The Dove of Derry
a meditation on Saint Columba
On June 9th, the Celtic world observes the life and ministry of Saint Columba, or Columcille—a name meaning “dove”. But it’s actually fitting that we observe it today, together, for Columba was born on a Thursday, according to legend, and always counted Thursdays sacred throughout his life.
Columba is considered one of the most influential Celtic saints with a ministry spanning many, many long years. He was born of royal lineage, yet chose the monastic life at age 19. At the relatively young age of 25 he founded his own monastery at Derry, which was at that time a sacred oak grove by the sea that had once been used by Druids for their rites.
Far from destroying the site because of its past, it was said that Columba so revered the sacred oak trees that he changed the original building plans so that no trees would be felled to make room for it. He wrote often in his poetry that he feared the sound of an axe in Derry woods more than hell itself.
Columba’s legends and travails are long, and they include battle and exile, teaching and preaching, and lots and lots of writing. He was a poet, hymn-writer, theologian, and politician. His fingerprints are all over the legacy of Celtic Christian belief. Despite not being as well-known as Patrick, Columba is considered just as important, if not more so.
This week, we’ve been talking about who we follow in our paths through life. For many who follow Celtic faith—and perhaps even those who don’t—Columba is a spiritual father, a mentor, a guide, and he has been for centuries.
But key to our point, this week: Columba was not perfect. He was nearly cut off from the church thanks to a violent confrontation with another monk that led to an all-out skirmish, and he was eventually exiled from his beloved Ireland for many years, something that caused him great pain. While he mostly ruled over his monastery with gentleness and grace, he was known to be firm and single-minded and not easily moved.
We cannot expect perfection from our guides and teachers, but what we can hope for—and indeed, should strive for—is to see them reaching for God’s grace, at every turn, and displaying that grace in their own lives.
That, at least, can be said of Columba. He sought after God’s heart with passion and fervor, and throughout his long and unusual life he left a line of spiritual descendents trailing in his wake, like young ducklings following their mother, their eyes fixed past the saint to God.
I wrote the following poem this time last year. It’s a simple verse, and a bit more singsong than my usual style, but when I picture Columba I see him clinging to his God the way the Celtic stone monasteries cling to the rocky cliffs of those green and holy lands.
May it be ever so with us.
The Song of Columba
a barnacle on the rocks, O Lord I cling and reach and hold; sea-swept and tide-worn, O Lord a stronghold sure and bold; the summer sun is hot, O Lord the winter moon is cold; but ever do I cling, O Lord from now 'til I am old.
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Very nice, and an insight into a personage with whom I am unfamiliar. Also I was drawn to this quote of yours: "We cannot expect perfection from our guides and teachers, but what we can hope for—and indeed, should strive for—is to see them reaching for God’s grace, at every turn, and displaying that grace in their own lives." It's a sign of maturity, I think, when we learn to accept the flaws in those we admire. What's more, those we most admire are not those whose flaws are small, but those whose failings drive them quickly toward God (often on their knees) for forgiveness. Psalm 51 comes to mind. I think the penitent heart behind Psalm 51 is one of the chief reasons we so admire the deeply flawed King David.
Beautiful!