What’s an Abbey: Connection

If your enemies are hungry, give them bread to eat;
    and if they are thirsty, give them water to drink;
for you will heap coals of fire on their heads,
    and the Lord will reward you. -Proverbs 25

The Letter to the Romans quotes Proverbs 25. Growing up in the Midwest, with a lot of “Nebraska nice,” the “heap burning coals… on their heads” part always struck me as passive aggressive. Again: “No, ‘If your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12: 20-21)

For a long time, this seemed like a “kill them with kindness” sentiment that might actually hurt. I understand giving folks water when they are thirsty, and I have delivered enough casseroles to comprehend the, “If your enemies are hungry feed them,” bit. But the “heap burning coals on their heads” snippet from Romans did not have any real meaning to me. Until a historian or two pointed out that people once carried objects on their heads, and perhaps in some places around our globe, people still do. 

The phrase, “heap burning coals,” is about offering the fire from your hearth, the flame and ember which can keep another's house warm, bake their bread, and cook their food. A burning coal is essential; its fuel and faith is about sharing the heat and keeping everyone warm…even if they top your enemies list.  

Irish abbeys contained warming rooms. The blue prints and drawings historians and anthropologists created illustrate warming rooms at different abbeys. However, it’s usually not the only fire lit in an abbey. Even today, you can see there were fireplaces in the dormitory and probably the Prior’s office, where all the paperwork was pushed and enormous hearths cooked community meals. 

I love the name “warming room,” and I love imagining a monk, or a team of monks, with the sole job of tending this fire; keeping this fire alive should anyone else need an ember to rekindle their own flame. 

St. Bridget’s abbey had a fire altar. You can still see the great stone outline of its later configuration with a magnificent stone cathedral. In Bridget’s day (1,500 years ago), the abbey sat atop a beautiful hill of great oaks, surrounded by several cozy beehive huts. Here, folks slept and cooked and prayed and wrote and tended the fire. Kildare means “Church of the Oak,” and Bridget’s fire altar, just like the oak grove, had ancient roots. Her fire altar was likely in use 2,000 years before her community gathered around to warm their hands and break their bread. 

Fire is essential in the pre-Christian Irish spirituality. Important hilltops hosted community fires for generations. The most important being the Hill of Tara, where the leader of the Celtic people, pending consent by the hill, would dance naked to the top and be crowned king. The Druids, and perhaps even earlier peoples, on the island designed not only great burial mounds but also a remarkable celestial calendar with many similar hilltops. From Tara, you could see Newgrange, Knowth, Slane, and beyond. These hilltop fires and centers created ways for folks to communicate across the Island. The Druids didn’t believe in writing their knowledge down, as knowledge is so powerful it could be misused if entrusted to the wrong person. One needed to look a person in the eyes before sharing their knowledge. Thus, it is difficult to ascertain what these pre-Romanized folks believed, but given the state of social media today, “I told you so” seems reasonable.  

Every spring, the people extinguished the multiple hilltop fires and then celebrated new life. The “king” lit a new fire at the Hill of Tara, and from his enormous bonfire, folks carried torches, olympic style, to light all the new fires. 

They heaped burning coals and shared the fire with each other. Fire connected them. 

All of this is moving along with its normal human drama (which is to say that folks are prone to war and harm just as much as they are to love and peace), until Patrick (Pre-Saint) envisions a plan. On the day everyone is celebrating and getting ready for a new fire, Patrick conveniently chooses to celebrate Easter, with a brand new Pascal fire. Before the King can light the fire on the sacred Hill of Tara, Patrick lights a fire on the Hill of Slane; this fire is Christian. 

The King assumes danger and hostility from Patrick’s fire, believing it represents a warning or a threat. With his crew ready to fight, the Druids go to Slane and find a Priest. The official story implies that Patrick convinced people of and converted them to Christianity, at least enough people that no one hurts him. That's how the Christian story becomes an Irish story, at least in the official church history. 

This move is so wild to me. It could be stunning and brilliant as activist art, except Patrick doesn't seem to be protesting any injustice. Mostly, it’s so on brand for an empire, domination-driven Chrisitanity: past and present included. Patrick lights a new fire on the pagan’s holiday, making it his holiday. It’s astounding. His fire is Chrisitan and their fire is Pagan. Patrick appears to say, “This fire is right and that old fire is wrong; you need to pack it up and move on.” 

But Bridget is a few hills away in Kildare tending the same fire. She continues minding the fire and adding new fuel to it. Brigid hears the story of Jesus; power that is vulnerability and strength that is weakness. She lives in a world that needs peace and justice. She falls in love with this message and honors it by building community. For Bridget, the stories of Jesus align with the stories that root her in the soil of Ireland.

She keeps the fire and milks the cows because connection doesn't come through debating the finer points of fire's metaphor for life, but by nurturing life. Knowledge, philosophy, or theology that upholds systems of enslavement, violence, domination, and injustice are a problem for Bridget, whether it’s from her Druid Dad or her Christian co-workers. 

Bridget’s community will tend the fire, the ancient fire, for generations to follow. 500 years later, a “righteous” church leader will come to town to extinguish that “pagan fire.” The formal stories suggest the nuns tried to protest, but ultimately lost. Of course, the people of Kildare, with a spark of fire in their eyes, say, “Did you think we would let that happen?” The fire lived on in kitchens where bread was baking and forges where metal was hammered and hundreds of thousands of other candles and fireplaces and hearths, too. 

Patrick and Bridget, not that far apart in history or place, both have fires and stories, but they couldn’t be more different. 

We, too, have a choice. 

What kind of people do we want to be? What kind of abbey do we want to be? How will we heap burning coals and gather round to tend these fires?

May we have the courage. 

Amen.