The other traditional view is that 'Pelagius' translates as Morgan, the man who comes from (across) the sea (so maybe he was (of) Irish (descent), though his father was supposed to be a decurion). His doctrines at least appear to have made it back to Britain perhaps via someone they call 'the Sicilian Briton' (to whom is attributed a passionate Pelagian essay against wealth as the cause of poverty) and and were preserved in Ireland, and that is supposed to explain the hasty mission of Germanus to Britain to stamp out the 'poisonous' doctrine of Pelagianism. They were pretty nasty, those guys. There is also a claim that there is something Druidic about Pelagius' version of Christianity (though I am not sure how the commentators I have read are so confident of their knowledge of Druid doctrine) and that it fitted into the Celtic tradition of warrior heroism. Anyway, after my trip to Bangor and a walk along the Dee I wrote about Pelagius, a bit stodgy in places and there is a grumble from Augustine in italics:
A place to die where in the wind
The trees that lean towards the river
Also creak and groan as I do now
But I am not, as I was, affronted
By the insult of old age
The distant hills still there and I
Recognised only by one old monk
ii
He was large and stout, grandis
Et corpulentus
Walked like a turtle
Fat and slow
Awash with porridge
Our Britisher in Rome, his home
For thirty years
Across the square he goes, to speak
Exquisitely with friends and strangers
Of Christ our light in darkness
Lingers over supper with the ladies
His head thrust forward with the concentration
Of an angry ram
Though he frowned with urgency
Not anger, his exasperation
With us, his conforming pagans
And our doctrines of convenience
To our luxury and torpor
Mildly expressed with charm and grace
There was never a man more gracious
Than the man, Pelagius
Nor a man more sharp, nor of cooler wit
What matters is what you do
And what you refuse to do
iii
So I had thought as well
A good man
Advanced in the faith
Till I saw how he tempted his disciples
To pride, an enemy of grace
No grace but the law and teaching
And our creation as free beings
He was not
As I was forced to be
Twice-born
Who could not act
Unless God raised me first
Raised me by force and sweetness
From my concupiscence and sin
iv
I need a stick and a sturdy boy
To get down here again to the river's edge
To settle my limbs a moment on a bench
And listen to the rush of water
As it runs, down to Carlegion, and the sea
v
Ah, a grace of nature shows me flowers
In winter, a kindly, friendly sign
A flurry of snowdrops along the bank
Shows me life emerge from death
The bridge that the river can be crossed
The church that death wakes us into life
I sang here
But wake from the same dream
Of my remote island, wet and green
And the mental scourges start to sting
Again, the sufferings of Christ
Lay on my soul the grace
Of the Father, I consent
And my resentment melts
That anxious, controlling intellects
Condemned me, ah, to what?
Another Flight into Egypt
And after interrupted sleep the dawn
Shows through the curtained door
And I watch the sun rise hugely
Between the two hills, see light
Race across the plain towards me
Flood me with illumination, and God's grace
vi
We are by God's good grace created
To choose or refuse the good
To be changed by the path we take
Into light or into darkness
Even to perdition, or salvation, never
Say my sin is not my choice
But my necessity
(How would it then be sin?)
If we choose evil, pride
Then the act is ours …
… So how can it not be ours
If we choose the good
Are my good deeds then not my deeds?
—Praise is for encouragement, not pride
As blame is for admonition
What is ours is given
What we are
Does not come from us
I have turned gladly towards his light
And sometimes stubbornly away
From what I saw was good
I have been shown what I need to see
The right book has come to hand
Opened at the page I need to read
The unexpected memory, the dream
The moral luck that rescued me
From what I knew too well I willed
But I cannot tell
Whether God prevents us …
Or our larger selves
In the swift perception of created spirit
vii
A natural shame and indignation
Recoil from the brutal act
That also satisfies, reveals
The will to good as well as evil
Native in the first blush
Of our God-created spirit, smothered
We thought we crushed it
In the fleshly habits of desire
We follow our father Adam in
Too stupefied to own our sin
Unknown the treasure buried deep
II
We shook from our heels
The dust of Syracuse
And took his books away
From the heat and accusation
And reached our northern islands
Where we dispersed
To teach Christ’s truth
Be cursed, and still obey
ii
So much reality, so dark
Occluded from the density of sense
By the red light of desire
But I was lifted in the spirit
Swirling and billowing out
I was the sail, the flimsy curragh, lifted
Whirled and tossed and racing, spun
In turbulent current, rushing, gusting wind
iii
I stood waist deep and naked
In the freezing winter river
Chanting the psalms and praising God
I fasted and kept night vigils, used the rod
Contending for the athlete's prize, austerity
Subdued the flesh but attuned
The body, payment for release
Of the bound spirit, straining to be free
iv
Miles out and dangerous, the Skellig rock
And a violent shock and wall of wind
To lean against and scream within its roar
News of the Christ to the restless, desperate sea.
The trees that lean towards the river
Also creak and groan as I do now
But I am not, as I was, affronted
By the insult of old age
The distant hills still there and I
Recognised only by one old monk
ii
He was large and stout, grandis
Et corpulentus
Walked like a turtle
Fat and slow
Awash with porridge
Our Britisher in Rome, his home
For thirty years
Across the square he goes, to speak
Exquisitely with friends and strangers
Of Christ our light in darkness
Lingers over supper with the ladies
His head thrust forward with the concentration
Of an angry ram
Though he frowned with urgency
Not anger, his exasperation
With us, his conforming pagans
And our doctrines of convenience
To our luxury and torpor
Mildly expressed with charm and grace
There was never a man more gracious
Than the man, Pelagius
Nor a man more sharp, nor of cooler wit
What matters is what you do
And what you refuse to do
iii
So I had thought as well
A good man
Advanced in the faith
Till I saw how he tempted his disciples
To pride, an enemy of grace
No grace but the law and teaching
And our creation as free beings
He was not
As I was forced to be
Twice-born
Who could not act
Unless God raised me first
Raised me by force and sweetness
From my concupiscence and sin
iv
I need a stick and a sturdy boy
To get down here again to the river's edge
To settle my limbs a moment on a bench
And listen to the rush of water
As it runs, down to Carlegion, and the sea
v
Ah, a grace of nature shows me flowers
In winter, a kindly, friendly sign
A flurry of snowdrops along the bank
Shows me life emerge from death
The bridge that the river can be crossed
The church that death wakes us into life
I sang here
But wake from the same dream
Of my remote island, wet and green
And the mental scourges start to sting
Again, the sufferings of Christ
Lay on my soul the grace
Of the Father, I consent
And my resentment melts
That anxious, controlling intellects
Condemned me, ah, to what?
Another Flight into Egypt
And after interrupted sleep the dawn
Shows through the curtained door
And I watch the sun rise hugely
Between the two hills, see light
Race across the plain towards me
Flood me with illumination, and God's grace
vi
We are by God's good grace created
To choose or refuse the good
To be changed by the path we take
Into light or into darkness
Even to perdition, or salvation, never
Say my sin is not my choice
But my necessity
(How would it then be sin?)
If we choose evil, pride
Then the act is ours …
… So how can it not be ours
If we choose the good
Are my good deeds then not my deeds?
—Praise is for encouragement, not pride
As blame is for admonition
What is ours is given
What we are
Does not come from us
I have turned gladly towards his light
And sometimes stubbornly away
From what I saw was good
I have been shown what I need to see
The right book has come to hand
Opened at the page I need to read
The unexpected memory, the dream
The moral luck that rescued me
From what I knew too well I willed
But I cannot tell
Whether God prevents us …
Or our larger selves
In the swift perception of created spirit
vii
A natural shame and indignation
Recoil from the brutal act
That also satisfies, reveals
The will to good as well as evil
Native in the first blush
Of our God-created spirit, smothered
We thought we crushed it
In the fleshly habits of desire
We follow our father Adam in
Too stupefied to own our sin
Unknown the treasure buried deep
II
We shook from our heels
The dust of Syracuse
And took his books away
From the heat and accusation
And reached our northern islands
Where we dispersed
To teach Christ’s truth
Be cursed, and still obey
ii
So much reality, so dark
Occluded from the density of sense
By the red light of desire
But I was lifted in the spirit
Swirling and billowing out
I was the sail, the flimsy curragh, lifted
Whirled and tossed and racing, spun
In turbulent current, rushing, gusting wind
iii
I stood waist deep and naked
In the freezing winter river
Chanting the psalms and praising God
I fasted and kept night vigils, used the rod
Contending for the athlete's prize, austerity
Subdued the flesh but attuned
The body, payment for release
Of the bound spirit, straining to be free
iv
Miles out and dangerous, the Skellig rock
And a violent shock and wall of wind
To lean against and scream within its roar
News of the Christ to the restless, desperate sea.
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