The Cowherd's Invitation
an essay
Why music? Why the emphasis on song, this week?
It isn’t arbitrary; I’ve been thinking a lot about Saint Caedmon, lately.
The story goes that Caedmon was a young cowherd and a lay brother at Whitby Abbey, located in modern North Yorkshire. Famously, Caedmon felt isolated in his small community because he didn’t have the capacity or talent required to make music.
This may seem strange to us now, but in the Celtic world, it was quite common for every person—no matter their age, gender, or status in life—to have a song or a poem that they could easily sing or recite at a gathering, especially on long, cold winter nights. Music was very important to Celtic life. It was tantamount to magic and treated with great reverence and affection.
Caedmon felt ashamed whenever the monks and lay people would gather and sing together, since he had nothing to offer. So one night, he left the gathering early and went to the field to rest alongside the animals he cared for. He was full of sorrow, and hoped that the gentle wind would soothe him.
He fell asleep under the stars, and he had a dream. And in the dream, a figure—a regal yet mysterious Someone—appeared to him and said, in a voice most gentle, “Sing for Me, Caedmon. Sing a song of Creation’s beginning.”
Caedmon refused, at first. “I am no poet, no singer, my lord,” he said. “You would do well to ask someone else.”
But the figure insisted. “Sing for Me, Caedmon,” He said.
So Caedmon composed a short verse, praising God for the beauty of Creation, and he sang it for the figure, who was well pleased.
When he woke up the next morning, Caedmon was amazed to find that he remembered the verse he had written in his dream. He sang it first to the animals, who twitched their tails and flicked their ears with joy. And then he sang it to his fellow cowherds, who were amazed to hear such music from him.
“Is this Caedmon?” they said to themselves. “He must be touched by God’s own voice!”
They insisted that he sing it for the abbess, Hilda (who would go on to become a Celtic saint in her own right). And she was so impressed with his song that she commissioned another from him. And another. And another.
Caedmon was invited to take the monastic vows, leaving the life of a cowherd behind. He would go on to write dozens of pieces of beautiful poetry and music and Celtic hymns, and is now commonly known as the father of English poetry. He lived a long and deeply creative life, and died in old age, a beloved figure of the faith.
The feast day for this saint is on Saturday, the 11th, and I don’t think it’s any accident that Caedmon is celebrated in this early transition between seasons, this liminal time when we are looking for signs of waking.
He is a reminder of God’s invitation to step from death into life, from silence into song. Caedmon believed that he was barren, uncreative. But the Lord of Music asked him to sing, and he sang. And then, he couldn’t stop singing!
I wonder: what invitation has been extended to you that you are gently refusing?
“I am no poet, no singer,” you may be thinking. “You would do well to ask someone else.”
But oh, what wonders may lie at the other side of that offered hand, that quiet invitation, that gentle voice?
Who knows what part of yourself is waiting to be stirred to life, simply by saying yes?
Thank you for reading!
Moved by this piece (or simply feel like supporting my coffee habit) and want to contribute a one-time donation? Click the Tip Jar button below!
Did this piece resonate with you? Take a moment to share it!
If you enjoy this piece, please let me know by tapping the heart to like, comment with your thoughts, share with someone you think will enjoy it, and subscribe to get instant access to my future work right to your inbox. Blessings!
I love this so much!
Beautiful!