I joined a “sacrificial” ritual outside Stockholm – and discovered that the revival of Norse paganism reflects broader struggles over identity and climate anxiety
By Siri CHRISTIANSEN
“Glory to Thor!” The priestess and her pagans, standing in a circle, raised their goblets filled with fermented honey. We gathered at a familiar spot in a pine forest outside Stockholm. This was our temple, and the large mossy rock before us was our altar. I was relieved to see that the animal-based sacrificial offerings had long since died out and been replaced. A bearded man tucked his tattooed arms into his backpack and held a red horseshoe-shaped sausage skyward. A goth girl opened a plastic box of hammer-shaped cookies. The priestess offered me a handful of flaxseeds to throw on the altar, which was filled with gifts, apples, and bottles of homemade fermented honey.
A dozen people had gathered for an autumn sacrifice to call upon Thor, the hammer-wielding Norse god of harvests and storms. Many were praying for rain after a dry summer. Others were seeking strength to cope with unemployment, or to heal an ailing mother. Each of us had our own reasons for being there. A middle-aged man, sweaty in his blue office shirt, seemed to be there to bond with his horse-riding wife and teenage daughter.
I was there because pagan events kept popping up on my social media, and I couldn’t figure out why. I’m not “spiritual,” or even agnostic. I’m deeply secular, I like modern medicine, and my social media usually reflects that. Having just returned to Sweden after five years living in the UK, my online world consisted mostly of London friends and British humor. But there was one notable exception: my algorithm kept recommending that I check out the neo-Norse sacrifices in my area. It seemed like this movement was more widespread than I thought, and two middle-aged women standing next to me in the woods seemed like proof of that: they looked perfectly normal—like women who might work in a daycare. I hadn’t imagined I’d be returning to a country where Vikings were being revived—and, when I did, it would be so peaceful.
Sweden’s conversion to Christianity during the Middle Ages almost wiped out the pagan religion of the Viking Age. Now, people are determined to bring it back. Although it’s not a national trend, this fringe religion has a sizeable following. Two officially recognized religious groups, the Nordic Asa Community (NAC) and the Forn Sed Sweden Community, have about 2,700 members combined – according to their own estimates, although there are no official figures. On Facebook, they have a combined 16,000 followers. They offer naming ceremonies, rites of passage, weddings, funerals, new year’s celebrations and a reason to gather in the woods and fields. They have a total of 20 sub-branches across Sweden where they organize small local sacrifices – like the one I attended – and their annual national sacrifices are said to attract around 300 participants.
This summer, Sweden’s first pagan cemetery in nearly a thousand years was approved. The site, which will take the form of three grassy mounds shaped like buried ships, will be located next to a Christian cemetery in the small town of Molkom. About 50 people have already asked to be buried there, and the religious group says the site is expected to open next year after the initiative. They have also raised 108,295 Swedish kronor [about 10,000 euros] to build a temple near the village of Gamla Uppsala – once the center of the Viking world. The goal is for the pagan community to be serious about demanding rights as a minority religion and to call on Odin – the father of all.
It is an unexpected development in Sweden, a country often described as deeply secular, ultra-modern and technologically advanced. Historical experience suggests that it may be a sign of an existential crisis. In the early 19th century, Sweden lost a third of its territory – Finland – to Russia. Writers and intellectuals turned to Viking Age legends to create a new national identity based on the brave, masculine, predatory Viking, to cope with this humiliating defeat. This ideal was later appropriated by the Third Reich to project Nazi notions of Aryan superiority and racial purity, and far-right groups use runes and other symbols today.
In this context, it is easy to assume that today’s pagan revival is linked to nationalism and new anti-immigration sentiments in Sweden, and it is impossible to know how many pagans actually hold these beliefs. Officially, Forn Sed is openly anti-racism, and the NAC expelled one of its leaders – in 2017 – for alleged racist comments. While the connection to lost traditions and ancestral heritage is essential, both groups strongly emphasize respect for nature. Nordic animism, in which nature is revered as sacred, has emerged as an important theology within the pagan community. Perhaps this ecological interpretation of Nordic culture is a response to the current climate crisis, the effects of which – forest fires, water shortages and floods – are becoming increasingly visible even in the North. Reviving a half-extinct religion could be a way to cope with climate anxiety and the fear that your way of life could soon become history too.
Will Norse paganism survive? In Iceland, it has become the second most practiced religion after Christianity, with 387 active members in a country of 3. Their temple in Reykjavik is expected to open in 2026. In Denmark, where the movement says it has over 500 believers, a pagan cemetery opened in 2009. Google Maps shows it is still there. Thirteen pagans were buried there as of 2025, according to a response from the local municipality.
While it’s easy to scoff at – as ridiculous – this new wave of Viking pagans, we’re all guilty of obsessing over the past. Nostalgia permeates contemporary culture, whether it’s a throwback to 2000s fashion, 1970s sounds, traditional 1950s housewives, or pre-industrial ways of life. Pagans may seem a bit more extreme, with their rune-studded arms and braided beards, but their desire for stability in an unstable world isn’t all that different from our own. (The Guardian)