Communion of Saints
“Well, how is it?” a friend messaged me.
I read her message after arriving in Burgos, at the end of three days of heat, with temperatures in the nineties and just enough humidity to make itself known. I pondered her question while waiting for my feet to stop throbbing and my phone to charge.
I confess that for the past three days, this pilgrimage had been less of a mystical event—or even a glorious nature hike—and more of a desperate plodding through hot, hot days with no shade. I would stop in every little village and get something: a sparkling water or a Coke. Although I carried water, I was desperate to escape the relentless gaze of the sun for just a few moments. I would sit in the cool, dark bars and give my eyes and flesh a chance to rest.
As I slogged along, I was honestly too weary to reach for anything resembling profundity. Still, every day, as I set off, I said a silent prayer to the Universe: Show me what this day holds. Help me to be open to the moment, each moment of this day. Help me to see what I need to see, to hear what I need to hear, to say what I need to say, to know what I need to know.
Merely by saying the words, my intention and attention became attuned to the day. I didn’t want to become so accustomed to the voluptuous beauty of this planet that I stopped noticing it.
We do that sometimes, we humans, don’t we? We bask in the gift of a moment, and when its beauty remains, we become used to it. We take it for granted.
So, in these hot, hot days, I didn’t want to lose my ability to look for miracles. I still saw the beauty and felt the wonder of this amazing Camino. Just with less enthusiasm.
Yesterday, I traveled from a bustling town with supermarkets and cafés to the small village of San Juan de Ortega. There was a monastery with a pilgrim hostel and its bar and café, the small hotel where I stayed, and a handful of homes.
After getting settled, I strolled over in the sweltering heat to visit the church. Because my hotels were often several blocks—or miles—from the Camino, I hadn’t explored the churches as much as I’d hoped. I hadn’t yet attended one of the evening Pilgrim’s Masses, either.
Inside, the church was wonderfully cool. There were even blankets for those who wanted to sit and meditate. On one side was the tomb of San Juan de Ortega. On the other were beautiful artwork and an altar. There were candles for people to buy and light. I didn’t have coins with me, but knew I would return after Mass.
At the appointed hour, I entered the church. The main sanctuary, which had been closed behind a locked gate earlier, was now open. I picked up an English and Spanish order of service so I could follow along.
As the priest began the introductory rites and led us in the Kyrie eleison, I felt my throat constrict. I thought of the long line of pilgrims who had found safe haven within these walls. Looking around at the small gathering, I wondered about the different reasons each of us had come to this Way, to this moment, to this communion of saints.
The first reading was from 1 Corinthians 13, the love chapter. I followed along on the English side as the priest read in Spanish: without love, even the speech of angels becomes a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
I felt verklempt in the presence of the holy. Not the presence of a certain God, and definitely not the speaking of a certain creed, but the presence of the people gathered there. Each of us was on a pilgrimage, taking our place in the lineage of those who had stood in that place before and would stand there long after I was gone.
I thought of how it really does take a village—or villages, actually. We each need someone to prepare a place for us. We each need to prepare room for others who will come to our doorsteps, in one form or another, seeking shelter, safety, sanctuary.
In the spirit of this communion of saints, this community of strangers, friends, and loved ones, I stood and went forward to receive the communion wafer the priest offered. I could not know how he understood the beliefs of those gathered there. For me, the moment held a sense of companionship among people on a shared road, even when our beliefs differed.
Following the service, he invited us over for a special pilgrim’s blessing, invoking protection, peace, and well-being upon our journey. Then he gave each of us a simple cross on a cord. I bent my neck and received mine gratefully.
From the old man in Pamplona, to the flowers and trees and path, to my family and loved ones who cheered me on, to this priest: I’ll take all the blessings I can get.
Afterward, I went to the altar and lit three candles. One for my friend who was on her own pilgrimage with metastatic breast cancer, walking an unseen road. One for my relationship and all those whom I loved. And one for my own Camino, my own pilgrimage.
Today I went from that small village to the much bigger city of Burgos. Tomorrow, my resting place would be a small community again. I realized, though, that even larger cities can be a patchwork quilt of smaller neighborhoods, smaller communities, threaded together with roads and stoplights and strip malls.
This communion of saints isn’t dependent on the size of a community, or even upon having commonly held beliefs. It does require love. Otherwise, it’s just a bunch of people making a bunch of noise, disturbing the peace.
“Well, how is it?” my friend asked.
“Amazing in parts,” I told her. “And really hot and just slogging along in others.”
Which I guess is life, after all. Still, beauty awaits, and holiness, and mystery.