Returning to the Well
Reverend Janet Parsons
Gloucester Unitarian Universalist Church
August 14, 2022
It’s a steep climb, up the hill known as Dun I on the Isle of Iona in Scotland. To get to the base of the hill, you open a farmer’s gate, cross a pasture dotted with sheep, and abruptly begin to climb. It’s muddy, and slippery, very boggy in spots, with no real trail. The wind threatens to push you back down the hill.
When you reach the top, you make your way to a rocky outcropping, and there, nestled between the rocks, is a spring, known locally as Brigid’s Well. You can see my photo on the cover of your order of service. For folks who are watching from home, the photo is included in Friday’s weekly email announcement if you want to take a quick look.
A spring, a well, on top of a hill, with tiny whitecaps raised by the fierce wind. There’s nothing human-made here, and it inspires a sense of wonder – the wonder of the natural world and the wonder born of suddenly sensing the eternal – sensing that the spring has always been there, and always will be.
The well, of course, is named for Brigid, the Druid priestess who over centuries evolved into Saint Brigid of Kildare. It’s posited that St. Brigid, also known as Bride, is the most popular saint in Ireland. Certainly her presence was strong in the Hebridean Islands of Scotland as well, and some say that the origin of word ‘Hebrides’ is derived from Brigid. Over the centuries, St. Brigid took more and more attributes of the Druid goddess and they are many. Brigid stands at doorways, on thresholds, welcoming the stranger and inhabiting liminal spaces, the spaces in between: between indoors and out, between winter and spring, between night and dawn, between pagan religion and Christianity. She is the keeper of the hearth, and prayers were said to her upon banking the house fire at night and restoring it in the morning. Because of her hospitality and generosity, she was said to be able to turn water into beer. As John Philip Newell asked, “Is it any wonder that Brigid outshines Mary in the affection of the Gaels?
Throughout the British Isles clean water was vital, life-giving, and so wells such as the one on Iona were seen as sacred, and often dedicated to Brigid. Down the centuries wells have been regarded as portals between worlds, openings to the underworld.
Brigid’s feast day is February 1, also known in earth centered traditions as Imbolc, which is considered a threshold date, between winter and spring. It’s lambing season. The St. Brigid’s cross, woven from green rushes, has four equal arms and is said to be adapted from the design of a pagan sunwheel. People hang them in their homes on February 1 to protect them from evil, fire, and hunger.
In some legends, Brigid is said to have been born on Iona. John Philip Newell tells us, “In pre-Christian legend it was said that on February 1 the Hag of Winter, Cailleach, would journey to what was called the “mystical island” in the sea to drink from its Well of Eternal Youth. Some would say that this mystical island in the sea is Iona and that the wellspring high on Dun I, Iona’s most prominent hill, is the legendary Well of Eternal Youth. When the Hag of Winter sipped from the well, said the legend, she was transformed into the beautiful goddess of spring. She would then raise her hands over the islands, turning them green, and from under her cloak she would scatter snowdrops, the first flowers of spring, across the green fields. In the Celtic Christian world, Brigid becomes the saint of the greening earth and of new life rising.” (Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul, by John Philip Newell, p. 60.)
None of us at the well that day really wanted to sip from Brigid’s Well, even to test the theory of eternal youth. There was too much evidence of sheep around. Some of us splashed a bit on our faces. I regret to report that there was no discernable change in appearance, but the legend lives on.
Brigid’s Well fascinated me. There’s the setting, of course, which was like nothing I’d ever seen before. But what I sought most avidly to discover in my time on Iona were the intersections and layers of religions – the evidence of pre-Christian religions, overlaid by and mingled with Christianity over the centuries. And, starting with Brigid’s Well, there were signs everywhere.
The prevailing narrative about Iona is that St. Columba arrived from Ireland – St. Columkille, in Gaelic – to establish an abbey there. He is credited with bringing Christianity to Scotland. Over the years, Iona became the site of more than one abbey, an Augustinian nunnery, and today, the Iona Community, dedicated to worship and action for peace and justice around the world.
The 13th century nunnery is just outside of the tiny town, down the road from the Abbey. It thrived until the Protestant Reformation and then was allowed to fall into ruins, which offer a delightful spot for reflection. On the outside of the refectory, carved above one of the windows, is an eroded depiction of a goddess figure. This is known in Ireland and Scotland as a ‘sheela na gig’ – a sculpture of a naked woman with her legs spread apart. Interpretations of the meaning of these carvings vary widely. One common explanation was that the sculptures were placed above doorways and windows, as was the case here on Iona, to ward off evil. Perhaps so. But the similarities in appearance with ancient sculptures of the divine feminine seem too strong to ignore. I found myself drawn to this spot, walking past her every chance I got. Another portal, perhaps – a liminal space above a window, between one religion and another.
The greatest mystery for me was the depiction of snakes everywhere, especially on stone crosses. Iona is known for its high crosses – seven or eight foot tall outdoor crosses, with a ring encircling the crosspiece at the top. This ring, or nimbus, might be a depiction of eternity having no beginning or end. Or, it may simply be a means of trying to stabilize the structure in the face of high winds. The crosses are typically covered with carvings – sometimes scenes from the life of Jesus, or depictions of the Trinity, but also intricate woven vines, called strapwork, and animals, and snakes.
I briefly mentioned last week the confusion with which I greeted the images of snakes carved on a Christian symbol. As I walked around on my first day on Iona, absorbing all the sights, Celtic art was everywhere. And so were images of snakes. I realized later that this was my introduction to Celtic spirituality that we discussed last week – the sacredness of both heaven and earth, the intricacy and the intimacy of the relationship between the two. Holiness is everywhere, above our heads and at our feet. We live on the threshold, in the liminal space between.
My confusion stemmed from my understanding that Christians considered snakes to be evil, beginning with the serpent in the Garden of Eden. And of course, I’ve heard all my life that St. Patrick was revered in part for banishing the snakes from Ireland. It’s only fairly recently that I learned the theory that in St. Patrick’s case, the word ‘snakes’ was a euphemism for Pagans. And the suppression of earth-based religions always saddens and angers me. So the images of snakes on a cross was confounding.
But shouldn’t a pilgrimage be confounding? We open our eyes and our minds and hearts to new images, new ideas. We should be forced to stop and ponder.
It turns out that snakes are a powerful representation of life and of rebirth. Because of the way they shed their skins, they are seen as a symbol of transformation and new life. Early Celtic Christians would see the snake as an important image to express their belief in the sacredness of life on earth.
We don’t know why St. Columba chose to come to Iona in 563 to found an abbey. Perhaps Iona had a reputation as a powerfully religious and spiritual place in pre-Christian times. Certainly something about the island has continued to draw people ever since. It’s the burial place of 46 Scottish kings, and some Viking ones, including, some say, Macbeth. The island continues to draw pilgrims and seekers, including those living at and visiting the Iona Community. And every year or two, a group of mostly Unitarian Universalists.
I wondered what to expect on Iona. I hoped for some sort of experience, a gift of sorts, to connect me with the ancient spiritual energy there. And then something happened.
We had taken a long walk to the far end of the island, to see the beach where St. Columba was thought to have landed in 563. We spent an hour beachcombing, as the stones were beautiful, and some contained the pale green marble that is only found there. I brought some of that to show you. I noticed something black sticking up out of the stones. I reached down and pulled up a piece of slate, and found writing on it. There was a drawing of a Brigid’s Cross, and the words “Brigid’s Cross – ancient protection.”
I showed my find to the group. One of the leaders mentioned the hike the next day up to Brigid’s Well, and the response to this find became obvious. I would return this stone to the well.
And so I did. I carried the slate up Dun I, the hill outside of town, and scouted for a good spot to leave it – nestled in a grassy spot between two rocks, just about the well. I felt strongly that it belonged right there.
I wonder often, in the month since I’ve been home, the effect of leaving my offering at the well. How many pilgrims have found their way to the well since I was there? How many notice the slate, and decipher the writing? How many wonder, even for a moment, how it came to be in that place, and maybe, even for a moment, open themselves to the possibility of mystery, of wonder?
The sea offered something up to me, and I noticed it, and accepted it, and then I left it behind at a source. Maybe what I was looking for when I first arrived on Iona was a deeper sense of what wellsprings, what sources, what portals, there are around us waiting for us to notice them, to turn toward them. Or maybe, I was there to experience how layer upon layer of religious tradition creates a sense of liminal space and can unfold for you, can offer you tiny glimpses into that space between different times and different worlds, glimpses into the evolution of beliefs that are ever changing.
My friends, our whole lives take place within liminal space – the space between past and future, in the transition periods. We find ourselves daily between waking and sleep, between night and day, existing in uncertain times when we can’t quite see where we are headed. All our lives take place within these transitions, perhaps never more obvious than in the past two years, when as I’ve said before, we are no longer where we were, but we don’t know yet where we are going. We continually pause on thresholds. We look for openings, for direction, for meaning in our surroundings.
The look backward, the effort to unravel threads of different religions that combined, shifted, and became entirely new, reminds us that we are no different than the ancients, and that we all live our lives within times of transition. May we notice, look for openings in the rock, look for life-giving wells, and be grateful.
Amen.
Blessed Be.
