The Wild Christ Podcast

There was once a man in Iceland named Grettir Ásmundarson.

Grettir the Strong, they called him.

And strong he was.

Strong enough to lift stones that two men could scarcely budge. Strong enough to wrestle grown men into the mud and leave them wondering whether they’d been struck by a man or a runaway horse.

But strength was not Grettir’s only gift.

He had a temper.

A terrible temper.

And a tongue that seemed to take particular pleasure in making matters worse.

If a man insulted Grettir, Grettir insulted him back. If a man threatened him, Grettir threatened him twice as fiercely. And if somebody told Grettir not to do something, well, there was a very good chance he’d do it before supper.

His father, Ásmund, had learned this the hard way.

As a boy, Grettir had been given little chores around the farm. Ordinary things. Things any sensible boy could manage.

One day his father told him to tend the geese.

Grettir disliked tending geese.

In fact, Grettir disliked being told to do anything.

So when the geese proved troublesome, he killed them.

Another time he was told to rub his father’s back.

And Grettir, being Grettir, found a wool-combing tool and dragged its sharp teeth across his father’s skin.

You can imagine how that went.

There was shouting.

There was swearing.

And there was Grettir, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

His father despaired of him.

His mother loved him.

And Grettir grew into the sort of man who could fight almost anything in the world, except his own nature.

Now, that is worth knowing.

Because there are monsters a man meets on the road.

And there are monsters that follow him home.

It was not at the end of the first day that he saw a thin trail of smoke, the first month, or even the first year. For seven years, the King wandered that forest looking for his beloved. You would barely recognize him, he did not wipe the tears from his eyes, he did not cut the hair from his head. He was a man that learned to darn his own cloak. You see, in our time, by now your friends would have said, you know, snap out of it, you ain’t gonna find her, move on. But he wasn't built like that. He was an old growth human being. That was an improvisation, but I'm gonna remember it, old growth human being, old growth human being. As the Irish say, he made an altar in his heart for the bird that had flown away. He made an altar in his heart for the bird that had flown way. “Wherever I go, I am ready. Wherever I go, I am ready. Wherever I go, I am ready. Wherever I go, I am ready.” - Dr. Martin Shaw

So the Queen mum, as it were, goes to see the maiden. And she says,

“Look, I don't know what has happened to my son, but he's kind of volatile

I hear, he's changed after his time at war. We've got to get you out of here,

this place is not safe for you anymore. The place you have to go, I'm

afraid, with your young son, is the forest.”

She said, “I can't be hearing that, I've been there before, I've been there

before, you know, I've had that diagnosis before. Don't you tell me that's

come back, don't tell me that's come back.”

She said, “You gotta go. But I'll tell you this, as an older woman, going

into the forest the second time is never the same as the first, going in as a

queen is not the same as a young kid leaving her family. Trust me on this.” - Dr. Martin Shaw

For Claudio Guillén

In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two dark doves
One was the sun
and one the moon
Little neighbors I said
where is my grave — 
In my tail said the sun
On my throat said the moon
And I who was walking
with the land around my waist
saw two snow eagles
and a naked girl
One was the other
and the girl was none
Little eagles I said
where is my grave —
In my tail said the sun
On my throat said the moon
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two naked doves
One was the other
and both were none
 

- Federico García Lorca

When you are vulnerable you can make very bad deals; after losing your hands, what are the initiatory steps to growing them back?

A very bad deal has consequence for a peasant’s daughter. After losing her hands, she must follow her initiatory path all the way back to the woods in order to grow them back. - Dr. Martin Shaw

There are many versions of The Handless Maiden from around the world. It’s a fairy tale that was collected by the Brothers Grimm in 1812, but its roots are much older.

Once there was a miller who had fallen into poverty. His mill was broken so he had to go to the forest to chop wood. One day, when he was hacking at a tree stump, an old man appeared and said, “I’ll make you rich if you give me what stands behind your mill.”

Forough Hekmat collected these tales from his own childhood in Iran. Fatima may be a little old woman, but her heart is massive and her courage in the face of injustice. A story for all of us who ask, how far can kindness go? 

There was once a young man who had no song.

Now, you should understand that this was a serious thing.

Everyone had a song.

The women had songs for grinding corn and songs for carrying children. The hunters had songs they sang before setting out and songs they sang when they came home. Old men had songs so old nobody remembered where they came from.

Even the dogs seemed to have songs.

But this young man?

Nothing.

When he tried to sing, birds left trees.

Dogs woke from sleep and stared at him.

Once, an old woman heard him and said, “Perhaps you should become a hunter.”

So he did...

The Skeleton Woman is an Inuit tale of healing, that describes a harrowing journey in which the heroine is left for dead under the sea but is caught by a fisherman whose initial horror turns to compassion. Her life is thus restored and she returns with renewed vigor and a great capacity to enrich life itself.

In this story, a young king who was being held prisoner in his own hall by his own wife after the king struck down her lover in the woods. In payback, the young queen turned the king’s lower body into stone, destroyed his capital, and as the king relates, “she comes every day, and gives me over my naked shoulders a hundred lashes with a whip until I am covered with blood. When she has finished this part of my punishment, she throws over me a coarse stuff of goat’s hair, and over that this robe of brocade, not to honor, but to mock me”. And, finally, this is a story about the sultan who avenges the young king, before making him his heir.