aside from the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft, the Rhenische Missionsgesellschaft ‘Rhenisch

Missionary Society’ also sent Lutheran missionaries to the area around modern-day Madang on the northeastern portion of the main island of New Guinea (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 39). The missionary writings that the missionaries left behind by these German Lutheran missionaries show many similarities to the writings of the earlier Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries whom this dissertation has cited extensively elsewhere in this dissertation. Both sets of missionaries conceive of and portray indigenous spirituality in surprisingly similar ways. Additionally, the congregations planted by the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft were largely successful, and they formed a large part of the Lutheran presence in Papua New Guinea that continues today. As such the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft is the most relevant for this study.

The political background of modern Papua New Guinea is also important to consider when looking at the history of missions in the country, as the once strong presence of German

Lutheran (and to a lesser extent Catholic) missionaries followed the German colonization in the region in the latter half of the 19th century. By the time of the missionary Johann Flierl’s (1853-

147) arrival in the colonial territory (Deutsch-Neuguinea) in 1886 on behalf of the

Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft, Germany had controlled the northeastern portion of the island of New Guinea for two years. Along with this territory, German New Guinea consisted of the islands of the Bismarck Archipelago, as well as many other islands such as Palau and Nauru.

Germany and Great Britain split the eastern half of the island of New Guinea, with the

Netherlands retaining the western half of the island as part of the Dutch East Indies (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 1: 19). The mainland portion of German New Guinea was called Kaiser-Wilhelms-

Land (after the German Kaiser), and encompassed roughly 180, 500 square kilometers (Pilhofer,

154 Geschichte 1: 20). Other of the surrounding islands also made up a part of German New Guinea, such as Neu-Pommern (New Britain), Neu-Mecklenburg (New Ireland), and the Admiralty

Islands (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 19). It was not until Germany’s defeat in World War I that

Australia took control of the entire eastern half of the island, which would later become what is now Papua New Guinea (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 20).

Pilhofer’s description of indigenous New Guinean spirituality

Pilhofer’s descriptions of indigenous New Guinean religion are of particular interest here.

They show some striking similarities to (along with notable differences from) the descriptions of

Sámi spirituality from Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries roughly two hundred years previously. As stated before, Pilhofer himself spent time in Papua New Guinea with the

Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft, and also cites other missionaries who served there. Thus, we have a mixture of Pilhofer’s personal descriptions of indigenous spirituality with perspectives from these other missionaries. Pilhofer does not always signify whether he is writing based on his own experiences or those of another missionary. From the perspective of factual accuracy of his descriptions of indigenous spirituality and the conversion process, this could pose some problems with his work. The reader often cannot know conclusively if Pilhofer is speaking from his own personal experience or not, and should therefore approach what Pilhofer has to say about indigenous spirituality in Papua New Guinea with some skepticism.

This does not, however, disqualify Pilhofer’s work from consideration, as it remains the most comprehensive of the available works on the missionary society. As with the missionary writings of Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries, the factual accuracy of their portrayals of indigenous traditions and religion is not the main focus. What is really important for this project

155 is what these missionaries thought indigenous peoples believed and practiced. This is what one can reasonably surmise from the missionary records that exist. For the same reason, an idea of actual indigenous spirituality is very difficult to gather from these writings.

Pilhofer devotes a significant portion of both the first and second volumes of his work to the religious beliefs and practices that missionaries encountered during their time in Papua New

Guinea. Sadly, he often does not specify which religious beliefs and practices belong to which indigenous groups. Thus, one is left with very many overarching and general descriptions of what religion looks like in Papua New Guinea, but very little idea of where such religion is practiced. As noted above, it is best if one does not take these descriptions of indigenous spirituality as authoritative in any way. Despite this, Pilhofer’s descriptions provide one with an insight into how missionaries conceived of indigenous spirituality in relationship to their own

Lutheranism.

Pilhofer writes that the indigenous spirituality practiced in Papua New Guinea is

“animism” (Geschichte 1: 32), by which he means a type of belief in souls that exist in many things in the world that most Westerners would classify as inanimate. According to this definition, humans and animals, and inorganic objects have souls. He speaks of the “spiritual essence,” which “does not adhere to things, but rather permeates them” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1:

32-33).164 He describes the relationship between the native “Papua” and this animistic world as follows, “The native feels surrounded by mysterious forces, who are invisible to the bodily senses, yet who are thought bound to the physical world …” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 32-33)165

The soul of a human is thus not some entirely spiritual essence, but rather a spiritual force that floods the entirely of the human body even into the extremities like the hair and the fingernails,

164 ‘Seelenstoff’; ‘haftet nicht an den Dingen, sondern durchdringt sie’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 32-33). 165 ‘Der Eingeborene fühlt sich daher umbeben von geheimnisvollen Kräften, die zwar mit den leiblichen Sinnen nicht wahrnehmbar sind, aber als stofflich gebunden gedacht werden ...’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 32-33).

156 and even into the person’s shadow and the person’s name (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33). The vast number of unseen entities causes a sense of constant fear and dread in the native peoples. These forces can often be destructive, and can even threaten the vitality of plants, animals, and children.

With this sense of foreboding and danger comes the need to mitigate and keep the destructive forces at bay. From here springs the strong belief in the efficacy of magic among the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea. Pilhofer describes the mechanism behind this magic as the belief, that all creatures and things possess spiritual power, which one can invoke through touch or even a word, to produce an effect (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33). Most often, one uses a magical spell (Zauberspruch) to do this; however, many things also have magical power, such as the bones of the dead and items from gravesites (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33). Here Pilhofer also notes that one can consume this power by eating. For Pilhofer, this belief is the genesis of the practice of ritual cannibalism. He writes for example that the brain, liver, and other body parts of a brave warrior can give one the same power (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33). In the area around the missionary outpost in Tarabo there is in fact a tribe whose members during pre-Christian times would eat the limbs of corpses, in order to consume the power of the deceased tribal members

(Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33).

Missionaries found more than one kind of magic among the indigenous peoples of Papua

New Guinea; the effects (beneficial or harmful) of the magical rituals depend upon the sort of spell that is spoken (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33). There are both magical blessings and curses, but he notes that the most unholy type of magic that affected the majority of tribes in the country is the belief in ‘necromancy’ (Todeszauber; Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33-34). As a missionary writing about the religious beliefs and practices of indigenous peoples whom he and his compatriots

157 were trying to convert, Pilhofer underscores the inherent spiritual (and sometimes physical) danger of these beliefs and practices. This “necromancy” involves keeping the spirits of the dead from causing harm to the living, and is thus connected to the cult of the ancestors (Ahnenkult), which forms the backbone of so much of the indigenous religious worldview (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 1: 34). The living among the native tribes are bound to continue to look after the well-being of their deceased ancestors (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 34). If they do so properly, the tribe will prosper with the spirits of their ancestors as guides and protectors. If they fail to care for their ancestors’ spirits, though, calamity will strike. Pilhofer writes that ultimately “it comes to a disruption of the relationship between the living and the dead, which can have calamitous ripple-effects” (Geschichte 1: 34).166

According to Pilhofer, the fear of sorcery and being accused of sorcery lead to extreme grieving practices among indigenous groups. Upon the death of a loved one, the family members surround the body and begin to cry loudly (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 35). Pilhofer quotes from

Christian Keyßer’s description of mourning among indigenous peoples in Papua New Guinea,167 who wrote that, “Dismay grips all inhabitants of the house and the village … a terrible tumult begins …” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 35).168 Along with loud cries of sadness and despair, the inhabitants throw themselves on the ground and cut their earlobes so that the blood flows down their bodies (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 35). In fact, “Among most of the inland tribes there is a custom whereby one cuts off the joint of a finger when close relatives die” (Pilhofer, Geschichte

166 ‘es kommt dann zu einer Störung des Verhältnisses zwischen Lebenden und Verstorbenen, die sich unheilvoll auswirken kann’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 34). 167 It is not entirely clear from which work of Keyßer’s works Pilhofer quoting here, as Pilhofer only sometimes cites his sources. It seems that Pilhofer is not quoting from Keyßer’s 1923 work Bai, der Zauberer. 168 ‘Bestürzung erfaßt alle Haus- und Dorfbewohner … Ein fürchterlicher Tumult beginnt …’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 35)

158 1: 36).169 The missionary Georg Vicedom later notes that because of this custom, “One can see women who have no more whole fingers” (Vicedom 279; cf. Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 36).170 In

Pilhofer’s view, these extreme mourning practices were not expressions of actual grief, but were designed to deflect suspicion from individuals of having been guilty of the harmful magic that caused the deceased’s death (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 36). Vicedom argues that the one common aspect tying all of the various indigenous mourning practices together was the fear of the spirit of the deceased (Vicedom & Tascher 279; cf. Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 36). If they displayed extreme grief, then the spirit of the deceased would see that the tribal members were properly remembering and honoring it. The fear here presumably was that otherwise the spirit would return to harm the living.

Once a person was buried, their tribe would go to war to kill the guilty sorcerer in an opposing tribe (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 36). The goal of these assaults was to ensure that the spirit of the deceased did not plague their tribe as described above. In turn, this assault creates a chain-reaction of violence, where more and more members of both opposing tribes are killed as a result of warfare, and the need to appease the spirits of the killed continues and grows with each death. Neighboring tribes are also in danger of becoming involved in the fighting, as the warring tribes can always accuse the uninvolved tribes of having cast spells against them. As in the case of the original battling tribes, this involvement of further groups in the conflict can spread across an entire region (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 34-35).

Connected to the ever-present fear of harmful magic and warfare, Pilhofer writes that the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea, with whom the Neuendettelsauer missionaries came

169 ‘Bei den meisten Inlandstämmen besteht die Sitte, daß man ich beim Tode nahe Verwandter ein Fingerglied abhackt’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 36). 170 ‘Man kann Frauen sehen, die überhaupt keinen ganzen Finger mehr haben’ (Vicedom 279; cf. Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 36).

159 into contact, lacked any medical knowledge. Pilhofer writes that, “the Papua has no conception of natural causes of sickness and death,” and that “almost all cases of misfortune and death are viewed as having happened as a result of magic” (Geschichte 1: 34).171 This missionary idea of the indigenous peoples’ having no real medical knowledge is also found in Christian Keyßer’s

1923 work Bai, der Zauberer (“Bai, the Sorcerer”).172 Keyßer tells of a woman in a local village who was near death. He writes that she was allowed to sleep in a hut without all four walls, so that cold wind could blow over her, and then chastizes the converts there for not properly attending to her in her condition (Keyßer 25-26). He blames them for her death, since “In their heathen customs they did not have special ways or treating sick and dying people. They were not taught to be kind to them and think of ways to make them comfortable” (Keyßer 26). Later in his work, Keyßer describes the death of Bai, who came down with a fever, but kept working in his garden, which ultimately leads to his death (Keyßer 29). It follows from the perspectives of

Pilhofer and Keyßer that the “Papua” are unable to properly prevent and treat sickness. He also notes that as a result, the “Papua” cannot effectively protect against sickness. There are no real cures, only precautions against the harmful magic being directed at the sick person (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 1: 34, fn. 34). According to both missionaries’ writings, the local peoples live without proper medical knowledge, and are thus trapped in a chaotic world of dark magical forces.

Fighting itself between tribes was brutal, and missionary writers are clear in that the indigenous peoples showed no mercy to their opponents (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 35-36). Fast attacks were common, and members of the opposing tribe were often severely wounded only to

171 ‘Der Papua kennt keine natürliche Krankheits- und Todesursache. Nahezu jeder Unglücks- und Todesfall wird auf Zauberei zurückgeführt’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33-34). 172 I was only able to obtain the 1986 English translation of this work by Esther Winter, and have therefore relied on it here.

160 be hacked to death by those young warriors who had not yet gone to war (Neuhauss 3: 37).173

Pilhofer writes that these descriptions of the brutality of indigenous warfare were a part of “the merciless killing und the inhuman barbarity of the generally good-natured Papua” (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 1: 37).174 If the indigenous people were so good-natured, then it is unclear why they carried out such brutal warfare. For Pilhofer, the reason for this was not that the indigenous people were inherently more bloodthirsty than Europeans, but rather it was “religious compulsion” that led them to perform such atrocities (Geschichte 1: 37).175 Pilhofer sums up his description of life for indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea by saying,

It is a life full of fear that the Papua must lead. He finds himself in a radiation field of unseen forces, against which he must protect himself. He is placed into the danger zone of sorcery of which he can become a victim, without having any notion of this danger … and at the end of this peaceless and erratic existence is the desolation of a dark continued survival in the shadow realm of death (Geschichte 1: 37).176

Thus for Pilhofer, the existence of the indigenous peoples is one of despair, where even the native conception of the afterlife is one of continued fear and gloom. The indigenous peoples of

Papua New Guinea were living in spiritual darkness, and this darkness pervaded every aspect of their existence. They had no real hope for any peace after death, let alone during their life. The

Lutheran Christianity that Pilhofer and other missionaries brought them promised a way out of this broken, pagan life.

173 Pilhofer says that he is quoting from a work of Keyßer’s, yet Pilhofer cites from Neuhauss. It is unclear which source Pilhofer is using here. 174 ‘das schonungslose Morden und die unmenschlichen Grausamkeiten der im allgemeinen gutmütigen Papua’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 37). 175 ‘religiöser Zwang’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 37). 176 ‘Es ist ein furchterfülltes Leben, das der Papua führen muß. Er befindet sich im Strahlungsfeld unsichtbarer Kräfte, gegen die er sich schützen muß; er ist hineingestellt in die Gefahrenzone der Zauberei, deren Opfer er werden kann, ohne eine Ahnung davon zu haben ... Und am Ende dieses friedlosen und unsteten Daseins steht die Trostlosigkeit einens umdüsterten Weiterlebens im Schattenbereich des Todes’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 37).

161 Pilhofer’s definition of “religion” as a concept

Pilhofer not only ascribes the motivation behind the violence and misery of native life to the spiritual beliefs of the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea, but he also uses the word

“religious” to describe this drive towards bloodshed. Unlike many of his European contemporaries, Pilhofer contends that it is religion, and not some innate lack of mental ability that keeps the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea at their low cultural state, as when he writes, “A people engaging in such religious aberrations cannot advance” (Geschichte 1: 38).177

Earlier, Pilhofer calls “animism” the “religion” of these peoples of Papua New Guinea

(Geschichte 1: 32). It is interesting that in this instance he does not call their “animism”

“superstition,” but instead uses the term “religion.” While this could theoretically evidence

Pilhofer’s more positive view of indigenous spirituality in Papua New Guinea, this does not appear to be the case. This could mean that Pilhofer is using the term “religion” in more of a descriptive than pejorative manner, however his disdain for this New Guinean “religion” is clear throughout the text.

Later, he notes the danger of the “religious” errors of the “Papua.” In both cases, Pilhofer refers to the beliefs and practices found in Papua New Guinea by the terms “religion” and

“religious.” He later expands upon his definition of “animism” by writing that “animism is not a collection of various types of religious conceptions that one can pick and choose from at will.

Rather it is a tightly connected system that holds people captive” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38).178

It seems that for Pilhofer, the indigenous peoples with whom the Neuendettelsaurer

Missionsgesellschaft came into contact did in fact possess a “religion.” It is important here to

177 ‘Ein Volk, das sich in solchen religiösen Irrgängen befindet, kann nicht hochkommen’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38). 178 ‘Der Animismus ist ja nicht eine Summe verschiedenartiger religiösen Gedanken, von denen man nach Belieben einzelne ausklammern könnte, sondern ein in sich festgefügtes System, das die Menschen gefangen hält’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38).

162 question why Pilhofer conceives of indigenous beliefs and practices in this way. It is also curious that Pilhofer defines “animism” as a set system of beliefs and practices. For him, it is not simply a general, descriptive term to define a religious worldview where all creatures and objects possess a soul (although Pilhofer does begin with this definition, cf. Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 32), but instead “animism” is a particular kind of perverted religion.

That “animism” for him is a set system of distinct beliefs and practices could be a projection of the Christian religious structures from his own Lutheranism. It could also be that by systematizing this “animism” into a religion more in line with Christian conceptions of

“religion,” Pilhofer is able to cast this “animism” of the indigenous peoples of Papua New

Guinea as the inversion of true, Christian “religion.” Additionally, this could be intended by

Pilhofer to make indigenous spirituality more contained so that he in turn can easier classify it as idolatrous and evil. As such, “animism” for Pilhofer and the other missionaries really seems to be a stand-in term for “superstition.” As discussed in the methodology chapter of this dissertation, superstition conceptualized in Western Christian theology is perverted and inverted religion (Kahlos 157-8). While Pilhofer does not use the terms “superstition” or “superstitious” here, the “religion” of the “Papua” does not bring eternal life, but rather death and damnation.

This in turn would account for the derision with which Pilhofer, Keyßer, and other missionaries view the beliefs and practices that they witnessed (see the discussion of these reactions below).

Pilhofer criticizes the German and later British colonial project in New Guinea, albeit not entirely in the way commonly associated with colonial critique. He notes that the encroaching

“civilization” of the Europeans brings about the destruction of many different religious and cultural practices:

163 Of course the most blatant expressions of heathendom could be repressed through violent measures of a colonial government, but thereby the natives would experience no inner conversion. Instead, a spiritual vacuum arises that makes them anchorless and drives them into the arms of materialism (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38).179

Pilhofer responds to the criticisms of other Europeans, who say that missionary efforts rob the indigenous peoples of their culture, arguing that this position is based on a complete lack of knowledge of the true state in which those indigenous peoples find themselves (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 1: 38). Instead of leaving them to their traditional ways of life or letting Western civilization roll over them and leave them in despair, Pilhofer sets up the Lutheran Christianity that the mission was bringing them as the solution to both of these disastrous options. He writes,

“they can only be freed from the condition of spiritual subjugation and be converted to free people with inner joy through the Gospel” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38).180 For Pilhofer, the empty life of Western materialism is only matched by the despair of their “animism.” While criticizing

Western colonialism in a way, he also manages to keep the native religion as an abomination from which the Neuendettelsauser Missionsgesellschaft must save the indigenous peoples. This clever two-way critique allows Pilhofer to remain committed to the promotion of true, Christian

“religion” in Papua New Guinea, while also pointing out the often disastrous effects of Western materialism upon those indigenous peoples whose ways of life were destroyed as a result of colonialism. Both the “animism” of the indigenous peoples and the “materialism” of Western civilization are open targets as sinful ways of life for Pilhofer, as he works to promote the efforts of the missionary society in combating both of them. It could be that in this way, Pilhofer

179 ‘Gewiß könnten durch Gewaltsmaßnahmen einer Regierung die gröbsten Auswüche des Heidentums unterdrückt werden. Aber dadurch erfahren die Eingeborenen keine innere Umwandlung. Es entsteht vielmehr ein seelisches Vakuum, das sie haltlos macht und dem Materialismus in die Arme treibt’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38). 180 ‘Denn nur duch das Evangelium können sie aus dem Zustand seelischer Knechtung befreit und zu innerlich frohen und freien Menschen umgewandelt werden’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38).

164 presents the message of the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft and other missionaries as the way out of the spiritual dangers of both native superstition and Western consumerism.

This does not mean that Pilhofer wanted to let beliefs and practices that he found sinful and repulsive to survive. It does set him off from the vast majority of the earlier, Scandinavian

Lutheran missionaries covered in previous chapters, in that Pilhofer is willing to place some blame upon the European colonial project for destroying indigenous lifeways. In some ways,

Pilhofer’s approach is similar to that of Læstadius in the 19th century among the Sámi. Both

Pilhofer and Læstadius remain firm in their commitment to bringing true “religion” to indigenous peoples and condemning the idolatrous native religions that they encounter. Yet, they both cast sidelong and sometimes harsh glances back at the colonizing forces who often treated

Christianization as a goal and justification for colonization.

Reports of “magical” practices in Pilhofer and Keyßer

The second volume of Pilhofer’s history tells of many instances of religious mixing (i.e. syncretism) of the pre-Christian spiritual world of the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea and the Lutheran Christianity brought by the missionaries. Pilhofer recounts the continued belief in and practice of pre-Christian religion among the Lutheran congregations established by the

Neuendettelsauer mission. Pilhofer and other missionaries (such as Keyßer) had originally assumed that the pagan world of the past would quickly die out upon conversion. It seems they underestimated the cultural forces present in Papua New Guinean religion that continued to persist into the Christian era.

In the 1960’s, he notes that this hope was perhaps too optimistic. Sporadic reoccurrences of pagan religion were to be expected, but the extent to which it continued to be present in the

165 lives of the indigenous peoples was a shock to the missionaries (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 176). He writes that the missionaries underestimated the power of the magical world (magische Welt) within the psyches of the natives. Even in Christian converts the religious and societal effects of the belief in magic is inactive, only to awaken when strange and mysterious occurrences without rational explanations occurred in the lives of these converts (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 176). As previously stated, the fear of disease was a deeply held cultural fear that in pre-Christian New

Guinea religion would lead people to seek protection by magic. This fear continued after conversion, and led many to seek help from pre-Christian healing rituals. As in pre-Christian belief, sickness was still believed by the converts to be caused by an opposing tribe’s harmful magic (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 176).

The extent to which a convert was susceptible to these revivals of the traditional magical worldview depended “upon the condition of their spiritual life” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 176).181

One can extrapolate from this that (at least for Pilhofer) the strength of a convert’s faith had a direct effect upon whether that convert fell back into active belief in the pagan world. According to Pilhofer, many of the mission’s converts were not strong in their faith, as evidenced by the frequent problems that the mission continued to have with religious blendings of the old

“animism” and the new Lutheran Christianity. Pilhofer and other German Lutheran missionaries saw the indigenous Christian converts as not being prepared to withstand the spiritual trials

(Anfechtungen) that the temptations of the pagan world brought with them. Indeed, Pilhofer blames this on the “weak faith” (Schwachgläubigkeit) of the converts (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2:

177). The missionary Beyer notes “how many have yielded to the temptations and seek to

181 ‘Die größere oder geringere Anfälligkeit hängt von dem Stand ihres Glaubenslebens ab’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 176).

166 conjure these instances [of disease] away through magical means” (Beyer; cf. Pilhofer,

Geschichte 2: 177).182

This “weakness of faith” and the continued strong belief in magic seem to indicate that, for Pilhofer and the missionary sources he consults, the indigenous converts were unable to properly integrate the new Lutheran Christian religion and worldview into their everyday lives.

Weak belief here is synonymous with the idolatrous belief in the efficacy of magic. It could be extrapolated from Pilhofer’s presentation of the situation that if the converts simply had more belief, then they would not fall back into their pre-Christian religion. It is also important to note that Pilhofer does not say that these backsliding converts ceased to be Christians. They simply were Christians who had mixed their Christianity with their former pagan (i.e. superstitious) beliefs.

The main problem for the missionaries here is that falling back into pre-Christian religion creates a negative feedback loop. It begins with weak belief, a problem in and of itself for the missionaries. Weak belief then leads to religious blending, which for the missionaries is clearly a perversion of their Lutheran Christianity. This, in turn, leads to despair among the converts, since they are again stuck in the quagmire of pagan sorcery. The converts seek to solve their problems using old, pre-Christian ways, which itself leads to more religious mixing as they incorporate more and more of their indigenous spirituality into their new Christianity. This vicious cycle endangered the success of the mission in Papua New Guinea, and Pilhofer makes this danger very clear in his account of these syncretic blendings.

182 ‘Ach wie viele unterliegen den Versuchungen und suchen diese Ereignisse durch Zaubermittel zu beschwören’ (Beyer; cf. Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 177).

167 Cargo cult and the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft

The instances of “sorcery” and syncretic blendings among the indigenous converts that

Pilhofer devotes the most attention to were the local expressions of “cargo cult." Strelan (473) points out that “cargo” in this context could be defined as “the good, desirable, life in all its aspects: spiritual, social, material, political, and economic.” The indigenous peoples saw the vast amount of manufactured goods that Westerners had, and thought that they must have them as a gift from the Christian God. Strelan further suggests that “Christian faith, ethics, and ritual was seen as a means of obtaining ‘cargo’” (Strelan 473), in line with what Strelan, Pilhofer, and many other Christian writers saw as the inherent materialistic nature of indigenous spirituality in

Papua New Guinea. The missionaries could bring in the new religion of Lutheran Christianity, but many of the local converts would automatically begin to view that Christianity through their native lenses.

In the 1930’s, the “Eemasang Movement” threatened the still new congregation at

Sattelberg. 183 This particular expression of cargo cult took the shape of what Pilhofer (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 2: 177) calls Geldzauberei ‘money sorcery.’ This “money sorcery” involved native converts attempting to magically create money as they understood the Westerners in Papua New

Guinea did. Two young men, Mutali and Tutumang, in the Sattelberg congregation spent a year in the larger, more modern city of Rabaul and brought stories back to the village (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 2: 178). Along with the astonishment they felt upon seeing the modern life of the

“whites,” they were surprised to learn that Westerners could earn money by depositing their money in banks and leaving it there. At least according to Pilhofer, the concept of interest was completely foreign to these two young men, who surmised that it must be through magic that

183 Strelan writes that the word “Eemasang” has the connotation of “house cleaning.” Many of the followers of the movement sought to rid themselves of wealth, so that they could gain material blessings later (Strelan 474).

168 Westerners were able to do make money increase without work (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 178).

The men believed the Westerners also possessed machines, which could conjure money out of nothing. This explained what the young men saw as the Westerners’ hesitance in sharing how such a thing was done; it was a magical secret. If they could learn the magical ways of Western money, they could duplicate the magic for themselves and make money (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2:

178-79).

Pilhofer writes that the two men began “a kind of alchemy,” where they carried out magical experiments in order to discover this secret.184 “Coins were heated over a candle flame, various fluids were mixed together … small discs the size of shillings were made out of chalk and packed in small boxes in the hope that they would turn into real coins” (Pilhofer, Geschichte

2: 179).185 When this was unsuccessful, Mutali and Tutumang remembered how in Rabaul money was kept in large banks for a long period of time. They went around Sattelberg and, under a vow of secrecy, convinced others of the congregation to loan them money. The idea behind this was that the bigger the sum of money was, the greater amount that would be generated by a kind of magical interest. Those involved used this money to buy pigs and canned goods (Pilhofer,

Geschichte 2: 179). In a kind of contagious magic, Mutali believed that they needed access to

Western machines to produce Western money.186 Pilhofer writes that, “all possible technical items, such as steam whistles and the like, were acquired and imagined to be money-making

184 ‘eine Art Alchemie’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 179). 185 ‘Geldstücke wurden über einer Kerzenflame erhitzt, verschiedene Flüssigkeiten wurden miteinander vermischt … Aus Kreide wurden kleine Scheiben nach Form und Größe eines Schillingsstückes gemacht und in Kistchen verpackt in der Erwartung, daß sie sich in Geldstücke verwandeln würden’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 179). One could guess here that the small boxes were supposed to represent the boxes in which Western money was shipped. 186 According to Frazer, “contagious magic” follows the “Law of Contact or Contagion.” He writes that for this type of magic, the “leading principle … is that like produces like, or, in other words, that an effect resembles its cause” (Frazer 37). Here, Mutali believes that he needs Western machines that had been in contact with Western money in order to magically produce more Western money. Thus, the Western machines are “contagious” in that they can pass on the magical ability to produce Western wealth, and by extension, Western goods.

169 machines” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 179).187 Later, the cargo cult began to take on a charismatic character, with followers exhibiting “ecstatic states with convulsions in the entire body, an unsteady glance, foam on the mouth, speaking in tongues, a fanaticism bordering on possession, stories [presumably told by the spirits], and voices” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 186-87).188 The followers of the cargo cult held these to be signs of the Holy Spirit working in the affected

(Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 187). The indigenous converts who were not part of the cargo cult resorted to the same magical means of warding off these negative spiritual effects as they would use to protect against sickness in their indigenous spirituality (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 188). In describing cargo cults in British Papua New Guinea, Stanner (63-64) writes that cargo cult movements tend to have the following structure:

1. The movements tend to have prophetic leaders, who are “of unusual personality.” They can be intelligent or neurotic. They also tend to be individuals without formal authority. 2. The prophetic leaders have contact with the spirit-world. Ancestors, cultural heroes, and spirits come to them and give them visions. 3. The movements involve sacred “orders,” which the spirits give to the leaders to be passed on to the followers of the cargo cult. 4. The leaders receive visions from these spirits, which tell of “non-traditional wealth” (e.g. canned food, axes, firearms, tobacco, etc.). 5. These movements involve mass demonstrations of “allegedly hysterical or eccentric actions (shaking-fits, dancing mania, nonsense-talking, meanlingless gibberish) or more formalist conduct with less “hysterical” symptoms (the building of platforms or houses, preparation of feasts, mass withdrawals to vantage points to await the ship or aeroplane or other visitation).” 6. Cargo cult movements have many examples of “wish-fulfillment or achievement-by- fantasy through the use of Europeanist symbolisms. European articles, or forms of organization, or imitations of them are widely used (mock radios, dummy telephones, fake messages, imitation rifles, the setting up of ‘offices,’ ‘government,’ ‘armies,’ etc.). (Stanner 63-64)

187 ‘Alle möglichen technischen Gegenstände, wie Preßluftklingeln und dergleichen, wurden besorgt und als Geldmaschinen ausgegeben’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 179). 188 ‘Ekstatische Zustände mit Zuckungen am ganzen Körper, flackernder Blick, Schaum vor dem Mund, Zungenreden, ein an Bessessenheit grenzender Fanatismus, Geschichte und Stimmen’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 186- 87). The missionary Wilhelm Bergmann (1899-1987) could hear German and English words in the utterances of the cult members. The rest he was not able to understand. Those affected by this glossolalia could not themselves understand what they said (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 187).

170 Many of these aspects were present in the cargo cult movement among the native converts described above. Mutali and Tutumang served as leaders of the movement who received visions of a better material life for their people. People involved with the cult showed signs of spirit possession with ecstatic movements and voices. Lastly, the construction of fake Western money in order to magically produce more Western money is an example of Stanner’s sixth aspect of cargo cult.

When discussing the cargo cult, Pilhofer cites “the inability of the Papua to understand the complicated world of the white man” as a reason for the cult’s inception and popularity

(Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 182).189 Here again, he writes that the indigenous peoples of Papua New

Guinea lack some mental or spiritual trait that the “white man” has. While Pilhofer here is speaking about modern Western technology, this sentiment seems to connect to his earlier statement about the Schwachgläubigkeit of the native converts (cf. Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 177).

The vast variety of goods that modern Western society was able to produce were far beyond what the indigenous peoples could understand. Thus, the indigenous person looks for ways and means to find out the secret of this production. Pilhofer writes that the indigenous person “… supposes mysterious powers to be at work …” (Geschichte 2: 182).190 He continues by connecting the worldview of the cargo cult with the indigenous, pre-Christian worldview.

Pilhofer asks, “Where else could these powers be found than in the dark domain of animism”

(Geschichte 2: 182).191 Later, he answers that it is “the ancestors … who bring about this wonder” of Western production (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 182).192 Building upon his previous

189 ‘die Unfähigkeit des Papua, die komplizierte Welt des weißen Mannes zu verstehen’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 182). 190 ‘... überall vermutet er geheimnisvolle Mächte am Werk ...’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 182). 191 ‘Wo anders könnten diese Mächte zu suchen sein, als in dem dunklen Bereich des Animismus’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 182). 192 ‘die Ahnen ... die dieses Wunder vollbringen’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 182).

171 characterization of the “animism” of the indigenous peoples as a religious system that holds people spiritually hostage (cf. Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38), Pilhofer gives an even darker description of this “animism.” Because it inherently sees the supernatural in the surrounding physical world, “animism” refuses to die and syncretizes quite quickly with the rapidly encroaching Western ways of life. For him, this leads to illicit forms of religion that, like the

Eemasang cargo cult, resemble Christianity in some ways but are at the same time far too different and superstitious for them to even be considered licit Christian religion.

The success of the syncretistic cargo cult among what the missionaries thought would have been orthodox, Lutheran converts was most distressing. It seems that (at least for Pilhofer) some of the blame for the converts’ lapse in proper, licit religion was because of their inability to comprehend the technology of the colonizing forces. This does not mean, however, that the cause of the syncretistic Eemasang movement was purely psychological. Pilhofer writes, “In order to understand this [the problems with religious mixing], it must be said that even mature

Christians suspect demonic powers to be behind this sorcery, an opinion that can be shown without any more evidence than that at hand and which has clear support in the New Testament”

(Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 177).193

The Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft needed to deal with this threat immediately.

The missionaries prescribed a lengthy period of personal confessions and church services specifically focused on repentance for the new converts (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 181). The danger of the syncretic sorcery was so great that the missionaries removed and buried all paraphernalia associated with the cult (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 182). The missionary Winkler had to hear confessions for days (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 180). He records his reaction to hearing

193 ‘Zum Verständnis dazu muß allerdings gesagt werden, daß auch reife Christen in und hinter der Zauberei dämonische Kräfte vermuten, eine Anschauung, die nicht ohne weiteres von der Hand zu weisen ist und die vom Neuen Testament her eine gewisse Bestätigung erfährt’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 177).

172 these individual confessions of involvement in the scandal as follows: “The power of the devil

… was so apparent to me [in the accounts] and to the assistant that we often had the feeling that we had to leave the room” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 180, cf. Winkler).194 He continues by saying,

“The natives are almost helpless against Mutali, who appears as if he is possessed” (ibid.),195 and later calls Mutali a Teufelsprophet ‘prophet of the devil.’ This was not simply a lack of mental ability on the part of the converts, but rather an attack from within by demonic forces. Pilhofer sums up his description of the expressions of the cargo cult (e.g. speaking in tongues, convulsions of the body, etc.) by saying that, “If one impartially considers the entirety of these occurrences, one will come to the conclusion that there not only exists a Pentecostal blowing of the Holy Spirit, but also a demonic roar of the powers of darkness” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2:

188).196 Much like Olsen and Kildal, who speak of diabolical Sámi inversions of the Christian sacraments, Pilhofer inverts the descent of the Holy Spirit on the Apostles during Pentecost to show how dangerous this cargo cult movement is.

The missionary descriptions here of the diabolical powers seeking to attack the young faith of indigenous New Guinean converts seem very similar to accounts by Scandinavian

Lutheran missionaries of evil spirits scaring Sámi converts back into their pre-Christian religion.

For example, when one looks at the story recorded by Kildal of how Sámi who had newly become Christian who would be dragged from their beds at night by demons, one can see some similarities (cf. Kildal 130). While in Kildal’s account involves the evil spirits physically interacting with the converts and Pilhofer notes no such activity, both involve demonic influence

194 ‘Die Macht des Teufels trat mir und dem Gehilfen ... dabei in solcher Gestalt entgegen, daß wir oft das Gefühl hatten, aus dem Zimmer gehen zu müssen’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 180, cf. Winkler). 195 ‘Gegen Mutali, der wie besessen erscheint, sind die Eingeborenen wie hilflos’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 180, cf. Winkler). 196 ‘Läßt man die Gesamtheit dieser Erscheinungen unvoreingenommen auf sich wirken, dann gelangt man zu der Überzeugung, daß es nicht nur ein pfingstliches Windesbrausen des Heiligen Geistes gibt, sondern auch ein dämonisches Strumesbrausen der Finsternismächte’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 188). Pilhofer here is referencing the Holy Spirit coming upon the apostles with, among other signs, a blowing of wind (Acts 2:2).

173 designed to drive the new Christians back into their former, superstitious ways. The growth of

“cargo cult” in the regions of Papua New Guinea in which the Neuendettelsauer

Missionsgesellschaft was active provides one with many examples of this backsliding. It was of the upmost importance that the missionary society combat these growing spiritual errors, as (at least in the minds of Pilhofer and other missionary writers) cargo cult threatened to replace licit

Christianity in the areas of Papua New Guinea that were under the perview of the

Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft.

Conclusion

Pilhofer is unique among the missionary writers covered in this dissertation, in that he actually uses the term “syncretism” to describe the cargo cult movement. Many of the native converts joined the movement because of the emphasis on prayer and confession. They thought that through it they could attain a higher level of piety (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 187). By attaining this higher level of holiness and foregoing worldly goods, they believed that they would be rewarded with Western manufactured goods (Strelan 474). Pilhofer describes the process of the cargo cult taking over the spirits of the converts who fell prey to it, “When later, despite all pious practice, the intended goal [i.e. the acquisition of Western goods] was not reached and the movement slid into the cult of the ancestors, and by extension into syncretism, they were no longer able to free themselves from it” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 187; italics mine).197 His precise use of the term “syncretism” is somewhat unclear. He does not give any further definition as to what he means by it, but he is using it here to describe a religious movement that blends formerly separate religious traditions (in this case, Lutheran Christianity and the various indigenous pre-

197 ‘Als dann später trotz aller Frömmigkeitsübungen sich der ewartete Erfolg nicht einstellte, und die Bewegung in den Ahnenkult, und damit in den Synkretismus hineinglitt, vermochten sie sich nicht mehr loszureißen’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 187).

174 Christian traditions) into a blended version that simultaneously resembles the original traditions and at the same time is something very new.

Rudolph (68) notes that in the modern era, “syncretism” has become a “theological invective” designed to designate “impure” and mixed religion, thereby excluding “pure,” orthodox religion. Pilhofer here does not use “syncretism” in a positive sense. Instead, he uses it to underscore the very real danger that the syncretistic cargo cults posed to the success of the mission. Here, where the threat of religious mixing was one that was demonically inspired and sought the destruction of the young faith of the converts, the implicit counterpart to “syncretism” is a kind of anti-syncretistic backlash on the part of Pilhofer and the other missionary writers of the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft. When viewed through this lens, one could perhaps even say that the missionary descriptions of indigenous New Guinean religion covered here are, at their core, examples of anti-syncretism. The intended audience of these writings would be to a certain extent Western academics interested in the lifeways of Papua New Guinea, but it is more likely that missionaries would be the ones reading about these works. With this audience in mind, it would be fitting to say that Pilhofer was echoing an overarching mindset of German

Lutheran missions of his day. While the modern theoretical dichotomy of “syncretism/anti- syncretism” (as outlined by writers such as Rudolph and Meyer) did not exist during the period when Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries (such as Læstadius) were writing about and characterizing Sámi indigenous spirituality, this dissertation argues that they were engaging in anti-syncretism by showcasing their fears of the Sámi mixing and polluting what they saw as

“pure” Christianity with elements from pre-Christian belief and practice. The anti-syncretistic mindset of Pilhofer’s and other German Lutheran missionaries’ works briefly covered here seems to bear strong connections to these earlier, Scandinavian examples.

175 This is not to say that these two Lutheran missionary-contact situations do not have their differences. In addition to the differences in the provenance of the Lutheran missionaries in each situation, they were seeking to convert very different groups of indigenous peoples living in very different geographical locations. In addition, the Scandinavian and the German missionaries were operating in different political eras. In the context of the Scandinavian missions to the

Sámi, the Lutheran Scandinavian state churches of Denmark-Norway and Sweden had only relatively recently emerged from the religious conflicts of the 16th and 17th centuries. They sought to ensure that all of the subjects of their kingdoms (both indigenous and non-indigenous) were following orthodox Lutheran Christianity. In the context of the German missions to Papua

New Guinea, the colonial German power did not possess the territory long enough to establish the kind of control over it that the Scandinavian kingdoms had had at the inception for their missions. The Germans then lost their colonial possessions in New Guinea in a relatively short period of time to the British Empire, and the German Lutheran missions continued in a non-state sponsored role.

Pilhofer and other German missionary writers also categorized the indigenous spirituality they encountered in different ways from the earlier, Scandinavian missionaries discussed in this dissertation. Perhaps the first most striking difference is that Pilhofer actually uses the terms

“religion/religious” when talking about the beliefs and practices with which he and other missionaries came into contact. He gives this “religion” a more specific name as well when he calls it “animism” (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 38). An even more marked difference between

Pilhofer’s writing and others’ is, as recently discussed, that Pilhofer uses the term “syncretism” as a theological insult (cf. Rudolph 68) to describe the threat of mixed religion. That he uses this

176 term places seems to place him squarely within the theoretical framework of the study of religion of the 20th century.

Despite these differences, there are many similarities between these two historical instances of Lutheran missionaries writing about indigenous spirituality. For both Scandinavian missionaries from the 17th-19th centuries and the German missionaries in the 20th century, the beliefs and practices that predated the arrival of the missionaries’ own Christianity were deeply flawed. They were so aberrant that they opened up those people who believed in and practiced them to demonic influences. As such, non-Christian religion is “superstition” in the patristic sense of inverted, evil “religion.” The diabolical aspect of traditional pre-Christian religion appears quite often in the way missionaries recorded and characterized in these missionary writings. For example, just as Kildal (130) records how evil spirits sought to scare the Sámi back to their tradition religion, so too Pilhofer writes about the demonic influences leading the new converts of the Neuendettelsauer mission astray (Pilhofer, Geschichte 2: 180).

In all, both missionary situations bear a strong resemblance to one another, particularly when one views (as this project does) the missionary writings not as some authoritative, accurate texts about what Sámi and New Guinean indigenous spirituality were like at the time of contact with Lutheranism, but instead as a lens into the theological frameworks and presumptions of the missionaries themselves. The time gap between both of the missions and the radically different geographical, cultural, and linguistic situations that the missionaries found themselves in did produce some variation in how missionaries in each mission field reacted to indigenous spirituality, yet the theological structures of the missionaries in both historical instances appear to be largely the same. Lutheran missionaries are bringing true “religion” to the indigenous peoples trapped in evil “superstition.” When the indigenous peoples begin to convert, they view

177 the new Christianity in an indigenous way, which often leads to fears of “syncretism” in the writings of the missionaries. The missionaries condemn this religious blending in an example of

“anti-syncretism,” which seeks to purify the Christianity of the new converts from indigenous elements.

That the Sámi-missionary and the indigenous Papua New Guniean-missionary contact situations are so similar is fitting. While they took place in very different parts of the world, in very different time periods, and with very different groups of indigenous peoples, both situations involve Lutheran missionaries attempting to bring a new religion and a new way of life on peoples who had their own religious and cultural traditions. The tension as a result of the indigenous peoples refusing to convert is shared by both scenarios. Likewise, the frustration on the part of the missionaries when the indigenous peoples did not convert in the proscribed, licit way (i.e. by engaging in syncretistic behaviors such as the supposed Sámi sacraments and the cargo cult movement mentioned above) is also shared across both contact situations. This dissertation contends that future research comparing and contrasting these, as well as other scenarios involving Lutheran missionaries missionizing indigenous peoples, using the religious frameworks of “superstition” vs. “religion” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism” should provide even more insights into how Lutheran missionaries portrayed the religions and cultures of the people they were trying to convert. For the time being, I offer this analysis as a beginning to this scholarly work.

178 Concluding Remarks

This dissertation has looked critically at how Lutheran missionaries to the indigenous

Sámi peoples of northern Scandinavia conceived of and characterized the Sámi spirituality with which they came into contact. The way in which the theoretical frameworks of “syncretism” vs.

“religion” and “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism” played a role in determining Lutheran missionary characterizations of the indigenous beliefs, practices, and traditions with which they came into contact in the mission field was of particular importance. Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries wrote extensively about the beliefs and practices that they witnessed among the indigenous Sámi of the northern regions of the kingdoms of Denmark-Norway and Sweden from the 17th through the 19th century. In their writings, these missionaries portray Sámi religious life as on inherently sinful and idolatrous. The belief in and service to the pagan, Sámi gods pervaded their thought and posed as significant challenge to Christianization.

The first chapter gave an overview of modern scholarship on the history of Christianity in

Scandinavia, specifically the Christianization beginning in the early Middle Ages and culminating with the Lutheran missions to the Sámi. I reviewed the relevant research on the main historical figures of importance for this project. I also discussed scholars such who have theorized different approaches to missionary contact situations, cf. Ringgren’s two categories.

Out of all modern work on missions to the Sámi, Hansen & Olsen’s work remains one of the most relevant and useful, as it succinctly summarizes the long-standing cultural contact between

Germanic-speaking Scandinavians and Sámi groups. Rydving’s works, such as The End of

Drum-Time, specifically deal with the often massive religious and cultural changes that came as a result of the Lutheran missions. The chapter also discussed theories concerning how one should define “religion” within religious studies. This project follows Smith’s lead by allowing its

179 author to define “religion,” and thus defines Sámi “religion” as their traditional beliefs and practices.

The second chapter examined how several of the main missionary writers (Johannes

Tornæus, Johannes Schefferus, Isaac Olsen, Jens Kildal, Hans Skanke, Lars Levi Læstadius) wrote about traditional Sámi belief and practice. These missionaries by and large cast much of indigenous Sámi spirituality as illicit “superstition.” This was not just some offhand categorization; it posed a real, existential threat to the status of both the Scandinavian kingdoms as Christian, Lutheran regions. Divine wrath was to be expected for those nations that did not become fully Christian (cf. Widén 15 fn.; Rydving, Drum-Time 54-55). The majority of Lutheran depictions on Sámi spirituality involve descriptions of illicit, Sámi inversions of licit Lutheran sacraments. In these writings, Sámi turn both Baptism and Communion upside down to serve dark purposes.

Olsen writes that the traditional Sámi naming ritual that he calls a Sámi “baptism” is a diabolical practice, which demons convince the Sámi to continue in order to turn them away from proper, Christian religion (Olsen 17). It is also important to note here that the rhetoric involved in descriptions of these illicit, superstitious aspects of (real or imagined) Sámi spirituality involved both demonization and a portrayal of these beliefs and rituals in light of

Lutherans’ theological opponents. Von Westen’s calling Sámi naming rituals an Anabaptismus magicus exemplifies this phenomenon (Rydving, Drum-Time 123, cf. von Westen, “Forklaring”

480 ff.). Here he views indigenous Sámi spirituality through the lens of his own Lutheran confessional position, which took a strong stance against Anabaptists and other radical

Protestants. Von Westen makes this invective even stronger by adding “magical”. Not only were the Sámi (in his perception) engaging in an illicit, radical Protestant reinterpretation of the

180 sacrament of baptism, but they were doing so in an even more illicit, pagan context. Læstadius as well uses polemical, confessional language when describing Sámi “baptism.” He blames contact with Roman Catholicism for the Sámi practice of “re-baptizing.” That the Roman Catholic

Church does not practice re-baptism (i.e. Anabaptism) seems to not be important in this instance.

What is important is that Læstadius can cast blame for this practice on the main theological opponent of Protestants within western Christianity. By doing so, Læstadius sets up his pietist revival movement as the licit form of Christianity for his Sámi flock.

Likewise, missionary writings on the Sámi reference a ritual that bears a strong resemblance to Lutheran Communion. Olsen writes about the Rup malle (also called Noide buorromus), where Sámi noaidit give young children special food and drink to increase their magical abilities. Likewise, Kildal speaks of Sámi, who before going to Christian church eat the god’s Maylmenradien’s flesh in bread or cheese and drink the goddess’ Sarakka’s blood in water

(Kildal 141). Skanke also describes a sacrament of Sarakka, where pregnant women drink porridge dedicated to the goddess and their children are offered to her service (Skanke 189-90).

Skanke even writes that during Lutheran Communion the Sámi pray that Sarakka may be in the elements of bread and wine, and that she would forgive them for taking part in a Christian ritual

(190). In all of these descriptions, missionary writers portray Sámi spirituality and the Sámi who continue in it as illicit “superstition” that takes elements of Christianity and defiles them by syncretizing the “Christian” and the “Sámi.”

Chapter three focused on the two theoretical frameworks used by this dissertation to analyze missionary writings on Sámi spirituality. The definition of “superstition” as illicit religion, following Patristic writers such as Tertullian and Augustine, remained very relevant to the mindset that Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries brought to the mission field, with licit,

181 orthodox “religion” set apart from illicit “superstition.” For the Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries to the Sámi, they were bringing this true “religion” into a land and culture full of evil “superstition.” Also in line with earlier, Patristic thought is the sense of spiritual danger that this Sámi “superstition” evokes in the missionary writers. The fears of divine punishment for the practice of illicit, idolatrous religion in Christian kingdoms provided even more motivation to these missionaries to stamp out any and all instances of “superstition.”

Connected to the dichotomy of “superstition” vs. “religion” is the theoretical framework of “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism.” Using scholars such as Meyer, van der Leeuw, and

Leopod & Jensen, this dissertation has defined “syncretism” as the blending of two (or more) religious traditions. Following this, “anti-syncretism” is the backlash against this (real or perceived) blending by members of one of the religious traditions of which the syncretic mixture consists. All religious traditions involved in the blending are equally unique, in the sense that they all have their own traditions and histories. As pointed out by Stewart & Shaw (7), the religion of the group in power tends to be the side from which this anti-syncretic backlash comes.

In the context of the Sámi-missionary encounter, it is safe to say that Lutheranism was in the position of power, as it was the official religion in both Denmark-Norway and Sweden. As discussed above, Meyer’s notion of “translation” in religious contact situations, where a new religious belief or practice enters a culture. The culture receiving the new religious aspect then translates it into its new cultural context. Through this process, the religious belief or practice becomes changed into something new. Just as it is often difficult to directly translate a term from one language to another, the same is often true during the conversion process (Meyer, “Beyond

Syncretism” 62). Christianity entered Sámi culture as a result of centuries of cultural contact, and

182 specifically later through the Lutheran missions. As a result, Christian belief and practices seem

(at least according to the missionary records) to have also taken on new meanings and new forms within Christianized Sámi culture.

Meyer also describes how missionaries have often demonized the pre-Christian religion with which they came into contact (“Beyond syncretism” 64). She notes that during the mission of the Pietist Norddeutsche Missionsgesellschaft to the Ewe people in present day Ghana, the

Christian concept of the devil did not exist in pre-Christian Ewe religion. Because of this, the missionaries needed to find a way to translate the concept of pervasive evil into the Ewe worldview. To do this, the pre-Christian ghosts and spirits were not destroyed by

Christianization, but rather became demons in Ewe Christianity (Meyer, “Beyond syncretism”

63-64). In a similar manner, the gods and spirits of indigenous Sámi spirituality became demons that sought to lead the Sámi astray and keep them in spiritual darkness. For example, Olsen (25) speaks of the noaidi-gadze (the helper spirits of the noaidit), who teach the Sámi diabolical magic in special schools.

Chapter four applied the theoretical models outlined in chapter three to analyze missionary sources on Sámi spirituality in the Scandinavian Lutheran context, along with missionary sources on indigenous spirituality in Papua New Guinea as recorded by German

Lutheran missionaries. The illicit religion (i.e. “superstition”) that the missionaries saw among the Sámi also opened them up to demonic influence (cf. attacks on new converts in account of von Westen). This connects quite strongly to earlier, patristic thought concerning the worship of false gods (i.e. idolatry). For patristic theologians like Tertullian and Augustine, false gods did not exist per se, but rather were guises for demons. These demons sought to turn Christians away

183 from the licit worship and service to the true God, as well as to prevent non-Christians/pagans from conversion.This superstitio was the opposite of the licit religio that Christianity offered.

Chapter 5 compared the missionary reactions to indigenous spirituality and syncretic mixings of the German Lutheran Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft in Papua New Guniea.

Like the Scandinavian Lutheran missionaries, the later German Lutheran missionaries also portrayed native religion as idolatry. This also fits nicely into the patristic mode of thinking regarding non-Christian religion as “superstition.” The similarities between the two sets of missionary depictions of indigenous spirituality are perhaps not surprising. Both of these groups of Lutheran missionaries were Western Christians, and as such had inherited these same Patristic theological categories (i.e. “religion” and “superstition”) from the early Church. Pilhofer writes very often of indigenous peoples using magical spells to communicate with the spirits of the dead (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 33-34). For him, this was outright necromancy, and constituted a severe spiritual danger for the people the Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft was trying to convert. According to Pilhofer, this belief also led to bloodshed between the tribal groups in the country, as they believed that the spirits of killed ancestors would return to harm the living if they were not avenged (Geschichte 1: 36). He writes that it was “religious compulsion” that caused one tribe to commit atrocities against another (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 37).198 Thus, this illict “superstition” among the indigenous peoples of Papua New Guinea posed not only an extreme spiritual danger, but also increased the level of violence in the country.

This dichotomy of “superstition” vs. “religion” is not the only theoretical dichotomy at work in both of these sets of missionary writings. Along with missionary fears of indigenous, illicit “superstition” making it difficult to sow the licit, Christian “religion,” the missionaries were also afraid of the newly converted indigenous peoples’ mixing of Christianity with their

198 ‘religiöser Zwang’ (Pilhofer, Geschichte 1: 37).

184 indigenous traditions. In the Scandinavian Lutheran missionary context, the missionaries wrote about Sámi blending the Lutheran Christianity the missionaries were bringing, with their native religious worldview. For example, Læstadius talks of the Sámi god Tiermes, who was created in post-Christianization Sámi myth by the devil impregnating a girl. The Sámi god (whom the Sámi presumably still worshipped) is fitted into an at least partially Christian worldview. Here, it is the

Christian devil that plays a role in the creation of the pagan, Sámi god Tiermes. It is safe to presume here that this was a (chronologically speaking) newer version of the myth, since it shows such strong Christian influence.

In the German Lutheran missionary context, “cargo cult” serves as a striking example of what the missionaries seem to think was a syncretistic religious blending. Among the new converts to Lutheran Christianity in Papua New Guinea, “cargo cult” emerged as a response to the indigenous peoples’ reception of the vast material wealth of Western culture. In the

Eemasang movement, the Christianity of the German missionaries was seen by the movement’s followers as a way to acquire material goods (i.e. “cargo”). Pilhofer contents that for the followers of the Eemasang movement, the mixing of indigenous religious traditions with the opulence of Western material wealth was one that fit very well into indigenous Papua New

Guinean “animism.” According to Pilhofer, it seems the followers of the Eemasang movement believed that, if every aspect of the natural world had some sort of spirit, then the Western material world should as well.

In both of these missionary contexts, the writers detail not just what they see as rampant, pagan “superstition” among the people they are trying to convert, but also note with distress they attempts by native converts to blend the new Christianity with pre-Christian religion. That the missionaries were worried about the “superstition” of these indigenous peoples is perhaps not so

185 surprising. The long theological tradition in Western Christianity of distinguishing licit and illicit religion based on the framework of “superstition” vs. “religion.” In these two missionary situations, though, one sees an extension of these fears of pagan “superstition” to fears of

“syncretism.” While it is only the German Lutheran missionary contact situation in Papua New

Guinea that the term “syncretism” explicitly appears (cf. Pilhofer), this religious mixing presents itself in the Scandinavian Lutheran contact situation with the Sámi as well (cf. above examples).

The missionaries in both these situations frame their backlash against this (real or perceived) “syncretism” in terms of illicit religion (i.e. “superstition”). It seems that, assuming that the missionaries were correct in that indigenous peoples in these scenarios were in fact mixing elements of Christianity with their native traditions, those indigenous peoples were attempting to make Christian more familiar to them by placing the new religion within an indigenous worldview. For example, in the case of the Sámi based on missionary records it seems they had blended the origin story of the god Tiermes with the Christian belief in the devil, which in turn seems to have produced a kind of incubus myth very similar to those from the

European Middle Ages. In the context of Pilhofer’s description of the German mission in Papua

New Guinea, the followers of the Eemasang movement were combining Christian elements of prayer and fasting with their indigenous, “animistic” understanding of material objects having spirits in hopes of obtaining “cargo.” In both of these scenarios, the missionaries who witnessed what they saw as syncretic blendings condemned them firmly as illicit forms of religion (i.e.

“superstition”).

By framing syncretic blendings in these situations as illicit, the missionaries are implying that the licitness of the Lutheran Christianity that they were bringing to the “pagans.” Here it is easy to see the theological framework of illicit “superstition” vs. licit “religion” (here, Lutheran

186 Christianity) at work. The missionaries’ operation within the “syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism” paradigm is connected to this (explicit or implicit) use of the “superstition” vs. “religion” framework, as can be seen in the overwhelming condemnation that missionary writers have for what they perceived as the mixing of native religion with Christianity by portraying examples of this as illicit religion (i.e. “superstition”). While only Pilhofer uses the term “syncretism” explicitly (Geschichte 2: 184), both he and the other missionary writers covered in this dissertation engage in anti-syncretism by doing this, they all decry this religious mixing in order to assert the licit nature of the Lutheran Christianity that they were bringing (i.e. true “religion” within the “superstition” vs. “religion” paradigm).

This both yields a deeper view the value of viewing these missions through these frameworks and opens up opportunities to view other historical (Lutheran) missions through the same lenses. In the missions to the Sámi, missionary writers such as Kildal and Olsen feared that the Sámi were practicing inverted, demonic versions of the licit, Lutheran sacraments of Baptism and Communion. Another example of this is Læstadius’ note that in the contemporary Sámi belief that he recorded, the god Tiermes was the creation of the Christian devil (Læstadius,

Fragments 92, cf. Högström 178). In Papua New Guinea, Pilhofer and other missionaries of the

Neuendettelsauer Missionsgesellschaft viewed the syncretic Eemasang cargo cult movement as a demonic lie that sought to bring the indigenous peoples away from Christianity.

This dissertation has addressed how these theoretical frameworks have influenced missionary portrayals of indigenous spirituality in the Scandinavian Lutheran-Sámi missionary contact situation. It has also shown how missionary writings about Sámi changed in their characterization of indigenous Sámi spirituality from the beginning of the increased (Lutheran) missionary activity in the 17th century to the 19th century. It has also shown how a missionary

187 contact scenario between Lutheran missionaries and indigenous peoples in a later century and a very different geographical location in Papua New Guinea bears strong similarity to the missionary situation among the Sámi. Both the frameworks of “superstition” vs. “religion” and

“syncretism” vs. “anti-syncretism” map onto these missionary contact situations and provide us with insights into how these missionary writers conceived of and characterized indigenous spirituality. A possible explanation for the demonization and condemnation of indigenous spirituality as illicit “superstition,” as well as the missionaries’ fears of illicit, syncretic blendings of Christianity and native traditions, is that the indigenous spirituality that missionaries encountered served as a canvas upon which the missionaries could cast their theological anxieties.

In the Scandinavian Lutheran missionary context, the fears of illicit “superstition” and the mixing of licit “religion” with this “superstition” could have been, in part, derived from the region’s not having had to fight militarily to preserve its status as a Lutheran area. Because there was no sustained fighting, it seems the mission field provided Scandinavian Lutherans with the chance to defend and spread their faith. In the German Lutheran missionary scenario, one finds this same dynamic. While this took place in a later period and in a different location, the German

Lutheran missionaries came from a Protestant tradition of fighting against (real or perceived) illicit belief and practice within Christianity. Thus, it was natural for them to divide religion into licit and illicit categories.

Some questions remain to be answered. Perhaps the largest one concerns what the Sámi actually believed and practiced during the missionary period. Due to the lack of contemporary materials written by Sámi authors, this is very difficult to answer. The Sámi writer Johan Turi

(1854-1936) was one of the first Sámi who was not a missionary to write about traditional Sámi

188 life. His 1910 Muitalus Sámiid birra ‘An Account of the Sámi’ would serve as a compelling place to start comparing a Sámi perspective on Sámi spirituality with these earlier, missionary characterizations. Other Sámi writers have sought to reconstruct pre-Christian Sámi spirituality, such as Aage Solbakk and Odd Matthis Hætta. Their works will provide modern Sámi perspectives on the beliefs and practices of their ancestors. It is hoped that these works will provide authentic Sámi descriptions and perspectives on Sámi spirituality to further this research.

This dissertation has not used this source, as it has focused on the Lutheran missionary depictions of Sámi as opposed to authentic, Sámi perspectives on their own traditions (which are generally unavailable for the time frame discussed here).

Another interesting area for further research for this project continuing on is the strong

Sámi religious aspects found in Læstadianism. Avenues for future investigation include looking at other uses of strategic syncretism (e.g. the maahiset being repurposed for Christian ends) by

Læstadius and other Læstadian leaders and preachers. Læstadianism came to North America as well, and it would also be interesting to look at how Sámi immigrants to the United States and

Canada interacted with the indigenous Native American and First Nations religious traditions with which they came into contact. Additionally, other historical Lutheran missionary contact situations would also be worthwhile to study through these two theoretical lenses. Examples include Bartholomäus Ziegenbalg’s early 18th century mission in present-day Tamil Nadu in

India, as well as the very strong Lutheran presence in modern Namibia from the 19th century onwards. Based on the applicability of these theoretical models beyond the Sámi-missionary contact situation, it will be interesting to see how missionary writings from other, similar missions compare.

189 In all, the theological biases and frameworks that the missionaries brought with them had

(consciously or unconsciously) a profound influence upon the ways in which these missionaries depicted indigenous spirituality. For the Scandinavian (as well as German Lutheran) missionaries covered here, any religious belief and practice outside of their definition of orthodox, licit

Christianity constituted illicit “superstition.” Because, in the minds of the missionaries those indigenous peoples who practiced their traditional religions were in actuality practicing

“superstition,” it is fitting that the vast majority of these missionary descriptions of indigenous beliefs and practices note that in believing and practicing these aspects of indigenous spirituality, those indigenous peoples who refused to convert opened themselves up to the influence of evil spirits. For the missionaries, it would not do for areas now at least officially deemed Christian to continue to practice “superstion” in secret. When one takes the religious wordview of these

Lutheran missionaries into account, this accounts for the strong condemnation of indigenous beliefs and practices in these missionary writings. In a similar manner, when one considers the serious spiritual threat that indigenous spirituality posed to the established Lutheran churches in both of these missionary-contact situations, it makes sense that the missionaries would cast their own religious anxieties upon the indigenous spirituality they encountered and portray it as an inverted, demonic version of their licit Christianity.

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