“With holy herte, and with an heigh corage
He roos, to wenden on his pilgramage.”
____ Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales[i]
around the airport to San Paio
Thence to Lavacolla
On the Way: From O Pinos to the Mount of Joy
How happy we were to leave O Pinos that morning, and shake the dust off our feet and curse all innkeepers who exploit their fellow men in times of need! For shame! For shame! For you shall be on the left of the Lord at the day of judgment, there with the goats! You shall eat your fill of fermented fodder. You shall sleep eternally in dirty beds which host bed bugs. You shall live in foul hovels of Hell and pay dearly for it, for you sold your soul and your decency to earthly profit and filthy lucre. It is sin enough to be inhospitable. It is a sin of great proportions to be inhospitable and take your guest’s money in the process. It is a sin edging on mortal to do so when the guest is a pilgrim walking for the glory of the God of the Universe. Oh Cluny! Oh Olivetan! Oh Hospitaller! You are sorely needed in O Pinos!
I I I
In the early morning Randi and I walked through the town to a path which led us through a land dense with trees. It was unsettling to walk through a forest in the dark of the early morning. The batteries in our flashlights were spent. In such circumstances, imagination conjured up all sorts of specters in the dark and dampened air of the wood, and reason must spend great effort to ignore them.
Through the wood of dense pine we walked to San Antón. At San Antón we crossed the arroyo Brandelos and passed through Casa Nova, the first house in the village of Amenal. We were nearing Compostela as we walked to Cimadevila, through which we passed, and then through woodlands heading southwest for about a kilometer and one-half. In the middle of the woods, the Camino turned abruptly ninety degrees north until it joined with the carretera and the junction of C-547 and N-634. The airport was to our southwest and then beside us as we traveled to San Paio. We went through this village, crossed the carretera to A Sigüero, and passed the Colegio de Lavacolla to our left. Ahead of us was Lavacolla.
About Lavacolla, known medievally as Lavemntul, Aymeric Picaud tells us:
There is furthermore a certain river located at a distance of two miles from the city of Santiago, in a wooded place, and which is called Lavementul, because there the French pilgrims that go to St. James, for the love of the Apostle, use to wash not merely their virile member, but, having taken off their clothes, wash off the dirt from their entire body.”[ii]
This must have been a prerogative of the male pilgrims, for the cleric Picaud does not tell us what the women pilgrims would do for the love of the Apostle, and he mentions only the washing of the virile members (mentulas). For very good reasons that are obvious to any reasonable man, this is one part of the medieval pilgrimage I did not replicate. It was not fundamentula to the pilgrimage.
Lava-menttula
In eo gens gallica peregrina ad sanctum Iacobum tendens, non solum mentulas suas, verum etiam totius corporis sui sordes apostoli amori lavari solet vesti-mentis suis expoliata
San Marcos at the foot of Monxoi
Monte de Gozo
And to the city of Santiago
We passed Lavacolla and took a wrong turn. We went straight up a hill instead of taking a right. So we wasted more than two and a half miles of hard walking before we became convinced that we had erred. We had to retrace our steps back to Lavacolla, where we discovered our mistake. We consoled ourselves with some coffee, and then began the trip out of Lavacolla anew, taking this time the right we should have taken more than an hour ago.
We traveled thus to Vilamayor, and from there to the town of A Zamarrazedo uphill to San Marcos, a village which lay at the foot of the famous Monte do Gozo or Monxoi. We climbed the Monte do Gozo, the Mons gaudii or “Mount Joy,” the Berg der Freude. Call it what you wish, there is a monument atop the place which marks the pilgrim visit of Pope John Paul II to Compostela. It is at the top of this hill where the pilgrim can see in the distance, five kilometers away, the city of St. James. According to an old pilgrim hymn, this holy sentiment, this joy, frees us from the temporal punishments attached to our sin. I could not find this indulgence listed in any Enchiridion, and I did not think I would, for this is an indulgence sanctioned only by vox populi, or perhaps more precisely, the vox peregrini.
Zu einer Kapelle solls du gehn,
Sie wird auf dem Berg der Freude stehn.
Dort gibt es Steine ohne Zahl,
Und du siehst Santiago zum ersten Mal.
Und du kriegst, das wird jeder dir sagen,
Einen Ablaß von hundert Tagen.[iii]
But what is this indulgence relative to the hope of a plenary indulgence that awaits a pilgrim at the Shrine of the Apostle? Under the ancient economy of Holy Church, few of us moderns would avoid less than one hundred days of canonical penance, fasting hard on bread and water in the vestibule of the church. Regrettably, most of (and, fellow sinners, I include myself) us are in need of greater indulgence than that.
I I I
It is meet and right here to utter a Te Deum as did Laffi and his fellows
On the Way: Peregrinus Agonistes
The pilgrim path had now distilled itself to the short five kilometers that remained ahead. The end of a pilgrim’s journey is a parallel to death. How to explain the pilgrim’s last agony?
Peregrinus:
I walk in dark canopy: dark, darker, and black;
The darkness of sin, timor mortis at my back
Promised joys of earth’s sweets leave sour aftertaste
Make the soul servile, wed to false duty and haste.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Clemens servulorum, Gemitus tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Waters of sacrament poured on child’s head:
Planted seminal virtue in the souls yard, but led
By pride’s husbandry, I passion’s seed and vice sowed.
These tares choked the flower; the bed ceased to grow.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Flos apostolorum, decus electorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Pagan presumptions, values material and urbane
Tax the spirit with false earth: these to God’s spirit are bane;
Drag soul through sin’s mire, leave it stained with despair.
Once lost and soul whored, who will the hymen repair?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Te clamant cunctorum, voces seculorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Where the thunderous Prophet to pull wayfarer out?
Where is the Church—the divine banisher of doubt?
What is the Relic that pales sin, fear, and vice?
How reach Redemption? With what Heavenly device?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu desolatorum, Levamen reorum, Iacobe iuva!”
I have heard there’s a Way, well-trodden,well-tried
A footpath to walk, with thunderous Apostle as guide
In the regions of Hispania can medicine one find?
To make the lame walk, and give sight to the blind?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
Trifera morborum, Gera infirmorum, Iacobe iuva!
Humble Servant of God, Brave Martyr of the Faith,
Great Apostolic Sword against Evil’s vile wraith
I, Enclosed in dark dungeon, God’s Mercy I want
To be released from Sin’s chains, and the Devil’s cruel taunts
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Qui seras captorum, Solivs miserorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Freedom of soul grant me, for with thick Sin’s chain bound
Is my soul called to Divinity, to the Devil she-hound
Call me O Jacob, Great Apostle, your prayer is sure!
Call my soul out of its gaol to the star-guided Tour!
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu solve nostrorum, Vincla delictorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Fall! Servile chains of the world’s bastard claims
Ancient Ways beckon as do the bones of St. James.
Withdraw from life’s pilgrimage! Don the habit of pilgrim!
Lord grant me Mercy, and spurn not my weak limb.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Sis peregrinorum, Salvator tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Chorus:
Is this pilgrim not Everyman? Has he so seriously fallen?
Scarce recognizable in dress foul and unkempt?
Weak, lame, and blighted and begging God’s pardon—
Let us console the one burdened with such self-contempt.
Peregrinus:
Are your friends, who seek to console me in my state?
I fear my failures for God’s Mercy are too late!
Chorus Communis:
True, your soul scarcely complies with its calling
The Ego baptizo has not fulfilled its promise
We scarce deny that in mood your state is most appalling
For we fail nunc and in the hora of our mortis
But Friend, fellow human, you suffer grave imbalance,
Your wrongs peccadilloes, not damnable fault.
Whims of common passion to Hell cannot sentence
You are prey to a medieval and celibate priestly assault!
Peregrinus:
If I have not sin, and am not severely adjudged
Then I want not God’s Mercy, for God’s not bregrudged!
Away from me false friends, for your sin is to be
Unware of the sin that’s within you and me
Chorus Familiaris:
This pilgrimage cannot be heavenly call
From familial duties God never beckoned
This is not spirit, but a selfish self thrall
The family first. Pilgrimage second!
Peregrinus:
You show yourself in great discomfiture,
But your doctrine accords badly with Scripture.
I suggest not abandonment; rather, sabbatical
Such temporary reprieve is not problematical.
Chorus Economicus:
These peregrine dreams ought to be banished
As profitless, costly, most uneconomical
There’s no money on the Way–it’s financially famished
The market grants freedom in ways ergonomical.
Peregrinus:
You gain the world, but lose your soul
You chose a part, and forget the whole.
Moneterism as gospel . . . .
Lector: Shades of the tale of Sir Topaz. Enough!
Auctor: And why, dear and indulgent reader, why? Didn’t Belloc end his account of his pilgrimage with a poem?
Lector: Why? You have the temerity to ask why? You have exceeded the limits of our charity. One need only give a pilgrim so much liberty in describing his travels. This indulgence does not extend to ponderous doggerel. I shall invoke against you the Master of pilgrim poetry:
“By God,” I say, “put plainly in a word,
Your dreary rhyming isn’t worth a turd!
You’re doing nothing else but wasting time.
Sir, in a word, you shall no longer rhyme.”[iv]
I I I
On calle de los Con-cheiros to the Rúa de San Pedro to Puerta del Camino and through Plazas to the Azaba-chería to the Cathedral and to
The walk from the hill of joy to the town of Compostela is like walking through any modern city. There was no room for deep thought, or stirring emotions. There was only a sense of urgency and anticipation. The immediate task was inordinately mundane: to negotiate the distractions of the city traffic and the maze of city streets and plazas—the ruas and prazas—of modern Compostela. The goal remained hidden and elusive, as the Cathedral could not be seen until we were but mere blocks away. Each step seemed faster with greater urgency and surety than the last as we wended our way through the traffic and the streets.
The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela loomed suddenly before us on our way to the town’s old center. There are only two things in the world when the pilgrim sees the Cathedral: the pilgrim and the Cathedral. Once the Cathedral towers are seen, it takes but a few minutes to arrive at the Puerta de la Azabachería, the first portal to give access to the church.
I I I
The Cathedral was massive. It was grand. It was beautiful. And there God was. For St. James by the grace of his body which was a portal to Heaven had named the place Bethel. And there St. James was. And there I was. It was good to be there. After 500 miles, twenty-seven days, nearly one and a quarter phases of the moon, more than 350 towns, and countless prayers, in the middle of this town of divine invention, “the happiest and most splendid of all cities in Spain,”[v] I stood—insignificant in size and in age and in glory—before this granite Church of St. James built over a Galileean fisherman’s bones. The door of the Azabacherías was open, to the church and to the crypt. And it was open for me. My feet, so used to walking, now paused. But from within—the region wherein God dwells—I heard the call to come in, and I followed. As I walked through the doors ad limina Beati Iacobi, it seemed as if I heard the Spirit and the Bride and St. James say with one voice, “Come.” And there I was refreshed with the waters of Life.
Et spiritus et sponsa dicunt: Veni. Et qui audit, dicat: Veni. Et qui sitit veniat, et qui vult accipiat aquam vitae gratis.
I I I
Compos-tella apostolica urbs excellen-tissima cunctis deliciis plenis-sima corporale talentum Beati Iacobi habens in custodia, unde felicior et excelsior cunctis Yspanie urbibus est approbata
Vocans-que nomen loci illius Bethel
Gen. 35:15
Rev. 22:17
St. James the Apostle, the Great,
and his relics venerate
XXXXXX
Santiago XXXXXX
It was almost noon when I walked into the cool of the Church and found myself in one of the transept arms. I walked by the Corticela chapel and saw a confessional to my right. In it a priest. I knelt, and with my pack on my back I confessed and was shriven. I found a place to sit on a pew in the nave, prayed my penance, and heard the pilgrim’s Mass. We were treated to the great plumes and emotional draw of the botafumeiro, the massive thurifer which billows out incense as it roars across the high altar front, past the pews full of pilgrims in the transept. Domine, Dirigatur oratio mea sicut incensum in conspectu tuo, I prayed. At the consecration: Dominus meus et Deus meus. After communion: Suscipe Domine.
I I I
Following the Mass, we stood in line to give an abrazo to the apostól, a hug to the statute of the apostle, which sits, as a prince of the apostles, on a throne of worked silver and gold. The 13th century statute of Santiago holds a scroll in his right hand which drapes across his right leg. It reads: Hic est corpus divi Iacobi apostoli, et Ispaniarum patroni: here is the body of the great James the Apostle and Patron of Spain. In his left hand, an ornate pilgrim’s staff—gourd and all—worked of silver and gold. Circumambulating the ambulatory around the high altar, I passed chapels in the absidioles dedicated to St. Bartholomew, Sts. John and Susan (the latter’s relics are here as a result of Archbishop’s Gelmírez’s furta sacra), Nuestra Señora la Blanca, the Holy Savior, St. Peter or Our Lady of the White Lily or Azucena, the Mondragón chapel dedicated to the Deposition of Christ, and Our Lady of Pilar—a little of Zaragoza in Santiago. Climbing up the steps, I embraced the apostle’s statute, and clambered down to visit the crypt.
Ruega por nosotros Bienaventu-rado Santiago.
Para que seamos dignos
de las promesas de Jesucristo
Down the narrow steps into the crypt, I descended, but my soul rose to heaven. I knelt before the relics on a prie-dieu. And what great experience did I encounter before the relics of St. James? This, dear reader, you shall not know. For what happened when the Trinity, St. James, and I, kneeling before the sacred relics, met I shall not write about even were I to find words equal to it. Good-bye dear words. Good-bye dear reader. Nunc dimmitis Domine. Lord, let Your pilgrim now depart in peace.
I I I
That evening, the mendicant moan of the sax and the supplicating skirl of the bagpipe—sounds of the street musicians beggaring for pilgrims’ money—echoed off the walls of the Praza and wended their way through the ruas of the city into the room wherein I lay. I wrote in my journal, “Consummatum est—21 VII 2001 A.D.” That is the date on my Compostela, the certificate issued by the Cathedral authorities. The next day my arrival was officially announced through the chambers of that great Cathedral: “Un peregrino de los Estados Unidos!”
I I I
But the entry in my journal is not entirely accurate, for two things yet did I lack to complete the pilgrimage. The first was easy enough. I asked for Mass to be said at the high altar for the repose of my parents’ souls, an arrangement made at the Sacristy, and for which I received a receipt upon payment of a stipend. Oh what a marvel, to pay so little consideration to bind the conscience of a priest, and yet thrown in for free in this transaction is the Mass which is of greatest value.
I I I
The second matter required a wait, a triduum, a three day vigil for the Feastday of St. James. While I waited for St. James’s Feastday, my vow fulfilled, I rented a car and drove to Finisterre, to the ends of the earth. But in going to Compostela I had already traveled plus ultra.
I I I
Mass on the Feastday of St. James was standing room only. Pilgrims and the other faithful waited the procession. The doors of the Cathedral opened and in processed myriad dignitaries of the Compostela, Galicia, and Spain, followed by Knights of Malta, Knights of Santiago, the Canons of Compostela, followed by the crucifer, and all manner of acolytes, clergy, monsignori, bishops and archbishops, including the Archbishop of Compostela. Here was the Church, in the fullness of her ceremony. Here, the remnants of a Catholic Spain sang to Spain’s patron, to protect and defend Spain and the Faith:
Firme y segura
Como aquella Columna
Que te entregó la Madre de Jesús
Será en España
La santa Fe cristiana
Bien celestial que nos legaste Tú
At the end of a high Mass, the Archbishop dispensed the gift.
“Sit nomen Domini benedictum!” intoned the Archbishop of Compostela, with the combined voice of Theodomirus, Mezonzo, Pelaez, Gelmírez, Fonseca, and the many other men—worthy and unworthy—who have worn the miter of the see of Compostela across the long spanse of time.
“Ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum!” I murmured with the people.
“Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini!” he chanted.
“Qui fecit caelum et terram!”the faithful responded.
“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus: Pater, et Filius, et Spritus Sanctus, Amen,” the Archbishop blessed as he made the sign of the cross over the varied congregation.
So the lips of the bishop of Compostela dispensed out a great dole from the Church’s treasury, this currency of God’s Indulgence and Mercy settling on the myriad pilgrim souls, mine among them. Compostela locuta, causa finita est.
And like a child I wept for joy there in Compostela. I wept for joy at God’s great Grace, the gracia especial that drew and called me here, the gracia especial that sustained me through the long journey, and the gracia especial that now embraced me with the full ardor of God’s Love and forgave me of my sins and their due. It is the ultimate consolation for a pilgrim to be aware that God is Love, and that it is Love’s quality always to have Mercy.
Explicit
Laus Deo
Explicit
Iter Sancti Iacobi
Herru Sanctiagu!
Grott Sanctiagu!
E Ultreia
e Suseia!
Deus
adiuva nos!
[i] Cantebury Tales, p. 446
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 90.
[iii] Benesch, p. 144 (old pilgrim hymn)
[iv] Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, translated into modern english by Nevill Coghill. Penguin Books, London: 1977, p. 201.
[v] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 87. “With holy herte, and with an heigh corage
He roos, to wenden on his pilgramage.”
____ Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales[i]
around the airport to San Paio
Thence to Lavacolla
On the Way: From O Pinos to the Mount of Joy
How happy we were to leave O Pinos that morning, and shake the dust off our feet and curse all innkeepers who exploit their fellow men in times of need! For shame! For shame! For you shall be on the left of the Lord at the day of judgment, there with the goats! You shall eat your fill of fermented fodder. You shall sleep eternally in dirty beds which host bed bugs. You shall live in foul hovels of Hell and pay dearly for it, for you sold your soul and your decency to earthly profit and filthy lucre. It is sin enough to be inhospitable. It is a sin of great proportions to be inhospitable and take your guest’s money in the process. It is a sin edging on mortal to do so when the guest is a pilgrim walking for the glory of the God of the Universe. Oh Cluny! Oh Olivetan! Oh Hospitaller! You are sorely needed in O Pinos!
I I I
In the early morning Randi and I walked through the town to a path which led us through a land dense with trees. It was unsettling to walk through a forest in the dark of the early morning. The batteries in our flashlights were spent. In such circumstances, imagination conjured up all sorts of specters in the dark and dampened air of the wood, and reason must spend great effort to ignore them.
Through the wood of dense pine we walked to San Antón. At San Antón we crossed the arroyo Brandelos and passed through Casa Nova, the first house in the village of Amenal. We were nearing Compostela as we walked to Cimadevila, through which we passed, and then through woodlands heading southwest for about a kilometer and one-half. In the middle of the woods, the Camino turned abruptly ninety degrees north until it joined with the carretera and the junction of C-547 and N-634. The airport was to our southwest and then beside us as we traveled to San Paio. We went through this village, crossed the carretera to A Sigüero, and passed the Colegio de Lavacolla to our left. Ahead of us was Lavacolla.
About Lavacolla, known medievally as Lavemntul, Aymeric Picaud tells us:
There is furthermore a certain river located at a distance of two miles from the city of Santiago, in a wooded place, and which is called Lavementul, because there the French pilgrims that go to St. James, for the love of the Apostle, use to wash not merely their virile member, but, having taken off their clothes, wash off the dirt from their entire body.”[ii]
This must have been a prerogative of the male pilgrims, for the cleric Picaud does not tell us what the women pilgrims would do for the love of the Apostle, and he mentions only the washing of the virile members (mentulas). For very good reasons that are obvious to any reasonable man, this is one part of the medieval pilgrimage I did not replicate. It was not fundamentula to the pilgrimage.
Lava-menttula
In eo gens gallica peregrina ad sanctum Iacobum tendens, non solum mentulas suas, verum etiam totius corporis sui sordes apostoli amori lavari solet vesti-mentis suis expoliata
San Marcos at the foot of Monxoi
Monte de Gozo
And to the city of Santiago
We passed Lavacolla and took a wrong turn. We went straight up a hill instead of taking a right. So we wasted more than two and a half miles of hard walking before we became convinced that we had erred. We had to retrace our steps back to Lavacolla, where we discovered our mistake. We consoled ourselves with some coffee, and then began the trip out of Lavacolla anew, taking this time the right we should have taken more than an hour ago.
We traveled thus to Vilamayor, and from there to the town of A Zamarrazedo uphill to San Marcos, a village which lay at the foot of the famous Monte do Gozo or Monxoi. We climbed the Monte do Gozo, the Mons gaudii or “Mount Joy,” the Berg der Freude. Call it what you wish, there is a monument atop the place which marks the pilgrim visit of Pope John Paul II to Compostela. It is at the top of this hill where the pilgrim can see in the distance, five kilometers away, the city of St. James. According to an old pilgrim hymn, this holy sentiment, this joy, frees us from the temporal punishments attached to our sin. I could not find this indulgence listed in any Enchiridion, and I did not think I would, for this is an indulgence sanctioned only by vox populi, or perhaps more precisely, the vox peregrini.
Zu einer Kapelle solls du gehn,
Sie wird auf dem Berg der Freude stehn.
Dort gibt es Steine ohne Zahl,
Und du siehst Santiago zum ersten Mal.
Und du kriegst, das wird jeder dir sagen,
Einen Ablaß von hundert Tagen.[iii]
But what is this indulgence relative to the hope of a plenary indulgence that awaits a pilgrim at the Shrine of the Apostle? Under the ancient economy of Holy Church, few of us moderns would avoid less than one hundred days of canonical penance, fasting hard on bread and water in the vestibule of the church. Regrettably, most of (and, fellow sinners, I include myself) us are in need of greater indulgence than that.
I I I
It is meet and right here to utter a Te Deum as did Laffi and his fellows
On the Way: Peregrinus Agonistes
The pilgrim path had now distilled itself to the short five kilometers that remained ahead. The end of a pilgrim’s journey is a parallel to death. How to explain the pilgrim’s last agony?
Peregrinus:
I walk in dark canopy: dark, darker, and black;
The darkness of sin, timor mortis at my back
Promised joys of earth’s sweets leave sour aftertaste
Make the soul servile, wed to false duty and haste.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Clemens servulorum, Gemitus tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Waters of sacrament poured on child’s head:
Planted seminal virtue in the souls yard, but led
By pride’s husbandry, I passion’s seed and vice sowed.
These tares choked the flower; the bed ceased to grow.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Flos apostolorum, decus electorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Pagan presumptions, values material and urbane
Tax the spirit with false earth: these to God’s spirit are bane;
Drag soul through sin’s mire, leave it stained with despair.
Once lost and soul whored, who will the hymen repair?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Te clamant cunctorum, voces seculorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Where the thunderous Prophet to pull wayfarer out?
Where is the Church—the divine banisher of doubt?
What is the Relic that pales sin, fear, and vice?
How reach Redemption? With what Heavenly device?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu desolatorum, Levamen reorum, Iacobe iuva!”
I have heard there’s a Way, well-trodden,well-tried
A footpath to walk, with thunderous Apostle as guide
In the regions of Hispania can medicine one find?
To make the lame walk, and give sight to the blind?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
Trifera morborum, Gera infirmorum, Iacobe iuva!
Humble Servant of God, Brave Martyr of the Faith,
Great Apostolic Sword against Evil’s vile wraith
I, Enclosed in dark dungeon, God’s Mercy I want
To be released from Sin’s chains, and the Devil’s cruel taunts
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Qui seras captorum, Solivs miserorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Freedom of soul grant me, for with thick Sin’s chain bound
Is my soul called to Divinity, to the Devil she-hound
Call me O Jacob, Great Apostle, your prayer is sure!
Call my soul out of its gaol to the star-guided Tour!
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu solve nostrorum, Vincla delictorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Fall! Servile chains of the world’s bastard claims
Ancient Ways beckon as do the bones of St. James.
Withdraw from life’s pilgrimage! Don the habit of pilgrim!
Lord grant me Mercy, and spurn not my weak limb.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Sis peregrinorum, Salvator tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Chorus:
Is this pilgrim not Everyman? Has he so seriously fallen?
Scarce recognizable in dress foul and unkempt?
Weak, lame, and blighted and begging God’s pardon—
Let us console the one burdened with such self-contempt.
Peregrinus:
Are your friends, who seek to console me in my state?
I fear my failures for God’s Mercy are too late!
Chorus Communis:
True, your soul scarcely complies with its calling
The Ego baptizo has not fulfilled its promise
We scarce deny that in mood your state is most appalling
For we fail nunc and in the hora of our mortis
But Friend, fellow human, you suffer grave imbalance,
Your wrongs peccadilloes, not damnable fault.
Whims of common passion to Hell cannot sentence
You are prey to a medieval and celibate priestly assault!
Peregrinus:
If I have not sin, and am not severely adjudged
Then I want not God’s Mercy, for God’s not bregrudged!
Away from me false friends, for your sin is to be
Unware of the sin that’s within you and me
Chorus Familiaris:
This pilgrimage cannot be heavenly call
From familial duties God never beckoned
This is not spirit, but a selfish self thrall
The family first. Pilgrimage second!
Peregrinus:
You show yourself in great discomfiture,
But your doctrine accords badly with Scripture.
I suggest not abandonment; rather, sabbatical
Such temporary reprieve is not problematical.
Chorus Economicus:
These peregrine dreams ought to be banished
As profitless, costly, most uneconomical
There’s no money on the Way–it’s financially famished
The market grants freedom in ways ergonomical.
Peregrinus:
You gain the world, but lose your soul
You chose a part, and forget the whole.
Moneterism as gospel . . . .
Lector: Shades of the tale of Sir Topaz. Enough!
Auctor: And why, dear and indulgent reader, why? Didn’t Belloc end his account of his pilgrimage with a poem?
Lector: Why? You have the temerity to ask why? You have exceeded the limits of our charity. One need only give a pilgrim so much liberty in describing his travels. This indulgence does not extend to ponderous doggerel. I shall invoke against you the Master of pilgrim poetry:
“By God,” I say, “put plainly in a word,
Your dreary rhyming isn’t worth a turd!
You’re doing nothing else but wasting time.
Sir, in a word, you shall no longer rhyme.”[iv]
I I I
On calle de los Con-cheiros to the Rúa de San Pedro to Puerta del Camino and through Plazas to the Azaba-chería to the Cathedral and to
The walk from the hill of joy to the town of Compostela is like walking through any modern city. There was no room for deep thought, or stirring emotions. There was only a sense of urgency and anticipation. The immediate task was inordinately mundane: to negotiate the distractions of the city traffic and the maze of city streets and plazas—the ruas and prazas—of modern Compostela. The goal remained hidden and elusive, as the Cathedral could not be seen until we were but mere blocks away. Each step seemed faster with greater urgency and surety than the last as we wended our way through the traffic and the streets.
The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela loomed suddenly before us on our way to the town’s old center. There are only two things in the world when the pilgrim sees the Cathedral: the pilgrim and the Cathedral. Once the Cathedral towers are seen, it takes but a few minutes to arrive at the Puerta de la Azabachería, the first portal to give access to the church.
I I I
The Cathedral was massive. It was grand. It was beautiful. And there God was. For St. James by the grace of his body which was a portal to Heaven had named the place Bethel. And there St. James was. And there I was. It was good to be there. After 500 miles, twenty-seven days, nearly one and a quarter phases of the moon, more than 350 towns, and countless prayers, in the middle of this town of divine invention, “the happiest and most splendid of all cities in Spain,”[v] I stood—insignificant in size and in age and in glory—before this granite Church of St. James built over a Galileean fisherman’s bones. The door of the Azabacherías was open, to the church and to the crypt. And it was open for me. My feet, so used to walking, now paused. But from within—the region wherein God dwells—I heard the call to come in, and I followed. As I walked through the doors ad limina Beati Iacobi, it seemed as if I heard the Spirit and the Bride and St. James say with one voice, “Come.” And there I was refreshed with the waters of Life.
Et spiritus et sponsa dicunt: Veni. Et qui audit, dicat: Veni. Et qui sitit veniat, et qui vult accipiat aquam vitae gratis.
I I I
Compos-tella apostolica urbs excellen-tissima cunctis deliciis plenis-sima corporale talentum Beati Iacobi habens in custodia, unde felicior et excelsior cunctis Yspanie urbibus est approbata
Vocans-que nomen loci illius Bethel
Gen. 35:15
Rev. 22:17
St. James the Apostle, the Great,
and his relics venerate
XXXXXX
Santiago XXXXXX
It was almost noon when I walked into the cool of the Church and found myself in one of the transept arms. I walked by the Corticela chapel and saw a confessional to my right. In it a priest. I knelt, and with my pack on my back I confessed and was shriven. I found a place to sit on a pew in the nave, prayed my penance, and heard the pilgrim’s Mass. We were treated to the great plumes and emotional draw of the botafumeiro, the massive thurifer which billows out incense as it roars across the high altar front, past the pews full of pilgrims in the transept. Domine, Dirigatur oratio mea sicut incensum in conspectu tuo, I prayed. At the consecration: Dominus meus et Deus meus. After communion: Suscipe Domine.
I I I
Following the Mass, we stood in line to give an abrazo to the apostól, a hug to the statute of the apostle, which sits, as a prince of the apostles, on a throne of worked silver and gold. The 13th century statute of Santiago holds a scroll in his right hand which drapes across his right leg. It reads: Hic est corpus divi Iacobi apostoli, et Ispaniarum patroni: here is the body of the great James the Apostle and Patron of Spain. In his left hand, an ornate pilgrim’s staff—gourd and all—worked of silver and gold. Circumambulating the ambulatory around the high altar, I passed chapels in the absidioles dedicated to St. Bartholomew, Sts. John and Susan (the latter’s relics are here as a result of Archbishop’s Gelmírez’s furta sacra), Nuestra Señora la Blanca, the Holy Savior, St. Peter or Our Lady of the White Lily or Azucena, the Mondragón chapel dedicated to the Deposition of Christ, and Our Lady of Pilar—a little of Zaragoza in Santiago. Climbing up the steps, I embraced the apostle’s statute, and clambered down to visit the crypt.
Ruega por nosotros Bienaventu-rado Santiago.
Para que seamos dignos
de las promesas de Jesucristo
Down the narrow steps into the crypt, I descended, but my soul rose to heaven. I knelt before the relics on a prie-dieu. And what great experience did I encounter before the relics of St. James? This, dear reader, you shall not know. For what happened when the Trinity, St. James, and I, kneeling before the sacred relics, met I shall not write about even were I to find words equal to it. Good-bye dear words. Good-bye dear reader. Nunc dimmitis Domine. Lord, let Your pilgrim now depart in peace.
I I I
That evening, the mendicant moan of the sax and the supplicating skirl of the bagpipe—sounds of the street musicians beggaring for pilgrims’ money—echoed off the walls of the Praza and wended their way through the ruas of the city into the room wherein I lay. I wrote in my journal, “Consummatum est—21 VII 2001 A.D.” That is the date on my Compostela, the certificate issued by the Cathedral authorities. The next day my arrival was officially announced through the chambers of that great Cathedral: “Un peregrino de los Estados Unidos!”
I I I
But the entry in my journal is not entirely accurate, for two things yet did I lack to complete the pilgrimage. The first was easy enough. I asked for Mass to be said at the high altar for the repose of my parents’ souls, an arrangement made at the Sacristy, and for which I received a receipt upon payment of a stipend. Oh what a marvel, to pay so little consideration to bind the conscience of a priest, and yet thrown in for free in this transaction is the Mass which is of greatest value.
I I I
The second matter required a wait, a triduum, a three day vigil for the Feastday of St. James. While I waited for St. James’s Feastday, my vow fulfilled, I rented a car and drove to Finisterre, to the ends of the earth. But in going to Compostela I had already traveled plus ultra.
I I I
Mass on the Feastday of St. James was standing room only. Pilgrims and the other faithful waited the procession. The doors of the Cathedral opened and in processed myriad dignitaries of the Compostela, Galicia, and Spain, followed by Knights of Malta, Knights of Santiago, the Canons of Compostela, followed by the crucifer, and all manner of acolytes, clergy, monsignori, bishops and archbishops, including the Archbishop of Compostela. Here was the Church, in the fullness of her ceremony. Here, the remnants of a Catholic Spain sang to Spain’s patron, to protect and defend Spain and the Faith:
Firme y segura
Como aquella Columna
Que te entregó la Madre de Jesús
Será en España
La santa Fe cristiana
Bien celestial que nos legaste Tú
At the end of a high Mass, the Archbishop dispensed the gift.
“Sit nomen Domini benedictum!” intoned the Archbishop of Compostela, with the combined voice of Theodomirus, Mezonzo, Pelaez, Gelmírez, Fonseca, and the many other men—worthy and unworthy—who have worn the miter of the see of Compostela across the long spanse of time.
“Ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum!” I murmured with the people.
“Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini!” he chanted.
“Qui fecit caelum et terram!”the faithful responded.
“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus: Pater, et Filius, et Spritus Sanctus, Amen,” the Archbishop blessed as he made the sign of the cross over the varied congregation.
So the lips of the bishop of Compostela dispensed out a great dole from the Church’s treasury, this currency of God’s Indulgence and Mercy settling on the myriad pilgrim souls, mine among them. Compostela locuta, causa finita est.
And like a child I wept for joy there in Compostela. I wept for joy at God’s great Grace, the gracia especial that drew and called me here, the gracia especial that sustained me through the long journey, and the gracia especial that now embraced me with the full ardor of God’s Love and forgave me of my sins and their due. It is the ultimate consolation for a pilgrim to be aware that God is Love, and that it is Love’s quality always to have Mercy.
Explicit
Laus Deo
Explicit
Iter Sancti Iacobi
Herru Sanctiagu!
Grott Sanctiagu!
E Ultreia
e Suseia!
Deus
adiuva nos!
[i] Cantebury Tales, p. 446
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 90.
[iii] Benesch, p. 144 (old pilgrim hymn)
[iv] Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, translated into modern english by Nevill Coghill. Penguin Books, London: 1977, p. 201.
[v] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 87.
He roos, to wenden on his pilgramage.”
____ Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales[i]
around the airport to San Paio
Thence to Lavacolla
On the Way: From O Pinos to the Mount of Joy
How happy we were to leave O Pinos that morning, and shake the dust off our feet and curse all innkeepers who exploit their fellow men in times of need! For shame! For shame! For you shall be on the left of the Lord at the day of judgment, there with the goats! You shall eat your fill of fermented fodder. You shall sleep eternally in dirty beds which host bed bugs. You shall live in foul hovels of Hell and pay dearly for it, for you sold your soul and your decency to earthly profit and filthy lucre. It is sin enough to be inhospitable. It is a sin of great proportions to be inhospitable and take your guest’s money in the process. It is a sin edging on mortal to do so when the guest is a pilgrim walking for the glory of the God of the Universe. Oh Cluny! Oh Olivetan! Oh Hospitaller! You are sorely needed in O Pinos!
I I I
In the early morning Randi and I walked through the town to a path which led us through a land dense with trees. It was unsettling to walk through a forest in the dark of the early morning. The batteries in our flashlights were spent. In such circumstances, imagination conjured up all sorts of specters in the dark and dampened air of the wood, and reason must spend great effort to ignore them.
Through the wood of dense pine we walked to San Antón. At San Antón we crossed the arroyo Brandelos and passed through Casa Nova, the first house in the village of Amenal. We were nearing Compostela as we walked to Cimadevila, through which we passed, and then through woodlands heading southwest for about a kilometer and one-half. In the middle of the woods, the Camino turned abruptly ninety degrees north until it joined with the carretera and the junction of C-547 and N-634. The airport was to our southwest and then beside us as we traveled to San Paio. We went through this village, crossed the carretera to A Sigüero, and passed the Colegio de Lavacolla to our left. Ahead of us was Lavacolla.
About Lavacolla, known medievally as Lavemntul, Aymeric Picaud tells us:
There is furthermore a certain river located at a distance of two miles from the city of Santiago, in a wooded place, and which is called Lavementul, because there the French pilgrims that go to St. James, for the love of the Apostle, use to wash not merely their virile member, but, having taken off their clothes, wash off the dirt from their entire body.”[ii]
This must have been a prerogative of the male pilgrims, for the cleric Picaud does not tell us what the women pilgrims would do for the love of the Apostle, and he mentions only the washing of the virile members (mentulas). For very good reasons that are obvious to any reasonable man, this is one part of the medieval pilgrimage I did not replicate. It was not fundamentula to the pilgrimage.
Lava-menttula
In eo gens gallica peregrina ad sanctum Iacobum tendens, non solum mentulas suas, verum etiam totius corporis sui sordes apostoli amori lavari solet vesti-mentis suis expoliata
San Marcos at the foot of Monxoi
Monte de Gozo
And to the city of Santiago
We passed Lavacolla and took a wrong turn. We went straight up a hill instead of taking a right. So we wasted more than two and a half miles of hard walking before we became convinced that we had erred. We had to retrace our steps back to Lavacolla, where we discovered our mistake. We consoled ourselves with some coffee, and then began the trip out of Lavacolla anew, taking this time the right we should have taken more than an hour ago.
We traveled thus to Vilamayor, and from there to the town of A Zamarrazedo uphill to San Marcos, a village which lay at the foot of the famous Monte do Gozo or Monxoi. We climbed the Monte do Gozo, the Mons gaudii or “Mount Joy,” the Berg der Freude. Call it what you wish, there is a monument atop the place which marks the pilgrim visit of Pope John Paul II to Compostela. It is at the top of this hill where the pilgrim can see in the distance, five kilometers away, the city of St. James. According to an old pilgrim hymn, this holy sentiment, this joy, frees us from the temporal punishments attached to our sin. I could not find this indulgence listed in any Enchiridion, and I did not think I would, for this is an indulgence sanctioned only by vox populi, or perhaps more precisely, the vox peregrini.
Zu einer Kapelle solls du gehn,
Sie wird auf dem Berg der Freude stehn.
Dort gibt es Steine ohne Zahl,
Und du siehst Santiago zum ersten Mal.
Und du kriegst, das wird jeder dir sagen,
Einen Ablaß von hundert Tagen.[iii]
But what is this indulgence relative to the hope of a plenary indulgence that awaits a pilgrim at the Shrine of the Apostle? Under the ancient economy of Holy Church, few of us moderns would avoid less than one hundred days of canonical penance, fasting hard on bread and water in the vestibule of the church. Regrettably, most of (and, fellow sinners, I include myself) us are in need of greater indulgence than that.
I I I
It is meet and right here to utter a Te Deum as did Laffi and his fellows
On the Way: Peregrinus Agonistes
The pilgrim path had now distilled itself to the short five kilometers that remained ahead. The end of a pilgrim’s journey is a parallel to death. How to explain the pilgrim’s last agony?
Peregrinus:
I walk in dark canopy: dark, darker, and black;
The darkness of sin, timor mortis at my back
Promised joys of earth’s sweets leave sour aftertaste
Make the soul servile, wed to false duty and haste.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Clemens servulorum, Gemitus tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Waters of sacrament poured on child’s head:
Planted seminal virtue in the souls yard, but led
By pride’s husbandry, I passion’s seed and vice sowed.
These tares choked the flower; the bed ceased to grow.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Flos apostolorum, decus electorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Pagan presumptions, values material and urbane
Tax the spirit with false earth: these to God’s spirit are bane;
Drag soul through sin’s mire, leave it stained with despair.
Once lost and soul whored, who will the hymen repair?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Te clamant cunctorum, voces seculorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Where the thunderous Prophet to pull wayfarer out?
Where is the Church—the divine banisher of doubt?
What is the Relic that pales sin, fear, and vice?
How reach Redemption? With what Heavenly device?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu desolatorum, Levamen reorum, Iacobe iuva!”
I have heard there’s a Way, well-trodden,well-tried
A footpath to walk, with thunderous Apostle as guide
In the regions of Hispania can medicine one find?
To make the lame walk, and give sight to the blind?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
Trifera morborum, Gera infirmorum, Iacobe iuva!
Humble Servant of God, Brave Martyr of the Faith,
Great Apostolic Sword against Evil’s vile wraith
I, Enclosed in dark dungeon, God’s Mercy I want
To be released from Sin’s chains, and the Devil’s cruel taunts
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Qui seras captorum, Solivs miserorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Freedom of soul grant me, for with thick Sin’s chain bound
Is my soul called to Divinity, to the Devil she-hound
Call me O Jacob, Great Apostle, your prayer is sure!
Call my soul out of its gaol to the star-guided Tour!
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu solve nostrorum, Vincla delictorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Fall! Servile chains of the world’s bastard claims
Ancient Ways beckon as do the bones of St. James.
Withdraw from life’s pilgrimage! Don the habit of pilgrim!
Lord grant me Mercy, and spurn not my weak limb.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Sis peregrinorum, Salvator tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Chorus:
Is this pilgrim not Everyman? Has he so seriously fallen?
Scarce recognizable in dress foul and unkempt?
Weak, lame, and blighted and begging God’s pardon—
Let us console the one burdened with such self-contempt.
Peregrinus:
Are your friends, who seek to console me in my state?
I fear my failures for God’s Mercy are too late!
Chorus Communis:
True, your soul scarcely complies with its calling
The Ego baptizo has not fulfilled its promise
We scarce deny that in mood your state is most appalling
For we fail nunc and in the hora of our mortis
But Friend, fellow human, you suffer grave imbalance,
Your wrongs peccadilloes, not damnable fault.
Whims of common passion to Hell cannot sentence
You are prey to a medieval and celibate priestly assault!
Peregrinus:
If I have not sin, and am not severely adjudged
Then I want not God’s Mercy, for God’s not bregrudged!
Away from me false friends, for your sin is to be
Unware of the sin that’s within you and me
Chorus Familiaris:
This pilgrimage cannot be heavenly call
From familial duties God never beckoned
This is not spirit, but a selfish self thrall
The family first. Pilgrimage second!
Peregrinus:
You show yourself in great discomfiture,
But your doctrine accords badly with Scripture.
I suggest not abandonment; rather, sabbatical
Such temporary reprieve is not problematical.
Chorus Economicus:
These peregrine dreams ought to be banished
As profitless, costly, most uneconomical
There’s no money on the Way–it’s financially famished
The market grants freedom in ways ergonomical.
Peregrinus:
You gain the world, but lose your soul
You chose a part, and forget the whole.
Moneterism as gospel . . . .
Lector: Shades of the tale of Sir Topaz. Enough!
Auctor: And why, dear and indulgent reader, why? Didn’t Belloc end his account of his pilgrimage with a poem?
Lector: Why? You have the temerity to ask why? You have exceeded the limits of our charity. One need only give a pilgrim so much liberty in describing his travels. This indulgence does not extend to ponderous doggerel. I shall invoke against you the Master of pilgrim poetry:
“By God,” I say, “put plainly in a word,
Your dreary rhyming isn’t worth a turd!
You’re doing nothing else but wasting time.
Sir, in a word, you shall no longer rhyme.”[iv]
I I I
On calle de los Con-cheiros to the Rúa de San Pedro to Puerta del Camino and through Plazas to the Azaba-chería to the Cathedral and to
The walk from the hill of joy to the town of Compostela is like walking through any modern city. There was no room for deep thought, or stirring emotions. There was only a sense of urgency and anticipation. The immediate task was inordinately mundane: to negotiate the distractions of the city traffic and the maze of city streets and plazas—the ruas and prazas—of modern Compostela. The goal remained hidden and elusive, as the Cathedral could not be seen until we were but mere blocks away. Each step seemed faster with greater urgency and surety than the last as we wended our way through the traffic and the streets.
The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela loomed suddenly before us on our way to the town’s old center. There are only two things in the world when the pilgrim sees the Cathedral: the pilgrim and the Cathedral. Once the Cathedral towers are seen, it takes but a few minutes to arrive at the Puerta de la Azabachería, the first portal to give access to the church.
I I I
The Cathedral was massive. It was grand. It was beautiful. And there God was. For St. James by the grace of his body which was a portal to Heaven had named the place Bethel. And there St. James was. And there I was. It was good to be there. After 500 miles, twenty-seven days, nearly one and a quarter phases of the moon, more than 350 towns, and countless prayers, in the middle of this town of divine invention, “the happiest and most splendid of all cities in Spain,”[v] I stood—insignificant in size and in age and in glory—before this granite Church of St. James built over a Galileean fisherman’s bones. The door of the Azabacherías was open, to the church and to the crypt. And it was open for me. My feet, so used to walking, now paused. But from within—the region wherein God dwells—I heard the call to come in, and I followed. As I walked through the doors ad limina Beati Iacobi, it seemed as if I heard the Spirit and the Bride and St. James say with one voice, “Come.” And there I was refreshed with the waters of Life.
Et spiritus et sponsa dicunt: Veni. Et qui audit, dicat: Veni. Et qui sitit veniat, et qui vult accipiat aquam vitae gratis.
I I I
Compos-tella apostolica urbs excellen-tissima cunctis deliciis plenis-sima corporale talentum Beati Iacobi habens in custodia, unde felicior et excelsior cunctis Yspanie urbibus est approbata
Vocans-que nomen loci illius Bethel
Gen. 35:15
Rev. 22:17
St. James the Apostle, the Great,
and his relics venerate
XXXXXX
Santiago XXXXXX
It was almost noon when I walked into the cool of the Church and found myself in one of the transept arms. I walked by the Corticela chapel and saw a confessional to my right. In it a priest. I knelt, and with my pack on my back I confessed and was shriven. I found a place to sit on a pew in the nave, prayed my penance, and heard the pilgrim’s Mass. We were treated to the great plumes and emotional draw of the botafumeiro, the massive thurifer which billows out incense as it roars across the high altar front, past the pews full of pilgrims in the transept. Domine, Dirigatur oratio mea sicut incensum in conspectu tuo, I prayed. At the consecration: Dominus meus et Deus meus. After communion: Suscipe Domine.
I I I
Following the Mass, we stood in line to give an abrazo to the apostól, a hug to the statute of the apostle, which sits, as a prince of the apostles, on a throne of worked silver and gold. The 13th century statute of Santiago holds a scroll in his right hand which drapes across his right leg. It reads: Hic est corpus divi Iacobi apostoli, et Ispaniarum patroni: here is the body of the great James the Apostle and Patron of Spain. In his left hand, an ornate pilgrim’s staff—gourd and all—worked of silver and gold. Circumambulating the ambulatory around the high altar, I passed chapels in the absidioles dedicated to St. Bartholomew, Sts. John and Susan (the latter’s relics are here as a result of Archbishop’s Gelmírez’s furta sacra), Nuestra Señora la Blanca, the Holy Savior, St. Peter or Our Lady of the White Lily or Azucena, the Mondragón chapel dedicated to the Deposition of Christ, and Our Lady of Pilar—a little of Zaragoza in Santiago. Climbing up the steps, I embraced the apostle’s statute, and clambered down to visit the crypt.
Ruega por nosotros Bienaventu-rado Santiago.
Para que seamos dignos
de las promesas de Jesucristo
Down the narrow steps into the crypt, I descended, but my soul rose to heaven. I knelt before the relics on a prie-dieu. And what great experience did I encounter before the relics of St. James? This, dear reader, you shall not know. For what happened when the Trinity, St. James, and I, kneeling before the sacred relics, met I shall not write about even were I to find words equal to it. Good-bye dear words. Good-bye dear reader. Nunc dimmitis Domine. Lord, let Your pilgrim now depart in peace.
I I I
That evening, the mendicant moan of the sax and the supplicating skirl of the bagpipe—sounds of the street musicians beggaring for pilgrims’ money—echoed off the walls of the Praza and wended their way through the ruas of the city into the room wherein I lay. I wrote in my journal, “Consummatum est—21 VII 2001 A.D.” That is the date on my Compostela, the certificate issued by the Cathedral authorities. The next day my arrival was officially announced through the chambers of that great Cathedral: “Un peregrino de los Estados Unidos!”
I I I
But the entry in my journal is not entirely accurate, for two things yet did I lack to complete the pilgrimage. The first was easy enough. I asked for Mass to be said at the high altar for the repose of my parents’ souls, an arrangement made at the Sacristy, and for which I received a receipt upon payment of a stipend. Oh what a marvel, to pay so little consideration to bind the conscience of a priest, and yet thrown in for free in this transaction is the Mass which is of greatest value.
I I I
The second matter required a wait, a triduum, a three day vigil for the Feastday of St. James. While I waited for St. James’s Feastday, my vow fulfilled, I rented a car and drove to Finisterre, to the ends of the earth. But in going to Compostela I had already traveled plus ultra.
I I I
Mass on the Feastday of St. James was standing room only. Pilgrims and the other faithful waited the procession. The doors of the Cathedral opened and in processed myriad dignitaries of the Compostela, Galicia, and Spain, followed by Knights of Malta, Knights of Santiago, the Canons of Compostela, followed by the crucifer, and all manner of acolytes, clergy, monsignori, bishops and archbishops, including the Archbishop of Compostela. Here was the Church, in the fullness of her ceremony. Here, the remnants of a Catholic Spain sang to Spain’s patron, to protect and defend Spain and the Faith:
Firme y segura
Como aquella Columna
Que te entregó la Madre de Jesús
Será en España
La santa Fe cristiana
Bien celestial que nos legaste Tú
At the end of a high Mass, the Archbishop dispensed the gift.
“Sit nomen Domini benedictum!” intoned the Archbishop of Compostela, with the combined voice of Theodomirus, Mezonzo, Pelaez, Gelmírez, Fonseca, and the many other men—worthy and unworthy—who have worn the miter of the see of Compostela across the long spanse of time.
“Ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum!” I murmured with the people.
“Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini!” he chanted.
“Qui fecit caelum et terram!”the faithful responded.
“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus: Pater, et Filius, et Spritus Sanctus, Amen,” the Archbishop blessed as he made the sign of the cross over the varied congregation.
So the lips of the bishop of Compostela dispensed out a great dole from the Church’s treasury, this currency of God’s Indulgence and Mercy settling on the myriad pilgrim souls, mine among them. Compostela locuta, causa finita est.
And like a child I wept for joy there in Compostela. I wept for joy at God’s great Grace, the gracia especial that drew and called me here, the gracia especial that sustained me through the long journey, and the gracia especial that now embraced me with the full ardor of God’s Love and forgave me of my sins and their due. It is the ultimate consolation for a pilgrim to be aware that God is Love, and that it is Love’s quality always to have Mercy.
Explicit
Laus Deo
Explicit
Iter Sancti Iacobi
Herru Sanctiagu!
Grott Sanctiagu!
E Ultreia
e Suseia!
Deus
adiuva nos!
[i] Cantebury Tales, p. 446
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 90.
[iii] Benesch, p. 144 (old pilgrim hymn)
[iv] Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, translated into modern english by Nevill Coghill. Penguin Books, London: 1977, p. 201.
[v] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 87. “With holy herte, and with an heigh corage
He roos, to wenden on his pilgramage.”
____ Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales[i]
around the airport to San Paio
Thence to Lavacolla
On the Way: From O Pinos to the Mount of Joy
How happy we were to leave O Pinos that morning, and shake the dust off our feet and curse all innkeepers who exploit their fellow men in times of need! For shame! For shame! For you shall be on the left of the Lord at the day of judgment, there with the goats! You shall eat your fill of fermented fodder. You shall sleep eternally in dirty beds which host bed bugs. You shall live in foul hovels of Hell and pay dearly for it, for you sold your soul and your decency to earthly profit and filthy lucre. It is sin enough to be inhospitable. It is a sin of great proportions to be inhospitable and take your guest’s money in the process. It is a sin edging on mortal to do so when the guest is a pilgrim walking for the glory of the God of the Universe. Oh Cluny! Oh Olivetan! Oh Hospitaller! You are sorely needed in O Pinos!
I I I
In the early morning Randi and I walked through the town to a path which led us through a land dense with trees. It was unsettling to walk through a forest in the dark of the early morning. The batteries in our flashlights were spent. In such circumstances, imagination conjured up all sorts of specters in the dark and dampened air of the wood, and reason must spend great effort to ignore them.
Through the wood of dense pine we walked to San Antón. At San Antón we crossed the arroyo Brandelos and passed through Casa Nova, the first house in the village of Amenal. We were nearing Compostela as we walked to Cimadevila, through which we passed, and then through woodlands heading southwest for about a kilometer and one-half. In the middle of the woods, the Camino turned abruptly ninety degrees north until it joined with the carretera and the junction of C-547 and N-634. The airport was to our southwest and then beside us as we traveled to San Paio. We went through this village, crossed the carretera to A Sigüero, and passed the Colegio de Lavacolla to our left. Ahead of us was Lavacolla.
About Lavacolla, known medievally as Lavemntul, Aymeric Picaud tells us:
There is furthermore a certain river located at a distance of two miles from the city of Santiago, in a wooded place, and which is called Lavementul, because there the French pilgrims that go to St. James, for the love of the Apostle, use to wash not merely their virile member, but, having taken off their clothes, wash off the dirt from their entire body.”[ii]
This must have been a prerogative of the male pilgrims, for the cleric Picaud does not tell us what the women pilgrims would do for the love of the Apostle, and he mentions only the washing of the virile members (mentulas). For very good reasons that are obvious to any reasonable man, this is one part of the medieval pilgrimage I did not replicate. It was not fundamentula to the pilgrimage.
Lava-menttula
In eo gens gallica peregrina ad sanctum Iacobum tendens, non solum mentulas suas, verum etiam totius corporis sui sordes apostoli amori lavari solet vesti-mentis suis expoliata
San Marcos at the foot of Monxoi
Monte de Gozo
And to the city of Santiago
We passed Lavacolla and took a wrong turn. We went straight up a hill instead of taking a right. So we wasted more than two and a half miles of hard walking before we became convinced that we had erred. We had to retrace our steps back to Lavacolla, where we discovered our mistake. We consoled ourselves with some coffee, and then began the trip out of Lavacolla anew, taking this time the right we should have taken more than an hour ago.
We traveled thus to Vilamayor, and from there to the town of A Zamarrazedo uphill to San Marcos, a village which lay at the foot of the famous Monte do Gozo or Monxoi. We climbed the Monte do Gozo, the Mons gaudii or “Mount Joy,” the Berg der Freude. Call it what you wish, there is a monument atop the place which marks the pilgrim visit of Pope John Paul II to Compostela. It is at the top of this hill where the pilgrim can see in the distance, five kilometers away, the city of St. James. According to an old pilgrim hymn, this holy sentiment, this joy, frees us from the temporal punishments attached to our sin. I could not find this indulgence listed in any Enchiridion, and I did not think I would, for this is an indulgence sanctioned only by vox populi, or perhaps more precisely, the vox peregrini.
Zu einer Kapelle solls du gehn,
Sie wird auf dem Berg der Freude stehn.
Dort gibt es Steine ohne Zahl,
Und du siehst Santiago zum ersten Mal.
Und du kriegst, das wird jeder dir sagen,
Einen Ablaß von hundert Tagen.[iii]
But what is this indulgence relative to the hope of a plenary indulgence that awaits a pilgrim at the Shrine of the Apostle? Under the ancient economy of Holy Church, few of us moderns would avoid less than one hundred days of canonical penance, fasting hard on bread and water in the vestibule of the church. Regrettably, most of (and, fellow sinners, I include myself) us are in need of greater indulgence than that.
I I I
It is meet and right here to utter a Te Deum as did Laffi and his fellows
On the Way: Peregrinus Agonistes
The pilgrim path had now distilled itself to the short five kilometers that remained ahead. The end of a pilgrim’s journey is a parallel to death. How to explain the pilgrim’s last agony?
Peregrinus:
I walk in dark canopy: dark, darker, and black;
The darkness of sin, timor mortis at my back
Promised joys of earth’s sweets leave sour aftertaste
Make the soul servile, wed to false duty and haste.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Clemens servulorum, Gemitus tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Waters of sacrament poured on child’s head:
Planted seminal virtue in the souls yard, but led
By pride’s husbandry, I passion’s seed and vice sowed.
These tares choked the flower; the bed ceased to grow.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Flos apostolorum, decus electorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Pagan presumptions, values material and urbane
Tax the spirit with false earth: these to God’s spirit are bane;
Drag soul through sin’s mire, leave it stained with despair.
Once lost and soul whored, who will the hymen repair?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Te clamant cunctorum, voces seculorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Where the thunderous Prophet to pull wayfarer out?
Where is the Church—the divine banisher of doubt?
What is the Relic that pales sin, fear, and vice?
How reach Redemption? With what Heavenly device?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu desolatorum, Levamen reorum, Iacobe iuva!”
I have heard there’s a Way, well-trodden,well-tried
A footpath to walk, with thunderous Apostle as guide
In the regions of Hispania can medicine one find?
To make the lame walk, and give sight to the blind?
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
Trifera morborum, Gera infirmorum, Iacobe iuva!
Humble Servant of God, Brave Martyr of the Faith,
Great Apostolic Sword against Evil’s vile wraith
I, Enclosed in dark dungeon, God’s Mercy I want
To be released from Sin’s chains, and the Devil’s cruel taunts
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Qui seras captorum, Solivs miserorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Freedom of soul grant me, for with thick Sin’s chain bound
Is my soul called to Divinity, to the Devil she-hound
Call me O Jacob, Great Apostle, your prayer is sure!
Call my soul out of its gaol to the star-guided Tour!
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Tu solve nostrorum, Vincla delictorum. Iacobe iuva!”
Fall! Servile chains of the world’s bastard claims
Ancient Ways beckon as do the bones of St. James.
Withdraw from life’s pilgrimage! Don the habit of pilgrim!
Lord grant me Mercy, and spurn not my weak limb.
Pray to St. James, O pilgrim, it behooves you:
“Sis peregrinorum, Salvator tuorum, Iacobe iuva!”
Chorus:
Is this pilgrim not Everyman? Has he so seriously fallen?
Scarce recognizable in dress foul and unkempt?
Weak, lame, and blighted and begging God’s pardon—
Let us console the one burdened with such self-contempt.
Peregrinus:
Are your friends, who seek to console me in my state?
I fear my failures for God’s Mercy are too late!
Chorus Communis:
True, your soul scarcely complies with its calling
The Ego baptizo has not fulfilled its promise
We scarce deny that in mood your state is most appalling
For we fail nunc and in the hora of our mortis
But Friend, fellow human, you suffer grave imbalance,
Your wrongs peccadilloes, not damnable fault.
Whims of common passion to Hell cannot sentence
You are prey to a medieval and celibate priestly assault!
Peregrinus:
If I have not sin, and am not severely adjudged
Then I want not God’s Mercy, for God’s not bregrudged!
Away from me false friends, for your sin is to be
Unware of the sin that’s within you and me
Chorus Familiaris:
This pilgrimage cannot be heavenly call
From familial duties God never beckoned
This is not spirit, but a selfish self thrall
The family first. Pilgrimage second!
Peregrinus:
You show yourself in great discomfiture,
But your doctrine accords badly with Scripture.
I suggest not abandonment; rather, sabbatical
Such temporary reprieve is not problematical.
Chorus Economicus:
These peregrine dreams ought to be banished
As profitless, costly, most uneconomical
There’s no money on the Way–it’s financially famished
The market grants freedom in ways ergonomical.
Peregrinus:
You gain the world, but lose your soul
You chose a part, and forget the whole.
Moneterism as gospel . . . .
Lector: Shades of the tale of Sir Topaz. Enough!
Auctor: And why, dear and indulgent reader, why? Didn’t Belloc end his account of his pilgrimage with a poem?
Lector: Why? You have the temerity to ask why? You have exceeded the limits of our charity. One need only give a pilgrim so much liberty in describing his travels. This indulgence does not extend to ponderous doggerel. I shall invoke against you the Master of pilgrim poetry:
“By God,” I say, “put plainly in a word,
Your dreary rhyming isn’t worth a turd!
You’re doing nothing else but wasting time.
Sir, in a word, you shall no longer rhyme.”[iv]
I I I
On calle de los Con-cheiros to the Rúa de San Pedro to Puerta del Camino and through Plazas to the Azaba-chería to the Cathedral and to
The walk from the hill of joy to the town of Compostela is like walking through any modern city. There was no room for deep thought, or stirring emotions. There was only a sense of urgency and anticipation. The immediate task was inordinately mundane: to negotiate the distractions of the city traffic and the maze of city streets and plazas—the ruas and prazas—of modern Compostela. The goal remained hidden and elusive, as the Cathedral could not be seen until we were but mere blocks away. Each step seemed faster with greater urgency and surety than the last as we wended our way through the traffic and the streets.
The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela loomed suddenly before us on our way to the town’s old center. There are only two things in the world when the pilgrim sees the Cathedral: the pilgrim and the Cathedral. Once the Cathedral towers are seen, it takes but a few minutes to arrive at the Puerta de la Azabachería, the first portal to give access to the church.
I I I
The Cathedral was massive. It was grand. It was beautiful. And there God was. For St. James by the grace of his body which was a portal to Heaven had named the place Bethel. And there St. James was. And there I was. It was good to be there. After 500 miles, twenty-seven days, nearly one and a quarter phases of the moon, more than 350 towns, and countless prayers, in the middle of this town of divine invention, “the happiest and most splendid of all cities in Spain,”[v] I stood—insignificant in size and in age and in glory—before this granite Church of St. James built over a Galileean fisherman’s bones. The door of the Azabacherías was open, to the church and to the crypt. And it was open for me. My feet, so used to walking, now paused. But from within—the region wherein God dwells—I heard the call to come in, and I followed. As I walked through the doors ad limina Beati Iacobi, it seemed as if I heard the Spirit and the Bride and St. James say with one voice, “Come.” And there I was refreshed with the waters of Life.
Et spiritus et sponsa dicunt: Veni. Et qui audit, dicat: Veni. Et qui sitit veniat, et qui vult accipiat aquam vitae gratis.
I I I
Compos-tella apostolica urbs excellen-tissima cunctis deliciis plenis-sima corporale talentum Beati Iacobi habens in custodia, unde felicior et excelsior cunctis Yspanie urbibus est approbata
Vocans-que nomen loci illius Bethel
Gen. 35:15
Rev. 22:17
St. James the Apostle, the Great,
and his relics venerate
XXXXXX
Santiago XXXXXX
It was almost noon when I walked into the cool of the Church and found myself in one of the transept arms. I walked by the Corticela chapel and saw a confessional to my right. In it a priest. I knelt, and with my pack on my back I confessed and was shriven. I found a place to sit on a pew in the nave, prayed my penance, and heard the pilgrim’s Mass. We were treated to the great plumes and emotional draw of the botafumeiro, the massive thurifer which billows out incense as it roars across the high altar front, past the pews full of pilgrims in the transept. Domine, Dirigatur oratio mea sicut incensum in conspectu tuo, I prayed. At the consecration: Dominus meus et Deus meus. After communion: Suscipe Domine.
I I I
Following the Mass, we stood in line to give an abrazo to the apostól, a hug to the statute of the apostle, which sits, as a prince of the apostles, on a throne of worked silver and gold. The 13th century statute of Santiago holds a scroll in his right hand which drapes across his right leg. It reads: Hic est corpus divi Iacobi apostoli, et Ispaniarum patroni: here is the body of the great James the Apostle and Patron of Spain. In his left hand, an ornate pilgrim’s staff—gourd and all—worked of silver and gold. Circumambulating the ambulatory around the high altar, I passed chapels in the absidioles dedicated to St. Bartholomew, Sts. John and Susan (the latter’s relics are here as a result of Archbishop’s Gelmírez’s furta sacra), Nuestra Señora la Blanca, the Holy Savior, St. Peter or Our Lady of the White Lily or Azucena, the Mondragón chapel dedicated to the Deposition of Christ, and Our Lady of Pilar—a little of Zaragoza in Santiago. Climbing up the steps, I embraced the apostle’s statute, and clambered down to visit the crypt.
Ruega por nosotros Bienaventu-rado Santiago.
Para que seamos dignos
de las promesas de Jesucristo
Down the narrow steps into the crypt, I descended, but my soul rose to heaven. I knelt before the relics on a prie-dieu. And what great experience did I encounter before the relics of St. James? This, dear reader, you shall not know. For what happened when the Trinity, St. James, and I, kneeling before the sacred relics, met I shall not write about even were I to find words equal to it. Good-bye dear words. Good-bye dear reader. Nunc dimmitis Domine. Lord, let Your pilgrim now depart in peace.
I I I
That evening, the mendicant moan of the sax and the supplicating skirl of the bagpipe—sounds of the street musicians beggaring for pilgrims’ money—echoed off the walls of the Praza and wended their way through the ruas of the city into the room wherein I lay. I wrote in my journal, “Consummatum est—21 VII 2001 A.D.” That is the date on my Compostela, the certificate issued by the Cathedral authorities. The next day my arrival was officially announced through the chambers of that great Cathedral: “Un peregrino de los Estados Unidos!”
I I I
But the entry in my journal is not entirely accurate, for two things yet did I lack to complete the pilgrimage. The first was easy enough. I asked for Mass to be said at the high altar for the repose of my parents’ souls, an arrangement made at the Sacristy, and for which I received a receipt upon payment of a stipend. Oh what a marvel, to pay so little consideration to bind the conscience of a priest, and yet thrown in for free in this transaction is the Mass which is of greatest value.
I I I
The second matter required a wait, a triduum, a three day vigil for the Feastday of St. James. While I waited for St. James’s Feastday, my vow fulfilled, I rented a car and drove to Finisterre, to the ends of the earth. But in going to Compostela I had already traveled plus ultra.
I I I
Mass on the Feastday of St. James was standing room only. Pilgrims and the other faithful waited the procession. The doors of the Cathedral opened and in processed myriad dignitaries of the Compostela, Galicia, and Spain, followed by Knights of Malta, Knights of Santiago, the Canons of Compostela, followed by the crucifer, and all manner of acolytes, clergy, monsignori, bishops and archbishops, including the Archbishop of Compostela. Here was the Church, in the fullness of her ceremony. Here, the remnants of a Catholic Spain sang to Spain’s patron, to protect and defend Spain and the Faith:
Firme y segura
Como aquella Columna
Que te entregó la Madre de Jesús
Será en España
La santa Fe cristiana
Bien celestial que nos legaste Tú
At the end of a high Mass, the Archbishop dispensed the gift.
“Sit nomen Domini benedictum!” intoned the Archbishop of Compostela, with the combined voice of Theodomirus, Mezonzo, Pelaez, Gelmírez, Fonseca, and the many other men—worthy and unworthy—who have worn the miter of the see of Compostela across the long spanse of time.
“Ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum!” I murmured with the people.
“Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini!” he chanted.
“Qui fecit caelum et terram!”the faithful responded.
“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus: Pater, et Filius, et Spritus Sanctus, Amen,” the Archbishop blessed as he made the sign of the cross over the varied congregation.
So the lips of the bishop of Compostela dispensed out a great dole from the Church’s treasury, this currency of God’s Indulgence and Mercy settling on the myriad pilgrim souls, mine among them. Compostela locuta, causa finita est.
And like a child I wept for joy there in Compostela. I wept for joy at God’s great Grace, the gracia especial that drew and called me here, the gracia especial that sustained me through the long journey, and the gracia especial that now embraced me with the full ardor of God’s Love and forgave me of my sins and their due. It is the ultimate consolation for a pilgrim to be aware that God is Love, and that it is Love’s quality always to have Mercy.
Explicit
Laus Deo
Explicit
Iter Sancti Iacobi
Herru Sanctiagu!
Grott Sanctiagu!
E Ultreia
e Suseia!
Deus
adiuva nos!
[i] Cantebury Tales, p. 446
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 90.
[iii] Benesch, p. 144 (old pilgrim hymn)
[iv] Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, translated into modern english by Nevill Coghill. Penguin Books, London: 1977, p. 201.
[v] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 87.
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