The Lily Cross
and the Green Man
A s a Pagan Druid, Easter still holds meaning for me. It is hard not to make the rather obvious connection between the resurrection of Christ and the renewing of the natural world in spring; after all, this process is a living reality all around us, a joyous transformation that vividly articulates the mysteries of regeneration and hope.
It does not take a massive leap of the imagination to consider Christ as a kind of Green Man. Many Pagans—and a few Christians too—have already made the link, and here on the Isle of Wight, we have a beautiful mediaeval church mural that seems to express something of this notion. Of course, the mural’s original symbolism would—I suspect—have been very different to that of my modern Pagan perspective, but no less meaningful.
The mural is in the beautiful village church of Godshill. Godshill is the Island’s chocolate-box tourist attraction, with many quaint little thatched cottages, gift shops, and cafes. All Saints Church is the most photographed on the island, perched high above the village on the hill that gives this place its name.
There is a legend attached to the building of the church, one which is identical to that of Alfriston Church in East Sussex. Both are built on distinctive mounds and are believed to have originally been home to pre-Christian sites of worship. The name Godshill is thought to mean “hill of the idol,” the said hill standing rather incongruously above the flat village. The view from its summit of the surrounding downland is stunningly beautiful; it’s a place that feels ancient and curiously separate from the constant stream of tourists down in the village.
The legend goes that the Christian missionaries who built the church began its foundations on a level piece of land a mile or so south of the present position. On three successive nights, the stones were uprooted and moved to the hill by mysterious forces. The builders would take the stones back to their chosen site, only to find them relocated to the hill the following morning. After the third time, they took the hint and built the church on the hill, believing this to be God’s choice. The more likely scenario is that Christians used the Pagan site, just as they had in other places as a means of conversion. The island itself strongly resisted Christianity, being the last Pagan stronghold in England. This link between Pagan and Christian religious worship at this extraordinary place gives the mural an added depth for me.
The mural shows Christ crucified on a flowering lily. The lily has three main branches, a further three shooting off from each of these. From a Pagan sensibility, it is clear that Christ’s sacrifice reflects that of the Green Man’s and this image seems to express the mythic qualities of both. As vegetation god, the Green Man offers his own body that others may live and flourish; he is grown up, cut down, and reborn in the yearly cycle of his living and dying, and the deeper mysteries of his sacrifice bring hope and the possibility of renewal for all beings. Like Christ’s story, we find in the Green Man’s cycle our own cyclical and eternal natures.
Historically, the structure of these layers of belief might be erroneously viewed as a separate Pagan stratum beneath that of the Christian surface. If we dig a little deeper, we find that—like the mulch in a forest, whose distinct layers are churned up and mixed in by the creatures that draw nourishment from it—there is a great deal of syncretic merging between that of the Pagan and that of the Christian. This is not only felt at the original point of contact but can resonate still, in subtle ways, hundreds of years later. This happens because our spiritual beliefs are not born in a vacuum; spiritualities are constantly being influenced and changed over time by “outside” ideas. There is no such thing as a pure belief, and as a Pagan who was once a Christian and who is now also influenced by Eastern traditions, this becomes all the more apparent to me. There are threads of my old faith, plus other philosophies that I am discovering along the way, that quite naturally interweave themselves into the main fabric of my current spiritual life. With regard to my Christian experience, I feel that I have been able to release what no longer has relevance to me, whilst holding on to the many valuable lessons and values it blessed me with.
Leaving behind Christianity was far easier than actually leaving behind the figure of Christ. The powerful impact that he had on my childhood has ultimately meant that many of his qualities continue to inform my understanding of the Divine Masculine. There is a great deal of Christ lurking in my understanding of the Pagan Horned God. To clarify, writing of the Horned God in the singular is rather misleading because, for me, he is a mixture of several different god forms—one of which is popularly referred to as the “Green Man.” All of these expressions of the Divine intimately link with the natural world and its wisdom.
The beauty of a Pagan perspective on the Divine is that we are each free to honor it in whatever form feels most pertinent to us, without any rigidly prescribed notions directing our approach. For me, the Horned God is a nature God in its most expansive and deepest sense. I feel him working not only in the natural environments most familiar to me but in the mysteries of the atom, the spiraling of galaxies, the birth and death of stars, and the body and spirit of my own being. Many Pagans see him as a guardian of nature’s balance. He is a God of fertility, vitality, sexuality, and abundance, but he is also a God of sacrifice for the greater good and in this aspect in particular, the Christ of my childhood faith bleeds into and merges with that of my present spirituality.
Like Christ, the Green Man’s shadowed face is not one of destruction for its own sake; rather it is a compassionate expression of death that life may flourish. He is often referred to as both hunter and hunted, for as we are all subject to his “culling”—in order for life to continue and the balance to be kept—he is also himself cut down in the harvest of our food (be it animal or vegetable): he knows what it means to die and is seen as a guide and protector on the journey through and beyond death. He contains within his nature the paradox of “life in death and death in life,” and we experience this most obviously through the seasonal journey he embodies and the cycle of our own lives.
Christ’s journey contains this same paradox. As the Green Man’s sacrifice maintains the integrity of the natural world through the cycles of life, death, and rebirth, Christ’s maintains the integrity of the spirit through these very same cycles. Both have taught me to honor and trust in this process of shedding; of releasing and transcending my old self that the life in me might be reborn; that I might become more authentically myself. In the process of this sacrifice we learn about compassion, for ourselves and all life forms. Out of that compassion—born of the experiences of living—something verdant springs to life. What is so powerful about the image of Christ crucified on a living lily—as opposed to the “dead wood” of the cross—is that it speaks to us of this unending potential for the greening of our souls. It reassures us that despite the reality that life will bring us the toughest of challenges and the deepest of pain, living is essentially a thing of profound mysticism, beauty, and hope. What is striking about the image of the Lily Cross is that it articulates so directly the renewal at the core of loss; the regeneration from dissolution that both Christ and the Green Man embody.
I have long left behind the theology of the faith I was born into, and this has given me the freedom to explore a Christ unbound by the restrictions of dogma. Because of this, the Christ of my current understanding expresses a greater earthiness. The Green Christ and the Green Man are both the joyous life-force that bursts forth in bud, leaf and fruit: life’s wild abundance. They are also the golden life-giving sun whose warmth and light fertilizes not only the earth but our own bodies, minds, hearts, and spirits. They are both the vital spark of life that brings us happiness and pleasure and the sacrifice of the harvest that feeds us. In their dissolution we find the mulch and leaf mould that rots into the Earth Mother’s body, nourishing new life; we find also the remains of our ill-fitting lives transformed into the wisdom and guidance that will move us forward, guiding us to tackle the changes with trust and optimism. In embodying both the intense struggle and the deep peace of death, the challenge of endings and the promise of renewal, they enable us to embrace paradox. In learning to hold seemingly opposing energies within our understanding of the Divine (and therefore of life itself) there is the potential for a greater tolerance, compassion, and understanding, not only for ourselves and other humans but for all creation.
The Christ that has merged with and continues to inform my understanding of the Divine has regained his life-giving phallus and with it a joyous sexuality that honors the sacred connection between sex, life, death, and rebirth. His word is never carved in stone; it sings from the blackbird; and is heard in the rustle of leaves and the silent glory of the stars. It is the pain of letting go; the urgency and desire of a lover’s touch. The Jesus of my childhood has resurrected in my consciousness as the Green Christ: the joy, hope, and poignancy of living. He is a vital part of my worship of the Divine Masculine. When I open to him, I open to the wonder and blessings of life; I see the wisdom and meaning of all life’s experiences—both the happiness and the tragedy. When I reach for his empathetic understanding, I am infused with his strength and bolstered by his protection. In his sharing of the wisdom of seed and flower, of fruit and falling leaf, the turning tides of my life become a little easier to navigate; the joy at the heart of creation more apparent, more intensely felt.
About the Author
Maria Ede-Weaving is a musician and writer. A longtime member of the Order of Bards, Ovates, and Druids, she has had articles published in a range of journals, including SageWoman and Pagan Dawn. Maria explores the personal challenges and joys of following an earth-based spirituality in her blog, A Druid Thurible: luckyloom1.wordpress.com/.