Authors: Heather Terrell
“I am surprised he would still call himself such.”
“Brigid, he loves you, though he would not confess it aloud right now to anyone but me. Once you were spotted last evening, he and I discussed the situation. He knows that I have come to speak with you.”
“He does?”
“Yes. He is in full accord with the message I bear.”
“Pray do share it, Mother.”
“We understand that you have chosen a Christian path, one that contemplates singular devotion and dedication to our Lord, without familial distractions. We will not force you into an unwanted marriage,
though it would serve the Gaels’ greater goals of continued independence.” Broicsech raises her eyebrows. “We are not Romans, after all.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Brigid grasps her mother’s hands and kisses them in appreciation.
“Do not be so hasty in your gratitude. We ask something of you in return. Something that may assist us in reaching the same end your marriage might have.”
Brigid winces at the mention of her failed union to Cullen. “Anything you wish.”
“We request that, as you serve our Lord, you also serve your people. We believe that Christianity will be the foremost power and religion in the coming days—whether the land remains under Gaelic rule or is overcome by Roman or barbarian. Thus, we want you to prove that Gael—through its Christian piety and prowess—is a land entitled to preservation and self-rule.”
Before Brigid can curb her tongue, she blurts out, “Is not Bishop Patrick God’s chosen vehicle for the Christian conversion of our people?”
“Patrick is Roman Briton, not a Gael. He may convert our people, but he will never convince Rome or the coming tide that Christian Gael deserves its autonomy. And he will never convert the sheer number of people that a Christian Gael can. The people will always harbor suspicions of a Roman and a Briton; we need a Gael to prove our mettle and bring our people round.”
Brigid does not respond at first, judging Broicsech’s request to be nigh impossible. After some deliberation, she says, “Mother, you and Father deserve nothing less. You have bestowed upon me the greatest gift, the gift of choosing my own path. Yet how can I—a woman alone—achieve a goal that an army would be better suited to seek?”
“Do not trouble yourself with that; Dubtach will tend to the warriors, as he always does. In any event, an army, by itself, could never meet our objective.”
“I cannot fathom how I can succeed where an army would fail.”
As if privy to a secret, Broicsech smiles curiously and says, “You must begin by making our people believe in Jesus Christ. And then you must inspire them to manifest that belief in magnificent accomplishments
that will make Christian Rome and Arian Christian barbarians take heed of the Gaels.”
“How shall I begin?”
“Let us choose your cloak well, for it is a mantle you will wear for all eternity in the minds of our people. If you are to inspire our people to embrace God and render magnificent testimony to Him, your Christian persona must build on what the people already know and love.”
“What do you mean?”
Broicsech has an answer so fully formed that Brigid becomes certain that her mother has long considered this alternative to her marriage. “You are called Brigid. Our people worship the goddess Brigid, the source of all healing, the creator of all decorative arts and poetry, and the protector of women. So become the goddess Brigid, but a Christian one. Honor the rituals of the Gaels’ Brigid and deliver our Lord’s message to them through her voice and her customs. If you do so, the people will listen to you as you bear the saving Word of the new God—and then honor Him in ways our conquerors may heed.”
BRIGID: A LIFE
Her robes fly behind her like a flag as she gallops through the forest. Astride a white mare and garbed entirely in pure linen, Brigid seems more a spirit than a human. This otherworldliness is her intention, for it eases her way into each village she enters.
She finds that the people accept a ghostly, yet oddly familiar goddess creature into their perimeters more readily than they would a lone woman—though she quickly shows them that her earthly ministry is anything but ethereal. As soon as she enters their enclaves, Brigid rolls up the sleeves of her white robes and offers her healing services to the sick. The people typically ignore her at first. Inevitably, a maimed, desperate villager finally accepts her assistance and the wary people see their crippled friend walk without a cane. Then they descend on her in droves. She sets injuries gotten in the fields; stitches gaping strife wounds; applies poultices to festering sores; and helps women birth their children. And always she refuses the people’s efforts at payment.
Instead, she waits. Never preaching, never sermonizing, she quietly prays and observes the basic rituals of the goddess Brigid, the perpetual
fire keeping and the holidays. She anticipates the questions that inevitably come. The people muster their courage to gather at her feet and ask about the source of her healing power or her unusual appearance or the nature of her gods.
“Who are your gods?” a bold villager, pushed forward by neighbors, predictably asks.
“I have but one God.”
“One God? One God to rule over the rivers and seas and mountains and plains? One God to govern all the tribes and the cattle over which they war?” The person invariably taunts her with a voice full of disbelief. For a society that cannot agree upon one king, the concept of one God seems inconceivable.
“Yes. My God is the God of all people, the God of heaven and earth, of the sea and the rivers, the God of the sun, moon, and stars, the God of the high mountains and deep valleys. His life is in all things. He sparks the light of the sun, and sets the stars in place. He makes wells in arid lands and dry islands in the seas. He has a Son who is eternal with Him and of His nature. The Son is not younger than the Father nor the Father than the Son, and the Holy Spirit breathes in them. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are not separate. I pray that you will come to believe in my one God.”
Brigid quiets and lets the words settle in their ears and minds and hearts. She knows that by describing Him in this way, she makes Him seem not so different from their familiar gods. He sounds like the Dagda, the head chief of the Gaels’ pantheon of gods.
Village by village, chieftancy by chieftancy, and province by province, Brigid converts them. But she does not merely gather their pledges like plunder; she instructs them in His ways of living. She tutors them in basic writing and reading so they can share His Word with others. She teaches them how to build structures in which to worship Him and to carve stones to proclaim His majesty to all who pass. And then she chooses one of their women to join her in her ministry.
This selection, at first resisted, becomes highly desired. The female villagers vie for the chance to join Brigid’s growing band. Taking the veil—with its heady mixture of freedom from tradition and devotion to God—becomes an emblem of Gaelic womanhood.
Though her followers grow large in number, Brigid keeps her approach simple and uniform. She takes the lead with her group as it nears the villages, although she always remains humble with the people and in her prayers. Her followers assist her with the initial offers for healing, and together they undertake their grueling work. When the people are ready, the women help her instruct the villagers in ways of His artistry and in His Words. Their numbers, however, allow Brigid to reach increasingly large populations. From the start, Brigid is careful never to tread on Patrick’s northern territory. She has no reason to believe that he would condemn her efforts, but she is cautious nonetheless.
Yet from his seat in Armagh, Bishop Patrick takes notice as her company of women enlarges and the rumors of Brigid’s accomplishments reach him.
Finally, Bishop Patrick summons her. Recollecting his quick temper, Brigid fears his displeasure at her self-appointed ministry. She certainly has no wish to alienate the Roman Church in these early days of her work, so she contemplates the best way to placate him. She determines to leave her women to their work and ride to Patrick’s headquarters in Armagh alone.
The journey is arduous and long, but she has grown accustomed to the little hardships. She perceives the time away from her work as a blessing, a rare solitude in which to consider her calling and her approach with Patrick. Although she had remained at a distance from Patrick, she has learned much about him in the days since her baptism and has warmed to the man from afar. She and Patrick are both royal-born, but drawn to the Christian path. Each has been willing to sacrifice much to convert the Gaelic people, even if that conversion requires unseemly acts, such as bribery for safe conduct. Most of all, Brigid believes that Patrick advocates for a new kind of church—one that breaks from the rigid Roman model and theology yet retains its core truths. She feels a kinship with him, both personal and religious.
When she dismounts at the gates to Patrick’s Armagh
rath
, she feels ready to defend her work and even sway Patrick to her vocation, if he should resist. Though a guard welcomes her and takes her horse to the stalls, Brigid finds Patrick’s
rath
curiously empty. She had expected the bustle of a bishopric—a place of worship and work—even
though she knows that Bishop Patrick spends as much time among the people as does she. Instead, an eerie stillness greets her. Seeking to announce her presence, Brigid encounters a monk she recognizes from her baptismal day.
“Brother, I do not know if you remember me, but I am Brigid from the house of Dubtach. You assisted Bishop Patrick some years ago, during my rite of baptism.”
“I recall you well indeed—from that blessed day and from news of your Christian works ever since. The bishop has been waiting for your arrival for some days now.”
“My apologies. The vagaries of the road are unpredictable.”
“I am pleased to see that our Lord watched over you during your journey. I am called Brother Lergus. Please let me take you to Bishop Patrick.”
Brigid nods in gratitude, but she finds the monk’s haste curious. The Lord charges those who run His houses to offer food and hospitality first to their visitors. The rush to Patrick is unusual.
Still, she says nothing and matches his brisk pace. They approach a building larger than most of the others, and pass into the dark interior. The reek of sickness assaults her. Not the smell of wounds and birthing to which she has grown accustomed, but the rancid odor of decay. Brigid does not need to be told that Patrick is gravely ill.
She gathers her bearings and kneels before a hay-stuffed bed lodged in a shadowy corner. Although Brigid nods her head in silent prayer, her mind whirs with her prepared words of persuasion. The blankets covering the motionless mound at the bed’s center begin to stir.
Brother Lergus rushes to the bedside and assists Patrick in sitting upright. With obvious effort, Patrick rasps, “My child, you have been busy since your baptism.”
“Indeed, Bishop Patrick. Our Lord spoke to me on that fateful—”
He interrupts her rehearsed speech. “I have received reports of your numerous conversions in the south. I am well pleased with your inspired works, my child. You have followed well the Lord’s exhortation to ‘go now, teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father
and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you.’”
Patrick’s acceptance of her mission shocks her into uncharacteristic silence. She had anticipated, at the least, a scolding for her unsanctioned efforts, or, at the worst, banishment from the church and her vocation. His approval moves her.
The bishop fills the quietude. “Brigid, the state of my health is undoubtedly apparent. Our Lord demands I leave this mortal body behind and join my soul to His in heaven, though Gael still requires much work. His timing is not ours, however.”
“I am so sorry, my bishop. You will be heartily missed, and I do not know how Gael will become fully Christian without your guidance.”
A sound like a chuckle escapes from Patrick’s dry throat. “Our Lord does not need me to work His wonders. Still, I would like to pass my worldly mantle to one who has proven dedication to His goals.”
“Of course, Bishop Patrick,” Brigid says, though she cannot imagine a worthy—or successful—candidate among his small, soft-spoken band of monks and priests. His Roman religious do not know how to speak to the Gaels, literally or figuratively.
“I choose you, Brigid.”
“Me?” In the periphery of her vision, she sees that Brother Lergus is as astonished as she.
“Yes, I choose you to fulfill my calling to minister to and convert the Gaels. Based on your triumph in bringing countless souls to our Lord in a few short years, I believe your achievements in converting Gaels will have no parallel. You, a Gael, will succeed where Roman priests and monks would perhaps fail.”
“I am deeply honored, Bishop Patrick. Thank you.”
“This selection is the Lord’s doing, Brigid. Reserve your prayers of gratitude for Him.” Patrick reaches a skeletal hand from beneath the heavy covers. “Come a bit closer to a dying man, my child. I wish to bless your mission.”
Brigid draws as close to Patrick’s bed as decorum permits. She resists the urge to gag as she nears his sickly smell. She kneels, and he places his wasted hand upon her head.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I consecrate you Brigid, daughter of Dubtach and Broicsech, as bishop—”
“Please stop, Bishop Patrick,” Brother Lergus cries out. “Your illness robs you of your senses. You are uttering the rite of consecration of a bishop, not the blessing for a nun.”
With great unsteadiness, Patrick rises to his feet. For the first time since Brigid’s arrival, the anger and fire for which he is known blaze to the surface.
“Brother Lergus, do not dare to challenge my words and actions. For in so doing, you contest the very Words and actions of our Lord. He means to make Brigid a bishop through my hands.”