The Mysterious “SFS” on the Monstrance
- Michelle Hayman
- May 8
- 24 min read
Updated: May 9
Centuries-old monstrances (the golden sunburst vessels used to display the Eucharist) sometimes bear an odd inscription – SFS – and no official explanation is given in Catholic liturgy or Church documents. In fact, the monstrance itself is explicitly a sun symbol: the 1913 Catholic Encyclopedia notes that “the most appropriate form [for the monstrance] is that of the sun emitting its rays”, and even Wikipedia observes that modern monstrances are “surrounded, like the sun, with rays”. With the sun (a pagan motif) built into the vessel, the unexplained letters SFS painted or engraved in the blaze prompt questions. Were they merely decorative initials, or do they hide a more arcane meaning? No parish handbook or Church historian has answered this, so speculation abounds.
Many investigators point out that SFS adds up to 6-6-6 in occult numerology. In certain esoteric traditions, letters are treated like numbers (a practice called gematria or isopsephy). Notably:
S – In ancient Greek numerals, the symbol for 6 was the character stigma (ϛ), essentially a ligature of sigma (Σ) and tau (Τ). Curiously, στίγμα (stigma) in Greek literally means a mark or brand (as in the “mark of the beast” in Revelation). So the letter “S” on the monstrance immediately evokes both “6” and the idea of a mark.
F – The archaic Greek letter digamma (Ϝ/ϝ) also had the numeric value 6. This digamma evolved into the Latin alphabet’s F, which today is the 6th letter in our ABC’s. In other words, F ≈ 6 as well. (Hebrew scholars note that the sixth Hebrew letter, Waw/Vav, also means 6 in gematria, reinforcing the pattern.)
S (again) – As before, the final “S” can be tied to the same Greek στίγμα idea (6).
Putting this together, some writers point out that S F S = 6 6 6. Others note that in gematria-like reading, “each of the letters is a universal symbol for the number 6… so to the pagan it reads 666!”. All of these sources emphasize 6-6-6, deliberately echoing Revelation 13:18 – “the number of the beast.”
Stigma (ϛ) and the “Mark” Symbolism
Why is stigma = mark important? Early Christians used the Greek word στίγμα when speaking of the Beast’s “mark” or “brand.” For example, the Greek text of Revelation 13:18 uses the word χάραγμα (charagma) for “mark,” but στίγμα was a common term for a brand or sign of ownership (Galatians 6:17 uses stigma of suffering as a mark of Christ). Commentators like E.W. Bullinger even pointed out that στίγμα meant “a mark… made by a brand as burnt upon slaves… or on devotees…as belonging to their gods”. Moreover, in early manuscripts 666 is literally written χξϛ (chi-xi-stigma), i.e. with stigma for 6. In short, the shape and name of stigma directly evoke the “mark of the Beast,” and here the monstrance’s “S” could be hinting at that very idea.
Is it a coincidence that “St” → stigma (mark) connects to S? The Greek stigma glyph (ϛ) looks somewhat like an “S” or a stylized “ST,” and its name στίγμα (transliterated “stigma”) begins with the letters St– (see also Greek ΣΤ ligature). Thus, esoterically an S on the monstrance might be seen as a double reference to 6 and to “the Mark.” (This is similar to how Nazi occultists saw their double-S runes: the old Germanic Sowilo rune ᛋ meant “sun,” but was rebranded as the Siegrune or “victory rune” – itself a mirrored zigzag like a stigmata symbol.)
F as 6: From Digamma to Latin
The middle letter F raises the same numerological eyebrow. In the Greek system, after epsilon (5), the next numeral 6 was digamma (Ϝ), not the usual sixth alphabetic letter (zeta). Digamma (also called waw or episēmon) carried the value 6. Over time digamma dropped from the spoken alphabet, but as a symbol it lingered as “stigma” for 6. Crucially, digamma is the ancestor of Latin F. Thus Catholic-conspiracist sources note that Hebrew Vav =6, Greek digamma=6, and English F (the 6th letter) =6, making F an obvious “6” signal.
I cite Wikipedia: “Digamma or wau… has remained in use principally as a Greek numeral for 6”, and F is indeed the sixth Latin letter.
Putting S-F-S together in this occult alphabetic cipher gives 6‑6‑6. As one critic exclaimed, it “reads 666!” in pagan numerology. Whether anyone actually meant it that way is unknown – the Catholic Church certainly never announced “SFS means 666.” But the pattern is striking.
Pagan and occult traditions reinforce this “6-6-6” theme. In Hermetic and Gnostic lore, the Sun often bears the number 6. For example, the classic magic square of the Sun (a 6×6 grid with numbers 1–36) has every row/column summing to 111 and a total of 666. (In that scheme 6 is “solar” – six sides to a cube, the 6th planet, etc. – and 666 is the grand sum of the Sun’s square.) Early Christian theologians were familiar with gematria, or Greek isopsephy — a system where letters have numeric values. In this tradition, the name Ἰησοῦς (Jesus) adds up to 888, a number seen by early Christians as symbolizing divine perfection, resurrection, and eternal life. Intriguingly, both 888 (Jesus) and 666 (the sun square) became tied to solar symbolism. This overlap places images of divine light and Christ-like radiance dangerously close to the number of the Beast, blurring the line between sacred and profane in the realm of mystical numerology.
The Monstrance combines both: a shining sun-image displaying "Christ’s" body (the “Sun of Righteousness”), with hidden 666 letters at its rays. Conspiracy analysts see this as “sun worship” imagery built into Catholic ritual. Slides of anti-Catholic apologists point out that even the Host-on-sun motif was seen as a pagan survival.)
What’s strange, however, is the symbolic confusion that emerges when we examine the identity of Christ as the “Sun of Righteousness” (Malachi 4:2). While this title has clear metaphorical meaning—describing Jesus as the bringer of light, healing, and spiritual life—it has never meant He was the actual physical sun in the sky. In fact, Christianity explicitly warns against worshipping the sun, moon, and stars. Deuteronomy 4:19 forbids bowing down to the “host of heaven,” and Romans 1 criticizes those who “worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator.” The message is clear: the created heavens are not to be adored. Worship belongs to God alone.
And yet, the Roman Catholic Church—under the banner of tradition and so-called “veneration”—has done something that looks suspiciously like the very practice Scripture warns against. The Monstrance, the elaborate vessel used to display the consecrated Eucharist, is almost always in the shape of a blazing sunburst, complete with golden rays radiating outward. It is literally a solar idol, one that cradles the round, disk-like Host at its center—another sun-shaped object. The faithful bow, kneel, and sometimes even lie prostrate before it. While Church doctrine might insist that this is not “sun worship,” the visual language tells another story.
Let’s call it what it is: worship. The believer bows not just to the Eucharist, but to the entire solar iconography surrounding it. Whether they intend to or not, they are giving reverence to a symbol historically associated with solar deities, including Mithras, Apollo, Sol Invictus, and Ra. And this is not a fringe interpretation—it’s baked into the design. The 1913 Catholic Encyclopedia even admits that the sun form is the most appropriate shape for the Monstrance, because it reflects the “glory” of the sacrament.
So here's the contradiction: if Christ is the spiritual “Sun,” then why surround Him with the literal imagery of a star we’re told not to venerate?
Why house the divine mystery in what amounts to a gilded idol of the very thing Scripture forbids worshipping?
Perhaps this is where pagan continuity slips quietly into Christian ritual. The Church may say it is venerating Christ, but the instruments used—the Monstrance, the rays, the sun-disk wafer—are all pagan solar symbols in disguise. To the untrained eye, it looks Christian. But to those who understand the deeper layers of iconography and ritual, it looks suspiciously like sun worship repackaged.
In that light, the letters “SFS” engraved on the Monstrance take on added weight. They are etched into the center of a solar vessel, whose entire purpose is to draw worship. When the faithful kneel before it, they’re not bowing to Christ—they’re bowing to a ritual design inherited from ancient solar cults.
Runic and Nazi Sun Symbols
The plot thickens when we note striking parallels in modern history. The Nazis were obsessed with runes, sun symbols, and hidden meanings. Heinrich Himmler’s SS insignia itself was based on the Siegrune (sig-rune), an Armanen variant of the ancient Sowilo rune (ᛋ), whose name literally means “sun”. In other words, the Nazi “double S” was modelled on an old Germanic rune of the sun-god. Their Black Sun emblem (the mosaic at Wewelsburg) consists of six interlocking SS-runes in a sunwheel – essentially a 6‑pointed swastika made of Siegrunes. Even Hitler’s own swastika (卐) came from earlier sun-wheel and solar-cross motifs: Sanskrit traditions called the right-facing swastika “swastika” in honour of Surya (the sun).
Why mention the Nazis? Because many see an eerie echo: Nazi occultists knew that Sowilo (ᛋ) and Σ (sigma) were ancient symbols for the sun and 6, and they deliberately used them (SS runes, Black Sun, six spokes, etc.). Now look again at the monstrance: SFS is set within a sunburst. It’s as if the same letters and symbols, once celebrated in Aryan mysticism, have reappeared in plain sight in Church art. Is it any wonder conspiracy writers ask whether there’s a hidden continuity of “sun cult” archetypes from pagan, to Christian, to Nazi iconography?
The Solar Sigil and the Wealth Rune: Ancient Powers Hidden in Plain Sight
The rune ᛋ, known as Sowilo in Old Norse or Sigel in Old English, stands as one of the most potent glyphs in the ancient Elder Futhark. Its meaning is unambiguous across early sources—it literally means “sun.” In Germanic mythology, this rune embodied more than just a celestial body; it was the radiant essence of solar energy itself. Light, warmth, vitality, and divine strength were all encapsulated in this singular shape. As one modern rune scholar notes, Sowilo “is the solar energy and represents vitality, the will, victory and hope.” The rune's jagged, lightning-like form evokes the rays of the sun or the bolt of a sky god, slicing through the darkness with triumphant force.
During the occult revival of the 19th and early 20th centuries, figures like Guido von List rebranded the Sowilo rune as the Siegrune, or “Victory Rune,” cleverly linking its phonetic sound to the German word Sieg, meaning victory. The rune, already tied to divine light in the pagan imagination, was now yoked to triumphalist power, becoming a symbol not only of spiritual illumination but of worldly dominance. In this way, Sowilo became a glyph of solar supremacy—a mark of divine and political ascendancy alike.
This evolution reached its most infamous expression during the rise of Nazi Germany. Heinrich Himmler, the mastermind behind the SS, was deeply influenced by Germanic mysticism and occult symbolism. He deliberately adopted the Sig rune for the SS emblem, stylizing it as two jagged bolts—“ᛋᛋ”—to form the instantly recognizable SS insignia. Designed by SS officer Walter Heck, the emblem doubled as both the abbreviation for Schutzstaffel and a cryptic invocation of “Sieg! Sieg!”—Victory! Victory! The rune was even officially renamed “Sieg” during the Nazi era, and was emblazoned across the uniforms, documents, and architecture of Hitler’s inner circle.
After the war, the Sig rune’s legacy became toxic. It was banned in Germany and many other European countries due to its association with fascism and hate. Yet among neopagans and modern esotericists, Sowilo endures, reclaimed as a powerful symbol of personal triumph, clarity, and inner light. This dual identity—ancient sun glyph and modern hate symbol—makes it one of the most complicated and controversial runes in history.
Meanwhile, at the very beginning of the Elder Futhark stands another rune of profound symbolic weight: ᚠ, or Fehu. The word fehu comes from a Proto-Germanic root meaning “cattle”—the ultimate measure of wealth and social power in early Indo-European societies. In Old English, the equivalent was feoh, meaning money or property, and related words exist in Latin (pecus) and Sanskrit (paśu)—all pointing to livestock as wealth incarnate. The shape of the rune, like a pair of upward-branching horns, speaks directly to this origin.
But Fehu meant more than just herds of animals. It came to symbolize abundance, mobility, and the energetic flow of prosperity.
To own cattle was to have power that could move, reproduce, and sustain—unlike static treasure, cattle implied living, growing wealth. In the poetic and magical traditions surrounding the runes, Fehu thus came to represent creative fire, dynamic energy, and material success. One modern rune guide describes Fehu as “unrestrained creative potential, much like… a fire without boundaries. It is raw power.” In divinatory contexts, the appearance of Fehu signals the beginning of enterprise, fruitful labour, and material reward—a rune of energetic abundance rather than passive fortune.
In contemporary neopagan practice, Fehu remains central to rituals for wealth, fertility, and inspiration.
Occultists chant its galdr (its vibrational “name-sound”) in spells for prosperity. It’s carved into candles, drawn onto amulets, or traced in the air during rites of abundance and creative fire. Practitioners still look to Fehu when they need energy to move—whether physically, financially, or spiritually.
It’s against this symbolic backdrop that we must reconsider the mysterious inscription SFS, found on certain Eucharistic Monstrances. When one sees SFS engraved into a blazing solar vessel, it’s impossible to ignore the ancient runes that these Latin letters resemble. The letter S corresponds directly with the Sowilo rune (ᛋ)—the sun, the victory, the light. The letter F, phonetically and visually, aligns with Fehu (ᚠ)—the wealth, the energy, the fire. Therefore, the inscription S‑F‑S could very plausibly be read esoterically as a triptych of runes: ᛋ‑ᚠ‑ᛋ.
This opens a provocative interpretation. If we read these letters as runes, Fehu (wealth/energy) is flanked on both sides by Sowilo (sun/victory). We are presented with a triune emblem: Sun – Wealth – Sun, or metaphorically, Victory – Power – Victory. On the surface, it might seem like an accidental arrangement. But placed on the sun-shaped Monstrance, a liturgical object designed to hold the sacred Host and radiate glory, it begins to look more like a deliberate solar code—a badge of light, power, and abundance hidden in plain sight.
The visual symbolism of the Monstrance supports this reading. As we’ve established, the vessel is explicitly modelled after the sun. Church sources acknowledge this design, with some even claiming the sunburst is intended to “replace” ancient solar cults—transforming the pagan sun into the “Sun of Righteousness.” But if that were the intent, why does the iconography still mirror the very symbols it was supposed to supplant?
Read in this light, the Monstrance becomes a solar talisman, with SFS engraved as a hidden rune-spell—an invocation of solar force, prosperity, and triumph. The occult symmetry is striking, especially when we recall from Part I that “SFS” can also be read numerically as 6-6-6 in Greek gematria systems (via stigma and digamma). Whether intentional or unconscious, the convergence of runic meaning and occult numerology in one of Christianity’s most sacred objects is too precise to ignore.
Whose Essence Truly Dwells in the Eucharist?
This is the question that lies at the heart of all Eucharistic worship: Whose essence—whose true presence—is really contained in the wafer? The Roman Catholic Church claims it is the literal, substantial body of Jesus Christ, miraculously transformed in the ritual of the Mass. But such a claim invites scrutiny—not only theological, but ontological.
Does the logic of Scripture support this notion, or does it reveal a far more troubling truth beneath the golden sunburst of the Monstrance?
According to the New Testament, Christ was sacrificed once and for all—a singular, unrepeatable offering. As the book of Hebrews tells us, He is now seated at the right hand of the Father, in the heavenly sanctuary, outside of time, in what early theologians and mystics referred to as the eternal now. He is not bound to chronology, nor does He descend repeatedly to earth to be re-sacrificed upon the altars of men. Christ serves as the eternal High Priest, not in the line of Aaron, but according to the mystical and unchangeable order of Melchizedek—a priesthood that predates the Law and transcends ritual sacrifice.
The Apostle Paul reinforces this in Romans 10:6, explicitly warning: “Do not say in your heart, ‘Who will ascend into heaven?’ (that is, to bring Christ down)...” In other words, to attempt to draw Christ from His heavenly throne into the material realm through repeated acts or rituals is both presumptuous and theologically incoherent. The Mass, however, does exactly that: it claims to summon Christ into the bread, again and again, day after day, at the hands of mortal men.
And yet, it is these same men—the hierarchy of the Roman Church—who have openly transgressed the law of God.
Chief among their apostasies is their abolition of the seventh-day Sabbath, a covenant declared eternal in Exodus 31:16–17. By shifting the day of worship from Saturday to Sunday, and enshrining the so-called “Lord’s Day” in its place, the Church has unilaterally altered the commandments of God—something not even Christ Himself dared to do. According to the epistle of James—written by James the Just, the first overseer of the Jerusalem church and a direct relative of Jesus, a member of the Desposyni (those of the Lord's bloodline)—to break even one commandment is to be guilty of breaking the whole Law. The Church, having done just that, places itself under the condemnation of divine judgment. By their own actions, they stand as lawbreakers, not mediators of grace.
So we must ask: If they are not authorized by heaven, and if their priesthood is founded on disobedience, what spirit, what presence, what essence do they truly call down into the wafer?
The ritual claims to transubstantiate the bread into the body of Christ.
But can a defiled priesthood, operating in rebellion to divine law, truly summon the Son of God?
Can the eternal High Priest, seated beyond time, be brought down into a perishable host by the invocation of men who rewrite God’s covenant?
Or are they calling something else?
The implications are chilling. If, as Christ Himself warned, there would be those who say to Him, “Lord, Lord,” yet He will respond, “Depart from me, ye that work iniquity” (Matthew 7:23), then who exactly is being worshipped on the altar? Who is it that responds to these invocations, takes residence in the Host, and receives the bowed adoration of millions?
The question must be asked, even if it trembles on the edge of blasphemy: Whose presence do Catholics truly consume when they eat the Eucharist?
If it is not the Christ who fulfilled the Law and sits enthroned above, then what power permits this ongoing ritual? Could the wafer, instead of being the Bread of Life, be a counterfeit—imbued not with divine light, but with a false fire? A host not of the true High Priest, but of another spirit altogether—one that gladly accepts worship meant for God, hiding behind the veil of sanctity?
This is not simply a theological disagreement—it is a spiritual crisis. For if the Church that claims to hold the keys of heaven is instead trafficking in a corrupted liturgy, performed by lawbreakers, then the essence in the wafer is not Christ’s at all. It is a substitute. Perhaps even an imposter. And in that case, the worship offered before the Monstrance is not only misdirected—it may be idolatry in its most sophisticated disguise.
So what, then, is SFS? It is not a random monogram. It may be a forgotten code, a silent remnant of pre-Christian symbolism sanctified by time. Or perhaps it is something more: an esoteric declaration etched onto a vessel of worship—a triune seal of sun, power, and light. The Church offers no explanation, leaving us with symbols pregnant with ancient force and unanswered questions.
In the golden blaze of the Monstrance, the past may not just echo—it may still radiate.
Following the historical threads, I found myself tracing the lineage back to the early Germanic and migratory tribes...
From Ancient Tribes to Royal Dynasty
The name Gotha (as in Saxe-Coburg-Gotha) originated as the placename of a Thuringian town – first recorded in 775 as Villa Gotaha (Old High German gotaha “good waters”). Only later did Gotha become part of a ducal title (the Duchy of Saxe-Gotha) and hence a dynastic surname. In 1840 Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha married Queen Victoria, and their descendants bore the style Saxe-Coburg-Gotha until King George V adopted “Windsor” in 1917 to downplay Germanic connections. Etymologically, the town name has nothing to do with the Gothic tribes – it derives from a Germanic word for water. Nevertheless, scholars have long noted the similarity between “Gotha” and Goth, and have explored symbolic and mythic links.
Gothic Ethnonym and Migration Legends
The Goths called themselves Gutans (Gothic Gut-Þiuda), from Proto-Germanic Gutōz, related to the names of the Scandinavian Gutes (from Gotland) and Geats. Intriguingly, all these names are etymologically tied to the verb geutan “to pour” – a root associated with flowing water. This has prompted speculation that the ethnonym may originally have denoted a seafaring people (e.g. “those who pour forth” as from a water source).
According to late Roman tradition (notably Jordanes’ 6th-century Getica), the Gothic origin lies far to the north. Jordanes writes that the Goths came “from the bosom of Scandza” (ancient Scandinavia) under King Berig, sailing by sea to a new homeland called Gothiscandza on the southern Baltic coast. Although scholars debate the literal truth of this migration legend, archaeological and linguistic evidence supports a northern link: early Gothic culture (the Wielbark archaeological horizon, ~1st–3rd century AD) appears in what is now Poland, yet shows clear Scandinavian connections. In particular, Gothic material culture and place-names suggest a movement from Gotland/Götaland in Sweden toward the Vistula and beyond.
In sum, the Goths likely arose from Germanic seafarers in the Baltic region (cf. the Goths, Geats and Gutes “from an early community of seafarers” on both sides of the Baltic). The migration to the Black Sea (where Visigoths and Ostrogoths later flourished) would have involved river and coastal routes rather than overland nomadism.
Some stones have runic-like carvings, and burials inside circle rings contain Gothic-aged human remains. Archaeologists suggest the circles had a cultic or communal function. These Northern European cultic sites (and others along the Baltic coast) underline a Gothic respect for water and possibly voyage rites. Later, Gothic war leaders crossed major rivers (the Danube into Roman lands, and the Dnieper for campaigns in Greece), reinforcing the motif of waters as sacred boundaries.
Moreover, sea-goddesses and river deities appear in Germanic religion. For example, the North Sea goddess Nehalennia – worshipped at Dover and the Netherlands – protected merchants and sailors crossing the Germanic waters. She is depicted holding fruits and cereals (offering fertility and safe passage), often with a ship’s prow and a dog at her feet. Many coastal Gothic or allied tribes (like the Gutones of Frisia) likely knew cults of such water-deities. In essence, Gothic identity combined a riverine/sea heritage (their name’s root “to pour”) with living traditions of maritime guardianship.
Kingship, Heroic Lineage, and the Gothic Name
Germanic tribal rulers often claimed divine or heroic ancestry, and Gothic lore was no exception. In Jordanes’ account the Goths’ royal line (the Amali dynasty) is linked to mythic heroes. One striking story names Telephus – the son of the Greek hero Hercules – as “king of the Getae” (i.e. Goths). Telephus thus becomes an ancestral Gothic king, lending a demi-god legitimacy. Likewise, the great 4th-century Gothic king Hermanaric is lauded as “noblest of the Amali” who conquered many peoples, and is explicitly compared by chroniclers to Alexander the Great. These legends cast Gothic royal lineage in sacred and epic terms, as if it were a continuation of Indo-European heroic lineages.
What also struck me as peculiar was the connection Continuing from the historical role of Gotha in the Holy Roman Empire, what emerges is not just a record of political governance, but a symbolic axis through which imperial, aristocratic, and esoteric lineages radiated outward into the courts of Europe. From its position as a ducal seat within Thuringia to its enshrinement in the Almanach de Gotha, this seemingly modest city became the nerve center of noble legitimacy across the continent.
The name “Gotha” thus evolved beyond geography—it became an emblem of dynastic pedigree, a kind of seal of aristocratic authenticity rooted in the legal and symbolic machinery of the Holy Roman Empire. It was here that noble titles were validated, genealogies recorded, and the continuity of ruling bloodlines codified. The publication of the Almanach de Gotha in 1763 only amplified this role. For over a century, Gotha served as the registry of kings and princes, a sacred ledger of Europe's elite houses. To appear in its pages was not simply to be known; it was to be recognized within the architecture of empire.
This is critical when understanding the weight carried by the title House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. Though the Wettin family ruled other lands, it was the combination of Saxe-Coburg (a territorial power base) and Gotha (a name freighted with imperial and genealogical authority) that gave the house its full symbolic potency. The dynasty’s rise to international prominence—placing monarchs on the thrones of Belgium, Portugal, Bulgaria, and Britain—was not simply a matter of political marriages. It was the result of projecting imperial legitimacy, built upon the symbolic capital of Gotha’s place in the Holy Roman world.
What makes this even more striking is the depth of cultural memory encoded in the name Gotha. As previously explored, the name resonates far older than the city itself, evoking the Gothic tribes, the migration-era shadow of vanished kingdoms, and the spiritual afterimage of Germanic pagan sovereignty. Within the Christianized framework of the Holy Roman Empire, this ancient tribal legacy was not erased—it was transmuted. The imperial duchies that bore the name “Gotha” were, in a sense, heirs to a double lineage: one Roman, one pre-Roman. Both legal and mythic. Both codified and unconscious.
When the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha ascended to global prominence in the 19th century, this layered history travelled with them. And when King George V rebranded the British royal house as “Windsor” in 1917, it was not merely a political move—it was a ritual erasure of ancient memory, a deliberate severing of visible ties to the Germanic imperial and tribal past. In the name "Gotha" lay too much: not just foreignness, but ancestral weight, the echo of an older sovereignty that could no longer be spoken aloud.
Thus, Gotha stands not only as a geographic or political landmark, but as a symbolic conduit—a name through which the legacies of the Gothic migrations, the Germanic pantheon, and the Holy Roman aristocracy all converged. And in the shadow of Windsor Castle, one might ask: what was truly lost when Gotha was buried? Not just a name—but a lineage of meaning, stretching from the Baltic to Byzantium, from pagan chieftains to crowned emperors.
Werner von Bülow’s World-Rune-Clock must be understood as a product of the early 20th-century esoteric movement known as Ariosophy—a gnostic-racial mysticism founded by Jörg Lanz von Liebenfels and influenced by Guido von List. Ariosophy reimagined Christianity as a cosmic struggle between divine, godlike Aryans and darker, "bestial" races—considered by its followers to be the biological origin of evil. This dualism was mythologized and racialized, fusing pseudo-scientific anthropology with occult metaphysics.
In this system, the Father (Pater) and Mother (Mater) do not merely represent generative polarities; they are symbolic anchors in a cosmic hierarchy: the Aryan man as divine fire or will (Pater), and the Aryan woman as sacred womb or matrix (Mater)—both seen as vessels of pure origin. Their union symbolized racial perfection and spiritual restoration, while any deviation or "interbreeding" with the so-called beast-man was seen as the root of evil and cosmic decline.
(Which might shed some light on all the wars and injections)
The Beast, to the elite then, represents more than chaos—it symbolizes racial corruption, cast as a biological fall from a once-divine Aryan state. This was literalized in Lanz's theology as the result of unions between god-men and "pygmy" beast-men,(I suspect I’d be filed under undesirables), a myth he claimed to validate through archaeology and ancient texts. He described these lesser races as evolutionary throwbacks, descended from animalistic root-stocks, and blamed them for the fall of Aryan purity and the rise of sin.
Von Bülow’s rune-clock diagrammatically reflects this worldview. It visually encodes cosmic dualism: Water/Mater in one quadrant, the source or womb of being, and Fire/Pater in another—the divine impulse. The interplay of these polarities was meant to reconstruct a sacred racial order. Yet running beneath it all is the unspoken third element: the Beast, ever-present as the fallen, the inferior, the genetic shadow whose very existence threatens the cosmic balance and must be overcome through purification (Or extermination?)
In this gnostic-heretical framework, Christ is reinterpreted not as a universal savior but as a racial redeemer (Christ—who dined with outcasts—now a bigot? Blasphemy), restoring Aryan purity rather than offering salvation to all. Thus, the entire rune system—imbued with astrological, runic, and racial symbols—becomes not just a spiritual calendar, but a cosmic map of racial war, with the Beast at its periphery and the sacred union of Father and Mother at its regenerative center.
This ideological structure laid the groundwork for the völkisch movement, the Germanenorden, the Thule Society, and ultimately fed into the ideological core of Nazism. The visual and symbolic forms used in von Bülow’s clock—runes, sacred geometry, mythic polarities—were not abstract metaphysics. They were political, racial, and esoteric tools for justifying eugenics, segregation, and eventually extermination.
In short, the World-Rune-Clock encodes a mythology where Pater and Mater represent a divine origin, and the Beast represents the racial and spiritual fall. This tripartite structure is the esoteric skeleton of Ariosophy—and, in time, of the Nazi occult imagination.
The Vesica Piscis and the Vatican Obelisk: Sacred Architecture as Symbol
It is telling that the same archetypal geometry encoded in the rune-clock also appears in the very architecture of religious and political power. In St. Peter’s Square in the Vatican, we find an ancient Egyptian obelisk—originally dedicated to the sun god Ra —rising at the center of a massive, oval plaza. The geometry mirrors the Vesica Piscis, the intersection of two circles that forms the sacred vulva-shape of generation, of portal, of becoming.
Here, in the heart of Christendom, the masculine obelisk penetrates the feminine ellipse. Fire in the middle of Water. Pater at the center of Mater. And yet, Mater is silent—present in form but not in name. The masculine is exalted; the feminine is architectural. Encoded, but unspoken.
This is not coincidence. It is symbolic logic, ancient as stone. It reflects the same metaphysical grammar as von Bülow’s clock. But while the Vatican enshrines this geometry without acknowledging its meaning, the rune-clock places it where it belongs: at the origin. Water and Mater are not a stage to pass through—they are the axis that supports the entire cosmic wheel.
Revelation 13:2–4 — The Rise of the Beast
“And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion: and the dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority.”“And they worshipped the dragon which gave power unto the beast: and they worshipped the beast, saying, Who is like unto the beast? who is able to make war with him?”
This passage warns of a beast empire, built on the foundation of power, deception, and blasphemy. Ariosophy, with its fusion of pagan symbolism, racial theology, and esoteric elitism, aligns chillingly with this archetype. It exalts a pseudo-divine race—a counterfeit of God's people—and derives its authority not from heaven, but from "the dragon": a symbol of satanic origin.
🐍 2 Corinthians 11:14 — Lucifer as Angel of Light
“And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.”
Ariosophy’s seductive appeal lay in its mystical glamour—its runes, sacred geometry, hidden knowledge, and false salvation. Like the Beast, it appeared spiritual and cloaked itself in the language of divine wisdom. But it was a corruption, a Luciferian inversion of truth. The Mater and Pater of the rune clock were not the divine archetypes of Genesis—but twisted reflections, exalted in the service of race and blood.
Daniel 7:25 — A System That Seeks to Alter Times and Laws
“And he shall speak great words against the most High, and shall wear out the saints of the most High, and think to change times and laws…"
The Rune-Clock itself—a “world-clock” attempting to encode a spiritual history apart from God’s order—embodies this prophecy. Ariosophy sought to change the very timeline of salvation, replacing the covenant of grace with a racial mythos, and the cross with a swastika. It is a counter-kingdom, a heretical system dressed in the trappings of divine authority.
Lanz von Liebenfels’ theory of divine Aryans mating with “beast-men” grotesquely distorts this ancient passage. While Genesis speaks of divine beings corrupting human flesh—a warning against spiritual rebellion—Lanz perverts this into a racist origin myth, using it to justify genocide. In doing so, he replicates the exact sin of the watchers: attempting to engineer salvation through flesh, not spirit.
Revelation 13:15–17 — The Mark and the System
“And he had power to give life unto the image of the beast… and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed. And he causeth all… to receive a mark… and that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark...”
Ariosophy laid the ideological groundwork for a system of segregation, eugenics, and eventual extermination—where worthiness to live, work, or reproduce was measured by racial “purity”. This is the very essence of the Beast system: a counterfeit spirituality married to totalitarian control. The Rune-Clock is not just a calendar—it is a symbolic operating system for an empire of blood and death.
Galatians 3:28 — The True Gospel’s Antithesis
“There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.”
This one verse undoes the entire ideology of Ariosophy and the Rune-Clock. The gospel unites all in Christ, regardless of race, bloodline, or nation. Ariosophy offered the opposite—a false messiah for a select race, and damnation for the rest. It was anti-Christ in spirit, exalting division, blood, and hierarchy above love, redemption, and truth.
Raising Questions, Not Certainties
I stress: none of this is proven, and official scholarship does not support these theories. The Catholic Church offers no hint of an esoteric agenda (obviously it wouldn't or the gig would be up) – its catechism warns against occultism.
But the coincidences are striking enough to merit attention. Why else would a monstrance, a Christian devotional object, include an apparently pagan letter‑number code? But in the absence of any explanation, students of symbolism are left to wonder: is SFS a covert nod to the infamous number of Revelation? Or is it an implausible stretch?
The matter remains open. Advocates of this exposé perspective point to the rich mystery-tradition behind letters and symbols. From ancient Babylon to Kabbalah and early Gnosticism, names and letters were long seen as keys to deeper power. The monstrance inscription SFS ties neatly into a web of Greek, Hebrew and runic lore (στίγμα, digamma, Sowilo) and to a well-known numeric pattern (6-6-6, magic squares, gematria).
Nazi esotericism even reused the same runes (ᛋ≈S) and solar imagery that we now spot in this Church context.
None of this is admitted by Church authorities, and it may simply be pattern-finding. Still, when we ask why SFS appears only on sunburst monstrances (a quintessential “sun” altar relic) – and nowhere explained – the coincidences invite curiosity. Perhaps the safest conclusion is: "the jury is out". The letter‑number puzzle of SFS is a provocative curiosity that taps into millennia of occult numerology and sun‑god symbolism. Whether this is a clever insider’s sign or pure chance depends on one’s perspective. What we can say is this: in the grand game of symbols, “SFS” is an especially provocative clue that keeps reappearing in the shadows of history. As one writer puts it: “Those who have eyes to see” may judge its meaning – the rest may simply shrug.
Revelation 17:6 — The Blood of the Saints
“And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus…”
This chilling image speaks of a corrupt power structure, personified as the “Whore of Babylon,” that thrives on the persecution and bloodshed of the righteous. In a metaphorical sense, a state-sanctioned eugenics programs can be seen as a modern echo of this: purging the “unfit,” labelling dissenters as impure, and using science or religion to justify the shedding of innocent blood.
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