When I was in my early teens, my parents gave me a little paperback entitled Praying with the Celts. This volume was a collection of traditional prayers from the western Highlands of Scotland, and featured blessings for every part of the day: waking up, building a fire, setting out on a journey, and going to bed. The poems layered blessing upon blessing, usually calling upon the entire Trinity, to protect before, behind, above, and beneath. If you have ever prayed “The Breastplate of Saint Patrick” then you are familiar with this type:
I bind to myself to-day,
The Power of God to guide me,
The Might of God to uphold me,
The Wisdom of God to teach me,
The Eye of God to watch over me,
The Ear of God to hear me,
The Word of God to give me speech,
The Hand of God to protect me,
The Way of God to prevent me,
The Shield of God to shelter me,
The Host of God to defend me,
Against the snares of demons,
Against the temptations of vices,
Against the (lusts) of nature,[e]
Against every man who meditates injury to me,
Whether far or near,
With few or with many.
Growing up Baptist, I had received many rich examples of prayer, but nothing quite like these. In their keen petitions and rhythmic parallels, these prayers had the intensity of the psalms. Yet they were also poignantly domestic, invoking the Trinity to bless the hatching of hens’ eggs, sowing seed, and for making clothing. I found them easy to memorize, and copied out many of them into spiral notebooks. Even as a fifteen-year-old my theology was sound enough to know that there was nothing magic or special about this form of prayer over any other. But because they felt ancient, and strange, and intense, they commanded my attention, deepening my commitment to prayer enormously.
I have returned to these prayers often in the years since as a remedy against dread. As a child, when my family returned home from long trips, I would imagine trails of fire racing our car, and I was convinced that if we did not arrive home soon enough, that the fire would when the race and devour our house. If my father was preaching out of town, I’d count the minutes until he came home, fearing bad news at any moment. These instincts toward dread have only deepened as I’ve grown older, and if I’m not careful such fears can overtake my imagination.
We live in a perilous world. My childish fears were overwrought, but it’s true that homes do catch fire, and loved ones sometimes do fail to come home. Given my talent for dread, one of the greatest challenges of hospitality—whether God is calling me to welcome children or refugees or neighbors—is opening my life to the fears and dangers attendant to every human life. The Bible tells us to “Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2 ESV), but when we rely on our own power these burdens can feel very heavy indeed.
In prayer, however, we receive the power to bear these burdens with grace. Prayers in the “Celtic” tradition, in particular, are powerful tools for governing my imagination, replacing images of disaster with pictures of God’s care:
While I watch my children play, I knit a hat for my husband, and then another, for the panhandler on the corner. With each stitch I pray
“May the man of this clothing never be wounded,
May torn he never be;
What time he goes into battle or combat,
May the sanctuary shield of the Lord be his.
What time he goes into battle or combat,
May the sanctuary shield of the Lord be his.When I fear for my home, I pray into each corner and cranny, remembering that the God who made the world cares for my little house:
GOD bless the house,
From site to stay,
From beam to wall,
From end to end,
From ridge to basement,
From balk to roof-tree,
From found to summit,
Found and summit.When I am overcome by the plight of the stranger, or some looming trouble in my own life, I call on God as master of all elements and powers:
To whom does tremble the voice of the wind?
To whom become tranquil strait and ocean?
To Jesus Christ, Chief of each saint,
Son of Mary, Root of victory,
Son of Mary, Root of victory.
There is nothing magical in this form of prayer, but they comfort me powerfully. Their detailed concern with cloth, eggs, wind, and house-beams answer the equally detailed sight of my fears. Their repetition calms me, just as I calm my baby with a steady rocking or patting. Even their age is a boon, for it reminds me that housewives and hosts have grappled with faithful welcome in a fearsome world for many long centuries. My own uncertainties are nothing new, and there is help coming from both the great cloud of witnesses and the Holy Ghost who gathers that holy company.
Grabbed a copy of that book! And I loved reading this! I am so drawn to ancient prayers and how they are seen and felt today! He never changes!
Thank you, Bethany, for sharing your prayers and fears! It's encouraging to remember that we aren't alone in our fears and that takes a weight off. I'm also reminded to lift my prayers to stave away the fears. I'm not as drawn to those ancient prayers, but am challenged to find some that fit my life.