Scott Douglas Jacobsen (Email: scott.jacobsen2026@gmail.com)

Publisher, In-Sight Publishing

Fort Langley, British Columbia, Canada

Received: December 16, 2025

Accepted: January 8, 2026

Published: January 8, 2026

Abstract

This interview with Tor Arne Jørgensen examines how Christianization in Norway (c. 1000–1200) altered the foundations of customary law by shifting legal authority from orally maintained, kin-based practice toward a textual, hierarchical order associated with Church learning and royal power. Jørgensen describes kristenrett as extending legal jurisdiction beyond interpersonal harms to include religious acts and meanings, while also contributing to centralization across regional legal arenas. The interview then considers gender norms inherited from Norse society, outlining evidence for women’s practical authority within household domains and certain legal capacities, alongside the ways Christian marriage doctrine and clericalization of religious life could constrain women’s agency. Moving to the Danish–Norwegian Lutheran state church after 1536, Jørgensen discusses parish mechanisms—catechism instruction, confirmation, and episcopal visitations—as tools of instruction and discipline that generated forms of moral monitoring and gendered enforcement in recorded cases. The final section analyzes the Finnmark witch trials (1620s–1660s) as an institutional phenomenon shaped by imported demonological categories, interrogation practices including torture, frontier governance conditions, and shifting judicial oversight, and it defines the “Copenhagen doctrine” as an administrative–theological outlook that structured how misfortune and deviance were interpreted and prosecuted.

Keywords

Administrative oversight, Archbishop, Catechism, Centralization, Christianization, Confirmation, Consanguinity, Copenhagen doctrine, Demonology, Divorce, Finnmark, Gender norms, Governance, Interrogation, Kristenrett, Lagting, Lawspeakers, Literacy, Lutheran state church, Marriage, Moral surveillance, Noaidi, Oral law, Parish visitation, Parchment codification, Reformation (1536), Runebomme, Sámi, Shipwrecks, Syncretism, Thing assemblies, Torture, Vardø, Vengeance, Witch trials

Introduction

The transformation of Norwegian society from roughly 1000 to 1200 involved not only religious change but institutional change in how law was conceived, transmitted, and enforced. In this interview, Tor Arne Jørgensen addresses the transition from a customary legal order grounded in kinship obligations, oral authority, and local assemblies to a Christian legal framework in which written norms, clerical expertise, and sacralized kingship increasingly shaped jurisprudence and legitimacy.

Jørgensen discusses kristenrett as a category of law that re-specified legal jurisdiction by regulating religious practice and by reframing marriage, reproduction, and ritual within Christian doctrine. He also considers the persistence of regional legal variation and the development of hybrid norms that combined older compensation practices with new penitential and procedural expectations.

The interview then extends beyond the medieval period to examine post-Reformation parish governance under the Danish–Norwegian Lutheran state church and, later, the Finnmark witch trials of the seventeenth century. Across these periods, Jørgensen focuses on the operational link between theology, bureaucracy, and legal procedure, including the gendered patterns visible in disciplinary records and prosecutions.

Main Text (Interview)

Title: Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1)

Interviewer: Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Interviewees: Tor Arne Jørgensen 

Tor Arne Jørgensen is a Norwegian educator from Fevik, near Grimstad, in southern Norway. He teaches at secondary level and has written and spoken about history, religion, social studies, ethics, governance, and education for gifted students. He has participated in the international intelligence community since 2015 and is described as a member of 50+ high IQ societies. In 2019, the World Genius Directory named him “Genius of the Year – Europe.” He designs high-range IQ tests, including the site toriqtests.com, and is reported to have set Norway’s IQ score record twice. He is married and has two sons in Norway.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: How did Christianization between about 1,000 and 1,200 rework customary law?

Tor Arne Jørgensen: When Christianity intervened in the inner structures of Norse society, it became not merely a question of creed or ritual conversion. It became a fundamental reconstruction of the very concept of law itself – of that which had previously been anchored in the memory of kinship and the oral authority of the thingmen. The kristenrett wasn’t just new rules. It was something stranger, more unsettling: a redefinition of what law was. Where it lived. Who could speak it.

In pre-Christian Norway, law had been something organic, something that grew forth from collective experience and tradition. A system where legal understanding was woven into the social fabric of kinship, and where the logic of vengeance – perhaps brutal, yet consistent – constituted the moral gravitational center. When a man was killed, it was not the state or an abstract juridical instance that demanded redress. It was the kin itself, bound by blood ties and honor, that had to restore balance. Either through compensation or through blood.

This justice was immanent. It lived within the interpersonal space rather than above it, and it found its legitimacy not in written texts – there were none yet – but in what had always been thus: in custom’s heavy, unspoken authority.

But Christianity brought with it a law that did not have its origin in the depths of memory or the traditions of kinship. It brought – and here lies the paradox – a law that claimed divine origin, a law that transcended the local and the contingent. The kristenrett declared that justice was not a result of human agreement, but of God’s will. A will that was now to be mediated through the Church’s learned men and the king’s sacred authority.

I have often thought of this as a seismic shift: from law as lived practice to law as revealed truth, from custom to scripture, from plurality to something claimed as singular and eternal. Whether the transition was brutal or gradual naturally varies from region to region.

What strikes me most – and I keep circling back to this – is how much more became forbidden. The old law cared about what you did to other people. Killing, theft, slander. Direct harms. But the kristenrett? It claimed jurisdiction over your relationship to the invisible, to the sacred itself.

Sacrifice was now a crime. Not because anyone bled who shouldn’t – but because God was offended. Think about that. An act could be illegal not for what it did in the world, but for what it meant in a cosmic order most Norwegians had never heard of six months earlier.

Marriage changed too, though more slowly, more painfully. What had been a pragmatic arrangement between families – assets, alliances, survival – became a sacrament. Permanent. Monogamous. Hedged with rules about who could marry whom, how closely related was too close. The Church’s consistency on this must have felt, to many, like madness. And the fetus – that cluster of possibility – was suddenly sacred, ensouled, protected. An entire metaphysics of life imposed from above.

I imagine the frustration. The quiet resistance. The sense that strangers were now dictating the most intimate architecture of existence. And then there’s the power consolidation. This is harder to see at first, but perhaps more consequential in the long run. Where the old thing-system had been decentralized – each district, each lagting its own legal arena – the kristenrett created a hierarchy. The king and the archbishop stood as supreme judges, not only over people’s actions, but also over their souls.

Sin and crime, which had previously belonged to separate spheres, were now interwoven in a tight normative network. An action could simultaneously be a sin against God and a crime against the king’s peace. Both instances demanded compensation, discipline, repentance. You answered to two courts now, and the earthly one claimed its authority from the celestial.

But literacy – that’s perhaps the most revolutionary dimension of this transformation. The Church brought with it not only a new faith, but a new technology: the alphabet, codification, the text as authority. Law, which had previously existed as a fluid, interpretation-open collective memory, was now fixed in parchment, preserved in Latin and Norse texts, made into something that could be studied, analyzed, standardized.

This textualization of law entailed a power shift. From the old lawspeakers, who carried the law in their heads – who were the law in a sense – to the learned clerics, who could read and write, who could reference canons and chapters. Law became, in a sense, alienated from the immediate community. It became an object, a text. Something external that one had to consult, rather than something one simply knew. I wonder sometimes about that moment when a lawspeaker realized his memory was being superseded by parchment. The humiliation of it. Or perhaps the relief.

This movement toward textualization and centralization met resistance, naturally. The regional variations in Norwegian law – between Frostating, Gulating, Eidsivating, and Borgarting – were never completely eradicated, even though the kristenrett and royal power worked systematically to harmonize them. Local customs persisted, often in tacit dialogue with the new Christian norms. Hybrids emerged. Compromises. Creative reinterpretations.

The old compensation practice, for instance, was not abolished, but reinterpreted through the Church’s penitential discipline. Vengeance was not forbidden overnight, but gradually domesticated – channeled through legal procedures and royal authority. People found ways to live between worlds, to maintain what mattered while appearing to comply with what was demanded.

By the year 1200, the Norwegian legal landscape was fundamentally transformed. Justice was no longer merely a question of collective memory or the honor of kinship. It had become a matter for the Christian conscience, for the king’s law and the Church’s doctrine. Law had become a theological project as much as a social one.

It was the covenant between God, king, and people – not merely a custom that could be varied according to circumstance, but a sacred obligation that demanded obedience, repentance, and faith. Somewhere in this upheaval – in this shift from blood memory to sacred text – lies the seed of what we now call the state. That law might be above power, not merely its instrument. That it might bind everyone, even the king himself, to a higher order. 

Jacobsen: Following from the previous question, what about the gender norms inherited from Norse society?

Jørgensen: But what about the gender norms that Christianity encountered – those structures that had grown forth within Norse society itself?

Here it becomes more difficult, I must say. Christianity’s meeting with Norse femininity was not unambiguously progressive or regressive. It was deeply ambiguous, and the more I look at it, the less certain I become about what actually happened.

In the higher social strata we find powerful women. Men and women often shared overlapping spheres of responsibility, though the division was clear enough: men represented the household outwardly (utanstokks), while women held authority within the threshold (innanstokks). This division was practical rather than ideological. Social class was often more decisive than gender – a chieftain’s wife wielded more power than a poor man, obviously.

Women’s religious roles – as prophetesses, as practitioners of seiðr – were respected, if sometimes regarded with anxiety or taboo. There’s something here about women’s access to the numinous that Christianity would later foreclose. And marriage could, in fact, be dissolved by either party. A Norse woman could call witnesses into her home and, before the marriage bed, declare the union dissolved. It has always struck me how pragmatic this was. How undramatic.

Then came Christianity with its ambition to sacramentalize marriage.

The Christian understanding of marriage was monogamous, forbade sexual relations outside the marriage, and was meant never to be dissolved. Never. Polygamy and concubinage – widespread especially among chieftains – were systematically criminalized. And here something occurred that I think is often overlooked: women’s position was, in many respects, weakened by Christianization.

Not necessarily because the Church consciously sought to oppress them. I don’t think that was the intention. But because the Church’s marriage legislation – rules of consanguinity, inflexible monogamy, and the indissolubility of marriage – restricted women’s agency in ways that may not have been intended, but which were nevertheless very real. When marriage became indissoluble, women lost an important safeguard. When you couldn’t leave, what recourse did you have? When religious life became clerical, they lost their space as prophetesses. Christianization seems to have pushed women more decisively into the private sphere, into silence. But – and here we must be careful – the transition was neither complete nor unambiguous.

Norse practices lived on, often in tacit dialogue with the new norms. Compromises were made. Some women were among the first to adopt Christianity, and this matters. Perhaps they were drawn to the Christian prohibition against infanticide, which had given fathers – not mothers – the right to expose unwanted children. Perhaps the sacralization of life offered something the old ways didn’t. Or perhaps they saw other possibilities in the new faith that we can no longer trace.

What we are facing, then, is not a simple story of oppression or liberation. It’s a complex transformation in which older structures were reshaped, domesticated, and gradually absorbed into a new religious and legal order. Women lost some freedoms and possibly gained others. The clarity of the old divisions gave way to something more ambiguous, more constrained in some ways, perhaps more protected in others.

Jacobsen: Under Danish Lutheran establishment established in 1536, how did parish mechanisms work, e.g., catechism, compulsory confirmation, and visitation?

Jørgensen: Under the Danish Lutheran state church established in 1536, the mechanisms of parish life were shaped in ways that reached deeply into people’s everyday existence. Both pastorally and disciplinarily, though the line between the two was never clear.

The catechism – Luther’s from 1529 – was to be learned by heart: the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments, the Creed. It represented a kind of democratization of theology, though a tightly controlled one, in which laypeople were expected not merely to obey the faith but to know it. To be able to recite it back. Confirmation functioned as a rite of passage, a public declaration that the young person had internalized the doctrine and was therefore eligible for Holy Communion. And, symbolically, for adult status.

But it was also – and this is crucial – a form of social control. A mechanism through which the pastor could assess who had mastered the material and who appeared problematic. Who belonged and who didn’t quite fit. The visitation system penetrated even deeper.

The bishop, or his delegate, travelled through the diocese to inspect the parish, the clergy, and – remarkably – the moral life of the congregation itself. The visitation records are fascinating sources, if deeply uncomfortable ones. They reveal who lived in fornication, who clung to “superstition,” meaning remnants of older, pre-Christian practices. The visitation thus functioned both as quality control of the clergy and as moral surveillance of the laity. Everyone was being watched, recorded, assessed.

The clergy were often poorly educated. Visitations sporadic. And the population’s actual religiosity far more syncretistic than the official church desired. The catechism could be memorized without being internalized, recited like a charm with no understanding behind it. Confirmation could be completed as a social obligation rather than an expression of genuine belief. And the visitations frequently met with silence, evasions, or assurances that everything was in perfect order. People knew how to perform compliance.

The catechism’s moral address was implicitly patriarchal: the male head of household was to teach it to his children and servants. The woman was part of the household, not its representative. She learned, but she did not teach. Confirmation was identical for boys and girls in form, but not in consequence. Boys might proceed to further education, to Latin school, perhaps to university. For girls it often confirmed their place within the domestic sphere, marked the end rather than the beginning of something.

And the visitations scrutinized women with particular intensity. Fornication, illegitimate births – these are recurring themes in the records, and it was almost always the women who were named, accused, and punished. The men often escaped mention entirely, as if pregnancy were something women accomplished alone. The double standard is so consistent it becomes invisible in the sources themselves.

Thus, when Christianity sacralized marriage and the state church institutionalized these mechanisms, the result was not merely a religious transformation. It was also a gendered reconfiguration of power, though I suspect no one at the time would have described it that way.

The woman as prophetess, as seiðr-practitioner, as one who could dissolve her marriage by calling witnesses into her home – she had no place in this new order. Not because Luther or the Danish reformers deliberately sought to suppress women. I doubt they reflected much on it at all. But because the entire institutional structure they built presupposed her subordination. It was baked into the architecture.

And yet the transition was neither complete nor unambiguous. Older Norse practices persisted, often in quiet dialogue with the new norms. Compromises were made in ways that left few traces in official records. And some women may have found a certain protection within the Christian prohibitions against infanticide, or in the more stable structures surrounding marriage. Perhaps the loss of one kind of autonomy was traded, consciously or not, for another kind of security.

What we encounter here is not a simple narrative of oppression or liberation. It’s a complex transformation in which older structures were reshaped, domesticated, and gradually absorbed into a new religious and juridical order. An order deeply ambivalent in its consequences for women. 

Jacobsen: What started and ended the Finnmark witch trials between 1620s and the 1660s?

Jørgensen: Under Danish-Norwegian state rule in the Northern Calotte during the seventeenth century, there was no single rupture that opened the way for the witch trials in Finnmark. No dramatic moment. Rather a network of reinforcing structures, each feeding into the others until something monstrous became routine. The major cases that unfolded from the 1620s to the 1660s can only be understood when we see how theology, legal practice, and a society under constant pressure became intertwined.

By the early decades of the century, learned demonology had already entered the administrative apparatus. Under Governor John Cunningham, the region acquired one of its earliest institutional settings in which demonological concepts were systematically woven into local legal practice. The notion of a devil’s pact was not drawn from local belief but imported from European theological discourse and employed as a legal category.

When someone in Finnmark was accused, they were drawn into a narrative structure that was already fixed: pacts, nocturnal journeys, the wrecking of ships through sorcery. The question was not what the individual had actually done, but whether they could be made to fit the established repertoire. Interrogations thus ceased to be investigations. They became confirmations – judicial performances in which confession was both method and conclusion.

This framework found particularly fertile ground in Finnmark. The region was a remote outpost of the realm, shaped by storms, shipwrecks, fishing failures, and sudden deaths. Misfortunes that today would fall under meteorology or probability demanded, in the seventeenth century, a moral explanation. When a boat vanished with its entire crew, the question that arose was not only how, but who had stood behind it.

Within a society where causation was read through religious and moral categories, witchcraft became not a casual explanation but a meaningful way of imposing order upon disaster. It made the unbearable comprehensible, even if the comprehension itself was false.

The legal system reinforced this logic, as legal systems do. Torture was not exceptional but part of standard procedure in serious witchcraft cases. And in Finnmark, far from higher oversight, the use of torture and leading questions could become especially pronounced. It is no coincidence that so many confessions resemble each other. They were products of an institutional method rather than independent experiences. Officials learned from earlier cases and reproduced their structure in later ones, refining the template with each iteration.

The ethnic dimension must be mentioned as well, though without reducing the trials to it. Sámi women and men were overrepresented in certain periods, not because their religious practices were inherently “foreign,” but because the state construed these practices as a challenge to the Lutheran order it sought to impose. What was actually a conflict of governance – of who held authority over spiritual life, over healing, over the interpretation of misfortune – was reframed as a matter of demonology. The runebomme became evidence of devil-worship. The noaidi became the witch.

The end of the trials came no more abruptly than their beginnings. After the major cases of 1662–63, which pushed demonological thinking to its limits – or perhaps past them – skepticism began to make its way into the administration. Jurists influenced by continental debates questioned both the reliability of torture and the increasingly elaborate stories produced under interrogation. How could a woman fly to Blåkollen? How could she sink a ship from miles away? The narratives had become too fantastic, too internally contradictory.

Higher courts intervened more frequently, overturning sentences or demanding further evidence. Within this shift, the role of officials such as Mandrup Schønnebøl was decisive. Through his insistence on procedural regularity and evidentiary standards, he contributed to a legal culture in which the older demonological model could no longer sustain itself. Not because he was enlightened – I’m not sure he was – but because he was bureaucratic.

At the same time, the priorities of the state changed. A more stable administrative system, with firmer oversight of local officials, made large-scale witchcraft prosecutions impractical. They were messy, expensive, required too much coordination. The witch trial lost its administrative function – not because belief disappeared, but because the state developed more effective means of regulating its population. Catechism instruction. Parish visitations. Marriage legislation. These were quieter mechanisms, less spectacular, but ultimately more thorough.

Gender must be mentioned finally, not as an aside, but as one of the structural axes of the trials. Women were most often accused, and the female body – imagined as peculiarly susceptible to demonic influence – became the central site of demonological concern. Why women? The answers are multiple and overlapping: theological assumptions about female weakness, social structures that made women vulnerable to accusation, economic precariousness that left older women without protection. When this conception lost legal relevance, the trials lost their primary target. The state no longer required “the witch” as a figure of social deviance. It had other mechanisms for regulating household, sexuality, and morality.

What remains, then, is not a narrative of enlightenment triumphing over superstition. It’s a gradual transformation of power, theology, and legal practice. What took place in Finnmark between the 1620s and 1660s was the product of a system that first generated the witch trials and later rendered them obsolete. Order itself was redefined – and with it the institutions that had once upheld it.

The people burned in Vardø were not victims of ignorance overcome by reason. They were victims of a state apparatus that needed them to be guilty, until it didn’t

Jacobsen: Were there climate shocks, ethnic tensions, or trade frictions, feeding into this zeal?

Jørgensen: The connections were not linear, nor did they arise as isolated causes. The witch trials in Finnmark between the 1620s and the 1660s emerged where several pressures intersected within a society already under strain. No sudden rupture. Rather overlapping frameworks that slowly reinforced one another.

Climate belonged to the background more than the explanation. Finnmark was a landscape shaped by storms, fragile fisheries, and treacherous waters—conditions that left little room for error. When boats vanished or seasons collapsed, these were not abstract misfortunes. They demanded meaning. And in the seventeenth century, meaning was moral. Within a Lutheran framework steeped in demonological thought, the question was not only how disaster occurred, but who had stood behind it. Witchcraft provided a way of ordering the unpredictable.

But climate alone accounts for little. What transformed anxiety into prosecution was the state’s incorporation of demonology into legal practice. Under Governor John Cunningham, ideas imported from continental literature were woven directly into judicial procedure. Pacts with the devil. Nocturnal gatherings. The ability to wreck ships through sorcery. These were not part of local belief but legal categories waiting to be filled. Once an accusation was made, interrogation ceased to be investigation. It became confirmation. Confession both method and destination. Torture routine. Oversight distant. The striking similarity between confessions reflects not experience but structure.

The ethnic dimension must be acknowledged, though without reducing the trials to it. Sámi women and men appeared disproportionately in certain periods, not because their practices were uniquely dangerous, but because the state framed them as challenges to the Lutheran order it sought to impose. What was essentially a struggle over governance—over ritual authority, healing, the interpretation of misfortune—was recast as demonology. The drum became evidence. The noaidi became the witch.

Economic tensions hovered in the background. Finnmark was a frontier—remote yet central to the fishery economy—where failure rippled through the entire community. But the trials cannot be read as expressions of rivalry or competition. They unfolded where administrative reach was weakest, where local officials held wide discretion, where demonological reasoning found especially receptive ground.

The decline of the trials came without a single turning point. After the extensive prosecutions of 1662–63, the stories produced under torture became too elaborate, too contradictory. Skepticism entered the administration. Higher courts questioned procedure, overturned sentences, demanded evidence that demonology could not provide. Figures such as Mandrup Schønnebøl pressed for regularity, for standards that the older model could no longer sustain. Not because they were enlightened—there is little to suggest that—but because they were bureaucratic. As the machinery changed, the witch no longer fit inside it.

Meanwhile, the state developed quieter, more effective instruments of regulation. Catechism instruction. Parish visitations. Household legislation. Less spectacular than witch trials, but far more thorough. The witch lost her administrative function.

Gender remained one of the structural axes throughout. Women were most often accused. The female body—imagined as vulnerable, permeable, inclined toward diabolic influence—occupied the center of concern. When this conception lost its legal weight, the prosecutions lost their primary targets. The machinery shifted elsewhere.

What emerges, then, is not a narrative in which climate or ethnicity produced the zeal for witch-hunting. It is a convergence of pressures shaped by institutions capable of turning fear into legal action. And when those institutions changed, the phenomenon dissolved.

Jacobsen: What was the Copenhagen doctrine?

Jørgensen: The expression is somewhat misleading, as it suggests a single, self-contained doctrine. Which is not what we are dealing with. What I mean is the outlook that gradually took shape within the Danish–Norwegian administrative and theological center. Not a codified theory. But a composite set of assumptions shaping how officials trained in Copenhagen approached order, deviance, and spiritual danger. These habits of mind were not abstract. They traveled north with the personnel who carried them.

By the early seventeenth century, Copenhagen had settled into a form of Lutheran orthodoxy that was both doctrinal and practical. Its aim was not merely to safeguard “right belief,” but to secure a certain kind of social stability. The Augsburg Confession and Luther’s catechisms were foundational, yet their authority was reinforced by royal ordinances on household governance, moral conduct, and the responsibilities of officeholders. This framework did not function in isolation. Demonological literature—largely imported from German territories where such thinking had already been systematized—was grafted onto it. Ideas of the devil’s pact, nocturnal gatherings, maleficium. A ready-made vocabulary for interpreting calamity.

When these assumptions reached Finnmark, they did something particular. Local cosmologies—Sámi or Norwegian—did not map neatly onto the binaries Lutheran demonology depended upon. What came instead was a translation. Often a forced one. Practices with their own internal logic—Sámi ritual knowledge, for example—became legible to the state only through the categories it recognized: superstition, error, or deliberate alignment with the demonic. Norwegian fishermen and widows were drawn into the same interpretive net for similar reasons. Once misfortune seemed to echo the models officials carried in their heads, the machinery of interrogation and procedure took over.

This is why the confessions resemble one another so closely. They do not primarily speak to lived experience. They speak to what the institution expected to find. Torture did not produce truth. It produced recognizability. Narratives that fit an already accepted pattern. The “Copenhagen doctrine,” if we must use the term, was therefore less a belief system and more a lens. A way of rendering a distant region comprehensible and governable, at a time when the state’s reach was uncertain and its methods still experimental.

The decline of this framework did not come from sudden enlightenment, or a repudiation of demonology. It came from internal changes within the state. Shifts in legal thinking. Growing unease with torture. The gradual tightening of appellate oversight. As these pressures accumulated, the older demonological assumptions lost administrative usefulness. The state adopted new instruments for regulating moral life and household discipline. Once these took hold, the category of the witch no longer served a necessary function.

When I speak of a “Copenhagen doctrine,” I mean the conjunction of theology, bureaucracy, and legal culture that shaped how the early modern state made sense of misfortune. It offered a way of imposing coherence on events that otherwise resisted explanation. And when that interpretive structure changed—when the center no longer recognized its own assumptions in the cases brought before it—the trials evaporated. The logic that had sustained them was simply no longer there.

Discussion

Jørgensen’s account treats Christianization as a change in legal infrastructure rather than solely a change in belief. He describes a shift from law as collectively remembered and locally performed custom toward law as text-based authority mediated by literate specialists and aligned with expanding royal and ecclesiastical jurisdiction. In this framing, the significance of kristenrett lies in its redefinition of what could be regulated, including conduct understood as offending a religious order rather than producing direct interpersonal harm.

On gender, Jørgensen presents an ambivalent picture. He notes evidence for women’s practical authority within household domains and for certain legal capacities in Norse settings, while also describing how Christian marriage norms—monogamy, restrictions on kin marriage, and indissolubility—could reduce avenues of exit and limit agency. He also identifies the clerical monopolization of recognized religious authority as a structural change that narrowed roles previously associated with women’s ritual or prophetic functions. At the same time, he notes that Christian prohibitions on practices such as infanticide/exposure may have been experienced as protective in some contexts, and he emphasizes that outcomes likely varied by region and social strata.

In the early modern period, Jørgensen characterizes catechism instruction, confirmation, and episcopal visitation as parish mechanisms that combined religious formation with discipline. He argues that these mechanisms produced records that frequently enforced sexual and moral norms unevenly, with women appearing more often as named subjects of accusation and punishment in visitation contexts, and with household pedagogy structured around male headship.

For the Finnmark witch trials, Jørgensen emphasizes institutional dynamics: demonological categories imported into legal practice, interrogatory routines that produced standardized confession narratives, and the enabling conditions of remote governance and limited oversight. He also describes the decline of large-scale prosecutions as associated with changing administrative priorities, stricter evidentiary expectations in higher courts, and growing procedural skepticism toward torture-driven testimony. In this context, the “Copenhagen doctrine” is defined not as a formalized creed but as a composite administrative–theological outlook that shaped how officials interpreted misfortune, deviance, and spiritual threat.

Methods

The interview was conducted via typed questions—with explicit consent—for review, and curation. This process complied with applicable data protection laws, including the California Consumer Privacy Act (CCPA), Canada’s Personal Information Protection and Electronic Documents Act (PIPEDA), and Europe’s General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), i.e., recordings if any were stored securely, retained only as needed, and deleted upon request, as well in accordance with Federal Trade Commission (FTC) and Advertising Standards Canada guidelines.

Data Availability

No datasets were generated or analyzed during the current article. All interview content remains the intellectual property of the interviewer and interviewee.

References

None submitted.

Journal & Article Details

Publisher: In-Sight Publishing

Publisher Founding: March 1, 2014

Web Domain: http://www.in-sightpublishing.com

Location: Fort Langley, Township of Langley, British Columbia, Canada

Journal: In-Sight: Interviews

Journal Founding: August 2, 2012

Frequency: Four Times Per Year

Review Status: Non-Peer-Reviewed

Access: Electronic/Digital & Open Access

Fees: None (Free)

Volume Numbering: 14

Issue Numbering: 1

Section: A

Theme Type: Discipline

Theme Premise: Nordic Legal and Religious History

Theme Part: None.

Formal Sub-Theme: None.

Individual Publication Date: January 8, 2026

Issue Publication Date: April 1, 2026

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Word Count: 4,245

Image Credits: Tor Arne Jørgensen

ISSN (International Standard Serial Number): 2369-6885

Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges Tor Arne Jørgensen for her time, expertise, and valuable contributions. Her thoughtful insights and detailed explanations have greatly enhanced the quality and depth of this work, providing a solid foundation for the discussion presented herein.

Author Contributions

S.D.J. conceived the subject matter, conducted the interview, transcribed and edited the conversation, and prepared the manuscript.

Competing Interests

The author declares no competing interests.

License & Copyright

In-Sight Publishing by Scott Douglas Jacobsen is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
© Scott Douglas Jacobsen and In-Sight Publishing 2012–Present.

Unauthorized use or duplication of material without express permission from Scott Douglas Jacobsen is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links must use full credit to Scott Douglas Jacobsen and In-Sight Publishing with direction to the original content.

Supplementary Information

Below are various citation formats for Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1) (Scott Douglas Jacobsen, January 8, 2026).

American Medical Association (AMA 11th Edition)
Jacobsen SD. Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1). In-Sight: Interviews. 2026;14(1). Published January 8, 2026. http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials 

American Psychological Association (APA 7th Edition)
Jacobsen, S. D. (2026, January 8). Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1). In-Sight: Interviews, 14(1). In-Sight Publishing. http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials 

Brazilian National Standards (ABNT)
JACOBSEN, Scott Douglas. Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1). In-Sight: Interviews, Fort Langley, v. 14, n. 1, 8 jan. 2026. Disponível em: http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials 

Chicago/Turabian, Author-Date (17th Edition)
Jacobsen, Scott Douglas. 2026. “Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1).” In-Sight: Interviews 14 (1). http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials. 

Chicago/Turabian, Notes & Bibliography (17th Edition)
Jacobsen, Scott Douglas. “Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1).” In-Sight: Interviews 14, no. 1 (January 8, 2026). http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials. 

Harvard
Jacobsen, S.D. (2026) ‘Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1)’, In-Sight: Interviews, 14(1), 8 January. Available at: http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials. 

Harvard (Australian)
Jacobsen, SD 2026, ‘Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1)’, In-Sight: Interviews, vol. 14, no. 1, 8 January, viewed 8 January 2026, http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials. 

Modern Language Association (MLA, 9th Edition)
Jacobsen, Scott Douglas. “Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials (1).” In-Sight: Interviews, vol. 14, no. 1, 2026, http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials. 

Vancouver/ICMJE
Jacobsen SD. Christianization and the Making of Norwegian Law: Tor Arne Jørgensen on Kristenrett, Gender Norms, and the Finnmark Witch Trials  (1) [Internet]. 2026 Jan 8;14(1). Available from: http://www.in-sightpublishing.com/christianization-making-norwegian-law-tor-arne-jorgensen-kristenrett-gender-norms-finnmark-witch-trials 

Note on Formatting

This document follows an adapted Nature research-article format tailored for an interview. Traditional sections such as Methods, Results, and Discussion are replaced with clearly defined parts: Abstract, Keywords, Introduction, Main Text (Interview), and a concluding Discussion, along with supplementary sections detailing Data Availability, References, and Author Contributions. This structure maintains scholarly rigor while effectively accommodating narrative content.