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At exactly 12 midnight last night, the wire broke on the Thunder icon that has hung over my bed for the last 25 years, and the whole heavy panel of painted wood slid down the wall to where I lay sleeping below.

If it had clobbered me on the head, it would have been painful, at very least, if not downright injurious. Instead it wedged neatly between the edge of the futon and the wall, and I woke to the sound of rattling bed-slats.

To the best of my knowledge, that's the first time I've ever woken up with a god in the bed.

All's well that ends well: I'm fine, the painting's fine. I put things right, read for a while, and go back to sleep.

Moral of the story:

Sometimes you can't help but be jealous.

Guillermo was born in Havana, so naturally our conversation eventually turned to Santeria. Like most New Pagans, I've got a pretty pronounced case of Santeria envy.

Guillermo grew up surrounded by the Way of the Saints but doesn't really practice it any more.

“I still find myself saying Eparreí Changó whenever I hear thunder, though,” he said, laughing. “Some things you never lose.”

Oh, those fortunate intact cultures.

What do you say when you hear that first peal (or rumble, or crash) of Thunder in a storm? Certainly it calls for some sort of response. When someone you love and respect calls to you from across the room, do you ignore it and say nothing? Probably not.

In the old days, pretty much all cultures had a healthy respect for the Thunderer. It's hard not to. He's big, he's loud, he's powerful, and we couldn't get along without him. 1400 years ago, the Anglo-Saxon Hwicce—the original Tribe of Witches—called Him Þunor.

We call Him Thunder today. When I first hear His voice, I've taken to greeting Him by Name, along with a vocable: a word without literal meaning that signifies nonetheless.

 Reader alert: Sexual content

What is it about gay sex and thunderstorms?

Daniel and I had been having a particularly athletic bout one afternoon when, just at climax, there came a bone-rattling clap of thunder, and the rain suddenly began to roar down.

“We did that,” Daniel said, chin-pointing outside.

Son of unbelief that I am, it was hard to doubt that he was right.

I was reminded of this experience recently when I heard a similar tale from a friend.

Ask any gay guy. Among the brothers, there's pretty much unspoken agreement that experience suggests some sort of connection between the two.

Now, why it should be gay sex and thunderstorms, as distinguished from non-gay sex and thunderstorms, I couldn't tell you, not having had much experience when it comes to the latter myself. (Call me homonormative; see if I care.) Certainly, as a local Wiccan priest who is himself gay has observed, with male-male sex there are more likely to be, shall we say, liquids flying around. So maybe it's a matter of sympathetic magic.

Thunder, of course, is well-known to be the most virile of gods, voracious of appetite when it comes to food and liquor, women and men. Statistically we can say that eight out of ten people struck by lightning in the US are men. Make of that what you will.

Is a 3000-year old Swedish petroglyph the oldest known depiction of Thor?

Here's what Swedish science journalist Karin Bojs (sounds like “Boyce”) suggests in her highly engaging genetic study of Europe, My European Family: The First 54,000 Years:

The Vitlycke rock engraving includes a man driving...a two-wheeled chariot, clearly drawn by a horse. The man holds the horse's reins in one hand and a hammer in the other. Before him, a flash of lightning can be seen. The most likely interpretation is that the man is a thunder god—the Bronze Age counterpart of the god later known to the Vikings as Thor. The thunder god's attribute was an axe or a hammer, with which he would strike to produce thunder and lightning (296-7).

Is she right?

Well, the time and the place are right. The Vitlycke charioteer is one of tens of thousands of petroglyphs located on rock faces near Tanum, Sweden. Petroglyphs are notoriously difficult to date, but experts are agreed that these petroglyphs date mostly from the Scandinavian Bronze Age. We know that Scandinavia was populated by Indo-European speakers during this period, and that these petroglyphs are therefore a product of an Indo-European culture. The pantheons of virtually all IE cultures feature a divine Thunderer, often conceived of as a warrior, armed and riding in a two-wheeled chariot.

Take a close look at the petroglyph shown above. A horned man with a noteworthy ithyphallus drives what would appear to be a highly schematic chariot drawn by (apparently) a horned animal. If so, with apologies to Bojs, this is no horse, but would only strengthen the image's likely identity as a sort of proto-Thor, since Thor's chariot was said to be drawn by goats, and historically the goat is associated with the Thunderer across the Indo-European diaspora. At very least, one can say that, if this chariot is indeed drawn by a horned animal (instead of a horse with unusually elongated ears, say), we are likely in the realm of myth here. No one, after all, hitches an ox to a chariot.

What with this summer's forthcoming Midwest Grand Sabbat, I've already got my hands full, but if I didn't, and were I inclined to throw a public festival, I know just what it would be.

“Thunderfest: A Meeting of Traditions.”

People know the Thunderer by many Names, but just about everyone honors Him, and rightfully so. Was it not likely the jolt of His lightnings that sparked the primal womb of Mother Earth and so gave rise to life? Is it not He Who gives us the rains that nourish our crops and feed us?

Such a festival would bring together those of different traditions who don't usually mingle, but probably should: heathens, Reconstructionists of various flavors, Afro-Diasporic folk. No matter who our people, we've all got Thunder in common—whatever you call Him—and swapping lore will only make us stronger.

Thunder, Þórr, Donar, Taranis, Perkunas, Perún, Zeus, Iuppiter, Xangó, Enlil, Ba'al Hadad, Indra....Thus, by His many Names, we'll invoke Him with a flashing libation of liquor on opening night, when we call to Him to ask for His blessing on our gathering, and—of course—for fair weather for the duration.

Throughout thee days of the festival, we'll sing for Him, dance for Him, and tell (and maybe enact) tales of His mighty deeds. Then, at the festival's crowning rite, we'll offer Him a goat, just like in the old days.

And that will be a feast to remember.

On the first evening of this summer's Grand Convocation of the Midwest Tribe of Witches, we turned our faces to the West and chanted a prayer to Thunder (see below) asking for good weather during our get-together.

Among the gods, Thunder in particular is well-known to have a taste for hard liquor. At prayer's end, we poured out an entire bottle of Jameson whiskey in libation.

That, believe me, was a sacrifice felt by everyone.

Throughout the three following days of our gathering, the weather was absolutely beautiful.

During the feast on Sunday evening, we heard a roll of thunder from the north. A rainbow appeared in the eastern sky. This was followed by a second roll of thunder from the southern sky.

No rain, however, fell.

Monday afternoon, I had a phone message from a friend who had remained on-site, calling to report that (everyone having packed up and left), it had finally begun to rain.

Gently, as it happens.

If you ask me, the money laid out for that bottle of Jamie was money well spent.

Every single penny.

The week, of course, is a collective fiction, and personally I say: Be damned to it.

But if, say, in proper Keeping-Up-With-the-Cowans mode, we wanted to pick a day of the week to be special to pagans, which would it be?

Oddly enough, Received Tradition does seem to speak with a uniform voice on the matter.

That day would be Thursday.

This makes sense. Thunder, great power that he is, was accounted chief of gods in most of the old pantheons, as well he might be: He of the Mighty Voice and Arm, “giver of both life and death.”

Some, indeed, offer to him each Thursday to this day. But more than this, the Lore across Europe counts Thursday a fortunate day: Lucky Thursday.

Take, for example—good old Carmina Gadelica—this charming rhyme from the Hebrides. I've tweaked it only slightly.