What does Celtic mean?

At the conclusion of my recent presentation for the Lindisfarne Community Theology School on Monday, 11/23, Abbot Andy asked a question I wasn’t quite prepared for: What does the term “Celtic” mean to me now?  I’d just spent the previous 40 minutes or so deconstructing the popularity of “Celtic Christianity” from the 8^th through the 21^st centuries, and it was a fair question.  What, if anything, does that term mean after all the work I’ve done in that area?  At the time I dodged the question, turning instead to the Lives of the saints that I’ve been analyzing for close to a decade now.  That was easier.  But I’m bugged enough to want to give the question a more honest and thoughtful response.

Early in my studies I read James Mackey’s book, An Introduction to Celtic Christianity (1989).  In his introduction, Mackey explained his interest in the topic, and justified his choice of essays to include. “…[I used] no other criterion than that of reverberation – whatever seemed to reverberate within the depths of my Celtic consciousness….”  He further observed that in his later life, “…years of feeding upon largely teutonic philosophy and theology began at last to fail to refresh my spirit, and was beginning to fail my Christian faith” (10).

At about this same time I read Celtic Christianity: Making Myths and Chasing Dreams, by Ian Bradley (1999).  Bradley observed that this thing is we call “Celtic Christianity” seems to ebb and flow in popularity.  At its peak times it garners momentum because it appears to embody just those virtues that seem to be lacking in mainline expressions of Christianity at the time.  (The same is true for secular Celtic trends, especially outside Ireland, Scotland, and England.)  If the World or the Church has become too dogmatic, too organized, too rational, too commercial, then we take our refuge in Celtic things – poetry, music, love of nature, egalitarianism, whatever soothes the heart and soul.   Celticity becomes defined by what it is not – not mainstream, not authoritarian, not “teutonic” or Roman or Anglican. It becomes a Christian path that exists more or less out on the margins.

So – some 20 years ago I found myself out on the margins both spiritually and professionally. I’d left the Episcopal Church with no job to go to, and had crashed pretty badly.  My husband mentioned that it always seemed to be “those Celtic things” – music and prayers, mostly – that I had turned to for healing and hope – to refresh my spirit.  So I started looking around for the two things I missed most – a religious community, and an opportunity to advance my education.  I trolled anything on Google that came up with “celtic” and “christian” in a search, found several communities that met those criteria, and eventually came across Lindisfarne Community.  Score!  And I found an MA program in Celtic Christianity at the University of Wales Lampeter.  That program has since been cancelled (the topic went out of fashion shortly after I’d enrolled), but I was able to transfer over to a PhD in Theology and continue my examination of the earliest strata of saints’ Lives from Ireland, Wales, Brittany, and Northumbria. 

At first I wanted to describe the notion of Celtic as the bridge that reached over to me on the margins, that I was able to cross over back into the main stream of life.  But that’s not quite right.  Instead of crossing back into the “center” of life, I discovered the permission I needed to center my own life out there on the margins where I belong.  Not Roman or Anglican, but deeply Christian.  Not a curate or rector, but a monastic and hermit.  Not tenure-tracked in the American higher education system, but an educator and researcher in a niche field where I can teach and write to my heart’s content.

What does Celtic mean to me now?  Academically, I think of it as a cultural catch-word pointing to a hazy, romanticized past.  But personally, I am immensely grateful that it was a signpost toward a way of living that has become honestly and authentically my own.