Taranis was a thunder god worshipped by the Celts, associated with storms, power, and possibly time or fate through the recurring motif of the wheel. The Romans identified him with Jupiter, though the Celts likely saw Taranis as a more elemental force than a personal god. Altars and coins found across the Celtic world point to widespread worship, but his mythology is fragmentary, with only Roman writings and a few archaeological finds giving us clues to his significance.

Let’s strip it down to the facts of Taranis, presented simply but layered with a bit of depth to fill the gaps left by time. Think of this as the “official” record—straightforward, with speculation filling in where the evidence is missing, but always grounded in what we actually know.

What We Know

Taranis is one of the major deities from Celtic religion, primarily worshipped in Gaul (modern-day France and surrounding regions), parts of Britain, and other Celtic tribes throughout Europe during the Iron Age.

He’s identified as a god of thunder, and much like his counterparts in other mythologies—Thor in Norse, Zeus in Greek, and Jupiter in Roman mythology—he’s associated with the sky, storms, and, most importantly, thunderbolts.

The wheel might represent the sun—the Celts, like many ancient cultures, associated the sun with cycles of life and death, and it’s thought that Taranis could have been connected to this cosmic cycle.

Alternatively, it could symbolize fate or time—the wheel is a common symbol of eternal return, representing the unceasing passage of time, seasons, and life cycles.

When the Romans encountered Taranis during their conquests of Gaul, they did what they often did—mapped their own gods onto local deities. They linked Taranis to Jupiter, the Roman god of thunder and the sky. This doesn’t mean they saw Taranis as exactly the same as Jupiter—just that they recognized the parallels between the two. In Roman records, Taranis is sometimes mentioned in the same breath as other gods like Teutates and Esus, two other Celtic deities.

Human Sacrifice?

The Roman poet Lucan, in his Pharsalia, made an offhand remark about the Celts offering human sacrifices to Taranis. Lucan described Taranis as a bloodthirsty god, implying that he required human offerings, particularly through burning, though there’s no direct Celtic text confirming this. It’s important to take Roman sources with a grain of salt—they often exaggerated or demonized the practices of people they conquered to make themselves seem more “civilized” by comparison.

The wheel symbol is the most consistent and identifiable element in Taranis’s imagery, found on various altars and artifacts. In some cases, these wheels are elaborate, sun-like depictions with spokes radiating outwards, while in others they’re simpler circles. Coins struck in regions under Celtic influence sometimes also bear the wheel, indicating that Taranis, or at least his symbolism, was widespread and important.

While the hard facts about Taranis are sparse—limited to inscriptions, altars, and a few references by Roman writers—the interpretations have grown more varied over time. Modern neopaganism and Druidic traditions have revived Taranis as a figure of power and natural force. In these movements, Taranis often symbolizes the untamable forces of nature, a god of both creation and destruction, wielding storms not just as punishment but as a necessary part of the natural cycle.

Scholars continue to speculate about the meaning of the wheel. It could represent:

• The sun, aligning Taranis with other solar deities.

• The cycle of life, reinforcing Taranis’s role in the eternal turning of the seasons and time.

• A battle emblem, symbolizing the unstoppable, rolling force of war and conquest.

Ah, the chicken-and-egg question

Which came first—Taranis, or his thunder-slinging counterparts like Zeus, Thor, and Jupiter?

To tackle this, we have to wander down the rabbit hole of Indo-European mythologies. Here’s the thing: all these thunder gods—Taranis, Thor, Zeus, Jupiter—are likely part of a shared mythological lineage. They’re branches of the same ancient tree, rooted in a common proto-religious system from thousands of years ago.

Long before Taranis was worshipped in the hills of Gaul or Zeus in the temples of Greece, there were the Proto-Indo-Europeans—a group of people who lived roughly 5,000–6,000 years ago. They didn’t leave behind much in terms of writings, but linguistic studies have shown that the languages of Europe, India, and Iran all trace back to these people. Along with language, they shared myths, including stories about gods of the sky and thunder.

In this proto-religious system, scholars believe there was likely a common sky god, a deity who wielded the power of storms, thunder, and lightning. As different groups spread out and formed their own cultures, these myths evolved, and the thunder god took on new forms and names in different regions:

• Taranis for the Celts

• Thor for the Norse

• Zeus for the Greeks

• Jupiter for the Romans

• Indra for the Vedic people of India

But the essence—thunder and lightning as symbols of divine power—remained.

Which Came First?

If we’re asking what came first in a chronological sense, it’s likely that none of these individual gods—Taranis, Zeus, Thor—were “first” on their own. Instead, they are all descendants of this original, nameless Proto-Indo-European thunder god. So, the “chicken” in this scenario is the Indo-European sky deity, and Taranis, Thor, Zeus, and Jupiter are all eggs that hatched in different parts of the world as the Indo-European peoples spread out, mingled with other cultures, and developed their distinct religious identities.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Once these gods took on distinct forms—Taranis in Celtic lands, Thor in Scandinavia, Zeus in Greece—they didn’t exist in isolation. As the Celts, Romans, Greeks, and others interacted through trade, war, and conquest, these thunder gods started borrowing characteristics from each other. For example:

• When the Romans encountered Taranis, they associated him with Jupiter, their own thunder god, thus blending attributes.

• Thor evolved somewhat separately in Scandinavia, but even there, Norse mythology was influenced by contact with other Indo-European peoples, like the Celts and the early Germanic tribes.

So, if you’re asking about the influence of these gods, you could say that they co-evolved. No one god came first, but rather, they developed together, their stories shaped by both shared origins and cultural cross-pollination over time.

The Real Answer

In the end, thunder itself came first—the raw, awe-inspiring phenomenon that ancient people saw as divine. From there, different cultures attached meaning to it, creating gods to explain and control the uncontrollable. So, in this philosophical chicken-and-egg debate, it’s the thunder that’s the chicken, and the gods—Taranis, Thor, Zeus—are the eggs, each one hatched and shaped by the cultures that worshipped them.

No one god truly came first, because they’re all part of the same ancient mythological storm that has echoed through human history.

In the dimly remembered annals of history, shrouded as much by the mists of mythology as by the veils of time, Taranis thundered across the skies of ancient Gaul. This Celtic deity, wielding his emblematic wheel and thunderbolt, served not merely as a god of storms but as a profound emblem of cosmic order and cyclical renewal. His story, whispered through centuries, offers a stark lens through which to view our contemporary, fractal-like complexities—a patchwork of cultures perennially seeking harmony within chaos.

Taranis, like the loud clap of thunder following the blinding flash of lightning, was an immediate presence in the lives of those who revered him. He was not a distant overseer but a palpable force, actively participating in the earthly affairs of his followers. The wheel—his symbol—echoes this involvement. More than a tool of war, it represented the cycles of life, the rotation of the seasons, and the inescapable patterns of fate that bind human endeavors to divine will. This symbol, found etched in stone and metal across Europe, serves as silent testimony to his widespread worship and the deep resonance of his divine jurisdiction.

In the fertile intellectual soil of post-modernity, Taranis’ narrative is resurrected not simply as a curiosity of religious history but as a metaphor for the enduring human quest for order amidst chaos. His thunderbolt, striking capriciously yet bound by natural law, mirrors the post-modern condition: our narratives are fragmented, our truths multiple, and our existences, like lightning, brilliantly fleeting against the vastness of an indifferent universe.

Imagine standing atop a verdant hill in ancient Gaul, the air electric with anticipation and the rumble of an impending storm. Here, the deity Taranis reigns, his dominion heralded by the roll of thunder and the stark flash of lightning. To the ancient Celts, Taranis was not merely a storm god but a pivotal figure in the cosmic ballet, wielding his thunderbolt and wheel to assert divine order and continuity.

Yet, to view Taranis through the lens of traditional mythology alone would be to ignore the tapestry of human consciousness that has continually rewoven his narrative into our cultural fabric. Taranis, with his thunderous might and commanding presence, mirrors our perennial struggle with nature’s awe-inspiring yet destructive power. His mythos provides a canvas upon which we paint our fears, our hopes, and our staunchest beliefs about the cosmos and our place within it.

Consider the wheel, one of Taranis’s most potent symbols. More than a mere chariot of the gods, the wheel represents the relentless cycle of life, death, and rebirth. It echoes the philosophical musings of Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence and the Buddhist concept of samsara. Here, the wheel is not just a symbol of divine control but a reflection of life’s inevitable flux, a comforting and terrifying reminder of nature’s indomitable force.

Delving deeper, the narrative of Taranis challenges us to confront our postmodern condition—the fragmentation of truth and the plurality of perspectives that characterize our era. Just as the fractals of a lightning bolt branch out in unexpected directions, so too do our interpretations of myths like that of Taranis. Each retelling, each scholarly analysis adds layers to his story, much like the cumulative layers of paint on a well-worn mural.

Yet, what of Taranis in the quiet after the storm? Here lies the heart of his tale. In the silence that follows the tempest, when the air smells of rain and possibility, we find a metaphor for human resilience and renewal. It is here, in these hushed moments, that Taranis ceases to be a distant mythic figure and becomes a mirror reflecting our vulnerability and our enduring strength.

In this light, Taranis’s revival in modern neopaganism and popular culture is less a resurgence than a continuity, a testament to our unbroken, albeit evolving, dialogue with the divine. His presence in modern narratives—from literature to environmental activism—speaks to our continued search for balance in a world that, like the ancient Celts, we find both enchanting and fearsome.