:: Ryan Thomas ::

This morning the Lord gifted me an opportunity to sit warm and dry by a fire as I watched the morning light illuminate the surface of a lake. Rain softly drizzled and gave a perfect ambience to this Fall season.

I had brought with me a rosary and prayer guide that a friend of mine, an Anglican priest, gave me. The idea of using a rosary as a prayer tool had intrigued me for some time, but I had never given it serious pursuit until now. My upbringing taught me to be quite repulsed by “Catholic” practices as they were all somehow idolatry and witchcraft. Praise God that over the years he has revealed to me the beauty of ecumenism and the breadth of diversity within his Church. Even still, I’m still purging myself of old, hatefully ingrained ways of thinking.

I scrolled through the several different prayer guides and settled on St. Patrick’s. It seemed most fitting because for the past couple of weeks I’ve had the song “Canticle” by TAYA on repeat. Honestly, I spend most of my working days thinking about worshipful music and nothing has come close to touching this song since it was released. It’s based off of St. Patrick’s famous Lorica Sancti Patricii – or breastplate prayer. It is debated if Patrick wrote the actual prayer in the 5th century or if it was someone else, but the prayer is a classic example of how the Celtic culture was redeemed by Christ in a non-colonial way. It stems from older, pagan Celtic incantations of protection before going into battle or other dangerous situations. The Celts, who were quite familiar with the spiritual forces ruling this world, immediately upon receiving Christ, applied his power and his truth to their battles with spiritual darkness. Further, before Christ, they were a people of the earth. Much like the indigenous tribes of the Americas, the Celts deeply revered and cherished their place in the cycles of creation. Having learned who the true Creator was, they more fervently embraced and gave thanks for nature around them.

I found that background information pivotal to how I received this prayer today. Allow me to highlight a few things:

Binding:

The most repeated phrase of the Lorica is “atomruig indiu” which means “I bind unto myself today…” Unless one grew up in charismatic circles, the concept of binding is not widely understood within Protestantism. Even where it is more common, it generally refers to binding evil powers from their free rein – a form of separation and isolation. But the Celts’ idea of binding here means to add something to yourself, or to add yourself to something else. The idea is quite perichoretic at heart if you think about it.

For example, in week two the supplicant binds themself to “the patriarchs’ prayers and the prophets’ scrolls.” This is most certainly NOT something I had ever heard growing up in Baptist, Charismatic, non-denominational, or Presbyterian circles. What do those ancient things have to do with me? The patriarchs and prophets certainly were not thinking of me back then. Yet this is a beautiful example of how union with Christ works in its capacity to transverse space and time.

The Spirit of God has been actively involved in the affairs of creation and humanity since the time he “hovered” over the chaos of the beginning. God himself is not isolated to space and time. His missio – or the active, manifest self-revealing work he does – however, is something we receive in space and time. Yet we forget that processio – that which he is in and of himself – is what binds (there goes that word again) all things together. In a less-than-perfect analogy, consider God standing over a circular-top table. On this table are all the pieces of his missio. These include the patriarchs, the prophets, the movements of nations and empires, forces of nature, critical moments in history, and of course, little ol’ me. All of history is on this table top to scale. So I am something like a microscopic spec. If I try to look back and see the prophets – I cannot. They are too far away and I am too small. But from God’s perspective (and keen eyesight) he sees us all at the same time, and he sees the movement of the whole picture which culminates in the restoration of all things unto perfect union with him.

In this sense, I am in union with the patriarchs’ prayers and the prophets’ scrolls. In metaphorically binding myself to them, I am claiming the mission and power of God who does the true binding. I cannot think of the movements of history in isolated terms that merely gave way to the life I now live. Rather, I think of my life as entering into the reality of space, time, and history as they welcome me in. Likewise, I welcome into my life the realities that have come before me. This is getting to the heart of perichoresis. The ultimate act of selfless living is the making of space for others and other things in your life. This post isn’t about the perichoretic nature of God, but of course, that is where all of this begins.

Another similar example from the Lorica deals with binding myself to nature:

The supplicant binds themself to “the virtues of the starlit heavens… the glorious sun’s life-giving rays… the old eternal rocks…” Now, this kind of talk will certainly scare off many western Christians who have been taught to fear pagan cults, nature worship and hippies. But, when centered on the Creator, this kind of connection to nature is essential for embodied beings who will be spending eternity in said environment.

I cannot bind myself to the physical sun. But without the warmth and light of that sun, I could not live at all. There is a degree of yielding, of happily confessing my dependence on its power to keep me alive; even more – confessing that it is greater than I and that I must offer due respect (by using sunscreen and staying 93 million miles away from it).

Likewise, I cannot physically touch the starlit heavens, but I can receive their virtues unto myself. I can recognize that they obediently radiate over the endless ages for the glory of their Creator. With an unshakeable steadiness they guide us and remind us how vast is the power of God. So too can I walk in steadfastness before my God, loving him in obedience, radiating as a light on a hill in the darkness. The cosmos was made with plenty of space for me. I must make space within myself for the cosmos or I will walk in a chaotic and disembodied way.

Finally, I go back to the first week of the prayer which covers the human life of Christ. Again, his historical life is not something I can bind myself to in the most literal sense. But because of the reality that Christ is alive today in a human body, and because he himself became physically perichoretic, we can, today, be bound to all of his life – both past and present. Christ became the ultimate example of perichoresis when he broke his body open that we might enter into union with him. I wrote about this at length in a short thesis on why the Eucharist had to be given as a meal motif rather than any other sort of human act. In very short, it is because God was making space within himself for us. It’s the deepest expression of love available. A totally self-sufficient, self-determining, and self-pleasing being has no reason to receive someone or something more into themselves except for the sake of pure, inexhaustible love.

Binding oneself to the historic life of Christ is to submit to the truth of what human life is meant to look like before the Restoration. It is submitting to his Way. It is a declaration that you reject your ideas and inclinations of how best to life your life, and rather, you accept the life of Christ for yourself.

These are deep realities to ponder. They require much more than ten or fifteen minutes with a rosary. But this prayer tool is an absolute win when it comes to focusing – even a little – on the greater thing that is always happening around me.