Dievturība – The Latvian Native Faith
On a summer night in Latvia, when the horizon glows long after the sun has set, bonfires blaze on hilltops and voices rise in ancient song. The melodies are the dainas—folk hymns that carry fragments of a spiritual world older than Christianity, older than kingdoms and empires. They speak of Dievs, the heavenly father, of the goddess Māra who guards the earth, of Laima who spins the thread of fate. For centuries, these songs were whispered at harvests, births, and funerals, preserving a worldview in which nature itself was alive with divinity.
Today, this worldview lives again in Dievturība, the modern revival of Latvian paganism. It is a faith of cycles and continuity, of gods both cosmic and close to the hearth, of reverence for the land and the ancestors who walked it. More than a religion, it is a cultural memory rekindled, a fire kept alive through song, ritual, and the stubborn endurance of a people.
What Is Dievturība?
Dievturība, “the holding of Dievs,” is not simply a religion—it is a worldview reborn from fragments, songs, and soil. It seeks to revive the indigenous spirituality of the Latvian people, a faith that predates Christianity yet persisted long after conversion through folklore, ritual, and seasonal celebration. Unlike religions that rely on sacred texts, Dievturība is woven from the dainas—short, poetic folk songs numbering over a million, each carrying echoes of prayer, myth, and wisdom. Together, they form a living scripture in verse, an oral archive of ancestral faith.
The modern movement took shape in the early 20th century, led by Ernests Brastiņš and others who saw in folklore not just cultural heritage but sacred instruction. For them, the dainas and folk customs were keys to reconstructing the worldview of the Latvians before Christianization—one in which gods, ancestors, and nature were inseparable.
Unlike strictly dogmatic religions, Dievturība is non-centralized, experiential, and communal. Each practitioner may engage differently: some focus on public festivals, others on household rituals, others still on cultural preservation. But all share reverence for the Neticība (faith) of their forebears and a commitment to living in balance with the natural world. It is a spirituality of cycles, song, and soil.
The Pantheon of Latvian Deities
At the center of Dievturība is Dievs, the sky god and father figure, a celestial guardian who watches over the natural order. Yet Latvian spirituality is not a single-god system; it is a woven pantheon of deities who embody life’s cycles.
Dievs: The heavenly father, associated with sky, order, and cosmic law.
Māra: The earth mother, goddess of land, cattle, and prosperity; she receives souls after death.
Laima: The goddess of fate, weaving the thread of each life at birth.
Ūsiņš: God of spring, horses, bees, and light, herald of renewal.
Perkons: The thunder god, bringer of rain and fertility, destroyer of evil.
Jumis: Spirit of the harvest, symbol of abundance and twin fertility.
These deities are not distant but interwoven with daily life. To honor them is to honor the land, the home, and the turning of the seasons.
Rituals of Song and Season
Dievturība thrives in rituals tied to the agricultural year. The great celebrations mirror the wheel of nature, binding community and cosmos together.
Jāņi (Midsummer): The most famous Latvian festival, marked by bonfires, wreaths of oak and flowers, dancing, and dainas sung until dawn. It honors the sun’s power, fertility, and the balance of light and dark.
Mārtiņi (Autumn): A feast of harvest’s end and preparation for winter, invoking abundance and protection.
Ziemassvētki (Winter Solstice): A celebration of rebirth, when the sun’s journey begins anew.
Pavasara rites (Spring): Songs and offerings for renewal, fertility, and the return of light.
Music is central. The dainas are not just folk songs but prayers in poetic form, carrying sacred meaning in their repetition. In modern practice, groups gather to sing, light fires, pour libations of beer and milk, and make offerings of bread, honey, or herbs to the gods and spirits.
Ancestors and the Sacred Land
At the core of Dievturība is a profound awareness of continuity—between the living, the dead, and the land itself. Ancestors are not gone; they are present, dwelling in the home, the fields, and the forest. They are honored through songs, offerings, and remembrance, their wisdom considered part of the living family line. To neglect them is to fracture the chain; to honor them is to ensure protection, fertility, and harmony.
The land itself is also an ancestor. Every grove, river, and hill holds sacred resonance. Ancient Latvians gathered in holy groves (svētzemi) to offer prayers and sacrifices, and modern Dievturi continue this tradition, treating nature not as backdrop but as temple. To step into a forest clearing, to stand by a riverbank, is to stand on consecrated ground.
This bond with land and lineage is expressed in rituals tied to farming, harvesting, and the cycles of sun and moon. Bread is baked not only as food but as offering; fire is lit not only for warmth but as symbol of cosmic order. By honoring the land and ancestors, Dievturība asserts that life is sacred because it is inherited, sustained, and shared.
Shadows and Survival
For centuries, the old faith of Latvia was pushed underground. With Christianization in the 13th century and later political dominations, temples were destroyed, groves cut down, and pagan rites condemned as superstition. Yet Dievturība never truly died. It survived in shadows, hidden in everyday customs, disguised within Christian practice, and carried forward in song.
The dainas became the memory banks of the faith. A lullaby might whisper to Māra, a harvest song might honor Jumis, a funeral chant might echo belief in the soul’s passage to the otherworld. Christian saints were layered over pagan gods—Perkons thundered as St. Elijah, Māra’s presence lingered beneath the Virgin Mary. Rural festivals, though cloaked in Christian names, retained unmistakably pagan roots.
Even under Soviet rule, when religion itself was suppressed, fragments endured in folk practice, seasonal celebration, and oral tradition. Grandmothers taught songs to children, midsummer fires still burned in fields, and rituals were carried out quietly, if not in name then in spirit.
The modern revival is thus not an invention but a reawakening of a current that never ceased to flow. Dievturība lives because its people never stopped singing, never stopped weaving threads of the sacred into daily life. The gods and ancestors were not lost—they waited in shadows, carried in verse, in soil, in memory, until the time came to rise again.
The Gods in the Songs
To practice Dievturība is to listen—really listen—to the old songs and hear the gods woven into every verse. It is to see the sun not as mere fire in the sky but as a divine force, to feel rain as Perkons’s gift, to walk in the forest as if among temples.
Dievturība is not about rebuilding the past brick by brick—it is about carrying forward a worldview where nature, ancestors, and divinity form one unbroken chain. It is a reminder that even under centuries of silence, a faith can survive if it is carried in the voice of a song, waiting for the day it can be sung aloud again.
So when the bonfires blaze on Midsummer’s Eve, and voices rise in dainas against the endless twilight, know that this is more than folklore. It is Dievs and Māra, Laima and Perkons—alive, listening, and eternal.
