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Croagh Patrick & Confession 46

Therefore I should give unceasing thanks to God, for He has often been forgiving of my carelessness and stupidity.  

The Confession of St. Patrick, #46


Last year, I explained why St. Patrick is my homeboy. He still is. And I’m still smitten by the Irish and in love with the people whose speech sounds like a song. And every St. Patrick’s Day every Irishman (and woman) goes out to find another Irishman to make a speech to, said Shane Leslie. 

Here am I. 

Because I can’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day without thinking of Croagh Patrick and I can’t think of Croagh Patrick without thinking of what happened on that holiest of Irish mountains. But my memories climbing “Patrick’s Stack” are a wee bit tainted by a real tragedy.

Which should come as no surprise, Irish daughter of Eve such as I am. W.B. Yeats said the Irish had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustains them through temporary periods of joy.

I share that sense. But I’m not Irish Catholic and I don’t share their long iceberg of guilt. I go back with Patrick and rest in God’s forgiveness. More on that in a minute. 

Back to the tragedy. The one in blue there on the left might have been flanked by two at St. Patrick’s summit. But the third sister didn’t arrive because of selfish, stupid me.  

What happened at Ireland’s Holy Mountain will stay on that mountain. Suffice it to say, it did not involve a shove of treachery on the high mountain scree. 

But there could have been three. There were two because I stole a mountaintop memory from one.

And godly grief produced repentance that lead to salvation without regret. Mostly. Salvation and forgiveness and grace for sure. 

But still a twinge of regret. Because when we met, as the sun set behind the sacred mountain, her blue eyes were wet. And I knew we couldn’t re-do

Dingle Peninsula and Gallarus Oratory and so many more roads to travel in two last days. Then home. And it’s not an easy pilgrimage to repeat, being from across the sea. 

I couldn’t get over or under or around the truth that my stupid sin got in her way. So, as much as I wanted a do-over, a pilgrimage for all three, grace had to be enough

And it was. It always is. 

So don’t worry. Don’t be Irish that way, you know, worried that you don’t have something to worry about. Sister three assured me she can laugh about it now. Which is quite her gift to me


A day will come when joy prevails, even over regret and tears and tragedy. It will all be swallowed up in victory. The Lamb will reign and in his presence will be fullness of joy. Complete and utter joy, untainted by carelessness and selfishness and just plain stupidity. 

St. Patrick’s day is bittersweet. And that’s okay. Because bitter reminds me of my Lord’s scars, wounds borne for sinners such as I, and sweet for God’s forgiving grace. It’s the air we sisters breathe.

When I asked the sister who didn’t summit if I could post this today, she said, Sure-just don’t be too heavy. Make ’em laugh. There’s grace.” 
I don’t know if I’ve succeeded with that. But onward and upward. Joyfully pressing on through Croagh Patrick and beyond.
I pray I tread as Patrick trod, by grace and with unceasing thanks to God who has been forgiving of my selfishness and stupidity.  
If you, O LORD, should mark iniquities, O LORD, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared.

Psalm 130:3-4

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Green 17: In Praise Of Patrick

Sisters at Croagh Patrick, “Ireland’s Holy Mountain,” 6/19/14

Amid a green-shirt forest the church sang St. Patrick’s Breastplate yesterday. Today kids donned shamrock hats and finished their littleman traps. Tomorrow we’ll chew our corned-beef and cabbage and watch green-beer revelries on the nightly news. 

Aye, we’re all Irish this week. 

A few of us, though, will stay “Smitten” the whole year round. Since my glorious, God-blessed, Irish-gift-trip last June, I am, and-in so much as Hibernia points me heavenward-  hope to remain, forever smitten.

I’m proud to be Irish, and not just on March 17th. Patrick is a huge reason why. I asked the boys if they knew who Patrick was- Oh, sure, a saint, they quipped

Patrick, a sinner, a simple country person, unlearned and the least of all believers-that’s how he began his Confession. And you, how do you answer: Who was Patrick?

Will the real Patrick please rise

Patrick was not a leprechaun, nor mere legend, although legends about him abound.

He did not expel snakes from Ireland: the snakelessness of Ireland had been noted by the Roman geographer Solinus in the third century. He did not compose that wonderful hymn known as ‘Saint Patrick’s Breastplate’: its language postdates him by about three centuries . . . He did not use the leaves of the shamrock to illustrate the Persons of the Trinity for his converts: true, he might have done; but it is not until the seventeenth century that we are told that he did. (Richard Fletcher, The Barbarian Conversion: From Paganism to Christianity, 82)

What we do know of St. Patrick comes through two ancient texts: his Confession and his Letter to the Soldiers of Coroticus. Both are in complete form and can by easily accessed here.  They were both written by Patrick, handicapped, as it were, by his late-learned Latin skills in the middle 400’s. These two texts are, in fact, the oldest documents in Irish history.

From them we know that Ireland’s patron saint was not Irish but British by birth. Magonus Sucatus Patricius was born to a good Christian family around 390 Roman Briton. He admits, however, that he was not a good Christian growing up.

At age 16 he was carried by Irish raiders into slavery in Ireland. Alone in this “strange, wild land,” Patrick turned to God and grew in faith while herding on the Irish hills.

Six years a slave, he heard a voice call, “Come see, your ship is ready.” Heeding, he fled and reached a port perhaps 200 miles away. At first denied passage, he went away and prayed. Even before he had finished his prayer, a sailor shouted to him, “Come quickly, for they are calling you.”

Patrick reached mainland Europe a few days later with his pagan shipmates and made his way through France to a monastery in Italy. Some years later, he returned to Britain and found home “among my parents,” who joyfully welcomed him, begging him never to leave again. 

Then another life-changing vision. A man came to him with countless letters from the Irish people, and I read the beginning of the letter, the voice of the Irish people. While I was reading out the beginning of the letter, I thought I heard at that moment the voice of those who were beside the wood of Voclut, near the western sea. They called out as it were with one voice: “We beg you, holy boy, to come and walk again among us.” This touched my heart deeply, and I could not read any further; I woke up then. Thanks be to God, after many years the Lord granted them what they were calling for. (Confession, ch. 23)

St. Patrick is my homeboy. 


Here are five reasons why-1600 years hence-this Irish leader so endears himself to this 39 year-old American evangelical.

1. 
Patrick overflowed with a thankfulness that made him resilient when hard times came. In an age when the smallest trifle sets us off, when wireless fails or a traffic delays evoke instant grumbles, we’d do well to follow Patrick’s example. 

So I’ll never stop giving thanks to my God, who kept me faithful in the time of my temptation. I can today with confidence offer my soul to Christ my Lord as a living victim. He is the one who defended me in all my difficulties…This is how I come to praise and magnify your name among the nations all the time, wherever I am, not only in good times but in the difficult times too. Whatever comes about for me, good or bad, I ought to accept them equally and give thanks to God. He has shown me that I can put my faith in him without wavering and without end. (Confession, ch. 34)

2. Patrick loved Ireland’s green hills, but so much more, the lost souls who dwelt among them. He knew-better than many of us-how to engage a pagan culture. 

We are so often aloof and distant with the unsaved. But Patrick would pitch his tent beside chieftains, befriend and convert. Then he’d do it over again,

…Fishing well and with diligent care, as the Lord commands, “Go and make disciples of the nations….” spreading wide the net so that a great throng might be captured for God. How has this happened in Ireland? Never before did they know of God except to serve idols and unclean things. But now, they have become the people of the Lord, and are called children of God. The sons and daughters of the leaders of the Irish are seen to be monks and virgins of Christ. (Confession, ch. 40-41) 

3. Patrick viewed his life and work through the lens of Scripture. His burden to serve was directly linked to Scripture’s commands. We are untethered to Scripture, adrift in life’s river despite all the props and apps offered us. Biblical allusions pepper Patrick’s Confession and Letter

Patrick, says author Richard Fletcher, “was soaked in the Bible.” Are we so soaked that we make and explain our big decisions through this lens? Do we see light in His light?

I am greatly in debt to God. He gave me such great grace, that through me, many people should be born again in God and brought to full life. Also that clerics should be ordained everywhere for this people who have lately come to believe, and who the Lord has taken from the ends of the earth. This is just what he promised in the past through his prophet: “The nations will come to you from the ends of the earth, and they will say: How false are the idols our fathers got for themselves, and they are of no use whatever.” And again: “I have put you as a light to the nations, that you may be their salvation to the end of the earth.” (Confession, ch. 38)

4. Patrick struggled with his sin but leaned heavy on God’s grace to fight it and keep the faith. Do we?

Do we give in, give up, give way to sin- all the while denying its lifelong drag toward death. Or with Patrick, daily fight the good fight, daring not trust ourselves, looking to the Lord and to his strength? 

I know I cannot trust myself as long as I am in this body subject to death. There is one who is strong, who tries every day to undermine my faith, and the chastity of genuine religion I have chosen to the end of my life for Christ my Lord. The flesh can be an enemy dragging towards death, that is, towards doing those enticing things which are against the law. I know to some extent how I have not led a perfect life like other believers. But I acknowledge this to my Lord, and I do not blush in his sight. I am not telling lies: from the time in my youth that I came to know him, the love and reverence for God grew in me, and so far, with the Lord’s help, I have kept faith. (Confession, ch. 44)


5. Patrick saw many a splendid Irish sunrise and sunset, but worship them he did not. But we worship created things- Florida sun, bright kids, Facebook fame- even over their Creator. 

Patrick’s warning still rings clear,

The sun which we see rising for us each day at his command, that sun will never reign nor will its splendour continue forever; and all those who worship that sun will come to a bad, miserable penalty. We, however, believe in and adore the true sun, that is, Christ, who will never perish. Nor will they perish who do his will but they will abide forever just as Christ will abide forever. (Confession, ch. 60) 


Patrick’s Christianity, writes Greg Tobin in The Wisdom of St. Patrick, was simple, direct, practical, as earthy as it is mystical, not so much Roman Catholic as baseline Christian, and not so much Irish as truly universal (catholic with a small ‘c’)

Patrick was at once brave, bold pioneer-missionary and humble, servant-shepherd of God’s Irish flock. He was zealous and honest, ever aware of his own short-comings, and forever God’s grateful debtor. 

In his final Confession he prays,

… for those who believe in and fear God. Some of them may happen to discover this document and read its words, composed in Ireland by an unlearned sinner named Patrick. May none of them ever say that whatever little I accomplished was a work of this ignorant man alone. No, rather, know this: that it was a gift from God and that it occurred only for God’s good reasons. And that is my confession before I die. (ch. 62)


Irish history is a dramatic tale of turning from idols to serve the living God. It’s a remarkable true story of a pagan world turned totally upside-down, and converted. An unlearned sinner named Patrick had an awful lot to do with it.

Maybe he ought have his own holiday. 

Remember your leaders, those who spoke to you the word of God. Consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith.


Hebrews 13:7

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One More Hibernophile

“He had been thinking of how landscape moulds a language. It was impossible to imagine these hills giving forth anything but the soft syllables of Irish, just as only certain forms of German could be spoken on the high crags of Europe; or Dutch in the muddy, guttural, phlegmish lowlands.” 

-Alexander McCall Smith, 
Portugese Irregular Verbs

I’m smitten with the Irish. One week in and around County Clare was all it took. Add me to the long Hibernophile rolls. 

My smitten-ness has roots in three emerald green fields: language, history and personality. The ancient Christian history is everywere palpable. It pervades and even preserves, modern Ireland. And there is an “Irish personality,” still.  It is plain and unpretentious. (More on those in the next post.)

But, oh, how I love their language!  The Irish speak like a song.

I’m smitten by the sound of Irish speech and its language forms. Irish English and Irish Gaelic; both charm me. Its soft gentle vowels; its gracious, agreeable grammar.

‘Tis a lovely sound, isn’t it? 

Its easy, rolling cadence explains why ‘twas and ’twill, ’tis and ye,  keep jumping in to start sentences.  I think it’s why Irish place names issue from my tongue, unexpectedly, soothing like M&Ms:

Lisdoonvarna, Ballyhooly,  

Toomyvara (in Tipperary) Kilkee, 

Doolin, and Enniskillen.  

You see?  I bet you couldn’t just say one, could you?

You end words in hard consonants! It’s like an abrupt and unexpected car crash! Let’s take things easy shall we? The ‘t’ at the end of right is softened almost to a sh sound in the Emerald Isle (or even done away with altogether in North Dublin, and pronounced roy).

We also “ch” up our t’s and “j” up our d’s if they would have a ‘y’ incorporated in them in British English. So the second day of the week is Chooseday, a tube is a choob, and ‘due’ and ‘jew’ are pronounced the same. And if you are spelling words for us, instead of imitating a pirate when you get to the 18th letter (aaaarrrrgh!!), just say it like ‘or’ please 

Mapping speech to spelling was tantalizing, too. Why Corca Dhuibhne (Dingle Peninsula) is pronounced “Cor-kah-guy-nay;” why Dia duit! (Good day!) is pronounced “djiah gwich.”  It’s makes my very-amateur philologist head spin!


Gaelic grammar, though, is way beyond my ken. J.R.R. Tolkien described finding a Finnish grammar book as, “entering a complete wine-cellar filled with bottles of an amazing wind of a kind and flavour never tasted before.” What Finnish was to him, Irish is to me. I spent more time than I care to admit in on-line “wine cellars” like this, trying the Irish Gaelic on my own tongue.

Irish language is at once ancient and modern. Like a fantastic elvish language; like listening in on a conversation between Arwen and Elrond. Thomas Cahill describes the Irish people’s love of their own language, dating as far back as the late 5th century just after literacy reached the island. How The Irish Saved Civilization is explains the love of the Irish for their language. He writes:

Though the early Irish literates were intensely interested in the worlds opened up to them by the three sacred languages of Greek, Latin, and -in a rudimentary form-Hebrew, they loved their own tongue too much to ever stop using it.  Whereas elsewhere in Europe, no educated man would be caught dead speaking a vernacular, the Irish thought that all language was a game- and too much fun to be deprived of any part of it. They were still too childlike and playful to find any value in snobbery.  p. 160

Hearing my (poor) imitation of Irish English since my return last week, my 7 year old, asked, “Was ‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves” Irish?  It sounds like how you’re talking.”  (I looked. Victorian Web reports that Lewis Carroll did have “Irish connections.”)


Just a bit on Irish word choice before I close. It’s quaint. Quaintness graces the lips even of sportscasters. On my return flight, I watched a re-broadcast of the 2013 Gaelic Athletic Association’s hurling championship. Commentary included these delightful phrases: Enterprising move. Great character and fighting ability we see there. He collects it, but immediately dispossessed. Great character, as well.  Isn’t it delightful?


The Irish do speak like a song. I love it. I’ve taken to warning my friends, Beware my Irish accent breakin’ out upon ye.  And I don’t doubt there’ll be some Irish breakin’ out in heaven.