Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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The Self-Begotten God

“The only religion that really makes any sense is Sun-worship,” a (non-pagan) friend once said to me years ago.


Name of the Sun


What the Sun's Name to himself may be, we do not know.

(Let me relent and say here, Deep initiates to the Sun there may be who know that Name. If so, I myself am not among them.)

The Sun's Name to us, though: this we know, for it is a relational Name, and we know it of and by our own relation.




So my teacher, Tony Kelly the deep-minded, called the Sun. So I myself call him to this day. Love to you, my Pahh, I say, kissing my hand to him each morning.

With gods, name embodies function. Pahh fathers: ejaculatory P, open A, expulsive HH. (Pronounce that final sound as a strong H, a powered expulsion of air: the sound represented in Arabic as ح .) So He begins with ejaculation, and ends with breath.

So we name the Sun our Father, a Name of Power: Pahh.


Pahh son of Pahh


I ordered my Yule cards today: a winter scene of Stonehenge with the risen Sun shining through a trilithon. So doing, I contemplate the paradox of Yule: Pahh son of Pahh, Sun self-begotten, the god who sires Himself. Sun, son of Sun: the very thought dizzies.

A birth requires a Mother. Children of Earth and Sun ourselves, sired of Light on Soil, we find thought of a birth without Her inconceivable. This is relational truth: in Life, existence reaches self-awareness. This is the great good gift that we bring the gods.

I call to mind the moment of the Sun's first kindling in ages of ages, when first He burnt with royal, sacrificial love: self-offering His Being, His very Nature.

This is His self-begetting. This, too, is a Yule.


The Sun's Name to Himself, we do not know.

Or maybe, perhaps, we do.


Pahh is born

Pahh son of Pahh


Pahh is born



You can read the writings of Tony Kelly the deep-minded (1943-1997) at the Pagan Movement Archive.


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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


  • Jamie
    Jamie Thursday, 15 October 2020

    Mr. Posch,

    Thanks for sharing!

    Ave Mithras Sol Invicti!

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