The Thursday Review: A Few Random Notes on St. Patrick

I used to have a fascination- bordering- on-obsession with St. Patrick. I've posted about my general fascination with the lives of the saints elsewhere, but this Apostle to the Irish has always been particularly interesting to me. I even wrote a musical about him some 7 years ago (it is, I freely admit, mostly embarrassingly bad, but if you're curious, you can read/hear it here). In honour of his feast day today, I offer the following random notes about St. Patrick.

1. There had been previous, failed attempts to evangelize the Irish before Patrick. Most historians attribute his unprecedented success to his ability to capitalize on points of contact between the Faith and the pagan culture of the Irish.

2. Historians also attribute his success to the fact that, unlike the previous missionaries to the Irish, Patrick actually spoke Irish-- a language he learned when he lived as a slave in Ireland in his early life.

3. In Simply Christian, N. T. Wright argues that most of the current, emerging interest in Celtic Christianity is really driven by a superficial interest in "mysticism," "back-to-nature-ism" and "things ancient," but it's not all that connected with what history tells us about the the actual Christian experience of the Celts. He notes, for instance, how few of those interested in "Celtic Spirituality" are taking on the ascetic practices that were relatively common among the Celtic monks, like kneeling in the frigid waters of the ocean to pray for hours on end. Touche.

4. In How the Irish Saved Civilization, a pretty controversial book of uncertain historical accuracy, Thomas Cahill argues that after the fall of Rome, while the spiritual winter of the dark ages fell over most of Europe, the ember of the Faith was kept glowing in the isolated monasteries of Ireland. He suggests that Irish monks were then instrumental in re-spreading the learning and literature of Christianity. It would mean kudos to St. Patrick if it were true.

5. The "Lorica of St Patrick" is a Latin poem traditionally attributed to St. Patrick. A "lorica" is/was a kind of incantatory prayer that the devotee would recite to invoke the presence, power and protection of God. St. Patrick's Lorica is really quite beautiful. I memorized it a while back, and find myself reciting it to myself in moments of confusion or darkness. Here it is in English translation:

I bind unto myself today the strong name of the trinity,
By invocation of the same, the Three in One, the One in Three.

I bind this day to me forever by power of faith Christ's incarnation,
His baptism in the Jordan river, his death on the cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spiced tomb, his riding up the heavenly way,
His coming at the day of doom I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself today the power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, his might to stay, his ear to harken to my need,
The wisdom of my God to teach, his hand to guide, his shield to ward,
The Word of God to give me speech, his heavenly host to be my guard.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,

Christ beside me, Christ to win me;

Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ to comfort and restore me;
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,

Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,

Christ in mouth of friend and stranger

I bind unto myself the name, the strong name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same, the Three in One, and One in Three,
Of whom all nature hath creation, eternal Father, Spirit, Word;
Praise to the God of my salvation, salvation is of Christ the Lord!

St Brendan's Prayer

And while I'm sharing musical adaptations of the prayers of Irish saints, I'll post this one, too.

St. Brendan the Voyager (484-577 AD) is one of the more fascinating of the early Irish saints. He's most famous for his voyage westward into the Atlantic Ocean, in search of the Island of the Blessed (which, if it happened at all, probably dates some time around 520 AD). The Voyage of St. Brendan the Navigator, the ancient Irish immram (a traditional navigational story) that recounts this voyage for us, describes such legendary adventures as his saying the mass to swarms of fish on Easter morning, landing on an island that turns out to be a giant whale (or in some versions of the story a sea monster named Jascon), and discovering mysterious lands in the western Atlantic, covered with vegetation. Some historians who have taken the time to sift through this fabulous hodge-podge of legend, hagiography, myth and history have suggested that the "western lands" in the St. Brendan legend represent, at the very least, pre-Colombian knowledge of the Americas among the early Irish seafarers.

There's a prayer traditionally ascribed to St. Brendan , and imaginatively set on western shores of Ireland, just before Brendan embarks on his dusk-treading sea voyage. Not that many of us will ever brave the wild white waves in any literal sense, but the imagery of the sea-voyage has always been archetypal for the spiritual journey (just ask Homer, or Melville, or C. S. Lewis, or John Patrick Shanley), and in that sense the prayer expresses something about the adventure and abandon of following Christ that still resonates; in that spirit I offer it here:

Here's the original text of the prayer that I was working from:

Shall I abandon, O King of mysteries, the soft comforts of home? Shall I turn my back on my native land, and turn my face towards the sea?

Shall I put myself wholly at your mercy, without silver, without a horse, without fame, without honour? Shall I throw myself wholly upon You, without sword and shield, without food and drink, without a bed to lie on? Shall I say farewell to my beautiful land, placing myself under Your yoke?

Shall I pour out my heart to You, confessing my manifold sins and begging forgiveness, tears streaming down my cheeks? Shall I leave the prints of my knees on the sandy beach, a record of my final prayer in my native land?

Shall I then suffer every kind of wound that the sea can inflict? Shall I take my tiny boat across the wide sparkling ocean? O King of the Glorious Heaven, shall I go of my own choice upon the sea?

O Christ, will You help me on the wild waves?

Happy St. Aidan's Day

Those who share my general interest in the lives of the saints, and/or my somewhat more specific interest in the Irish Saints, may know that today is the feast day of St. Aidan. Some time around 650 AD, St. Aidan founded a monastery on the Island of Lindisfarne, in England. He's sometimes known as the Apostle of Northumbria, inasmuch as he is credited with restoring the Faith to Northumbria.

A while ago I was doing some research on St. Aidan and I came across this simple prayer traditionally attributed to him.

Leave me alone with God as much as may be.
As the tide draws the waters close in upon the shore,
Make me an island, set apart,
alone with you, God, holy to you.

Then with the turning of the tide
prepare me to carry your presence to the busy world beyond,
the world that rushes in on me
till the waters come again and fold me back to you.

There is something a bit more monastic in the sentiment than I am used to praying (I'm not sure an ache for holiness and a life spent alone with God as much as may be are reconcilable sentiments) , but I've found it very a peaceful and centering prayer lately; and, though I am certainly no 7th Century Irish monk, the imagery of the ebbing and flowing tide still captures something for me about spiritual life.

I've even adapted it to song, which I share here to wish you all a Happy St. Aidan's Day.

It's for the Birds

Just a little follow-up from my last post. Here's the traditional icon for the baptism of Jesus. Notice how the little fish are swimming up just to touch His feet, just to play in the presence of the One who is their Saviour, too.


And here's a fantastic stained glass detail of St. Francis preaching the gospel to the birds. I love how rapt and intent they all look.

You see: we haven't always pretended that the Gospel was only about the rescue of our own individual, non-corporeal souls from the flames. In some corners of Christendom, on some branches of our family tree, we've tried to take Paul seriously when he said it was a message of hope preached to all the creation under heaven (Col 1:23).

The Leveling of St Paul

In 1835, the French political thinker Alex de Tocqueville published Democracy in America, his famous study of the United States. One of the intriguing observations he made about American democracy was that the same cultural values that promoted equality also ensured a kind of "middling mediocrity"-- a gravitational pull culturally towards the lowest common denominator that made it impossible for great people to be great. At its worst, he argued, democracy can devolve into a "tyranny of the majority," where society actively limits the talents of any who challenge it with greatness, trading true freedom for a kind of leveled out mediocrity because it cannot abide anything that threatens its equality.

Okay: I don't know that Alex de Tocqueville was right. And even if he was, I'm pretty sure that, this side of the Second Coming, I'd choose democratic equality over any of the alternatives that we've seen in human history.

But I was thinking about de Tocqueville the other day because I was working on a sermon, and I went to say something about "Saint Paul." Then I checked myself and changed it to plain old "Paul"-- reflected again-- made it the "Apostle Paul"-- then finally settled again on "Saint Paul."

But not without a bit of uncertainty.

You see, when I was growing up in church, you never said "Saint Paul." Or St. Luke, or St. Mark, or St. Mary. There was nothing tyrannical in this, you just never did it. And somehow, you knew you never did it. I have a few theories about why this was, but my main one is this: One of the central tenets of our theology is its conviction that we are all equal before God-- all equally have sinned and fallen short of his glory. And since calling some people "Saint" and others not might confuse this equality, we didn't do it. Paul was a sinner in as much need of God's grace as any of us, so let's not risk forgetting that by calling him Saint Paul.

But when I stared at that uncertain "Saint Paul" on my sermon page, I started wondering if we didn't risk a kind of "middling mediocrity" in our spiritual vision when we refused to call a saint a Saint. Because really, equal sinners though they were, God called and commissioned Paul in a way he didn't call or commission any of us-- and he spoke through Luke or Mark or John in a way he hasn't spoken through any of us-- and He chose Mary to be something that no other human being in the history of the planet has ever been: the mother of God Incarnate. In being so used by him for his great purposes, each of these really did discover themselves "set apart" in the very way that word "saint" signifies.

And if we acknowledge this, we have a real opportunity to rejoice in the free, unfettered grace of God, grace that can raise up the common, the lowly, the chief of sinners according to his will, and lavish an unmerited glory on them by using them uniquely in his great plan to show the world how good he is.

Thomas Howard puts it like this:

The more glorious the king, the more glorious are the titles and honours he bestows. The plumes, cockades, coronets, diadems, mantles and rosettes that deck his retinue testify to one thing alone, his own majesty and munificence. He is a very great king to have figures of such immense dignity in his train, or even better, to have raised them to such dignity. These great lords and ladies, mantled and crowned with ... honour and rank are, precisely, his vassals. This glittering array is his court!

Now I'm not suggesting here that we return to the Catholic system of canonization. Just this: if we can find the spiritual generosity to celebrate the many-layered splendor of this court of Saints, without keeping an eye on how high or low or equal our own place in it might be, then we will find ourselves truly free to worship the glorious King whose splendor it reflects.

A few random notes on St. Patrick

I used to have a fascination- bordering- on-obsession with St. Patrick. I've posted about my general fascination with the lives of the saints elsewhere, but this Apostle to the Irish has always been particularly interesting to me. I even wrote a musical about him some 7 years ago (it is, I freely admit, mostly embarrassingly bad, but if you're curious, you can read/hear it here). In honour of his feast day today, I offer the following random notes about St. Patrick.

1. There had been previous, failed attempts to evangelize the Irish before Patrick. Most historians attribute his unprecedented success to his ability to capitalize on points of contact between the Faith and the pagan culture of the Irish.

2. Historians also attribute his success to the fact that, unlike the previous missionaries to the Irish, Patrick actually spoke Irish-- a language he learned when he lived as a slave in Ireland in his early life.

3. In Simply Christian, N. T. Wright argues that most of the current, emerging interest in Celtic Christianity is really driven by a superficial interest in "mysticism," "back-to-nature-ism" and "things ancient," but it's not all that connected with what history tells us about the the actual Christian experience of the Celts. He notes, for instance, how few of those interested in "Celtic Spirituality" are taking on the ascetic practices that were relatively common among the Celtic monks, like kneeling in the frigid waters of the ocean to pray for hours on end. Touche.
4. In How the Irish Saved Civilization, a pretty controversial book of uncertain historical accuracy, Thomas Cahill argues that after the fall of Rome, while the spiritual winter of the dark ages fell over most of Europe, the ember of the Faith was kept glowing in the isolated monasteries of Ireland. He suggests that Irish monks were then instrumental in re-spreading the learning and literature of Christianity. It would mean kudos to St. Patrick if it were true.

5. The "Lorica of St Patrick" is a Latin poem traditionally attributed to St. Patrick. A "lorica" is/was a kind of incantatory prayer that the devotee would recite to invoke the presence, power and protection of God. St. Patrick's Lorica is really quite beautiful. I memorized it a while back, and find myself reciting it to myself in moments of confusion or darkness. Here it is in English translation:

I bind unto myself today the strong name of the trinity,
By invocation of the same, the Three in One, the One in Three.

I bind this day to me forever by power of faith Christ's incarnation,
His baptism in the Jordan river, his death on the cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spiced tomb, his riding up the heavenly way,
His coming at the day of doom I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself today the power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, his might to stay, his ear to harken to my need,
The wisdom of my God to teach, his hand to guide, his shield to ward,
The Word of God to give me speech, his heavenly host to be my guard.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,

Christ beside me, Christ to win me;

Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ to comfort and restore me;
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,

Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,

Christ in mouth of friend and stranger

I bind unto myself the name, the strong name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same, the Three in One, and One in Three,
Of whom all nature hath creation, eternal Father, Spirit, Word;
Praise to the God of my salvation, salvation is of Christ the Lord!

A Lesson from St Valentine

I went through a phase where I was really intrigued with the lives of the saints. I'm not big-C Catholic, of course, but the strange mix of legend and biography, adventure and romance, faith and fiction that is the church's hagiography fascinated me. St. Patrick lighting the paschal fire on Slane hill, St. Brendan saying the mass to the fish in his little skiff on the Atlantic, St. Francis preaching the gospel to his "brother birds": there's some really mysterious and magnificent stuff in there.

I'm saying this because today is the Feast of St. Valentine; or, as we would say in our iconoclastic tradition of Hallmarkangelicalism: Valentine's Day.

There are actually a few saints by the name of Valentinus, but there's general agreement that the Valentinus of Valentine's Day fame was martyred under Emperor Claudius II. A number of stories surrounding Valentine might explain how his name became synonymous with waxy chocolate hearts and timid 3rd Grade card-exchanges. While in prison he sent notes of encouragement and love to his parishioners. He also restored sight to the blind daughter of his jailer, who would later fall in love with him. As legend has it, his last note to her before his execution was signed: "From your Valentine."

But there's one story in this strange mix of legend and history that has always stuck with me. They say that Valentine was martyred because Emperor Claudius had made it illegal for soldiers in his Imperial army to marry. Apparently Claudius was having a tough time recruiting males. Believing it was because married men were reluctant to leave their wives and families, he annulled all marriages and engagements in Rome. Valentine continued to perform Christian marriages in secret, convinced that there was a Lord of marriage whose authority transcended the Emperor's. He was caught, and brought before the Emperor. When he refused to renounce his Faith in the true Lord of marriage, Valentine was condemned to be executed by clubbing, stoning and beheading.

Now here's a little Valentine's Day chocolate food for thought: Valentine died convinced that marriage is not just an end in itself. He was not martyred for marriage, he was martyred for Christ. He stood before Claudius convinced that Christian marriage served a living Lord whose redemptive reign could not be renounced. Marriage is but one of the many human goods that God has given us to bear witness to His loving lordship in Christ.

I'm not big-C Catholic. But in the Evangelical tradition I call home, I think we might learn a small lesson from St. Valentine. Because here the family is an institution of special focus; and I sometimes wonder if, in all our focus on marriage, we inadvertently make it an end in itself. Do we stand convinced that our marriages have meaning-- not because they satisfy our romantic desires-- not because they fulfill our domestic needs-- not because they make us happy-- but because they bear witness to the loving lordship of Christ? Some of the stronger Evangelical rhetoric I've heard defending marriage has seemed more about what's politically or socially expedient than about the good news of Jesus.

The word martyr itself means "a witness." As I reflect on the martyrdom Valentine, I wonder: what would my marriage look like if it were transformed by a spirit of martyrdom-- if I could see my life together with my wife as bearing loving witness to the redemptive reign of Jesus?