The Day I Met Saint Patrick

Monday, 10 October 1994, Belfast: Only six weeks ago, the Irish Republican Army had declared an unconditional cease-fire although, after twenty-five years of bloodshed and terror, Belfast was still a place of barbed wire, of sheet metal fences, of walls with dagger- and broken-glass tops. As Anne and I left for points south this morning, our prayers, along with those of all Ireland, were that the peace would hold firm. After all, today we wanted to meet St. Patrick himself, the patron saint of Ireland. We wanted to pray as he did: "I arise today, through God's strength to pilot me...through God's shield to protect me."

Amazingly, the sun shone strong and clear all day.

Our plan was to drive east around the Ards Peninsula through Saint Patrick’s Vale to Downpatrick (pop. 8,500). As we crossed the Narrows of Strangford Lough by ferry, I thought about the small boat that Saint Patrick and his followers steered through these strong tidal currents back in 432 A.D. They landed north of us at the mouth of the Slaney River where Patrick, first mistaken as a pirate, persevered with his dream of converting all of Ireland into a Christian nation. He ultimately became a national hero and is now a world-wide saint.

We drove off the ferry onto Lecale Peninsula, which is unequivocally Saint Patrick territory. I wondered how Patrick felt when he first came ashore. Legend says that his first conversion was Dichu, a tribal chieftain, who gave Patrick a small barn for his first church in an area called Saul. Patrick began preaching the Gospel throughout Ireland, converting thousands as he and his disciples began building churches all over the country. Kings and kingdoms alike converted to Christianity when hearing Patrick's message.

After forty years of preaching, traveling, living in poverty, and enduring much suffering, Patrick came full circle, dying in Saul on March 17, 461 where – tradition says – he received his last communion from Saint Tassach. Patrick is said to be buried in nearby Downpatrick in Down Cathedral's old graveyard.

And that is where I first met Patrick.

We drove nine miles west to Downpatrick and soon found the graveyard where Patrick is reputed to be buried, alongside St. Brigid and St. Columba (although this has never been proven). A large Mourne granite slab placed there as a memorial in 1900 marks the spot.

We found it under a giant weeping willow tree; it is inscribed with a Celtic cross and the word “PADRAIG” (Irish for Patrick). A plaque read:

“According to tradition the remains of Saint Patrick with those of Saint Brigid and Saint Columba, who is also known as Columcille, were reinterred on this site by John De Courcy in the twelfth century thus fulfilling the prophecy that the three saints would be buried in the same place.”

I'm not a saint – just a sinner who keeps on trying. But I'd finally found my namesake, a man of peace indeed.