The Long Walk: Holy

What is a holy place, a holy site or a holy object? You can imagine that as we have walked some 700kms across Northern Spain thus far, we have certainly seen our share of churches, Cathedrals, images of saints, crosses, shrines and reliquaries. From the breathtakingly magnificent to the most humble, faded and dilapidated. We have been in the Cathedrals of Burgos and Leon as well as chapels and hermitages not bigger than our family room with altars as simple as an old wooden table with a cross. And yes, of course we have seen the chalice used by Jesus at the last supper in the museum of San Izadoro. I’m reminded of the saying that if you assembled all the purported pieces of the cross of Jesus preserved in churches you would have enough lumber to build Noah’s ark.

I suppose as a lifelong participant in the low church traditions with a particularly anabaptist foundation I approach such matters with an element of unease, if not suspicion. However, it is also true that in all of these experiences I am deeply moved by the beauty, whether that of the magnificent altars, unimaginably detailed stained glass and flying buttresses of the Cathedrals, or the simple carved wooden crosses and tiny churches with their bell towers that are sometimes built atop impossibly steep hills. As I get older I am much more comfortable with and comforted by the mystery of my faith and aware that the incarnation of Jesus has broad implications for a somewhat sacramental understanding of material things.

The dedication, duty and faith all of these places and structures represent leaves me speechless. Consider the complex of artisans, architects, laborers, farmers, cooks and cleaners over the many years it took to build the great monasteries and churches. Or the lifelong dedication of a simple hermit, usually affiliated with a monastery, who spent his life serving in the tiniest village and helping injured pilgrims. All of this has a holiness to it, it seems to me. And I must share that over these last few weeks we have met not a few people who have found themselves struggling to express how or why they have felt drawn into churches along the Camino, or have wept upon hearing liturgy in a language they don’t even understand. One young German man, obviously driven to succeed, gripped by anger and a difficult past stated that he has never darkened the door of a church in Berlin but can hardly walk past one on the Camino and while sitting inside feels the most at peace he has ever experienced.

Of course, there is a strange sadness as well that attends all of this. Many, probably most of the small churches we have walked past are now only a physical witness to the Religious past of this country. They have no priest or pastor and the doors are locked. I have perhaps 50 photos of enormous stork nests that are on the steeple and/or bell tower of churches along our Camino and one gets the impression that these storks are the only creatures making use of the building. In one town, as we read a sign on the wall beside a locked gate to a grand church, a young man approached and asked if we would like to enter, which we were eager to do. He shared that this massive church had no priest and that he; a young priest/missionary had come from Uganda to serve the parish.

Several weeks ago as we approached a tiny village, we could see the church bell tower from a considerable distance, as is often the case particularly while walking across the plains. As we finally got close I realized that the church building had been utterly ruined and only three walls of the bell tower remained standing. The symbolism of this was striking: the physical church, and likely the spiritual vitality of life with Jesus has diminished, but the tower and bell remain as a physical reminder and photo opportunity for passing pilgrims.

Frankly, I was also saddened by a comment I heard the other day. We were on a tour of the astonishingly large San Xulian monastery in Samos, now host to only 9 Benedictine monks. As we entered the actual church a woman on the tour with us said, “now we are in the presence of Christ”. I recognize this represents a particular theological view, and while I want to be respectful, I desperately wanted to tell her and perhaps should have, that Christ is everywhere and I have been in his presence all day.

All of this brings me to reflect on what has been the most palpable holy “thing” I have experienced on this journey. It is what I would call “holy hunger.” While it is true that some walk the Camino merely as an adventure, or perhaps strictly as tourists, it seems to me the majority walk as an expression of a hunger for meaning, for direction for connection with God and with their fellow human. They might not use this vocabulary but the reality of this longing is evident in many conversations in which we have engaged. Some pilgrims are explicit about this longing, in others it lies under a thin veneer and is expressed in the vaguest of terms. But it is there.

This holy hunger shows up when people unexpectedly find themselves weeping during a blessing of the pilgrims at a mountain top church. It shows up when people of different languages and cultures share fellowship around a meal and are truly attentive to one another as God’s image bearers. It shows up when obviously different political views are set aside and our common humanity celebrated. It shows up when it feels normal that radical stories of encounters with God are a welcome part of the conversation among pilgrims, some of whom are atheistic or agnostic, over a round of pints or a jug of sangria.

When I see and feel the presence of many, many people on this journey, something deep in my soul feels hopeful, joyful even. Perhaps I perceive these fellow peregrinos as in some way foreshadowing a wider movement of humanity toward a recognition of this holy hunger, one that admits all of our stuff, our reputations and titles, our pursuits and hobbies do not fully satisfy and are often attempts to cover over the “God shaped void in every human heart” as Pascal put it.

I am painfully aware that in three days we will reach the end of our Camino journey and that this little bubble, this temporary isolation from our usual lives, will burst. Hopefully I, along with many others we have literally and figuratively bumped into over these last 40 days will return to our respective homes more aware of the holy hunger we share and more inclined to become people who learn to “love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength and love our neighbor as ourself.”