Wild Saints & Wild Christianity

 

It was roughly 30 years ago that I drove with son Isaac, just emerging as a teen, from Sudbury to Toronto to attend a seminar with the Rev Herbert O'Driscoll. He was an Irish-Canadian Anglican writing regularly in the United Church Observer magazine but we made the trek because he was speaking about Celtic Christianity, a relatively new area of exploration at the time. O'Driscoll had recently published a memoir The Leap of the Deer: Memories of a Celtic Childhood. He was a fine presenter and he had lots to say about the Celtic saints who were known for their love and immersion in the natural world or Creation. 

Through the years I have been fascinated by the legends of these hermits who communed with birds and otters and other creatures. On one level they are highly improbable and on another they remind us that these Christians had adopted the sense of interconnectedness with nature that they took on from the Druids and is also part of our biblical story. 

I see that writer/theologian Paul Kingsnorth, now living in Ireland, is writing The Book of Wild Saints, and I can hardly wait for it to be published. Kingsnorth is an admirer of St. Kevin, one of my favourite Celtic saints as well. Here are a few paragraphs from a piece he wrote for his substack earlier this month. 

Yesterday was the feast day of St Kevin of Glendalough. Kevin, or Coemgen, whose story I told here in April, was one of the Christian wilderness ascetics who I’ve taken to calling ‘wild saints.’ I am fascinated with these people. Why? Well, partly because I think they bring the Christian Way to its purest expression. Partly because their stories are so intriguing and eccentric and sometimes even inexplicable. There’s a deep mystery to them. And finally because I have a strong intuition that they have something important to tell us today.

What could that be? I tried to get at the answer in an essay I wrote last year for First Things magazine, entitled A Wild Christianity. In that essay, I wrote that we are living in what we might call a ‘desert time’: a time of collapse and change and radical reinvention. If that is true, then these old Fathers and Mothers of the desert might have something to tell us about how to live in it:

I feel like I am being firmly pointed, day after day, back toward the green desert that forms my Christian inheritance … Back to the song that is sung quietly through the land by its maker, the song that is in the stream running, in the mist wreathing the crags, the growling of the rooks, the thunder over the mountains. Back to the caves, to the skelligs, to the deserts green and brown … I feel that in another time of crisis and confusion we need to go back to our roots, both literal and spiritual. To flee from the gaze of a civilised centre that denies God and launches salvo after salvo daily against the human soul. To seek out a wild Christianity, which will see us praying for hours in the sea as the otters play around us. To understand—to remember—that the Earth and the world are not the same thing.

In recent years I've come to appreciate Indigenous spirituality and have been humbled by how dismissive colonial culture has been, of this gift, including the Christian church. I do want to rekindle my love of the Celtic saints as well. 

At this time of year we to endeavour to be outside as much as possible, although this year the mosquitoes are not creatures I am willing to embrace as a treasure from the Creator.