Pilgrimage

I spent a good bit of time this morning sitting in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. This is the destination of a medieval pilgrimage route--one that is still popular today. People come to venerate the remains of St. James, that legend says is buried here.

I sat inside the nave of the church, looking at the grand, golden altar, and watching the hordes of visitors that passed through. Some are pilgrims, trekkers, still carrying their packs, some sporting the scallop shell, traditional emblem of the Santiago pilgrim. Some are well-groomed tourists, frequently part of a tour group.

It is a strange and strangely moving experience to see all the people who have traveled so far to pay homage to Santiago, St. James. Walking in the plaza fronting the church this morning, seeing the pilgrims toting packs and trekking poles, I felt like something of an outsider. These people all projected a feeling of elation. A couple of pilgrims that walked onto the square for the first time let out great shouts--half groan, half laughter--of fulfillment, of weariness, of relief at having finally arrived. People greeted one another with triumphant waves, with hugs and smiles--perhaps other pilgrims they met up with on the road. Groups took pictures, set down packs and smoked cigarettes in the sunshine. They had walked several hundred miles for several weeks (the German group in my hostel said it took them five). On such a journey they had experienced something that my seven-hour train ride from Madrid--however cramped the quarters may have been--cannot compare to.

Inside the cathedral, there is a bustle of pilgrims and tour groups. Signs ask for silence and forbid photos, but no one seems to pay attention or take offense as people stop to kneel before the high altar and cross themselves before snapping a photo.

The high altar is qutie magnificent with gold encrusted sculpture depicting three incarnations of Santiago: Santiago the Moorslayer, astride a white horse; Santiago the pilgrim with black cape, wide-brimmed hat, staff, and scallop shell; and Santiago the saint. It is this final and lowest figure that people line up to kiss. From the pews, I can see people walking in a continuous stream behind the altar. Some put their arms around the statue to embrace it from behind.

Even amidst all the visitors, the church functions. Priests installed themselves in confessionals to hear the confessions of the faithful. Robed priests made their way through the crowds to give mass in a side altar. A nun entered the roped-off area of the high altar with a feather duster! (I wonder how many tourist photos show Santiago being tickled by a feather duster?)

What makes people take this journey, walk so many miles, to finally end their journey here, at this church? Is it the tradition, the historical significance? Are there still believers who come to expiate their sins by worshipping Santiago? Is it the beautiful countryside that attracts people, or the camaraderie; the personal fulfilment?

And am not I a pilgrim myself, with the destination and the journey one and the same?