My family emigrated from Scotland to Northern Ireland in Restoration times. It was a sort of homecoming. Many centuries ago, my ancestors, the Scots (or Scoti, as the Romans called them) moved from Ireland across the North Channel to southwestern Scotland, forming the ancient kingdom of Dalriada, essentially consisting of northeastern Ulster and Argyll. Eventually, Dalriada lost the Irish part of its territory and joined the Picts to form the nation of Alba, the cornerstone of the modern country of Scotland. So even if my grandmother had not been born in Downpatrick ( “Dun Padraig.” or “Patrick’s Fort” in Gaelic), where the saint is buried, I would have plenty of reason to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.
St. Patrick (Padraig, auf Gaelic, meaning “noble”) was allegedly born Maewyn Succat (Maewyn meaning “warlike”). This, however, is disputed. There is no direct evidence of his ever having been known as anything but Patricius, or of his having called himself anything else. He was the son of a couple named Calphurnius and Conchessa and was born in Dunbarton, Scotland, in the year 387. His father, Calphurnius, seems to have been a priest or deacon. His grandfather was also a Christian clergyman, but like many “P.K.s,” Patrick was not particularly religious at first. But since he was a Romanized Briton whose father and grandfather had Latinized names, and whose mother was a relative of St. Martin of Tours, it would be hard to explain why Patrick would have been given a Gaelic one like “Maewyn Succat.” But the legend persists. His faith was apparently kindled into a flame when, at the age of sixteen, he was kidnapped by Irish pirates and sold into slavery in what is today County Antrim, in Ulster, the ancestral home of the Waters family.
His captivity seems to have been a relatively mild one. His duties consisted mainly of tending sheep- an occupation that left him plenty of time for contemplation, meditation, and prayer. Not surprisingly, Patrick turned into something of a schwaermer by the long, solitary days and nights tending his master’s flocks; nevertheless, this time of spiritual reflection stood him in good stead in the years to come.
So did the external circumstances of his captivity. Patrick quickly became fluent in Celtic. And as it happened, his master, Milchu, was a Druid high priest. A better background in the pagan religion it would be his life’s work to combat would have been hard to obtain.
Six years into his captivity, Patrick had a mystical experience- described variously as a dream and as an actual visit from an angel- in which he was commanded (contra the general advice of St. Paul to those in his condition) to run away from his master and return to Britain. That he did, and from there he went to France, where he was ordained to the priesthood by St. Germain. When Germain was sent by Pope Celestine on a mission back to Britain to combat Pelagianism there, he took Patrick as one of his companions.
It was there that Patrick once again had one of his visions: this time a group of Irish children, exhorting him, “O holy youth, come back to Erin, and walk once more among us.” Entrusted by Pope Celestine with that very task, Patrick was consecrated a bishop by St. Maximus of Padua, and returned to the land of his former captivity to begin a missionary career that would, in the space of 33 years, convert that nation from a stronghold of Druidical darkness into “the island of saints and poets.”
His first act upon arriving back on Irish soil was to return to his former master and buy his own freedom. Sadly, as Patrick’s fame spread and more and more Irishmen were won from his former master’s Druid religion to Christianity, Milchu was said to be humiliated, and- to Patrick’s horror- burned himself to death, along with his fort and all his possessions, his pride unable to bear “the thought of being vanquished by his former slave.”
No, Patrick did not drive the snakes out of Ireland; there were never any snakes there, to begin with. It’s commonly believed that the snakes in the legend were, in fact, paganism and pagan values and attitudes. And the incident probably most associated with him- and which gave birth to this day’s most familiar symbol- may also never have happened. Nevertheless, it’s worth recounting. Interestingly, though everybody wears green today, the color historically associated with Patrick is blue.
Anyway. the story is that Patrick was confronted by a sword-wielding Druid chieftain named Dichu- whom, unarmed except by his faith, Patrick simply faced down. Awed by his courage, Dichu asked for instruction and was baptized. Dichu told Patrick of a feast being given for all the Irish chieftains by the Ard Righ (“High King”), Laoghaire, at Tara, the traditional seat of the High Kings (Ireland in ancient days was divided into five kingdoms- Ulster, Connacht, Leinster, Meath, and Munster; each had its own king, who effectively ruled his own realm while owing titular fealty to the High King at Tara). Patrick crashed the party, which supposedly began- auspiciously- on Easter Sunday, 433. The fun began, however, the night before- symbolically interesting because that year it was not only the Vigil of Easter but also the Feast of the Annunciation.
The Vigil of Easter is one of the oldest and most beautiful and significant Christian liturgies. We celebrate it in abbreviated form in my congregation. In ancient times it was that the catechumens were baptized, spending the night in prayer, chant, and meditation.
The liturgy traditionally begins around the Paschal fire, usually kindled outside a church. In Patrick’s case, of course, the vigil was held out in the open, on the hill of Slane, on the opposite side of the valley from Tara. When Patrick kindled the Paschal fire, it was in direct violation of a royal edict, that no fires were to be lit until the High King’s own signal fire was kindled at Tara.
Patrick’s reputation for miracles and for gaining converts had proceeded him. Laoghaire’s Druid advisors told him, insightfully, “O King, live forever; this fire, which has been lighted in defiance of the royal edict, will blaze forever in this land unless it is this very night extinguished.”
So they tried to put it out. They couldn’t. Nothing they could do would extinguish the flame. Neither- despite their best efforts- could they harm Patrick or his companions!
One thing about St. Patrick: he had style. The next morning- Easter Day- he traveled the length of the valley in full liturgical procession, wearing a miter, bearing a crozier, fully vested as a bishop, and proceeded by an acolyte bearing a copy of the Gospels aloft. Arriving at Tara, he soon found himself in full confrontation with the Druids. The story is that by their incantations they cast a deep cloud over Tara, enveloping the entire hill in darkness. Patrick defied them to remove the cloud. They tried and failed. Thereupon Patrick uttered a simple prayer. The cloud instantly vanished, and the hill was bathed in sunshine.
The Arch-Druid Lochru tried to impress everybody by flying. Patrick simply knelt and prayed that God would vindicate His truth- and Lochru fell to his death.
That pretty much settled matters. Though forbidden by the High King to show Patrick or any of his company the slightest sign of respect, the whole assembly rose to pay homage to Patrick and his God.
It was then that the incident supposedly occurred which gave this day- and the entire island- its most familiar symbol. Someone supposedly asked how it could be that the Christian God would be Three but at the same time only One. Patrick replied by leaning over and plucking from the grass at his feet a simple clover of a variety which -contrary to legend- grows not only in Ireland but in almost every country and halfway temperate climate on Earth. Holding the shamrock aloft, he asked, “Is this one leaf, or three?”
They couldn’t answer. “If human wisdom cannot comprehend the mystery of a piece of clover,” Patrick is said to have responded, “how can it hope to understand the mystery of God’s very nature?”
I never cease to be amazed at the number of “shamrocks” one sees at this time of year which are, in fact, four-leaf clovers- which, of course, completely destroys the entire symbolism of the shamrock!
Patrick is said to have spent the balance of Easter week catechizing and baptizing the High King and his entire court. At its end, he was given the High King’s own official patronage for the missionary endeavor which was to occupy the remainder of his life. He is also well known for his beautiful prayer known as Saint Patrick’s Breastplate. It is sung as a hymn in many churches.
Patrick died on March 17, 493 (some sources say 460, or 461) at Saul in what is now Downpatrick, County Down, where he is buried. Downpatrick, by the way, is the birthplace and childhood home of Grandmother Waters, and the burial place not only of Patrick but also of Sts. Columba- interestingly, the native-born Irishman who brought the Gospel to Britain, and in particular to Scotland and the Picts!- and Brigid, who is often commemorated by a representation of the hand-woven cross, made from the reeds along the banks of the River Shannon, she once fashioned for a dying pagan to hold while she told him the story of Christ.
On any account, Patrick was one of the greatest missionaries the Christian Faith has ever produced- and the honor he is due is too great to be confined to any single people (even the Irish!). All the faithful have cause to wear green this day in his honor, without fear of being accused of being full of blarney regardless of their ethnic origin.
HT: The Catholic Encyclopedia, The Catholic Community Forum
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