{I’m writing each day in Lent 2021, focusing on various sanctuaries I’ve worshipped in, toured, or otherwise photographed. So far, in previous posts — scroll back — we’ve visited my home church, a cathedral organ in The Netherlands, and a monastery chapel in Virginia. There will be forty in all. I hope.}
I know there are people my age (i.e., over 75) who have hiked the complete “El Camino de Santiago,” or The Way of St. James in Spain. The total length of this path walked by pilgrims to the cathedral in Santiago is 500 miles. I’m currently not up for it, but I admire those who do commit themselves to that physical and spiritual challenge. The closest my wife and I came to the pilgrims was driving by them on a bus tour. Yes, I am embarrassed to admit that, but there it is. In our air-conditioned motor coach we saw a modest parade of backpack-laden hikers on the last leg of their journey, walking the streets of Santiago heading toward the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, a Romanesque structure, built between 1060 and 1211.
Some of those hikers had perhaps only gone part of the route. Others, exhausted no doubt, had trekked the whole journey, having climbed and descended mountains, spent nights in hospitable hostels, and endured sore feet and aching muscles. And just ahead were the steps up to the Cathedral, past the beggars (some professional), and into the crowded sanctuary where they would literally and figuratively lay their burdens down.
[Here I recommend a wonderful film by Emilio Estevez who has hiked the path and who cast his father Martin Sheen in the lead role. The film is called “The Way,” and the blurb on the DVD says, “You don’t choose a life, you live one.”]
Joan and I were on that bus as part of a cruise excursion, with the guide warning us as we left the coach to beware of pickpockets, and to realize that even within the cathedral itself there were some spiritual scammers, even dressed as clergy…so enjoy your tour, but keep an eye out for those who are keeping their eyes open to your wallets and purses. And cameras? Yikes.
The crowded square near the church was filled with tour groups waiting their turns to walk a few blocks to the cathedral entrance. Souvenir kiosks were abundant, selling everything from crucifixes to sunglasses, from postcards to “holy water.” When our busload got to the fountain square near the entry steps, we were met with the frantic commotion of crowds of sightseers and pilgrims, with scores of young people chanting, cheering, and singing to outdo competing youths’ chants and cheers. We climbed the steps, upright…there were no pilgrims going up on their knees…, bodies pressed tightly into the massive doors, my camera clutched close and wallet held tight. An old woman stood in the way holding a cup into which she invited our charity. Our suspicion overcame our usual tendency toward guilt as we pushed by.
In the seats, awaiting the noon worship service, were some pilgrim hikers with full packs on adjoining chairs. But most of us were packed into tour groups, and the movement through the magnificent space was timed by our ability to keep in audio touch with our particular guide. If we lost sight of the little tour sign she held above her head, or if we lingered too long over a stunning side chapel, we’d lose radio contact with her descriptive monolog and panic. To lose our guide was to lose our way. This was not the most spiritually enriching church visit. Having read the journal-like entries of one who actually hiked the trail as a spiritual journey, I realize his experience in that sanctuary would have been far more enriching than ours. For him, it was a transcendent finale to weeks of devotion, some struggle, and certain determination to finish the pilgrimage kneeling in prayer.
We had some free time to leave the tour group, have some lunch, and see some of the ancient streets on our own. But we circled back to the church for a more leisurely walk through its almost gaudy gold-laden apse, aisles, altar, organ, and reredos areas. Gold here, there, and everywhere.
Oh, you may be wondering about that image above. With my camera intact, I zoomed in on the high altar, and saw the gold-encrusted (of course) and bejeweled statue of Saint James himself, hugged (and surprised?) by a man who followed the long line of fellow pilgrims (or sightseers — probably both) in a narrow passage behind the statue. The custom is like kissing the Blarney Stone or the bricks at Indy, but more to receive a blessing than good luck I guess. Maybe there is some superstition involved too. The ancients had their share, as do many folk today. Church charms, religious voodoo, TV evangelists’ prayer cloths…oddities abound, and many are for sale in the Santiago square, half price. Sorry to sound so cynical. I’d like to think that I have a deeper trust, even faith, in more profound things. I wish I had given up “judginess” for Lent. If folks want to hug the saint, it’s no worry of mine. It’s just not my belief system.
James’ book in the New Testament says this is true religion:
Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you. James 1:27
Now I’m thinking I should have given that woman at the big church door some money.
Peace, Grace, and Jazz! 