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The yard-work can't wait, but the weather-oracles say rain, and when I go out, the sky doesn't look promising.

So I face West and pray.

“Thunder, hold off long enough for me to get this done, and I promise you a pouring tonight.”

(A gift for a gift, the ancestors always said.)

Tradition holds that the Big Guy likes his libations, especially the strong stuff.

Now, do I actually believe that Thunder is a big, cute bearded guy up in the sky who hears what I say? Do I honestly think that the forces that drive this planet's weather give a flying f*ck about what I want? Do I truly believe that the Universe makes deals?

No, no, and no. Nonetheless, I make my prayer and, eventually, my offering, as promised.

Why?

1. Because I'm human, and humans are social animals that have always treated with the non-human world as if it were human, too.

2. Because it keeps me connected with the Great Out There, which, in these days of screen-induced h. sapiens narcissism, is a state devoutly to be wished.

3. Because, in my experience, it actually works. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions about operative mechanism here.

Soon after, I feel the first drops. Then it begins to rain hard. Oh well, I think, it never hurts to ask.

A friend of mine who grew up Baptist always tells me: Prayer is always answered. It's just that sometimes, the answer is “No.”

Incredible as it may seem, there's a carving of Perun, the Slavic God of Thunder, in the Catholic cathedral in “St.” Paul.

I can't remember why a priestess friend and I had decided to go across the River to attend a service at the cathedral that night. (It must have seemed like a good idea at the time.) After the ritual—the church had otherwise emptied out quickly—the two of us wandered around playing tourist.

In the apse behind the altar are the so-called Chapels of Nations, each one dedicated to the patron saint of one of the constituent demographic groups that originally settled the city formerly known as Pig's Eye. (How the city got its first name is a funny, and very pagan, story. Remind me to tell you some time.) It's above the altar dedicated to the brothers Cyril and Methodius, missionaries to the Slavs, that you'll find the carving of Perun.

In 988, Prince Vladimir of Kiev decided to cement his political alliance with the Byzantine emperor by accepting baptism. In a move reminiscent of the mass Moonie weddings of the 80s, he had the entire population of Kiev herded down to the River Dnieper to undergo forcible assembly-line style mass baptism.

In an act of blatant hypocrisy, Vladimir also had his soldiers throw down the sacred god-poles of the city's main sanctuary, images which he himself had caused to be raised some years before.

Pro forma baptism notwithstanding, the people of Kiev were distraught to see the images of their old gods cast down. When Perun's image was pitched into the waters of the Dnieper—it had golden mustaches and a silver beard, a chronicler remembers—the people lined the riverbank.

“Swim, Perun, swim!” they cried.

And he did. The place downstream where He came to shore is still called Perun's Landing.

In the “St.” Paul carving, Perun lies on his side: cast down, but not yet drowned. It's a fine likeness, crisply rendered, based on the four-faced figure of the god Svantovit discovered at Zbruch in Poland in 1848. In His right hand—liquor-loving god that He is—He holds a drinking horn. It seems a telling touch, intimate.

Well, we're pagans, and pagans don't go to see a god empty-handed. Unfortunately, until that moment unaware of Perun's presence, neither of us had thought to bring a proper offering.

So I keep watch while my friend “liberates” some flowers from another altar, and Perun, giver of rain to pagan and non-pagan alike, receives His offering.

What the names of the gods to themselves may be, we do not know.

We, their children, know them by their relational names.

Long ago, I learned from Tony Kelly of the Pagan Movement in Britain and Ireland the relational love-names of Earth and Sun: Mabh and Pahh, respectively. By these names I know them to this day.

But what of Thunder, Earth's other husband?

Two she loved in the days of her youth: Sun and Thunder, and how to choose between them?

In the end, she understood that the choice was in truth no choice at all, and she took them both to husband.

For this I have two hands, she said.

The old Pagan Movement did not number Thunder, Earth's left-hand husband, among those that they honored, so they knew no name for him; but as me, I do. How, then, to Name him?

Rain on Down

A Prayer for Rain

Mighty Thunder, Lord of Lightning

Rain on down

Fecundator, Ejaculator

Rain on down

Sky Water, Sky Fire

Rain on down

Bull of Heaven

Rain on down

Meat smoke, incense smoke

Rain on down

Good, smoky whiskey

Rain on down

How do you say “damn” in Pagan?

It's always best to swear by one's own gods, which can leave pagans at a decided disadvantage when it comes to the Profanity Olympics.

Unlike some, pagans don't believe in eternal damnation, and pagan gods don't damn. So what's a poor pagan to say instead?

For my money, I'll take “blast.”

Though not immediately obvious as such, “blast” is actually a prayer, the invocation of a very specific pagan deity.

“Blast it!” you cry. You're calling on Thunder, bidding him destroy something (or someone) by lightning-strike. Not eternal damnation, perhaps, but still pretty nasty.

As a pagan curse word, “blast” (or its derivative adjectival form, “blasted”) has a lot of advantages.

• It's pan-pagan: just about everyone honors the Thunderer.
• While not exactly common in English swearing, it's not sufficiently uncommon to call undue attention to itself.
• You've really got to admire the concision of a one-word prayer.

In sum, “blast” fits nicely with the way that pagans see the world. Wishing sudden destruction by violent divine intervention on someone (or something) is bad, but with us, it's as far as things go.

For pagans, death pays all debts.

Let me ask you a theological question.

It really is true that you can find just about anything on the internet. What I was fortunate enough to find was a cookie cutter in the shape of what witches call the Melner: Mjöllnir, Þór's Thunder Hammer.

Clearly—now that the Summer heat seems to be over, at least for the time being—it's time to bake some Thunder cakes.

So here's my question:

What kind of cookies would the Thunderer like best?