by John F. Deane
“Christianity in a thousand ways has shaped the history of Ireland”, (De Paor, 3).
This is fact, and it must not be forgotten when the Irish look at themselves in the contemporary world, or look at the state of Christianity today. Liam De Paor was speaking in terms of his study of Ireland around the beginning of the fifth century. He concludes that our St Patrick may indeed not have been the first to bring Christianity to Ireland. Before 432 there were Christians in the country as the chronicle of Prosper of Aquitaine who lived in the fifth century, tells us; in 431 Pope Celestine sent one Palladius to be “the first bishop of the Irish believers in Christ”. This suggests there were believers already in the country and that they needed guidance.
Patrick, when he came, clearly had far greater success in spreading Christianity and it may well be that the facts and legends of both Paladius and Patrick have conflated into the one we now know as our Special Patron Saint. There are writings by St Patrick, this is clear, and they are written in Latin as it was used in the fifth century. However, the “Lorica”, (the Latin word for cuirass or breastplate), has an uncertain authorship, though there are indications that it may well have been greatly influenced by Patrick’s teachings, if not actually written by Patrick himself. Fact and legend merge into one glimmering pearl of great price to which we Irish hold, with enthusiasm and with genuine love.
By the fifth century the Irish language was established everywhere: “The unity of speech was reflected in a unity (not perhaps complete uniformity) of culture throughout the country” (De Paor 24). The culture was a rural one, with cattle and sheep vital to survival. Irish chieftains were used to leading plundering expeditions into the Roman world, mainly into Britain and from these they brought slaves and goods back into the country. Many of these slaves would already have been touched by Christianity and they formed their own groups throughout Ireland. All of this brough a “new wealth” into the country, and with it a loyalty to one’s chieftain who doled out generous portions of the plunder to those who rode the seas alongside them. These chiefs, or local “kings”, had a semi-sacral status; they were protectors and were inaugurated in a pagan ceremony of mating with a local goddess. “The inauguration of the king of Tara was a symbolic mating (feis) with the goddess” (de Paor 28). Connected to the king’s court were the filid, the poets, who were believed to have supernatural powers, and the druí, druids, who were believed to have access to wisdom and arcane knowledge. There was a pantheon of local gods and goddesses, the latter mainly spirits of place and, of course, of motherhood and fertility. Spells and incantations were common. “Christian teaching had to find a way through a labyrinth of feaar, superstitious observance and worship (ultimately of the elements of nature) – which included some form of sun worship” (de Paor 29), and St Patrick’s Breastplate echoes the natural fear that wizards and incantations imposed.
March 17th; it began, of course, with a special Mass and we dressed accordingly, ensuring that we wore something green about us. We children wore a green badge of some sort, with a golden harp on it, or a grey high tower, a spring-green ribbon dangling. At Mass we sang, or hum-hawed our way through Hail Glorious Saint Patrick dear saint of our isle. . . or pretended we had some idea what we were murmuring as we glossed and glozed our way through Dóchas linn Naomh Pádraig Aspal mór na hÉireann. . . The feast day often occurred during Lent and for that special day we were allowed break our fasting and eat sweets and chocolates to our hearts’ content. Afternoon, when we had eaten our green cabbage, our green jelly, our roast lamb with rosemary and mint, we took the car and joined many of the island folk back in Keel, listening to the bands, perhaps cocking an ear to the commentary on the radio of the games going ahead up in Dublin, making ourselves slowly sick on an overdose of sweets. And forgetting all about St Patrick’s great prayer that we had only vaguely registered in school for the many days leading up to that great day.
St Patrick’s Day on Achill Island was celebrated with special glee and enthusiasm, however chilly the winds were coming in off the Atlantic, however wet the weather at this vicious turning of the seasons. The harsh winds seemed always to have come slicing in from the Ocean on that particular day, racing across the sandy banks like Norse Invaders wielding swords, or whipping salt spray and stinging grains of sand against face and body as we stood huddled, watching the wonderful pipers’ bands as they paraded and played their few and rousing tunes. They came marching down from the church in Pollagh, and you could hear the lift and urgent cries of their sharp high notes suffering against the low and throaty insistence of the chanters, all against the steady and unrelenting wham wham wham of the big drums. And the men came, proudly clothed in their tartan kilts and blazing jackets, their golden sporrans, their ghillie brogues, such polished mighty brooches and their caps with jaunty feathers, seagull feather, peacock feather, black feather of the chough. . . But were these not our neighbours, the fishermen, the small farmers, the sons of small farmers, the boys in the higher classes in the schools? All changed, utterly, and beautifully.
The tunes they played were patriotic tunes, Faith of Our Fathers, A Nation Once Again, and for those cold hours we stood proud and tall as Irish men and women, who had survived centuries of oppression and had held on to that old faith, that holy faith, to which we would be true to death, and all of that in spite of dungeon, fire and sword. Deep into my soul sank the great knot of Irish sentiment with a powerfully dominant Roman Catholic faith, never to be shaken, never to be questioned, and our hearts beat high with joy, oh yes we will be true to that faith till death.
And what of those hymns we sang, lustily and greedily, in chapel on Patrick’s morning?
Dóchas linn Naomh Pádraig
Aspal mór na hÉireann
'Ainm oirirc gléigeal
Solas mór an tsaoil é
'S é do chloígh na draoithe
Croíthe dúra gan aon mhaith
D'ísligh dream an díomais
Tré neart Dé ar dtréanfhlaith
Sléibhte gleannta maighe
's bailte mór' na hÉireann
Ghlan sé iad go deo dúinn
Míle glóir dár Naomh dhil
Iarraimid ort, a Phádraig
Guí orainne Gaela
Dia linn lá 'gus oíche
's Pádraig Aspal Éireann
Your aid to us St Patrick,
Great Apostle of Ireland
Name all brightly shining
Powerful light across our life
It was he destroyed the Druids
Hard of heart they were and worthless
Flung out that dreadful crowd
Through God’s power, our Hero.
Mountains, glens and valleys
And the mighty towns of Ireland
He purified for us for ever
A thousand glories to our darling saint
We beg you now, dear Patrick
Pray for us the Irish
God be with us day and night
And Patrick Apostle of Ireland.
This was our special saint, and we were a specially favoured people because of him. We believed in those times that when the end days of the universe were coming upon us, Ireland would be granted the grace of sinking gently beneath the waves of the Atlantic Ocean and the Irish Sea, and we would avoid the fire and brimstone that a thundering God would pour down on the earth in His judgmental rage and fury. We believed, too, that the safest place on earth, when and if those days came in our time, would be back on the high slopes of our own mountain, Slieve More, “Big Mountain”, some three thousand feet above sea-level. We were innocent. We were willing. We believed.
Hail, glorious St. Patrick, dear saint of our isle,
On us thy poor children bestow a sweet smile;
And now thou art high in the mansions above,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.
On Erin's green valleys, on Erin's green valleys,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.
Hail, glorious St. Patrick, thy words were once strong
Against Satan's wiles and a heretic throng;
Not less is thy might where in Heaven thou art;
Oh, come to our aid, in our battle take part!
In a war against sin, in the fight for the faith,
Dear Saint, may thy children resist to the death;
May their strength be in meekness, in penance, and prayer,
Their banner the Cross, which they glory to bear.
Thy people, now exiles on many a shore,
Shall love and revere thee till time be no more;
And the fire thou hast kindled shall ever burn bright,
Its warmth undiminished, undying its light.
Ever bless and defend the sweet land of our birth,
Where the shamrock still blooms as when thou wert on earth,
And our hearts shall yet burn, wherever we roam,
For God and St. Patrick, and our native home.
How lustily we sang, “On Erin’s green valleys. . .” for in those days they were green indeed, unpolluted, pristine, and lovely. This was our faith, this was our patriotism. We would fight the good fight against sin, guided infallibly by our special saint and by our mother Church. Because, as the hymn insists, we are at war with sin, we are in a battle to save our souls, and we are in an ongoing fight to save our faith. Our banner was “the Cross” and under it we would prevail. And we stood strong and emotionally stirred by it all.
It was many years later before I came across the other hymn, Christ be beside me, Christ be before me, Christ be behind me, King of my Heart. . . I love the tune still, and I relish the sentiment. So I sought out the original and found a poem that must be one of the very first in these western islands to so encapsulate the sense of the all-pervasive and guardian presence of the Christ in our lives. Duns Scotus Eriugena (810-877) who left Ireland to take up important work abroad, worked towards a reconciliation of faith and reason; his relationship to Celtic piety helped him with the idea that “God alone has true being; he is the essence of everything that partakes of this. Every one of his creatures, therefore, is a theophany, a sign of God’s presence”. (Armstrong 199) This rings beautifully true throughout the poem.
The Trinity, it appears, was vitally important to St Patrick’s teaching, and the presence of Christ being close to the people. He knew the Scriptures and brought the story of the Incarnation of the Second Person of the Trinity to a people already disposed to think of some higher Presence on our earth. The faith flourished under his ministry and the Celtic awareness of sacred things allowed great commitment to the new faith throughout Ireland, our “Land of Saints and Scholars”. Rome and its authority seemed then very far away and the Church in Ireland took upon itself the spreading of the faith amongst its nearest neighbours, in Wales and Scotland.
Patrick had spent six years in captivity where he acquired a knowledge of the Celtic tongue; his master, Milchu, was a high priest of the druids, and Patrick grew strong in his own faith, and in his wish to rid Ireland of what he saw as evil in the Celtic Druidic beliefs. Ultimately it was Pope Celestine I who entrusted Patrick to return to Ireland to gather the Irish into the Christian fold. The rest is history – and legend.
Amhairghin, “birth of song”, is the name given to our first poet, Amergin. He it was who first claimed in verse that his is this glorious island, to his soul Ireland belongs. Here is a poet who does not merely claim dominion over all of creation, but kinship with creation in all its aspects. Here is a poet for whom living is being part of the cosmos, and the cosmos is part of his living.
The Song of Amergin
I am a seven-antlered stag,
I am a flood of waters on the plain,
I am a wind on the deep wide ocean,
I am a gleaming tear shed by the sun,
I am a hawk on the high cliff ledge,
I am the fairest among the flowers,
I am the roaring of high tide and low,
I am the fire burning on every hill,
I am the fierce and charging boar,
I am the salmon of wisdom in the black pool,
I am the spear in the battle-fray,
I am a wave upon the ocean,
I am a hill aflame with poetry,
Who else is tree and the lightning on the tree,
Who else is the unhewn darkness of the dolmen,
Who else is aware of the sun’s track, the seasons of the moon,
Who else directs the mountains, the rivers, the folk,
I am the queen of every hive,
I am the shield upon every breast,
I am the grave of every selfish hope,
I invoke the land of Ireland.
Echoes of this poem sound through the prayer attributed to St Patrick. Centuries later, after Amergin, after Patrick, William Butler Yeats wrote, in 1929:
I Am of Ireland
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
‘Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.’
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
'That is a long way off,
And time runs on,’ he said,
'And the night grows rough.’
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
‘Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.’
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,’ cried he,
‘The trumpet and trombone,’
And cocked a malicious eye,
‘But time runs on, runs on.’
‘I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
‘Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.’
The woman speaker of the poem is not only a woman “of Ireland”, she is Ireland herself, and urges everyone to follow her ideal Ireland. There is only one listener, however, and he cynically finds the “times to be out of joint”, discovering expedient ways of moving towards the ideal. It was Yeats, too, who wrote, “Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone. . .”
St. Patrick's Breastplate is contained in the ancient Book of Armagh, from the early ninth century, along with Patrick's authentic "Confession." St. Patrick is said to have written this prayer to strengthen himself with God's protection as he prepared to confront and convert Laoghaire, high king of Ireland. In Ephesians, chapter six, St Paul wrote
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armour of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armour of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints.
St Patrick is said to have offered this prayer when he and some of his followers were being pursued by the king’s men; they were all turned into deer and escaped, hence the title, “The Deer’s Cry”. In the poem the soul girds itself with the armour of Christ’s presence to face into the day, a prayer suitable for beginnings, suitable for the start of any journey, suitable for the ongoing pursuit of that journey of life. It breathes awareness of how Christ cared for the soul on its journey, and how the battle the soul has to fight is rich with a sense of the great wonder and beauty of that world, a freshness and blessed presence that remains centered on Christ and fused to the beauty of all creation. It remains in the Irish consciousness as a morning prayer, as a prayer of protection, and we breathe it out with great pleasure.
The Deer’s Cry
I gather strength today
through invocation of the Trinity;
the Source and Sustenance of our being,
the Name and Nature of the Source
and the Breath that gives it being.
I gather strength today
through power of Christ’s birth and baptism,
through power of His crucifixion and His burial,
through power of His resurrection and His ascension,
through power of His coming on the Final Day.
I gather to myself today
strength in the love of Cherubim,
strength in the obedience of angels
and in the service of archangels,
strength in the hope of resurrection,
in the prayers of patriarchs
and the foretelling of the prophets,
strength in apostles’ preaching
and in confessors’ faith,
strength in the innocence of virgins
and the actions of prudent men.
I gather strength today
through the great power of heaven,
light of the sun
and radiance of the moon,
strength in the lightning flash
and splendour of the fire,
in the swiftness of the winds
and in the depths of ocean,
stability of the earth
and steadfastness of rock.
I gather to myself today
the strength of God to guide me,
the power of God to uphold me,
wisdom of God to lead me,
the eye of God to watch for me,
ear of God to hear for me,
the word of God to speak for me,
hand of God to guard me,
God’s way to stretch before me
and the shield of God to shelter;
the Godly hosts to save me
out of the snares the devils set
and out of temptations of viciousness,
out of the clutches of those who wish me harm,
however far they be, however close,
singly, or in multitudes.
I call to myself today
God’s strength against all evil,
against all cruel force and merciless
that may attack my body and my soul,
against incantation of false prophecy,
against the black laws of the heathen,
against the false laws of heresies,
against the lies and shams of idols,
against the spells of women, smiths and druids,
against those webs of knowledge that entrap the souls of men.
Oh Christ I pray protect me
against poisons, burnings, drownings,
and against all wounding powers
that I may reap abundant harvests of rewards.
Christ be with me, Christ before,
Christ behind and Christ within me,
Christ beneath and Christ above,
Christ on my right hand, Christ on my left,
Christ in my sleeping, and in my rising,
Christ in the courtyard, Christ at the wheel,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of all who speak of me,
Christ in the eye of all who see me,
Christ in the ear of all who hear me.
I gather strength today
through invocation of the Trinity;
the Source and Sustenance of our being,
the Name and Nature of the Source
and the Breath that gives it being.
Our ideas of early Celtic Ireland bring us epic stories of kings and warriors, strange gods and learned Druids. There are hillforts for defence against marauders, invaders, neighbours, some of which appear to have been magnificent places. There were complex religious tenets and their standing stones, their incised patterns, attest to that. Their “bards” were thought to have skills of prophecy and counselling as well as other powers; many and varied were the gods and goddesses. Their dead were important to them and were buried with great care and ceremony, the souls being transported to an Otherworld that appeared very similar to their status on earth. There were rules and customs of personal honour, loyalty and hospitality, festivals of fire, festivals to mark the change of seasons, of darkness and light, of birth and rebirth. Overall, the Celtic imagination is elusive, it twists and turns through a sensuous spiritual energy, an asymmetrical symbolic language; it is always anti-classical, anti-representational, anti-rational; all is flux and becoming. Patrick seems to capture this and steady it, placing it in the care of Christ and the Trinity. Here are the Trinity brought close, here are the phalanxes of the angels and here is creation, called upon to be a saving part in the living of the human being. In this view of living, to be is to become, and Celtic spirituality is the furthest from the static, it is a surging stream that brought its life and vitality out into a turgid Europe.
“The Deer’s Cry” begins with an invocation of the sources of our being, in the move to Christianity, this was, of course, the Trinity. It goes on to call upon the events of the Incarnation, and invokes the aid of all those who have achieved holiness in the new faith. The poem then moves to a call on the powers and forces of creation itself, a call for aid, for partnership, for presence and consolation; sun, moon, lightning, fire, wind, ocean, earth and rock:
I gather strength today
through the great power of heaven,
light of the sun
and radiance of the moon,
strength in the lightning flash
and splendour of the fire,
in the swiftness of the winds
and in the depths of ocean,
stability of the earth
and steadfastness of rock.
This echoes the poetry of Amergin, and the corresponding poetry of the Welsh original, Taliesin. Calling on all the strength and watchfulness of God, the poem moves on to a very special awareness of Christ’s presence throughout creation, glorying and finding hope in the Incarnation, in the fact that God became incarnate through his Son into the very veins and bones of His own creation and therefore will offer grace and help to humankind.
No wonder then that I found settling within myself a religion and pride closely associated with the physical world in which I was born and raised, and to the Christ who knew everything I did and thought, and who guarded and watched over my every path. Except that in those days it was a thundering God the Father who was mostly taught to us, and a God the Father jealous of His authority and apt and keen to punish every inclination away from that authority. Achill Island is one of the glories of God’s creation and its beauty and wildering grandeur entered through every pore of my being. It is an attempt to clarify, to expedite, to Christ-ian-ate my whole being in this world that urges me to look often at “The Deer’s Cry”, and to explore its graces and promises through the centuries.
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Read more for John Deane at www.johnfdeane.com and contact him at johnfmdeane@gmail.com. His latest works include A Little Book of Hours (Carcanet, 2008), From the Marrow-bone (Columba Press), The Heather Fields and Other Stories (Blackstaff Press).
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