Flame

"If you are what you should be, you will set the whole world ablaze." 

(St Catherine of Sienna)

There's a shade of flaming red which is by far my favourite colour. My front room, my bedroom and my little kitchen glow full of variations of it. Even the once staid iron bench in my garden has been painted what Hammeriite choose to call "Hot Red". It occurs to me that I wrap this shade around me when and where I want to feel warm, sure and never far from a smile. For a long time, I liked to see others a-wearing-of-the-red; it was always my mother's favourite colour as a fiery Aries; but I didn't feel it suited me. I certainly didn't feel confident enough to wear it when I was in my teens.

Sunday, the Christian feast of Pentecost, I wore bright red quite happily, although I had work for most of the day. I even wore my red beret when I left the house but thankfully none of Brighton's weekend anarchists mistook me for the military police; not in sandals anyway. These days I might not actively describe myself as confident, but perhaps I'm more forgiving of myself. I love that Pentecost, celebrating the birthday of Christian Church, is all about confidence. I love to see the flame red priests' vestments and church banners at Pentecost. When I was little, I remember calling Pentecost "Whitsun", with images of the Holy Spirit as a white dove. To be honest, I was never quite sure if the name derived from the colour white or from the wisdom imparted by the Holy Spirit. I prefer the emphatic red of the flame and exuberance of Spirit descending on the Apostles and followers of Jesus; like a first baptism of fire.

I think faith can be exuberant and it should be celebrated. When I was at school, I thought I had to be  more pious to be a good or even average Catholic. I always felt I was a bit too ready to dance about or laugh or ask an awkward question. When I was about fourteen, my friend Kristina and I were larking around on the little path that ran between the back of our school and the parish church that also served the convent. Having fallen in love with the London production of "Jesus Christ Superstar", we thought we were rock-opera stars in the rough; given to inventing and singing our own (probably very inappropriate) arias, wherever. Raucously. With air guitar. And air drums. 

On this particular occasion, our school's parish priest came out of the presbytery to see what the racket was and smiled at us. I later apologised and said I was trying to be a good Catholic but that I wasn't quiet or well behaved enough. Father Harvey probably wouldn't remember saying this, but he warmly told me that faith could be quiet, it could be silent, but it should never ever be dull or boring. 

These days, Kristina is all growed up and living across the world with her family. I try to limit my singing and dancing about to the company of friends' children or the privacy of my own kitchen or bathroom. However, anyone still reading this should refrain from singing along to Springsteen whilst slicing a vegetable stir-fry: you will lose a bit of index finger that will hurt like hell and add nothing to the flavour. And never feel tempted to jig about to The Pogues when you're in the shower: you will surely slip and fall out of the bath, knocking yourself out on the bathroom sink; causing yourself huge embarrassment as well as extensive bruising; you will totally traumatise next door's cat who was peacefully keeping watch on the landing.

I do feel more grown up about my faith now. I'm never embarrassed to say I'm Catholic and I try to wear a cross or crucifix everyday; clearly, it is jewellery in that it's a form of adornment meant to be seen. Personally, I would rather wear what I consider beautiful earrings with crosses rather than beautiful earrings with some other symbol or design that means nothing to me. Some clerical vestments and pectoral crosses are stunning. And I'm not fussed about why Goths wear their crosses, just that they seem so damned miserable (rather than damned). Mine make me happy.

I've been to evangelical churches with friends in London and felt moved by the joyfulness and inclusivity of the services and the congregations. Sunday's Pentecostal edition of "Songs of Praise" from Brighton featured very high-spirited musical praise from the Church of Christ The King. I haven't been to one of their gatherings, but I'm aware of them as the founding church for the global family of evangelical "New Frontiers" churches. I can appreciate that their informality and buoyancy appeals to many Christians in this city. 

Brighton is a cauldron bubbling with new-found philosophies, new-age mysticism and a liberal dash of neo-paganism. The national census in 2011 proclaimed the city, alongside Norwich, as the "most Godless" in the UK. Regrettably, I assume many of the wonderfully diverse Brightonians who display infinite faith in their fellow man may not pursue the route of that trust in any formal way. 

This was the second consecutive year that Songs of Praise at Pentecost has been filmed in Brighton. Both editions featured the words and music of Stuart Townend, a banjo playing pastor and prolific writer of modern hymns. I already know a little about the work of the Reverend Martin Poole, a non-stipendiary Anglican priest and the founder of Brighton-based Christian art and events group "Beyond". For the past couple of Decembers, they've organised thought provoking art installations along seafront beach-huts as a contemporary advent calendar. They periodically organise sculptures and light installations around the city; I became a fan of their large gaudy neon crosses when I first moved here.

Rather more quiet but no less enthusiastic was the feature on the Catholic Wellspring Community. A group of secular Brightonians who apply the rule of St Benedict to their daily lives, individually and in couples. They also meet as part of the congregation of St Joseph's Catholic Church,  mentioned in this blog earlier this month. The community members were very gentle but obviously passionate about their faith. 

The word "Pentecost" simply originates from the same in Ancient Greek for the fiftieth day. A movable feast only in accordance with Easter, it's traditionally celebrated on the fiftieth day after the feast of the Resurrection. Pentecost always corresponds with the Jewish harvest festival of Shavuot, which occurs fifty days after the celebration of Passover. 

This Jewish Pentecost commemorates Moses receiving the commandments on Mount Sinai. Although these were traditionally literally set in stone, I can appreciate the similarity with the more fluid outpouring of spirit to Jesus' followers. Christians believe that the Apostles were touched by the Holy Spirit's tongues of fire; in turn, symbolically enabling them to speak in many tongues to people far and wide. The giving of the commandments is also an intended universalism, with many Jews celebrating Pentecost as the true birthday of Judaism.
I enjoyed the Pentecostal Songs of Praise, even though it didn't feature a Catholic service. I think it relished the diversity of the city and also the many tongues of faith here. You can still witness high spirits in Brighton which have nothing to do with distilled beverages or other chemicals and everything to do with grace. Father Harvey was spot on; faith can be the ultimate mood enhancer. And yes, I did really intend to include an acoustic version of "Firework" by Katy Perry in this post: listen and you might just hear the song.

"Prayer is the oxygen of the soul."

(St Padre Pio)

"Firework" Katy Perry (acoustic) 

"If you want a love message to be heard, it has to be sent out. To keep a lamp burning, we have to keep putting oil in it."

(Mother Teresa)

info@beyondchurch.co.uk 

www.cck.org.uk 

www.wellspringbrighton.org.uk 

Fire and shadows

"And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not." 

(John 1:5) 

This post is a little late, due to demands of work, but I've felt compelled to complete it. On Good Friday, I attended a beautiful "Tenebrae" service, a Service of Shadows, and it's left a lasting impression on me.

"Tenebrae" is Latin for shadows or darkness. The Tenebrae has evolved from an ancient Christian ritual, most usually held on Good Friday, using diminishing light through extinguishing candles to symbolise the arrest, torture, trial, crucifixion and burial of Jesus. The enveloping darkness holds the sadness, helplessness and hopelessness after his death; a world without God. When I was at school, the Tenebrae would include a dramatic slamming of a church door or other dramatic noise to signify the closing of Jesus' tomb. 

I remember Tenebrae services from my younger days as sombre and deeply sad; even depressive, if I'm being totally honest. This Good Friday, I travelled to the parish of "Our Lady of Mercy and St Joseph", in Lymington in Hampshire, to take part in a beautiful service put together by the wonderful Cathy; assisted by the lovely parish priest, Father Danny. Although Tenebrae has evolved with many traditional and orthodox elements intact, the service at Lymington was incredibly effective. 

Belying the hard work that had gone into the preparation, it was a simple and seamless Tenebrae. About forty people attended on what was essentially a cold Friday night; the pretty parish church is quite small and seemed almost womb-like by flickering candlelight.

The service was obviously reflective and moving, but the beauty of it has stayed with me throughout Easter and is carrying me through the start of the great British summertime. I felt a real sense of quiet hopefulness during and after the service. At the edge of the New Forest and set across the Solent from the Isle of Wight, Lymington is often depicted as an affluent, self-contained area. But the quayside shops and pristine cottages front a town still darkened by poverty and social distress; the community of Our Lady of Mercy responds from a little pocket of kindness which is incredibly deep.

The intent of the service and the openness with which it was received were palpable. It's traditional to leave the Tenebrae in silence; the gathering on Friday in Lymington stayed in hushed contemplation long after the last candle of the service was blown out. There was a very real sense of acceptance and renewal and the affirmation of the faith at the heart of Easter. It was one of the most poignant church services I've been to: impossible not to feel touched by the spark made only brighter by the winter darkness.

"It is a time for shadows.

Before the glorious light of resurrection morning,

there are dark nights, and even darker days.

On our way toward rejoicing in the resurrection,

we are entering that shadow land, those days of darkness,

the darkness that stretched from the upper room to the tomb.

Dark days lie ahead,

somber days, shadowed days.

We have asked terrifying questions:

Will we notice the light, in the midst of so many shadows?

Would we notice the light, were it not for the shadows?

But we have ended with the triumphant question:

Would there be shadows, were it not for the light?

It is a time for shadows,

But it is also a time for hope."

(Adapted from Lee Magness' "Service of Shadows" 2009)

"There is a fragrance in the air, a certain passage of a song, an old photograph falling out from the pages of a book, the sound of somebody's voice in the hall that makes your heart leap and fills your eyes with tears. Who can say when or how it will be that something easters up out of the dimness to remind us of a time before we were born and after we will die?" 

(Frederick Buechner) 

"John Nineteen Forty-One",  from "Jesus Christ Superstar"

Equinox

"It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart." 

(Rainer Maria Rilke)

Yesterday was the vernal equinox; a reflective day when the hours of light and darkness match each other before daylight grows longer. "Equi-nox" is simply Latin for "equal night". As we enter the last days of Lent, this is also our formal passage from winter; today is the first day of spring. 

The spring equinox is the most important point of the astronomical year, although there's nothing stunning or unusual about it to be observed from the earth. As the sun imperceptibly moves across the celestial equator from the southern to northern hemisphere, the latter will also grow warmer.
The ancient pagan peoples called this time "Ostara", in homage to their goddess Eostre, or Esther; this may have evolved into our Christian word "Easter". Eostre was the Anglo Saxon and Norse goddess of springtime and also of the east itself, where the dawn rises. The incarnation of fertility and abundance, as the land sprang back to life, Eostre's symbols were the egg and the hare: the circle of life and the prolific "Easter Bunny". In many pre-Christian cultures, including the Druids, the Ancient Egyptians and Greeks, eggs featured in burial rites as a symbol of rebirth. 
At Easter, Christians obviously celebrate the rebirth of Christ after his trials and torture and a terrible death: the Resurrection is a foundation of Christianity, the embodiment of hope, faith and love. As far back as the second century, accounts show that the disciples initiated and promoted the commemoration of Easter around the time of the Jewish feast of Passover. In Western Christianity, Easter should be celebrated on the Sunday immediately following the Paschal full moon.
Determined on the basis of lunisolar cycles, Easter has become a movable feast. Eastern Christianity may still base it's calculations on the Julian Calendar: the Julian spring equinox during the 21st century actually corresponds with 3rd April in the Gregorian Calendar. In Western Christianity, the feast of Easter may vary between 22nd March and 25th April. So Easter will be early this year, although personally this feels like a long Lent; nothing to do with what I've ceremoniously "given up", but very much to do with waiting.
I've a pagan friend who tells me she respects Christian beliefs but can see the tangible proofs of her own faith in nature: spring is sprung every year, regular as lunisolar clockwork. These days, it makes perfect sense to me that as the sun moves imperceptibly across the heavens, fulfilling the promise of rebirth and hope, so can the Son.

"You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming."

(Pablo Neruda)

 

"April 3rd"  Donal Lunny & Friends

"Egg"

"Egg"
Your friendship breaks in me

like an over-yolked egg,

all sunshine yellow and sustenance.

Because You love me,

I can face those who do not see me;

because I have meaning for You

I stand tall when there's no place for me.

I breath

because there is air;

I rise

in the cooling rain;

I shine

underneath the sun;

I dance

by the light of the moon;

I sing

because my heart still beats;

I believe

because You have faith in me.

Your friendship breaks in me

like a thousand tiny birds,

sweet cacophony of Easter chicks.

Because You know me

I understand some things need not concern me;

because You gave Yourself for me
I take the world as it is.

I heal

because there is time;

I hope
 because  the dawn breaks;

I try

because of the stars;

I reach

when the sky is so clear;

I run

to a brighter horizon;

I believe

because You have faith in me.

                                                    Gigi

Have a Blessed Easter!

 

 

"Now The Green Blade Riseth"   The Choir of Ely Cathedral

"Now The Green Blade Riseth"

(John Crum)

Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain;
Love lives again, that with the dead has been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.

In the grave they laid him, love whom men had slain,
Thinking that never he would wake again.
Laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green,

Forth he came at Easter, like the risen grain,
He that for three days in the grave had lain.
Quick from the dead my risen Lord is seen:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.

When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,
Thy touch can call us back to life again;
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.

 

"One far fierce hour and sweet": For Palm Sunday

"The just will flourish like the palm tree"  Psalm 91 (92)

"The Donkey"

(G.K. Chesterton)

When fishes flew and forests walked,

And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood,

Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry,

And ears like errant wings,

The devil’s walking parody

Of all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

Of ancient, crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet.

Many people are familiar with G.K. Chesterton's poem, which has become synonymous with Palm Sunday. It's a bitter-sweet poem, capturing the poignancy of Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem, only days before he would be arrested. humiliated and crucified. Some of those throwing palms before him and calling him the Messiah would be among the crowd baying for his blood. I found the poem unsettling when I was in junior school; now, I find it touching and uplifting.

In Eastern tradition, the donkey was an animal of peace, as opposed to the horse, the steed of kings but also an animal associated with battle and war. Jesus' entry to Jerusalem symbolised his entry as the Prince of Peace, not as a war-waging ruler. I wasn't previously aware that in the 16th and 17th centuries, Jack-'o'-lantern type figures made of straw would be ceremoniously burnt on Palm Sunday. The straw effigies represented Judas Iscariot; a revenge for his betrayal of Christ. Centuries before, in pre-Christian times, straw or other foliage figures representing winter were burned to prepare the way for spring: Easter traditionally falls at the spring equinox.
The palm itself was a pre-Christian symbol of victory. The Romans rewarded champions of the games and celebrated military success with palm branches. In Judaism, the palm represents peace and prosperity; in Kabbalah, it becomes the Tree of Life. The Qur'an tells of Mary leaning on a sturdy palm tree in the throes of her childbirth; a voice tells her not to be distressed, that she should shake the tree and fresh dates would drop to sustain her.
Palm trees have been around for a long time: some palm fossils are said to be 80 million years old. Both tropical and evergreen, some trees may live for 100 years; others, like the Talipot palm, wait several years to flower and fruit, then burst into a huge inflorescence, only to die once the fruit has ripened.

"The Coronation"

( John O’Donohue)

It was a long time ago in another land.
Who could tell how it really was before belief
Came towards you with a hunger that could not see you
Except against white air cleansed of the shadow of earth?

No inkling that you were a free spirit who loved
The danger of seeing the world with an open mind,
How you strove to be faithful to uncertainty
And let nothing unquestioned settle in your heart

You loved to throw caution to the wind when you danced.
To be outside in the dawn before people were,
Letting the blue tides of your dreaming settle ashore.
The village said you put the whole thing into his head.

In the glow of your silence, the heart grows tranquil.
No one will ever know where you had to travel.

For some reason, the folk song "Wild Mountain Thyme", also known as "Will Ye Go Lassie Go", has always been evocative of Easter time for me. Typically, I've been playing and humming it endlessly while I typed this post for Palm Sunday. The song is a reworking by Northern Irish Francis McPeake of a traditional 18th century Scottish ballad. It reminded my Mum of her own mother; now it reminds me of her. Mum's birthday falls around Easter.

The imagery is very verdant, with flower-covered mountains and the scent of summer in the air. Although the tune is mournful, with the hint of loss, the lyrics tell of gathering together to pick wild flowers to celebrate a homecoming. Maybe that's what it is. Barnsley Nightingale Kate Rusby's version is gorgeous; here, it's called "The Blooming Heather".

Have a peaceful Passion Week.

"The Blooming Heather / Wild Mountain Thyme"  Kate Rusby

"May the Lord keep you in the palm of His hand and never close His fist"

"I am Patrick, a sinner, most uncultivated and least of all the faithful and despised in the eyes of many"

("Confessio" St Patrick)

Inescapably, yesterday was St Patrick's Day: his feast day, held on the anniversary of the date of his death. Far from being "despised" as Patrick feared, he is one of the most popular of all the saints, known and loved beyond the lands that popularised him and outside of the Catholic faith. More than any other feast day or even patron saint's day, St Patrick's Day has become not only a focus for national pride for Ireland, but also one of the most inclusive of festivals; a day of celebration and sentimentality across the globe for anyone who's ever possessed an aran knit or Dubliners CD. On the 17th March, people discover their own Irish side. I have an ostensibly non-Irish friend who shares my passion for Celtic music and Irish political history and agrees with me that everyone, somehow, has an Irish grandmother. My father was from Belgian Flanders, yet he became almost more Irish than my Antrim born and bred mother, albeit with a strong Poirot accent. I always tell enquirers that I'm half Irish and half Belgian, with no English blood running between the two: truth be told, I have always felt rather more Irish. My favourite (Irish) auntie used to say I dressed French, but that the clothes hung off Irish bones. It's a staunchly defensive and distinctive culture yet something else; Irishness is a feeling, an emotion. What makes the Irish so damned Irish?
Populated for more than 9,000 years, Ireland has been building a wonderfully storied heritage, with ancestors such as the Nemedians, Fomorlans, and  Milesians. Her turbulent history unfolds with interactions with the Picts, the Scots and Welsh, the Romans, the Bretons, the Gauls, the Vikings, the Normans and Flemish; and of course the English... It's estimated that ten percent of today's global family carry Irish genes, so we may be right about the Irish grandmothers. Irishness seems to have spilled far from the jug, but the essence is remarkably undiluted and unfathomable. Sigmund Freud famously said of the Irish: "This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever." Irish dramatist Brendan Behan went slightly further, stating that while others have a nationality, the Irish have a psychosis. The Irish psyche dose seem to me to be a conundrum. Pagan superstition seems to sit round the fire with fervent Christianity. The Irish excel at both adapting and adopting, but when they react or rebel you will know about it. Portrayed as whimsical and idiosyncratic by themselves no less than others, the Irish are scholars of the ancient and modern world, masters of the written and spoken word. A love of home and kin belies the navigator's soul. Irish waters can run deeper and more still than the ocean, yet the Irish can laugh louder, cry louder and pray louder than anyone else.
On 17th March, you will find a packed Irish bar in most parts of the world; with "The Irish Rover" and "Danny Boy" being slaughtered in various accents, by people who hate the taste of Guinness but are drowning in it because they're two eightieths Irish, on their mother's side. St Patrick's Day is a public holiday, a solemnity and holy day of obligation in Ireland and a day of celebration far and beyond. The Emerald Island of the Caribbean, Montserrat, has appointed St Pat's as a public holiday. Apparently, this is due to the high volume of Irish refugees that came to the island from Nevis and St Kitts. I have no idea how they came to be in Nevis and St Kitts. In Newfoundland and Labrador, St Pat's is a public holiday in memory of a slave uprising in the 1800s. The earliest recorded description of  a St Patrick's Day celebration comes from one Jonathan Swift, himself an Irishman, who mentions a 1713 celebration taking place in London. Westminster Parliament was apparently granted a holiday and some notable city buildings were decorated in green. I don't expect to see the like recur in my lifetime...

Historically, Irish emigration has been caused by famine, strife and economic divisions. Today, the Irish diaspora across the globe may be up to 80 million people, including the UK, the USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Argentina, Mexico, Brazil, Chile, Jamaica, Trinidad, France, Germany... It's been said that the first non-indigenous child born on what would become north American soil was of Irish descent on both sides. It's also been said that an Irishman sailing with Christopher Columbus, one William Ayres of Galway, was probably the first European to set foot on American land. However, legendary Irish saint, Brendan The Navigator, he of the fantastical voyages, claimed he actually discovered the continent some eleven centuries earlier, anyhow. In fact, there are now ten times more Irish in the United States of America than in Ireland herself. The annual St Patrick's Day Parade in New York, first documented in 1766, draws around 3 million spectators, with more than 150,000 participants; the parade usually stretches for one and a half miles. Every year, the Irish 165th Infantry marches at the head of the parade as the official escort. In the city of Chicago, the river is turned to green for St Patrick's Day, using forty pounds of dye. Indeed, green is now seen as a hugely favoured colour for the Irish, synonymous with the Emerald Isle and said to be the colour of the patron saint himself. He's often depicted in ornate green gowns. Yet the earliest colour associated with St Patrick was not green at all, but blue. Long ago, the military in Ireland were uniformed proudly in "St Patrick's blue". At one time, the Irish didn't wear green for luck, instead associating it with fairies and the little people: it was the colour of mythical and supernatural creatures, a scared symbol of fertility and  growth. It would have been seen to be tempting fate for a mere mortal to wear it.

 Prominent Irish Nationalist Thomas Davies once defined Irishness: "It is not blood which makes an Irishman but willingness to be part of the Irish nation." Certainly, most of St Patrick's devotees now accept that the man himself was not Irish at all but probably Scottish or Welsh. It's believed that he was kidnapped from the land of his birth by Irish pirates when he was about sixteen and sold into Irish slavery. Traditionally, he tended the land and livestock around the Slemish Mountain, an area better known these days by my cousins as Ballymena, County Antrim. The mountain is actually an extinct volcano, providing dramatic and weather-scarred scenery 1,500 feet above sea level. Captive in this terrain, the teenager found God. Some years later, he escaped and managed to return to his homeland, where he developed his love of the Christian faith. Some historical investigation points to his blood family being associated with the Roman nobility; his own household may well have had slaves. He became a priest, returning to Ireland on God's instruction to reconcile the land of his captivity with his faith. Under the patronage of the Bishop of Auxerre in France, he then took the name of Patricius. The ancient Annals of Ulster suggest he lived between 340 and 460AD, ministering to the peoples of the north of Ireland from around 428. It's certainly widely accepted that he was active as a pioneering missionary in the second half of the fifth century.
There are many legends surrounding St Patrick, from the land of some of the finest story tellers on earth. Did he banish all snakes from Ireland? As with New Zealand and Iceland. there are no fossils or other biological evidence that post-glacial Ireland has ever been home to snakes. Certainly no species has managed to migrate from the UK or farther afield in recent centuries. Ireland does have slow-worms; technically, very slow moving lizards. The story goes that St Patrick was troubled by snakes as he fasted on a forty day retreat on a hilltop. Summoning the snakes with his staff, he drew them to the cliffs and let them drop into the sea. Religious scholars now believe the tale could have symbolic origins: the ancient Druids in Ireland were known to favour tattoos of large snakes on their forearms. St Patrick's expulsion of serpents may be seen as part of his core mission.
The dear little green shamrock has long been associated with St Patrick, and with Ireland itself. It's said that the saint used the little plant whilst preaching to demonstrate the Holy Trinity, the three divine persons in one God. Yet the shamrock was also revered in pre-Christian days in Ireland: it's vivid green colour and distinctive shape represented rebirth and eternal life. The number three was sacred in the pagan religions and the ancient Irish worshipped a number of Triple Goddesses. The most famous of these was Brigit: unlike the Celtic pagan tradition of "maiden, mother, crone" as facets of one entity, Brigit was a set of triplets, self contained in one being and all with the same name. There was Brigit the poet, Brigit the smith, and Brigit the doctor of leechcraft. She was said to be the daughter(s) of  the "Dagda", the good god of all the lands of Ireland. Tradition and history, faith and fable; all seem somehow to merge in one cauldron in Ireland. Brigid, who would become St Brigid of the Catholic Church, was born in County Louth in 453. Her father was a pagan Gaelic chieftain named Dubtach (Duffy) and her mother was a Christian slave, sold soon after Brigid’s birth. Brigid was baptised by Saint Patrick and they became good friends. Even as a child, young Brigid had a calling to care for the poor. Dubthach tried to arrange a marriage for his daughter, but she decided to dedicate her life to God. Together with seven other women she formed the first ever female monastic community in Ireland in 468 at the ripe old age of fifteen. Many believe that Patrick is buried in the Cathedral at Downpatrick, County Down, alongside St Brigid and St Columba, although this has never been verified. It's generally accepted that he had become patron saint of all Ireland by the seventh century, although never formally canonised by any pope.

Some hagiographers of the seventh century paint St Patrick as a martial figure, battling with the Druids and overthrowing pagan gods and practises. Legend holds that he was a forceful evangelist, often thumping the ground with his ash-wood walking staff to drive his sermons home. At the place now known as Aspatria ("ash of Patrick") in Cumbria,  the message took so long to get through that the stick had taken root and started to leaf by the time he was ready to move on. This blend of Celtic and early Christian mysticism with beefy conviction and vigour make St Patrick a totally appealing figure to the Irish. Often depicted as a virile presence and with a fearsome intellect, he's still credited with Ireland's peaceful conversion to Christianity. For a man who traded words in Latin, Gallic and Irish Gaelic, surprisingly little of his writings survive. Accredited to St Patrick, "St Patrick's Breastplate", also known as "The Deer's Cry", is a beautiful but simply worded affirmation of faith. It's said that St Patrick wrote it while camped out on the Hill of  Slane, County Meath, near to Tara, traditionally the secret seat of the ancient kings of all Ireland. Early on in his conversion campaign, possibly 433AD, St Patrick chose to light a large fire on the hill on the eve of the feast of Easter,  which coincides with the Celtic pagan feast of Beltane. At the time, the law of the land stated that no fire should be lit in the vicinity of the great festival fire blazing at the royal seat of power on Tara. This has become known as the first Paschal Fire, Furious, King Laeghaire drove his chariot and army to Slane to arrest the rebel, but St Patrick bravely began to preach to him, as eloquently as only he could. Apparently. the king was not only pacified but enchanted: St Patrick and his party were left unharmed and he was allowed to preach Christianity to the pagan army. The story perfectly illustrates St Patrick's legendary fearless and even foolhardy defence of what is gentle, noble and true. Wherever he was born and whatever colour his cloak, St Patrick was Irish.

Beannachtai.

"May the grass grow long on the road to hell for the want of use"

 

St Patrick's Breastplate (St Patrick)

 I arise today


Through the strength of heaven:

Light of sun,

Radiance of moon,

Splendour of fire,

Speed of lightning,

Swiftness of wind,

Depth of the sea,

Stability of earth,

Firmness of rock.

I arise to-day

Through God's strength to pilot me:

God's eyes to look before me,

God's wisdom to guide me,

God's way to lie before me,

God's shield to protect me,

From all who shall wish me ill,

Afar and anear,

Alone and in a multitude.

Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,

Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ on my right, Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down,

Christ when I sit down,

Christ when I arise,

Christ to shield me,

Christ in the heart of every one who thinks of me,

Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me.

I arise to-day.

"St Patrick's Breastplate / The Deer's Cry"  sung by Angelina