Erin go Bragh!

 At Hamilton House, We’re Ready to Celebrate St. Patrick and All Things Irish and Celtic

The bit of Irish in my bloodline and my pre-pandemic solo bicycle ride across the Emerald Isle—along with reading ‘How the Irish Saved Civilization’—have made me fall for the lore and fun of this age-old festival.

It’s hard to tell truth from fiction when it comes to St. Patrick and the revelry in his name. Layer upon layer of myths and attributions have flourished since the slave-turned-missionary walked the land in the 5th century. Padraig’s Christianizing quest in Ireland wiped out much the organic Druid and Celtic spiritually that once defined the land.

Much myth making has been fomented by the church. But Irish Americans, longing for that mystical homeland, have likely done more to exploit St. Patrick than any group. Parades? American. Green beer? American. Public group drunkenness? American.

But, here we are! Our bungalow reflects both kernels of truth and pure hype. And on Saturday I plan to run 3.1 miles/5K in an annual Shamrock Run—likely decked out in St. Patrick’s Day silliness. No, I won’t be drinking green beer! But I might celebrate my first post-heart attack running event with a pint of Guinness.

So, here’s to myth and lore and hype and shenanigans in the name of St. Patrick and for the glory of Ireland! 

Erin go Bragh!

A Reflection on St. Patrick's Prayer

It is time and culture bound, but St. Patrick's Breastplate is worth revisiting

The following prayer is attributed to St. Patrick of Ireland, circa A. D. 377. To me, it is compelling, insightful--and a bit freaky. Christianity is not wizardry or magic. But Patrick's use of imagination to envision God's presence in all nature and surrounding us intrigues me.

I revisit this prayer each year. First, because there is actual historic substance behind the now-mythic figure of Padraig (Gaelic)--a slave turned missionary--and this prayer at least points in that direction. I also revisit it because March is the one time of the year I heartily acknowledge that I am a wee bit of Irish descent: my maternal great grandfather Thomas Garrett came to the US from the Emerald Isle.

A few reflections on Patrick's prayer:

1. This prayer, called St. Patrick's Breastplate, is comprehensive--even exhaustive. It mentions things I do not ordinarily think of--and I'm not sure even matter. Even so, that the prayer reminds me of these aspects of life and spirituality is instructive.

2. St. Patrick's Breastplate offers insight into how much Patrick and early Christian forebears saw nature itself as being in concert with grace. This reflects the Psalms. "All nature sings." It is spiritual imagination. Patrick's sense was that all life is bending toward or expressing Trinity at its very core. 

3. My readings about Ireland and Patrick indicate that Patrick reflected and blended earthy Celtic and Druid spirituality in his thinking, writing and action. So, in this prayer, there's this thing about "summoning." It reflects the sense of spirituality in Patrick's time and place. Patrick was Christianizing people accustomed to summoning spells, witchcraft and wizardry. In this context, Patrick seems to be confronting power with power. 

4. I do not see "summoning" as the manner of prayer or nature of spirituality in the New Testament. Neither Christians nor Christian clergy/leaders are wizards. Christianity is not magic. Prayer is not incantations. Prayer, in a Christian context, is a conversation in a relationship. It is a communion. When it comes to addressing temptations and evil, the prayer Jesus taught his disciples is far more simple and direct: "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

5. Patrick's imagination envisioned Christ's perpetual, enveloping presence throughout one's day. To Patrick, one is completely surrounded, guarded and guided by Christ. Given that, I wonder why Patrick's spirituality did not go so far as to imagine prayer as something just as intimate, simple, and direct.

6. It is likely that this prayer wasn't intended to be prayer at all. It is more in the genre of a pronouncement, a preaching, a teaching tool, a liturgical recitation. We've all likely heard such public prayers or recitations. I observe, only partly in jest, that those who offer public prayers can say some pretty weird and awesome things about God and grace and life when heads are bowed, eyes are closed, and they know people are listening attentively.

Here is St. Patrick's Breastplate:

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through a belief in the Threeness,

Through confession of the Oneness

Of the Creator of creation.

I arise today

Through the strength of Christ's birth and His baptism,

Through the strength of His crucifixion and His burial,

Through the strength of His resurrection and His ascension,

Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of doom.

I arise today

Through the strength of the love of cherubim,

In obedience of angels,

In service of archangels,

In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward,

In the prayers of patriarchs,

In preachings of the apostles,

In faiths of confessors,

In innocence of virgins,

In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today

Through the strength of heaven;

Light of the sun,

Splendor of fire,

Speed of lightning,

Swiftness of the wind,

Depth of the sea,

Stability of the earth,

Firmness of the rock.

I arise today

Through God's strength to pilot me;

God's might to uphold me,

God's wisdom to guide me,

God's eye to look before me,

God's ear to hear me,

God's word to speak for me,

God's hand to guard me,

God's way to lie before me,

God's shield to protect me,

God's hosts to save me

From snares of the devil,

From temptations of vices,

From every one who desires me ill,

Afar and anear,

Alone or in a multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and evil,

Against every cruel merciless power that opposes my body and soul,

Against incantations of false prophets,

Against black laws of pagandom,

Against false laws of heretics,

Against craft of idolatry,

Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,

Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ shield me today

Against poison, against burning,

Against drowning, against wounding,

So that reward may come to me in abundance.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,

Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ on my right, Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,

Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,

Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me,

Christ in the eye that sees me,

Christ in the ear that hears me.

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through a belief in the Threeness,

Through a confession of the Oneness

Of the Creator of creation.

Amen

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone!

Launching Into Lent

I’m a hesitant observer of Lent. Nevertheless, I’m on board for the turbulent journey

Obediently,

we saunter into

Ash Wednesday's service.

Kneeling,

we are marked--

as much a sign of

obligation as mild

intention.

Lent launches

as we straggle up

the gangplank.

Though winded,

we're on board--

a bit bewildered about

where this journey ends,

somewhat unsure of

the purpose of this

passage.

When inspiration flags,

discipline and duty

carry us.

Where vision is obscured,

the immediate horizon a fog,

soundings resonate

direction.

Others seem more

certain of this voyage--

sails are trimmed and

crew busy themselves.

But we aren't sure

whether we should

settle in to rest

or keep watch

at the bow.

We're asked to

give up something--

to lighten the load?

Have we not already

given up home and land

for this untethered vessel

churning through

inhospitable seas

to an unheard of

location?

After a few days at sea
we notice atop the mast

flies a flag--are those

cross bones?

What were we thinking

when we bought the ticket

marked "Destination Port:

Calvary"?

John Franklin Hay

Generalized Anxiety Disorder

A reflection on my anxiety and how I cope these days

Generalized Anxiety Disorder. That’s what the cardiac rehab psychiatrist wrote in their notes after recently interviewing me via computer video for an hour or so.

Not sure what I was anticipating, but "Generalized Anxiety Disorder" seems like a fair description of my post-heart attack state of being. Note: during the interview, I was more anxious about the cost of the time with a psychiatrist than with their line of questioning.

With that telehealth assessment in mind and reflecting back, it seems I’ve lived with anxiety most of my life. In childhood and adolescence it was my unwitting reaction to the fear-based preaching and coercive discipline of my dad. That guilt-filled, shame-based religious milieu fueled anxiety in a faith structure that considered anxiety and mental health disorders somehow either sinful or evidence of one's lack of faith. So, I was anxious about being anxious.

While I gradually let go of many of those notions (with a lot of disparate counsel, reading, experiences, and reflection), continuous low-grade anxiety has over the past twenty years boiled over into three panic attacks that have landed me in an emergency room. The COVID-19 pandemic spiked my anxiety and I began to use prescribed anti-anxiety medication for the first time. I also started working with a counselor routinely. I chose to retire at age 65 more over concern for work-related and general anxiety than anything else (albeit retirement, I have now discovered, is itself a significant source of anxiety). 

I can see now that I used to deny my anxiety or rename it “intensity.” A respected friend once told me I was the most intense person they knew. And, blind to my own issues, I initially took that as a compliment; I now see it as a gracious red flag.

Only in the recent decade have I recognized and begun to acknowledge the extent of my anxiety and its impact on my considerations, actions and decisions across 50+ years. It’s pretty revealing and humbling. I continue to unpack and process this.

I now manage my anxiety with a bit of prescribed medication. It seems to help. Instead of waking up at 3 am with my mind racing through all kinds of tough life scenarios, I now sleep through the night and usually awaken with some sense of peace.

My August 2025 heart attack (surprise, unwelcome surprise!) and aftermath brought low-grade anxiety to another boiling point. Why me? Why now? How limited does this make me? What is that mild pain in my chest? Can my heart handle the level of cycling, running, and activity in which I aspire to engage? Will this happen again? On and on the questions flow (thus my request to talk with a cardiac rehab psychiatrist).

Three months of Monday-Wednesday-Friday monitored physical activity and heart health education in IU Health's Cardiac Rehab program at Methodist Hospital has reduced my heart attack-related anxiety significantly. I follow their guidance about food, stress, mindfulness, and physical exercise. When stressed to its max, my heart (according to the electronic heart monitors) responds normally. I now run over three miles each session. I'm training for a half marathon (13.1 miles) early in May. It all feels good and promising.

As I invest in my relationship with my spouse Jodi, attend to my four adult children and my 8 (soon to be 9) grandchildren, volunteer in the community, read, meet with friends, ride my bike, run, and participate in local arts, music and justice advocacy events, I find my anxiety significantly reduced. I don't have a sure-fire formula, but I know that these things bring meaning and purpose and release in different but important ways.

So, I'll take "Generalized Anxiety Disorder" as a reasonable assessment. I'll follow up with the psychiatrist and continue to do the things that help me reduce anxiety, cope, recover, and thrive. And I'll try to find ways to support anyone who is grappling with anxiety and mental health disorders. 

Three Snow Poems

A celebration of snow on the brink of winter

I love snow. I’ve been praying for snow in Indiana--enough snow to sled and cross-country ski in our urban parks, enough to change gray winter days into heart-jogging experiences of delight. 

Here are three snow poems. The first is mine. The second two are by New England poet Robert Frost (hey, even his last name points to his love for flakes!).


HOPING FOR SNOW

I’m waiting on the snow
A hope to fulfill;
I’ll prepare my skis,
Anticipate the thrill.

A Midwestern winter
With its bleak, dark days
Needs a good snow storm
To hearten the soul’s way.

Mere cold stiffens the heart
And drives us inside,
But warmth and four walls
Alone cannot abide.

I’m like a child praying
The snow will be deep
Enough for sledding,
And, tired from it, to sleep.


STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


DUST OF SNOW

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part

Of a day I had rued. 

Sleepwalking Advent

 Shifting gears into Advent may take some time, but don't lallygag too long

I penned this poem about 20 years ago when I served as leader of a local community of faith. Most Christian communities observe the four weeks before Christmas as Advent--days of anticipation and preparation, as if intentionally making room in hearts and lives for what may come. Many of us take the Advent season casually, if we observe at all. This poem is for the likes of us.

Advent begins
in a fog of unreadiness,
as if by dull surprise
or in a twilight zone,
we groggily hang the greens.

Hardly with awareness
much less anticipation
good people sleepwalk
through the prophecies
and Annunciation.

We may finally stir
by the time children sing
“Away in a Manger”
the Sunday before Christmas,
their raised voices spark
a light in our slumbering souls.

Is it only children and prophets
who grasp the urgency,
sense the passion;
whose hearts are rended
and readied by the
promise of Light shining
in the darkness?

Is it only to them that Advent
becomes no mere repetition
of myth-laden past events,
but days of embracing
the living Mystery,
the ground of all hope?

By God’s mercy and grace
children and prophets are
only the first to hear,
the first to recognize,
to proclaim that it is,
indeed, Mystery.

The Light ever dawns,
beaming its rays into the
eyes of the groggiest saints,
the hardest sleeper
among us.

Only those who refuse to rise
amid many urgent shakings
and light flooding their beds
sleep through the
Incarnation.

“Wake up, O sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you.”

Thanksgiving

My poem for the Thanksgiving holiday

This holiday is for all that we
Take for granted,
Assume as a given,
Absent-mindedly overlook,
Claim as our God-given right.

This holiday if for all those we
Unnecessarily criticize,
Agitate with our demands,
Impatiently rush,
Regularly impose upon.

This holiday is for all that we
By-pass in our drivenness,
Go out of our way to avoid,
Carelessly forget,
Thoughtlessly leave out.

This holiday is for all things we
Receive as gracious gifts,
Share as common ground,
Express as transcendent grace,
Return in praise to God.



John Franklin Hay 
Indianapolis, Indiana, USA

www.johnfranklinhay.blogspot.com

@johnfranklinhay@threads.net

Instagram.com/johnfranklinhay