Day 40: Once, when I was 57 years old, I walked 500 miles across northern Spain

When I came to the end of my walk I had a day of reunion and rest. I was reunited with my wife. We celebrate our 33rd wedding anniversary next week in Barcelona. After all those years together, we have never been apart quite so long. I hope never to be apart so long again. Yet our time apart was rich in reflection on our lives and our ever-growing intimacy. You don't get what we have together without long years of always opening, even when stubborn pride resists, our hearts, in trust, one to another. Her voice, her touch thrill me more each day. Her intellect and her wit charm as ever before. Her own unique way of devotion to Torah and the ways of Judaism inspires me in my own Christian devotion. She puts the Song of all Songs on my lips. "In the place my wonder comes from, there I find you."
Near the square I briefly saw the four Latvian young people who came to Spain, like me, as an act of devotion. In them I saw the future of the Church--energy, openness, piety, wide-eyed wonder at the multitude of joys in the world. We shared a warm embrace and that most modern of information--email addresses. Buen Camino and Via con Dios.
I saw Stefan the Polish professor. He was heading to A Corunna to see the last existing Roman lighthouse. My young friends, Hector and Marta, were in the square. They are truly modern and have already 'friended' me on FaceBook. They are just great kids, and I hope Spain has a good future for them. The two Irish gals were here. The German woman who started the great Miraz cattle stampede by tasting galegos leaf from a wheel barrow was in the square. Some I met along the way had come to the square days ago. I will miss them completely. More arrive who I never got the chance to meet. The raise their walking poles just as I did, in triumph and celebration. They laugh. They cry. They embrace. I want to shout, give the thumbs up, pat on the back, lift a glass of wine in toast to each one I see. A cloud of witnesses, a thousand years of souls' arrivals, a thousand years of tired feet and full hearts greets each and everyone of us who walk so far and sings, "Well done" in a voice that is so high, clear, and bright.  Just listen as you stand in the square; you'll hear.
I meet Pete and we go inside for the Pilgrim's Mass. We have come an hour early to get a seat. The church is massive and ornate. Tourist, tour groups, pilgrims, and some honest-to-goodness worshipers fill the place. Many pilgrims line up to go up behind the altar to 'hug the saint', an ornate statue that many embrace from behind. Others lined up to go below the altar to spend a few moments in the crypt of St. James. As much as I've invoked the name of the saint in these entries, my devotional sensibilities and history really do not include those sorts of expressions of piety. I'm happy to sit, pray, chat with Pete, and people watch. As we wait, Tomoko, the Japanese woman we met approaches, she is looking for other friends, but wishes us a final 'Buen Camino'. Then the American, Dave, who we had met with the Irish gals, asks to join us. We happily slide over. As it turns out, Dave is from Puerto Rico and is a devout Catholic. He had come to the Cathedral early in the morning and celebrated the Mass with a group of seminarians down in St. James crypt. He is a fascinating fellow who talked of his sadness over the state of the church and his delight to be worshipping there today. As we talked a nun approached the microphone on the altar. She asked for 'silencio, por favor'. She spoke in rapid Spanish, but the upshot was she was going to teach us the sung responses for the Mass. She then sang in a high and delicate voice, "Jesu Christi Rex Gloria (Jesus Christ, King of Glory)." She said, "Repeata." When she wasn't satisfied with our volume, she said again, "Repeata." She taught us the tune to two other responses that were a bit too complicated for me to do anything but to hum along. Her beautiful and fraile singing was a very promising start to worship. After a few minutes the processional began with the organ filling the space with wonderful sound. There were seminarians, about 9 or 10 priests, and 2 VIPs (I am woefully ignorant of the dress and its indicators of rank in the Catholic church). The Bishop, I presume, started the service by reading the names of the home countries of the arriving pilgrims for the day. A lay reader read a Psalm (I think, I'm judging more by the rhythm of the reading than by my ability to pick out every 10th word). Another lay reader read the same Psalm in Italian. The other VIP stepped up and asked us to rise for the Gospel reading. It was from Matthew, but I couldn't follow it. The man read with obvious passion. The church was filled with folk who could understand him, so the Gospel went out, many heard, and maybe, just maybe, somebody decided to 'repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand.' And indeed it was, for after a sermon on what I took to be the feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul, the Mass started. During Mass, before you partake, you are required to make peace with anybody you've offended. The practice comes from the Day of Atonement rituals in Judaism, Jesus cites the practice, and Paul comments on it as well in the Epistles. As my wife always says, "What good is all that 'gettin right with God ' stuff you Christians keep yapping about, if you don't 'get right' with your neighbor?" Well, the Passing of the Peace is our attempt to 'get right' with our neighbor before we take the bread and cup that gets us 'right' with God. So there amidst pilgrims and tourists and worshipers we turned to one another, strangers, old friends, new friends, families, and we made peace. For a bright moment shalom descends as a gift from above passed hand to hand, heart to heart. Maybe it is really more ritual than real desire, and it is certainly more desire than reality, but it is not a bad place to start, eh?. Turning one to another, offering an open hand, "Peace brother" "Shalom sister."
It is indeed a heady moment. The Mass continues and the priests line the altar rail to distribute the Body to the body. Forward they come, in their hundreds. Graybeards and youth. Folk in backpacks. Fathers and sons. Old friends. I have too much respect for the Catholic church to participate, but I sure joined them in spirit qnd longed to in body. What a time, what a time. As Pete said afterwards, "Now, I am indeed full.
After all who came forward were served, then the show started. The giant Botafumerio was filled with incense and a group of 8 monks sets it to swinging. The thurible weighs over 140 lbs. They use pounds of incense and charcoal to get it going. Alledgedly it swings at 80kph and rises nearly 20 meters high.  The monks swung it for 4 or so minutes befor backing off.  One of the visiting priests up on the altar got his camera out to get some shots.  The crowd went wild.  The whole place was filled with incense--prayers rising up sweetly to God's nostrils as the scrptures say or perfume to cover the odor of pilgrims as others say.  Either explanation works.  Applause broke out. 
Then it was over.  Pete and I got separated.  My wife and I and her traveling companion went off to enjoy a dinner of razor clams and grilled octopus.  Pete went to meet his wife at the station.  The next day I caught a plane to Barcelona.  My wife and I will spend our anniversary in the old Olympic park with several thousand dear friends cheering on Espana in the Eurocup finals.
What does it all mean? 
I would be hard pressed to say right now.  I left Ann Arbor like Abram with the hope that I would be blessed and be a blessing in turn (Gen. 12:3).  Well, I was blessed beyond measure or words: everyday, each day.  Will I, in turn, be a blessing?  I have some deep discussions with my pastor and a couple of confidants, and my wife ahead of me to put together some of what bubbled up for me during those wonderful days.  Will I be a blessing?  I truly hope so.I do so truly hope so. It is though, the future.  No one has a crystal ball.  If they say they know tomorrow, they are sadly mistaken or they are just outright  liars.  As the poet says, "Last I heard only God gets to say what has to be."  What I know for certain now is that once when I was 57 years old I walked 500 miles across northern Spain.  It was and shall ever be: Buen Camino.