Pagan Paddy

No offense to our metaphysical friends, but out here in the heath we don't pay much mind to religion in general and saints in particular. Celibacy, stigmata and being eaten by lions = fail. So it was with mixed feelings we recently raised a glass to St. Patrick.

We confess, our St. Patrick is nothing like the historical one. Ours is a fun-loving, stout-swilling half leprechaun who surely got mistaken for a saint when he proposed that everyone love one another, a not unlikely statement from someone with half a gallon of stout in his belly.

Our St. Patrick dresses in green. His feast day comes three days before the equinox, a time of great moment wherever winters are hard. And people celebrate his memory by getting smashed. These are the trademarks of a pagan, not a saint.

It's tempting to suspect that, in Patrick's case, Rome took a Celtic deity and slapped on a "St." to make the new religion easier to swallow. It wouldn't have been the first time. The cult of St. Mary sunk its deepest roots in the Italian farmlands where the goddess Bona Dea had ruled before. Ireland's own St. Brigid is probably just a humanized version of the auld sod's goddess of inspiration.

Scholars seem to agree on Patrick's authenticity, though. Maybe he didn't actually chase any snakes off the island, but he really did live. His major accomplishment was to bring Christianity to Ireland. And his legacy was to turn millions of men into guilt-ridden sinners, women into baby makers and children into clergy fodder.

And here we were, having a drink in this guy's honor.

But the Patrick we toasted is our own. He's the mythical figure who taught the warring clans how to drink together in peace and harmony, and how to sing together in peace if not harmony. He's the symbolic patron of blarney and of ale. On March 17, he has the power to turn anyone Irish.

March 17 is a pretty magical time in our part of the world. The frost finally loosens its grip on the soil. Little green sprouts pop up through patches in the snow. As twilight sets in, we hear the first spring peepers call out from the flooded woods. We know that nothing can stop spring now, even if it snows every day till Beltane.

So the Patrick we drank to is a far different fellow from the real one. Reversing history, we've taken a Christian saint and turned him into a pagan symbol.