The Warrior Cult

The Warrior Cult

Patrick was a loyal citizen from the time of his youth. He was born of the Roman Empire to a clerical family living in Western Britain (what we now think of as Wales). He was intended to study the classics and either take his place as a Roman orator and politician, like his father, or perhaps a priest like his grandfather. But his mother was a Celt and a Druid princess at that. Between the Roman polytheism and the Celtic polytheism, Patrick was just confused and noncommittal in religious terms. But he took pride in being a Roman and carried himself with a certain arrogance that was too apparent for his own good. He was Patricius to all who knew him casually, but Patrick to his mother. At the age of sixteen, while walking along the beach with friends, Patrick was seized by marauding brigands only to find himself on a boat made of a resined hide stretched over a carved wooden frame. He was being pirated westward to the coast of Brigantes on the island of Hibernia, modern-day Ireland.

For the next six years, Patrick lived three lives. He was inculcated in the ways of Christianity. His learned ways made him valuable to the Catholic priests, who mostly came from Constantinople. His Roman training made him relatively unique in Hibernia. Patrick was also forced to “earn his keep” by tending sheep, which seemed wasteful to the priests, but the priests were not responsible for allocating livelihood. The brigands were in charge. As for Patrick himself, after he had satisfied the basic needs of existence and learned enough of the Hibernian Celtic dialect, he wanted to do what most robust boys of his age wanted to do. He wanted to hang with the toughs and prove himself physically. He had learned the sword and how to ride, which already put him ahead of most local youths. What he lacked in strength, he made up for in cunning. So, he trained as a warrior, as best he could.

Patrick is known the world over as the patron saint of Ireland, the man who banned all snakes from the island, and more recently, thought to be the “savior” of civilization. That last one is less well understood, but his highly educated upbringing enabled him as an eventual cleric of the church to build a retinue of other learned monks and mobilize the gathering and saving of a vast array of written history from Rome, Greece and all around the civilized world in advance of the march of the darkness that would envelope Europe for the better part of a millennium. What no one knows still is how he mustered the omniscience to know to do this incredibly valuable thing for mankind.

On this weekend in 2019 in the United States, we celebrate the start of summer. Some celebrate it at the beach and some celebrate it at Arlington National Cemetery. This is Memorial Day weekend (not to be mistaken with Veterans Day). This is the day we honor our men who died for us in battle. We honor them for their service and their ultimate sacrifice. They all did what most of us thought we might have to do some day, but were fortunate enough to avoid for one reason or another. If you are like me, you feel like some of them took our place on the field of war. I don’t really feel guilty, but I feel incredibly appreciative. I am one of those people who thank service men and women for their service, buy them lunch or a drink if I can and tear-up at their reunion videos.

When I was a young child in a household of women (so there were no warriors to directly cause this), I dreamed of battle. In school free time in first grade in a tropical valley in Costa Rica, I remember drawing Pacific navel and air battles complete with childish sound effects. Where does this come from? It must be hard-wired in the cerebral cortex. That’s the best guess I have. I hate guns, despite being trained in .22 rifle target-shooting and obtaining the NRA Sharpshooter Bar-Three rating at summer camp. I was ready for battle if I had been called in 1972. But by then, the draft had ended and my number of 330 made me doubly assured of not being called. I had no need to dodge the draft like Donald Trump, but that doesn’t stop me from finding his actions in sneaking out of his military service as deplorable. It was probably for the best since his current posture implies a My Lai future for whatever command he was given.

When we went to the Normandy beaches a few years ago, I was somber, but when I saw the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, I was saddened and moved by virtue of feeling closer to those men. Seeing the veterans in the motorcycle dirge and their endless caravan into Arlington moved me to my soul, since I am also a motorcyclist.

We can all despise war, but we should all honor those who serve and protect us. There is no room for equivocation there. This is the weekend to pay that homage. When you do, pay homage to Patrick as well (even though we honor him as a Saint on March 17th) since it was his warrior cult that gave him the realization that the world was coming to the precipice.

Patrick went forth from Ireland, first to England and then to the Continent and did so as a warrior with his adopted Celtic brothers. He did so with the best of Roman training and best of Celtic training. It made him a fierce warrior, an extraordinarily effective warrior and a very astute warrior. He learned a great deal more about war, Christianity and the importance of the written word as the glue that holds civilization together. From his travels and travails (a warring band of brigands leave very little room for subtlety), Patrick May have become the most important man in the world.

I have come to believe that Patrick the warrior may have been more important that Patrick the priest or even Patrick the Saint. It seems to me that honoring him and all other warriors (at least those who comport themselves honorably) is important and deserves some attention this weekend.