This story appears as part of a collaboration to strengthen investigative journalism in Maine between the BDN and The Maine Monitor. Read more about the partnership.
Every morning begins the same for Paul Ridlon, who also goes by Magnus de Rhuddlan.
No matter the weather, he steps out of the round yurt where he lives in Portland and lights incense at his southern altar, a tree stump topped with two crane statues and a figurine of the Egyptian god Horus.
After greeting the sun, the earth and the spirit that he believes embodies his land, Ridlon walks around his raised garden bed, letting the earth beneath his bare feet remind him of his connection to the natural world.
Ridlon follows Norse Druidry, a form of contemporary Paganism that focuses on a reverence for the environment, which he has practiced for roughly 15 years and studied at Druid College, a school in Biddeford that prepares people to be priests of nature.
It is one of a number of polytheistic and mystical religions that make up the modern Pagan umbrella, faiths that generally emphasize a connection between nature and the divine and often revive pre-Christian religious practices, such as celebrating the solstice and other seasonal festivals or revering spirits believed to be present in all things.
In addition to Druidry, other popular modern Pagan religions include Wicca, whose practitioners identify as witches, and eclectic Paganism, which takes inspiration from a variety of faith traditions.
As religious adherence has declined both nationally and in Maine, Pagans across the state say they have seen growing interest in the earth-based spirituality their traditions offer, a trend that is supported by religious survey data.
Paganism is often practiced alone, but Maine has a number of groups and institutions that support the faith, including a clergy association that appears to be the only one of its kind in the country.
A growing practice
While they represent a small fraction of the population, Pagans appear to have increased both in Maine and across the country in recent decades.
Recent data from the Pew Research Center shows that 4% of Mainers identified as Pagan or Wiccan in a 2023-34 survey, the highest proportion of any state. This is double the amount from the previous Pew survey, conducted a decade prior.
While that comes with caveats — a small sample size and a large margin of error, along with the possibility it could reflect a growing acceptance of Paganism rather than pure growth — for Ridlon it rings true. If anything, he thinks it is an undercount. The value many Mainers place on independence, he believes, fits well with the individual and earth-centered practices that make up the array of Pagan traditions.
Ridlon sees the rise as tied to a declining interest in Christianity, with the lack of doctrinal texts or hierarchical structures in Paganism appealing to people who were raised Christian and later left the faith. He was raised Catholic and remembers early in his life being taught by nuns that God is in all people, which he compares with his belief today that everything has a spirit.
Researchers like Marilyn R. Pukkila, a research librarian emerita at Colby College in Waterville and eclectic Pagan, attribute the growth in part to the second-wave feminist movement of the 1960s and 1970s, where many were interested in the idea of the feminine goddess at the center of Wicca, and in the independent nature of its rituals, which attracted women and LGBTQ+ people who felt shut out by Christianity.
Helen Berger, a sociologist of modern Paganism, echoed this explanation, describing a movement away from organized religion and toward nature-based spirituality fueled by feminist and gay rights movements, as well as environmental concerns.
“This is a non-dogmatic religion,” Berger said. “It’s a religion of practice; it’s a religion that you get to do your own thing. And so all these feminists, environmentalists, anti-authoritarianists … and gay people joining influenced which way the religion went.”
During the 1970s and 1980s, many Pagans either belonged to or were trained in a coven, which is a formal group of practicing witches, Berger said. Since the 1990s and the advent of the internet, solitary practitioners have become more common, Berger said, making it easier to practice Paganism outside of urban centers.
She believes this is part of what accounts for the growth in Maine, where much of the population lives in rural areas.
More recently, Berger said, videos of witches on TikTok and other social media platforms have driven interest in Pagan practices. Those trends are also helping to destigmatize the beliefs.
Circe Moss MacDonald, spiritual director at Portland New Church who practices a form of nature-based spirituality but does not identify as Pagan, said she has also noted an increase in Pagan adherents during her nine years with the organization. The New Church, which is open to a range of faiths, saw half a dozen Pagan groups host events there last year.
The New Church’s monthly Cosmic Mass, which Ridlon and MacDonald both help lead, attracts people looking for a spiritual connection to nature, often using costumes, puppetry, drumming and dancing. During the February Cosmic Mass, Ridlon and MacDonald explored the elemental roots of electronic devices.
Mainers seem to be increasingly celebrating solstices, equinoxes and other seasonal festivals central to Pagan practice, MacDonald said. Search data from Google suggest that in the past five years Mainers’ interest in eight of the primary festivals has been higher than in any other state, except Vermont.
For more than 40 years, Pagans in Maine have also gathered in early May for Beltane on the Beach, which celebrates the beginning of summer, halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. The event has gotten smaller in recent years thanks to the pandemic and a venue change but still offers a way for Pagans to get together. People regularly get married during the festival, one volunteer said.
Establishing legitimacy
While Pagan rituals are often solitary endeavors, spiritual leaders take on ministerial roles by leading public gatherings, serving as chaplains in hospitals and prisons, officiating wedding ceremonies and advocating for the broader Pagan community.
The Maine Pagan Clergy Association offers a process for spiritual leaders to get licenses that identify them as Pagan clergy, which allows them to perform marriages under state law, among other things. Leaders in the community say this has helped move the diverse faith group toward equal footing with other religions.
The clergy association’s licensing process, which Robinson said roughly 40 people have gone through since the organization incorporated in 2001, involves a questionnaire, a background check, mandated reporter training and an interview. Applicants must also adhere to the group’s code of ethics.
“We’re meeting and working with newcomers all the time,” said the clergy association’s president, Kerry Robinson.
Licensure can make other forms of ministry like serving incarcerated individuals or people in hospitals easier, Robinson said, though it doesn’t always work. Three years ago, she reached out to a hospital to offer her services in case any Pagan patients had spiritual needs. After Robinson made it clear that she was Pagan herself, she said, the hospital stopped responding to her emails.
“There’s still some holdover of many established faith systems not taking Pagan clergy seriously because we operate very differently from how they do,” Robinson said.
The association’s process appears to be unique among states. While some other states have statewide Pagan associations, none appear to have a clergy focus or a licensure program. Instead, individual Pagan groups may offer training programs or ordination paths of varying intensities for their specific traditions, similar to Druid College in Maine.
Holli Emore serves as executive director of Cherry Hill Seminary in South Carolina, an online seminary focused on Pagan practices. Requirements to perform marriages vary by state, and some students get non-denominational licenses online through Universal Life Church or other avenues, she said. Cherry Hill also began offering ordination to students last fall, which meets the requirements in some states.
Emore is unaware of any statewide Pagan organizations beyond the one in Maine that grants licenses and offers oversight, and she said she has talked to Robinson multiple times about how she wishes other states “would emulate their model.”
For Kevin Emmons, secretary and licensure coordinator for the Maine clergy group, spiritual experiences can be as simple as drinking a cup of tea in the morning and reflecting on the trade routes and natural processes that made it possible. That meditative aspect of Paganism is part of what appeals to people, Emmons said, but it also challenges traditional religious expectations.
“Because we don’t tend to have churches and own property and have congregations,” Emmons said, he and other Pagans are not taken as seriously as members of other faiths, explaining that a license helps establish legitimacy.
Ridlon obtained a license through the association, which he said helps to build trust in the community by providing an ethical foundation for Pagan leaders.
As his personal spiritual work continues, he is focused on bringing more Pagans together through festivals and rituals in southern Maine. Christians may go to church for an hour or two each week, but what he is picturing is more immersive.
“It takes a day — actually, longer,” Ridlon said, “just to leave the big world behind you.”
