Christmas Comes to the Great Skellig

By TOM CASHMAN

Earlier, there had been shafts of sunlight between the storms, but they were gone now. The wind had shifted again from the northwest, the coldest and stormiest direction. The Atlantic glowered in rough grey swirls with dirty white spray breaking off the top of the waves.

Six hundred feet above the turbulent ocean, the cluster of stone huts seems to huddle together for warmth and protection.

Six hundred feet above the turbulent ocean, the cluster of stone huts seemed to huddle together for warmth and protection. None of the huts was large enough to serve as an oratory for the eleven monks that lived on this spear-shaped rock spire, projecting like a shark’s tooth off the southwest coast of Ireland. Instead, they prayed in groups of twos and threes, observing the daily office as their predecessors had since the community was founded early in the sixth century.

Brother Finngall finished his prayers and consulted the rude calendar he kept for the Skellig community. It was Christmas Eve, and their prayers that evening would have a particular joy to them. If only they could celebrate the Eucharist together. Alas, there was no priest among them since Fionann had died three years ago. No Eucharist had been said among them since an itinerant priest from Cork visited early last year.

By mid-afternoon, the light was already waning. The monks prepared a few turnips grown in the raised bed and composted soil. Added to this were some fresh gannet eggs gathered on the east pinnacle at the cost of many minor wounds as the gannets attempted to protect their nests. Tonight, they would feast, at least by the standards of that small brotherhood.

Brother Aedh spotted a small boat approaching the Skellig as the brothers prepared the evening meal. Too small to be associated with the marauding Northmen, it was nevertheless an event of no small notice. Few boats were seen in this area, even fewer during this inclement weather season. When it was clear that the boat intended to land here, four monks descended the steps toward the landing area.

The boatman rowed with a sure, powerful stroke, surprising since he would have been rowing for three hours now from the mainland. The boat touched the stone quay before they could reach the landing area. The rower leaped ashore, carrying a small bag. To the surprise of the watching monks, he kicked the boat away from the quay, allowing the Atlantic to take it back slowly, indeed toward the mainland, drifting aimlessly, its oars akimbo.

The stranger turned to face the Abbot and showed his signed permission from his monastery at Terryglas to make the journey to the great Skellig. Now, he asked the Abbot for his permission and blessing to stay. “Who are you, and what do you seek?” the Abbot asked. The stranger said that his name was Enda, that he was a sinful man, that he had been priested, and that, at this time in his life, he sought solitude for prayer and repentance.

“You are welcome to join this community of sinners who seek to serve God in this remote place.”

“You are welcome to join this community of sinners who seek to serve God in this remote place,” the Abbot said. “After some food and rest, we ask that you celebrate the Eucharist with us.” The stranger nodded.

So it was that Enda blessed and broke bread that night, bread he had brought from Terryglas. He preached the good news of the babe born in Bethlehem, delivered to carry all of us, all sinners, with him into the Kingdom that the Father has prepared for us.

That is how Christmas came that night to Skellig Michael.

That is how Christmas came that night to Skellig Michael. There were only gulls, gannets, and puffins to witness the faint glimmer of candlelight shown through the openings in the stone hut as gale winds buffeted the rocky spire. Perhaps they were angels in disguise. Maybe they were just gulls, gannets, and puffins, as outstanding in their way as angels.