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Keeping House Among the Cloud of Saints
by Mary Earle

In 1994, I made my first pilgrimage to Wales. While our group was staying at St. David’s, we visited St. Non’s well on the starkly beautiful headlands above the sea. I was so moved by that place, I returned by myself several times. I was drawn to that well, with its clear water erupting from rock, and its various votive offerings—flowers, ribbons, photos—left by many who had come to ask for St. Non’s prayers for healing.

The last time I walked to the well, it was late in the day, and a man with a Welsh corgi was there also. In a gently gregarious fashion, he struck up a conversation and began to speak of St. Non. “She’s dear to me,” he said. “She’s walked with me through many a tough patch.” I was struck by the ease with which he spoke of this saint, whose name I was just beginning to learn.  St. Non was a friend to him, a companion in the way, a living presence in Christ who offers her prayers for him, his family, his life, his creatures.  He clearly had a relationship with St. Non—a relationship not unlike those I have with friends with whom I share my prayer life.

Looking through the lens of Celtic Christianity, the communion of saints is downright homey.  Following the witness of the early church, the stories and prayers from the churches of Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Brittany and Cornwall offer us a sense of the nearness and familiarity of the saints.  Many of the saints from the Celtic tradition were revered locally, and never were recognized abroad in the larger church.  Yet they are tenderly invoked today, often in ways that are distinctly non-pious, even saccharine.  A community both heavenly and earthly is held together by “love as strong as death.” (Song of Solomon 8:6).  As members of that vast community, the saints are welcomed in a tenderly familial way.

These are holy presences who walk with us, guide us, befriend us, pray for us.  We are never alone.  We are never without the intercession of the saints in Christ. We are never without their company.  We are continually within a reality in which the saints are close at hand.  A strong web of relationships transcends the grave, linked by indissoluble bonds of Christ’s love.  In the words of Esther de Waal, “Celtic saints are approachable, close at hand, woven quite naturally into life just as would be any other member of an extended family.” (The Celtic Way of Prayer, New York: Doubleday, 1997, p. 162)

The extended family is made up of all who are Christ’s brothers and sisters by his gracious invitation.  Far from an image of heaven ruled by a god who is a solitary, cranky old man in the sky, the Celtic tradition perceives the life of the communion of saints as a great feast, a vast company celebrating with the Risen Lord.  One traditional prayer from the Outer Hebrides evokes festive celebration among the company of heaven:

I would like to have the men of Heaven
In my own house:
With vats of good cheer
Laid out for them.
I would like to have the three Marys,
Their fame is so great.
I would like people
From every corner of Heaven.
I would like them to be cheerful
In their drinking,
I would like to have Jesus too
Here amongst them.
I would like a great lake of beer
For the King of Kings,
I would like to be watching Heaven’s family
Drinking it through all eternity.

(from Threshold of Light, ed. By A.M. Allchin and Esther de Waal, Dartmon, Longman and Todd: London, 1986, p. 40)

image007As this poem intimates, the Celtic peoples perceive that eternity and this world are woven together.  Just as the famous Celtic knots demonstrate, heavenly life and earthly life are linked and form a unified whole.  A family dinner is an occasion for welcoming the saints; a family tragedy is occasion for imploring their intercession, presence, and support as members of the extended family of Christ.

Following the proclamation of the author of the letter to the Hebrews (“Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses”, Heb. 12:1) the Welsh poet Waldo Williams observed that we are “keeping house in a cloud of witnesses.”  The rounds of daily life are lived out with this company. As we go through our regular chores and work, the saints are with us.  These saints, alive in the eternal life of the Risen Christ, are not ghosts. Nor are they merely the product of our imaginations.  The communion of saints is the astoundingly diverse and rich family of the Christ “in whom all things hold together.” (Colossians 1:17)

The Celtic saints are perceived to be anamchairde or “soul friends.”  In the Celtic tradition, it is understood that a soul friend is a spiritual necessity. Every person needs someone with whom to be completely undefended, to be vulnerable and honest.  A soul friend is the person whose presence allows us to be real and transparent, to seek continual transformation and growth in faith, hope and love.  In the presence of your anamchara (singular form of the noun) you know the safety and assurance of one who will do no harm and one who will call forth your truest self.  The tradition is emphatic that this work of formation cannot be done alone.  While soul friends are usually earthly friends, they may also be particular saints whose lives speak to us, challenge us, evoke in us a desire to participate in Christ’s work of making the creation new.

The tradition invites us to befriend the saints as we befriend our earthly friends and exemplars, and to learn from their lives and their teachings.  The heavenly presence of the saints presents no difficulties for this tradition. In the words of Welsh scholar Patrick Thomas, “Barriers of time, space and continuity have rarely presented problems for the Celtic imagination.” (Candle in the Darkness, Gomer Press: Llandysul, Dyfed, Wales, 1993, p. 110)

In the Welsh tradition, there is to this day an awareness of the presence of St. David, patron saint of that nation, with those who labor and those who farm, with those in politics and those guiding the life of the church.  St. David is an anamchara for the Welsh people.  St. David was known for his personal strength and intelligence, and in the sixth century he founded a monastic community renowned for learning.  His example and life continue to stir the hearts and imaginations of Welsh poets, writers and bards.

The Celtic tradition is marked by a great love of “kith and kin”—and that love includes the saints.  They keep house with us, work with us, walk with us, pray for us. Their company is vast and their intercession is steady.

Bright, bright
the fellowship of the saints in light,
Far, far beyond all earthly sight.
No plague can blight, no foe destroy.
United here they live in love:
O then, above how deep their joy!”

(from Threshold of Light, p. 59)
Copyright ©2005 Mary C. Earle


Here is similar writing about this tradition:

The great Celtic Spirituality writer, Fr. John J. O” Riordain, writes of All Saints/All Souls in his book Irish Catholic Spirituality, Celtic and Roman:

Irish hospitality extended no less to the dead than to the living.  It is still with us and has always been characteristic of our religioius expression.  There was a widespread belief, for instance, that the dead members of the family visited their old home at the beginning of November, the ancient pagan Irish feast of Samhain from which the Christian celebrations of All Saints and All Souls seem to have derived. 

Leaving the door unlocked, having a good fire in the hearth, and the placing of a bowl of water on the table was a common mode of preparing the house for a visit from the dead at Samhain.  So too was the custom of lighting a candle for each deceased family member–a ritual performed during evening prayer in the home.  Kevin Danaher, the folklorist, once asked an old man if he was in dreaed of entering a haunted house.  ‘In dread of it?’ replied the old man.  ‘What would I be in dread of, and the souls of my own dead as thick as bees around me?’ 

Having offered Mass at home on Samhain Night (our Halloween) I said to my aged father:  ‘They were all there tonight.’  ‘They were,’ he replied with a perfect undersanding, as if I had been referring to a congregation of the living, but at that Mass the only visible persons present were himself and one of my sisters.  Whether people were ‘alive’ or ‘dead’ made little difference to him, for he was of a tradition that drew no hard and fast lines between life in gleann na ndeor, the vale of tears, or Tir na nog, the Land of the Young–i.e., heaven. (Dublin:  The Columba Press, 1998, p. 122).

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October 2009



On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

John O'Donohue, Echoes of Memory