I eventually decided that I would make my way to Canterbury Cathedral after the conference. I wanted to take in the life of the mother church of our Communion and to walk part of the Via Francigena. The only problem was that the day after I arrived in Canterbury, I fell ill with Covid. There was no way I could walk the trail. Eventually, I was able to spend some time around the cathedral, and I wandered through the ruins of St. Augustine’s Abbey, but I left for home feeling rather thwarted.

Three years later, a lot had changed in my life, including a move to Toronto from Halifax and settling into a new parish. I had spent 20 years in Halifax and for some time had felt a call to move further afield, but I had never taken the leap until now. Frankly, I did not want to leave home, but I also knew I needed a change. Now, after all the changes, I knew that I needed to take some time to pray. I also needed to try that pilgrimage route again. I didn’t know why I wanted to go back to Canterbury, nor did I know what I would find there, but in my heart, it seemed like there was unfinished business there.

On this second trip, I spent my first few days taking in the life of the cathedral, attending the daily offices, the daily Eucharist, sitting alone in the crypt, talking with the clergy. The rhythm and stability brought me back to myself after a very busy few months, and I was surprised to discover how familiar the cathedral suddenly seemed: it felt like home.

Eventually, I set out along the Via Francigena. I had only a week, so Rome was not on the itinerary, but I wanted to go as far as I could towards Dover and the English Channel. I was excited to see what I would discover. I found myself walking through the old city and suburbs, dodging speeding cars along old Roman roads and enjoying the tranquility of crossing farmers’ fields. It seemed like an analogy for life: moments of uncertainty followed by peace and serenity. I was surprised to discover that it, too, seemed oddly familiar and much like home, even though I had not been there before.

Of course, the Scriptures are filled with stories of pilgrimage, a desire to return home or to find a home, a place that is safe and familiar. The Old Testament, for instance, tells us about the People of God longing to find or return to a Promised Land, and in the New Testament, the Book of Revelation speaks of the New Jerusalem, a heavenly city where God will dwell with his people and we with God. Indeed, the life of God is often described in terms of pilgrimage: God sends the Son into this world, who, after a journey through suffering and death, returns home to heaven to sit at the right hand of the Father. There is also, of course, the descent of the Spirit, who comes to bring order to chaos, to guide us into all truth and lead us home.

How could Canterbury Cathedral or the Via Francengina feel like home to me, though? I was in a strange land. Initially, I thought it was because I had been to the cathedral before, and so its surroundings felt somewhat familiar. However, I had never walked the Via Francengina. It made no sense.

A few days later, while sitting at Choral Evensong back at Canterbury Cathedral, praying and reflecting on that day’s journey, it finally occurred to me: it was not the building or the surroundings that made me feel like I was at home. Rather, it was the spiritual life of the cathedral: her rhythm of daily prayer, the Scripture, the worship and the music, and knowing that I was part of nearly a millennium of pilgrims, both past and present, who had spent time in this holy place seeking after God. I felt at home with souls who, like me, were seeking to know Jesus and to make their way home to the kingdom of God; who, also like me, were seeking special graces in these holy sites where grace had been found before. My true home was to be found in Christ Jesus. Sometimes, it seems, you have to leave home in order to find home.

You don’t have to travel to Canterbury to make a pilgrimage home. The season of Lent is a spiritual pilgrimage home into the life of God that ends with the cross and the resurrection. The spiritual disciplines of “self-examination, penitence, prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, and by reading and meditating on the word of God” (see page 282 of the BAS) are the means of that pilgrimage – the way in which we make our way home to Jesus. At Canterbury I found that my true home is a life lived with Jesus Christ. I hope you will find the same this Lent and make your way home to him.

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I have never been a particularly athletic person, nor would I describe myself as particularly “outdoorsy.” But sometime a number of years after the death of my husband, I discovered that walking in nature became a good way to work through stress and grief. It became part of my prayer practice to hike, though I wasn’t always praying every time I hiked.

The desire then became to do something with my walking that was more intentional and for a longer period of time. The only pilgrimage route I’d ever heard of was the Camino in Spain, so I started by googling the Camino. Around the same time, a cousin walked the Camino and posted pictures on Facebook.

Thanks to the algorithms used by Facebook, things about pilgrimage started popping up in my feed. That’s how I discovered that there are also pilgrimage routes in Ireland. That interested me because part of my heritage is Irish. I followed the Pilgrim Path page that is dedicated to these Irish pilgrimage routes. I visited Ireland with some friends in 2017, and my intention had been to walk at least one of the pilgrim paths, but the friends I was with weren’t up for it, so I let the idea drop, intending to get back there someday. And then I changed jobs, and then the pandemic hit with all its travel restrictions, and I put the dream on hold. But it was still there in the background, and still popping up from time to time in my Facebook feed.

In 2021, something about the Camino Nova Scotia popped up in my feed. This was intriguing. Something closer to home than Europe! The timing wasn’t right yet, though. Then in 2022, our College of Bishops announced the mini-sabbatical program for clergy, and they didn’t put any restrictions on how that time was used. The time was right. I knew that a pilgrimage in Nova Scotia was exactly what I needed for a sabbatical time.

Pilgrimage has been described as “praying with your feet,” and is a very intentional and physical way of using one’s body in prayer. There were practical things I needed to do to prepare for the journey: buy plane tickets, book accommodations for both sides of the pilgrimage (during the pilgrimage we slept at churches or church camps along the route), acquire items and pack as lightly as possible. Physical preparation was needed, too. The pilgrimage was in early October, so I started walking every day of my summer vacation in August, gradually increasing the length of the walks. The longest I’d ever walked in one day prior to this preparation was 10km. We had been sent the itinerary, and the longest day would be a 30km walk! My goal was to do that prior to the pilgrimage. I didn’t make it, but I got fairly close. Returning to my regular schedule after vacation, and with lessening hours of daylight, I wasn’t able to walk as far, but I still made it my goal to walk at least a couple kilometres every day in preparation.

The other part of the preparation was a spiritual one. The information we were sent about expectations clearly stated: “Walking pilgrimage is more than just a hike! Pilgrimage is travel for transformation. It’s an opportunity to mindfully experience yourself in relation – to other pilgrims, to the land, to history and to the transcendent. Camino Nova Scotia is designed to provide times for personal growth and spiritual nurture, all while undertaking a physical challenge, with an eye to appreciating Nova Scotia for its place, its peoples, and its past.”

We were asked to think about why we were making the pilgrimage, and why now. Of course, what I thought I was seeking ahead of time and what God chose to reveal to me by the end of it were two different things!

A pilgrimage is not just an external, physical journey: it is an internal, spiritual one as well. The two journeys are inextricably linked, however. What is happening while one walks informs one’s inner reflections, and one’s inner reflections inform how one sees what is happening around them as they walk. One of the pilgrimage leaders remarked that “when you walk, the land becomes a part of you.” By which she meant the act of walking helps you understand the land, and the land has a deep impact on you, in a way that riding or driving over it does not. As I walked, the landscape and the weather became part of my prayerful reflections about community, belonging and discernment. I had been seeking absolute certainty about what lay ahead, and what was revealed by the end was that even if things were “foggy” I just needed to trust the path and the directions I’d been given, and trust that eventually the fog would clear; but in the midst of the fog, to appreciate the beauty of that which was right in front of me. It felt really important to just be in the moment, and not let the lack of clarity about the future disturb my state of mind, heart and soul. In a profound way, I could hear God asking me to relax and to trust.

By the end, I had gone roughly 110km from Grand Pré to Annapolis Royal. And while the physical journey sounds impressive to some (and I am proud of myself for finishing it!), I think what impressed me more was the spiritual journey that was tied to that physical journey; the connection to land and community, and the learning that developed and came together over five short days.

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Fast forward to the end of January, and we found ourselves sitting on a plane preparing for the 10.5 hours it takes to get from Toronto to Tel Aviv. Aside from the anxiety of leaving our work for two weeks and wondering if we’d packed the right clothes, we wondered what exactly lay ahead in our Intro to Bible Lands course run by St. George’s College in Jerusalem.

We were greeted with sun and palm trees and a very busy international airport buzz. The first sense of home: the commuter train. Right outside the main doors of the station, with a very easy payment system, we found ourselves and bags crammed into a train heading to the city centre. Just like our daily commutes on the TTC, there was diversity, zero personal space and fast-moving vehicles, complete with inexplicable delays along the route.

Cathedral view

Dragging our cases on the cobble-stone sidewalks, we eventually found our way to the college, and here was the second sense of home: a soaring cathedral appearing in the sky with buildings, shops and the courthouse densely packed around it. Our room in the guest house had a cathedral view, and I was so elated I texted a picture to Bishop Andrew (who had just arrived in Kerala himself for the Church of South India’s annual conference, so was only a 3.5 hours’ time difference away) because at the diocesan office in Toronto we have a cathedral view every day. Just like home for the next 10 days!

The opening Eucharist at St. George’s Cathedral was the first thing on our course agenda. We were not too jet-legged to marvel at our safe travel to Jerusalem and find ourselves sitting in a beautiful stone cathedral chapel with 25 strangers-soon-to-be-pilgrim-classmates, being greeted by the Dean of the cathedral and our course guide and chaplains. Cue the tears – in that moment overcome with gratitude, sharing in the body of Christ in the Holy Land.

Since the Hiltz Scholarship began, I have known about St. George’s College and the pilgrimages on offer. I have enjoyed processing all of the applications over the years and working with the scholarship committee to grant clergy and lay people to partake of this opportunity. I loved helping Bishop Andrew plan his trip to the Holy Land a few years ago and was intrigued by his and Mary’s experience there. We know so many people who have been to the Holy Land and how much of an impact it has had upon their faith and formation. But I was truly surprised by the instant, overwhelming sense of home we experienced within the first couple of hours. That sense of home, accompanied by overwhelming gratitude, carried us throughout the pilgrimage.

The first outing our group took was to the Mount of Olives. When Dave and I were commuting from the airport to Jerusalem, we noticed with delight that the name of transit routes and stops all seemed to be Mount-something. That was such a pinch-me moment – we were somehow in the land of the Mount of Olives, etc., that we had heard about our entire lives growing up in Christian communities. There we were, standing on the Mount of Olives, overlooking the old city of Jerusalem in all its modern-day glory (complete with construction cranes), just marveling again at the ground on which we stood. Our guide said a lot of things and I could not recall any of them now, we were so taken with the view and awe of being there. Thankfully he knew that none of us were probably listening, being the seasoned guide, Bible scholar and priest he was. He took us back there later in the course when our ears were trained to listen to his calm and quiet voice and our eyes were trained to see what we were being directed to at the same time! (Isn’t there a parable in there somewhere?)

One very special outing was visiting the Haram esh-Sharif, the al-Aqsa Mosque compound. Thanks to the good relationship between the college and the staff at the mosque, we were taken on a private, guided tour inside the Dome and surrounding buildings. The morning was sunny and clear, and again we found ourselves quietly marveling as we stood within the compound, taking in the glorious gold and the art of the Dome of the Rock. I was not the only one in our group weeping at that holy sight. The emotional swell came from recognizing the significance that physical structure has for millions of people of a different faith than mine, and with a shared reverence for the holy place that it is. It was stunning to be in a sacred place so important and sought after by people all over the world.

Bullet holes

We were led into a giant building next to the Dome, and our guide pointed us to the windows at the very top of the soaring ceiling. Many of the windows were shattered, and it took a few minutes to realize what it was – bullet holes and the destruction from bullets. Our guide explained that forces have tried to invade the buildings with such force even while people were inside worshipping. That was disturbing to see and something I continue to think about now that we are home. There are no bullet holes in my church’s windows. Also in the same building, we came across a group of people cleaning, dusting and tidying up. Some more familiar reality, that such holy places are also very public spaces and need to be cleaned. I have spent my whole life in church, and helping to clean up and tidy up at church is second nature, because it is your home away from home. We all have to contribute to our churches’ caretaking so that we may have a place to worship and pray in.

On our last day, early in the morning, we met the Dean in the college courtyard who would prepare and lead us through the Way of the Cross in the old city, ending at the Holy Sepulchre. I am not a morning person, nor did I at all like the visit to the Holy Sepulchre on our first day, so this was an excursion I, admittedly, was anxious about! Being the last day, however, we had had eight rigorous, fulsome days of awe-inspiring excursions under our belts, and when the alarm went on the last morning, I was already awake and eager to engage with this last adventure (a pilgrimage miracle!).

The Dean asked us to take turns carrying the cross and reading the scriptures at each station. By now we were also experts at managing our earpieces/headsets and minding local traffic so as not to be herdlike and irritate people going about their daily lives. But carrying a large wooden cross and keeping your breath to read scripture in meaningful ways in the hustle, and minding many other pilgrim groups, was a challenge. Somehow, I ended up beside the Dean and was saddled with the cross as we began. It felt awkward and weird, and the old cobblestones amongst the vendor stalls and people and cats (there are cats everywhere in the old city) gradually blended into the background as my heart took in what I was physically doing: carrying a cross through the streets of the old city in Jerusalem just as Jesus did some two thousand years ago. Ending in the courtyard of the Holy Sepulchre, we were all a puddle. As we made our way inside, we stopped at the anointing slab perfumed with fragrant oil and made our way up to the place of the crucifixion. Kneeling in front of the cross at that place of all places was an extremely humbling and meaningful moment.

We learned that an hour or so after we had passed through the second station, at the Chapel of Condemnation, a young man had run into the chapel courtyard overturning statues and trying to smash monuments. The chapel groundskeeper, who had greeted our entire group and the Dean by name just a short time earlier, threw himself on the man to restrain him. The young man apparently pleaded “insanity” to avoid charges. It was jarring to hear of another act of violence in a holy place that we had just stood in while praying and reading scripture. A day after we had arrived in Jerusalem, a Palestinian refugee camp was attacked, and several people were killed. Three days after we arrived, a Jewish synagogue was attacked, and several people were killed. The tension between violence and welcome is something I have never experienced in a place to such an extreme and was palpable throughout our time in the Holy Land.

One night we were visited by staff of a non-profit organization working for peace and understanding, specifically with young people. This was so hopeful to learn about, and I invite you to visit www.musalaha.org to consider learning more and supporting its work. As a pilgrim who was warmly welcomed and instantly found spiritual “home” in Jerusalem, I must in turn give time to pray for those who have their home in Jerusalem, and for peace and reconciliation in Israel. Thank you to the Hiltz Scholarship Committee, to Bishop Andrew and to the Diocese of Toronto for the gift of this extraordinary pilgrimage!

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This is what happened for the 14 pilgrims and one pilgrim guide dog who stepped onto the Camino together on Sept. 23, 2022. High in the misty mountains of Galicia, at the village of O’Cebreiro, the pilgrims of the Church of the Redeemer in Toronto ventured into this current and didn’t turn back. Early that morning, we gathered, as we did every morning, to reflect on what it was we were about to do, to pray together and to receive my blessing.

Outside the village church, I offered words that were both descriptive and inspirational. With two Caminos under my belt, I knew something of which I was speaking. For most of the rest of our group, however, they were still theoretical words. Not yet real. But as it happened, they were profoundly prophetic.

I described pilgrimage as a transformative adventure in faith. I said that on this adventure we would step out of our rutted comfort zones of life into the great unknown. We will, I said, be invited to surrender to the process of stretching and stretching and stretching. We will be invited by God to radical trust, to give up our need for ironclad security and certainty in all kinds of physical, material, emotional and spiritual ways. We will try to live the words of Jesus, preached as he and his friends walked the roads of Galilee, “do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink,” and by extension where you will sleep or bathe, wash your clothes or even find a toilet.

And then we began the adventure in faith. And what an adventure it was!  Different for each pilgrim who walked and confronted their own needs and desires for certainty and security – in other words, their own difficulties trusting God – in different ways and on different levels.

What follows is the story of one of our pilgrims, Joan, who had a singular adventure of challenge and transformation. Joan’s account bears witness to the unique experience of a non-sighted person on the Camino, whose surrenders to the uncertainties of pilgrimage and whose need to trust herself, others and God along the road were greater than those of the rest of us. Despite all of that – and likely because of all of that – her deep plunge into this mighty current was both a transformative experience for her and for all of us who were privileged to share and witness her journey. It is the story of three pilgrims, actually, because on her right was her faithful guide dog Danielle and on her left her faithful friend and human companion Carla.

The Story of Three

Walking the Camino was a long-held, cherished dream. From the time I was first inspired in the mid-80s to the time in 2021 when Redeemer began seriously to consider making this pilgrimage, it called to me. I volunteered to be on the planning committee but was sure that “this ship had sailed for me.” While relatively fit and accustomed to doing 6 km hikes in the city, I am in my early 70s and doubted my capacity to walk 20 km days. Mostly I was unsure of the nitty gritty of walking this path without sight. I was daunted by the manifold uncertainties. So day after day as the Camino called, I prayed, “loving God, give me the courage to live this dream.” And “help me imagine how to overcome obstacles.”

Courage and imagination come in various forms, as do the answers to our prayers. In February 2022, Susan offered to guide me so that I could join the pilgrimage. Her kindness was the push I needed. But I also realized that, as the tour leader, she would be busy with many responsibilities. However, it was that very month that a little spark of a guide dog became my partner. Dani (aka Danielle) and I completed our training together and soon after I began investigating the possibility of taking her with me on the Camino. The French representative of the International Guide Dog Federation said not to take a guide dog. The Guide Dogs for the Blind call centre advisor said, “Don’t let anyone talk you down!” So I didn’t. So we went. Having found a second companion, Carla Agnesi, an experienced Camino pilgrim and librarian like myself, we set off on our great adventure.

There is no way to know what it will be like. From day to day, from step to step, one is swept into the Camino current with its many joys and vicissitudes. The paradox is that while planning is essential to a pilgrimage, a pilgrimage cannot be planned. So I prayed, “give me grace to walk in the moment.” That first day we stepped onto the Camino fully believing that we were prepared for what we might discover, yet over the eight days to come, we quickly became astonished, uplifted, overwhelmed, cast down, and lifted up again by what we experienced.

That first day we came across a statue and plaque dedicated to San Roque, the patron saint of dogs. Dani was delighted to have a clear path with no traffic lights, few cross streets, and everyone heading in the same direction. She literally ran her way down the path, with me hanging on as her companion. Her pleasure was infectious and we found ourselves climbing to new heights and descending into the low valleys, joyfully greeting pilgrims with “buen Camino.” A guide dog on the Camino is rare, so pilgrims were intrigued and stopped to give her their blessing, with a kiss on the head or a kind word. By the end of this first day, she was the toast of the Camino. Carla and I took breaks to hydrate and to ensure Dani could rest. Greg, one of the dog-loving Redeemer pilgrims, examined her feet in the evening to make sure her pads were not injured.

Many of our days were glorious. I felt the ever-changing Spanish ground under my feet, from the soft mush of the farmyard, to the granite pebbles of a hillside, to the asphalt of an urban sidewalk. I listened to the ambient sounds of the open farmland, the muffled sound of walking beside buildings and walls, the hushed cover of a forest canopy, the rushing of water when near a stream.

But mostly I was present to my body moving through space. Fear of the unknown and anxiety about the possible dangers ahead could be overwhelming, so it was a challenge to stay with my body in the moment. Often the steep descents were rock strewn and tough to navigate. One day, we were heading down a precipitous narrow path. We had to step from rock to rock. Dani couldn’t find her way. Slipping into the outer darkness of fear was not an option for me. Nor was hurtling off the edge! I had to remain in the moment and not let the fear of falling take over. I had to trust we would all reach the bottom of this hill safely. We had to take our time, all the while knowing that a pilgrim back-up was happening behind us. Slowly and meticulously and together, the three of us trusted one another and we made it to the bottom. Everyone cheered.

On our second day, on our way to Sarria, we came upon a stream with a rough stone causeway with no handrails. There was mist in the air, so we knew the way across would be slippery. It seemed impossible. But wet feet were safer feet, so Carla, Susan, Dani and I walked downstream and discovered stepping stones just beneath the surface of the water. I put my feet where Dani stepped and made it to the other side without incident. Dani walked across as if we did this every day.

In the days to come we crossed countless ancient bridges, clambered over obstacles, fled from unexpected motor bikes and insensitive bicyclists, trudged along paths next to highways, and endured hours of rain and damp. Carla kept us safe. The other Redeemer pilgrims kept us safe. But we had not yet encountered the worst, most hurtful of obstacles. When we did, I had to remember a petition in my prayer: “help me to forgive those who offer barriers.” Discrimination – wherever it takes place – is humiliating for me and painful for my companions. I had not expected to encounter so many opportunities on this path to forgive those who know not what they do. After all, this was the Camino! But there they were in technicolour: those who were indifferent or insensitive to my need for a guide-dog. Those who were ignorant and even nasty.

Late on the third day, when running out of momentum, the three of us were walking with Melanie and Susan. We made the difficult but prudent decision to call a taxi. Just then a taxi drove by, having just made a delivery, and stopped when we hailed it. However, the driver took one look at Dani and told me that the law forbid him to take dogs in his cab. We all felt anger at the lie. Carla came to the rescue by mentioning a fabulous vegan bar not far down the road. While the kitchen had closed by the time we arrived, their brownies were still on offer, still hot and amazingly delicious. We scoffed them down and Melanie composed a humorous protest song about our maltreatment, which we sang lustily between bites. Thus energized and re-regulated, we continued our journey to our destination.

This discrimination continued sporadically as some restaurant and bar owners misunderstood their legal obligation to welcome guide dogs. When we were denied entrance or asked to leave, we often found another bar or restaurant where we were welcomed with warmth and Dani was considered as another guest. But the worst was yet to come! One night we were staying in a beautiful stone farmhouse in the countryside a ways off the Camino. When our host saw Dani, he said she would have to sleep in the garage. My Spanish is limited, but my answer was a defiant and emphatic “no!” He called our tour company and was told he had to accept Dani as a house guest. Still sulking, the next day he refused to take Dani in his car to get back onto the Camino. An angry dispute broke out, as he and Lee debated his obligation to take all of us as he had promised (and as his duty as host required). His tone turned sour and abusive and Dani, Carla and I decided to take a separate taxi. While his rejection and lack of compassion stung, I choose to forgive this man and his failure of hospitality. His behaviour towards us was such a small part of the experience of pilgrimage, of walking and living the last petition of my preparation prayer: “open my heart to the love from those around me.” The three of us had been showered with love and grace and generosity by people from all over the world and by our Redeemer family.

When the three of us arrived in the old part of Santiago, a Galician piper was playing at the gate of the square surrounding the cathedral. We were there in time to attend the pilgrim mass and felt truly blessed to be at the end of our journey. We then visited the Pilgrim Office, presented our three credentials (passports with stamps verifying the many stages of the journey), and received our compostelas (certificates of completion). When the volunteer behind the desk discovered Dani was a guide dog, he issued a special one for animals accompanying their owners on pilgrimage.

As important and precious as my compostela is, the most valuable of the Camino’s gifts to me is the fulfillment of my prayer. Susan’s kindness transformed my attitude. Carla’s generous and thoughtful spirit made me realize the pilgrimage was possible. Redeemer pilgrims cared for us along the way. As Susan predicted, we stretched and stretched and stretched and were changed. I practiced radical trust despite my fears and stayed in the moment. I practised forgiveness. The many moments of grace and love contributed to and shaped my transformation. They fill me with the hope and the courage to continue to dream.

Carla and I still walk together. My Camino prayer has become my prayer for life. Perhaps it will be yours, too.

Loving God, give me courage to live this dream,
Help me imagine how to overcome obstacles,
Give me grace to walk in the moment,
Help me to forgive those who offer barriers,
Open my heart to the love from those around me.
In St. James’ name, I pray.

Written by Joan Robinson and the Rev. Susan Haig of Church of the Redeemer, Bloor St.

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Pilgrimage has always been an important part of the religious experience of humans and of the Christian life. However, like other expressions and disciplines of our faith experience, it has its seasons, its ebbs and flows of popularity and practice. Since the 1980s, both the Camino and pilgrimage in general have been experiencing a renaissance – until March 2020! Yet, as our horizons have narrowed, the idea of pilgrimage has taken on new urgency and even broader appeal. Our present context has not only sharpened the desire to make a pilgrimage, it has also paradoxically – and perhaps serendipitously – been an experience of the very vulnerability that is the lot of the pilgrim on the road. As we have had to sit and shelter at home, our walking shoes languishing on the doormat, our spirits have been untethered and thrown into the great and unfamiliar Unknown of a world discombobulated by pandemic. Unintentionally, and perhaps against our wills, we have all become pilgrims these past two years.

Dictionaries define a pilgrim as a person who makes a journey to a holy place for a religious reason. While that’s true, it’s a bit flat and non-descriptive. I like to think of a pilgrim as a person of daring, one who says “yes” to the divine call to leave their workaday life for an extended period of time, to venture forth into the great and wild Unknown towards a holy place; one who does so for some deep spiritual purpose not quite understood, but accepting that it will involve surprise, revelation and transformation. Richard Niebuhr once said that “pilgrims are poets who create by taking journeys.” And, I believe, one of the things they create or re-create is their very own self, and in so doing also the world in which they live and breathe and have their being.

Each pilgrim walks for a different reason. Each person has a different Camino. For some, a pilgrimage is a process of deep discernment, listening for God’s voice speaking to their questions of who they are, where to go or what to do next. For some, a pilgrimage is a process of healing a wound or a lifetime of wounds, mourning a loss, learning forgiveness, finding or recovering a sense of belonging. For some, it’s a commitment to Creation and to the fight against the planet’s degradation, as each step they take in slow time, each vista they enjoy without the barrier of windows or walls connects them more and more to the Earth and all her creatures. And then for some it’s a long rosary of thanksgiving and gratitude for a life of blessing. Whatever it is, the common element and driving force for every pilgrimage – whether conscious or just dimly known – is a desire to be with God. To live in the words of the Godspell song, seeing God more clearly, loving Her more dearly, following Him more nearly. Because pilgrimage awakens God’s Spirit within us in a way that almost nothing else does.

Pilgrimage may beckon for a long time before the first physical step is taken.  This is so for the Church of the Redeemer community, which has been talking and thinking about walking the Camino for a long time. We are now contemplating the idea of doing just that, but also of exploring the lens of pilgrimage for our life in Christ in all of its fullness and varied expressions. The work is being guided by a small group that has named itself the Becoming Pilgrims Committee. It was struck last year, after Mervyn Chin, a parishioner, asked our incumbent, the Rev. Canon Steven Mackison, if the community could walk the Camino together. Knowing that I am passionate about the subject, Steven then asked me to lead it. I agreed in a heartbeat. I then asked a second parishioner, Henry Krol, to co-lead it with me. He agreed in a heartbeat. Mervyn, Henry and I have all been pilgrims on the Camino and so have experienced something of the holy mystery and transforming power of pilgrimage. Not to mention the joy and fun.

Word of the venture got out and the Becoming Pilgrims Committee was formed. It comprises Henry, Tony Crosbie, Joan Robinson, Lee Shouldice (also a Camino veteran, along with his wife Carol Ritter) and me. And now after some initial planning, a group of 30 or so parishioners are contemplating walking a portion of the Camino Frances for a week and a half in September of this year. Many others are contemplating making pilgrimages more locally in the city and the GTA; and still others are hoping to become pilgrims in other, less concrete ways by exploring and cultivating a pilgrim spirituality in their lives.

There is much to do before September! But we are in this together and are connecting internally with other committees and groups within and beyond our parish family to make it happen. We will piggyback on the work of our Indigenous Solidarity Working Group to walk a pilgrimage on the U of T campus in June. We are working with the Bishop’s Committee on Creation Care to develop a Redeemer pilgrimage within our own parish boundaries and will commence that project by walking a pilgrimage following the watercourse (buried) of Taddle Creek. We will walk and walk and walk throughout the spring and summer to ensure healthy, strong bodies for the road in Spain. We will learn some Spanish, sharing tapas and sipping Albarino. We will read and talk about pilgrimage, learning how to pray with our feet.

Above all, we will learn how to embrace vulnerability and liminality without fear or resistance – to take, as Steven said a few days ago in his Charge to Vestry, “a deeply hopeful journey together.” That is what pilgrimage is all about. That is what our life in Christ as the Church is all about.

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Some years ago, a dear friend introduced me to the New Year tradition of choosing words to live by for the year to come. In January 2019, I settled on “compassion,” “courage,” “grace” and “resilience.” Who would have known how those words would linger and sustain me over the coming years, particularly in the midst of the pandemic.

Heading into 2019, I also knew that I needed a “recharge” of sorts; to refuel myself so I could live out those words. Could I possibly combine my love of walking with Celtic landscapes? If one were to look at my browser history, it would be abundantly clear that I have been noodling this idea for some time. That said, time and time again I kept returning to one site in particular.

Over New Year’s Eve dinner with another close friend, I disclosed my desire to dip my toe into a wee pilgrimage called the “Way of St. David” in southwest Wales in June. It would mean walking approximately 100km over 5 days; ending up at St. Davids Cathedral. To which her response was, “Can I come too?” The next day, when clearer heads prevailed (the discussion the evening before did take place on New Year’s Eve, after all), we started working the plan.

Way of St. David

The Way of St. David is steeped in history and had long been abandoned (as a result of the Reformation) but was being revived by Journeying, a U.K.-based non-profit Christian travel organization. We would be on the inaugural pilgrimage. The cathedral, begun in 1181, was the fourth church to be built on the site where it is believed St. David founded a monastic community (one of 12) in the 6th century. For nearly 14 centuries it was an important place of pilgrimage. In 1124, Pope Calixtus II declared that two pilgrimages to St. Davids were equal to one to Rome and three were equal to one to Jerusalem. Having spent time in both Rome and Jerusalem, the Way of St. David seemed like a pretty good place to start exploring this idea of pilgrimage. According to The Penguin Dictionary of Saints, St. David’s monastic communities were extremely strict, and St. David was known as “the Waterman,” so there is speculation he and his monks were teetotallers. Full confession here, I likely would have some difficulty being a member of the community even if I could. But St. David, whose feast day is celebrated on March 1 as the Patron Saint of Wales, has as his motto “Do the little things.” Now that is something I could get behind.

Compassion, courage, grace and resilience

After months training on the walking paths of Brampton, we arrived in the small Welsh village of Llangwm in Pembrokeshire not at all knowing what to expect. Recognizing that this was also meant to be a vacation and perhaps a little daunted by the physical challenge ahead of us, we had given ourselves permission to take a day off. Had we bitten off more than we could chew? Walking 20km in one day didn’t seem too bad but five days in a row was another matter. 

Our first afternoon set the tone for what was to unfold. Our retreat leader was ever the gracious host and gently took the lead of our little band of five. For the next several days we would be journeying together. As I look back on this experience, I can see how my chosen words played out and how they would be foundational throughout the pandemic that was to follow, mere months after our return.

Much like a liturgy, our days settled into a gentle rhythm — beginning and ending with morning and evening prayer. Time had a way of slowing down, and you simply focussed on the task at hand even if it was putting one foot in front of the other. At intentional locations, Iain (our retreat leader) had us stop for moments of reflection, prayer or singing of hymns, and at other times we would meditate on a particular word or scripture. For me, the rhythm of walking cultivates moments of clarity and peace. So let me tell you how my words turned up on the Way of St. David and how they have helped me these last several months during the pandemic. Remember that St. David’s motto is “Do the little things.”

Compassion

When you bring five strangers together, albeit Lynne and I were not strangers to each other, it’s hard to predict how things will turn out. In our case, there is no question (and maybe there never is) that God’s timing was perfect. Each of us had stories that were revealed over the week, sometimes to the group and sometimes only to one another. That was the lovely mystery: you simply never knew nor needed to know if you were going to be the storyteller or the listener. The timing was not of our choosing but it was a time of deep listening and simply walking alongside. St. David was on to something with his little things.

Forward to the pandemic and haven’t we found that satisfying that deep human desire to be the storyteller to a good listener a big part of what we have been missing? Those long phone calls, walks with friends, delivery of meals, the cards and notes popped in the mail and small gatherings all speak to that. Being a good listener is not one of my strengths but in the pandemic, I have tried to cultivate it. Even with all the silence, I still have a long way to go. But the pandemic has gifted me more intentional time in silence and prayer that inevitably has me praying for others.

Courage

I do not like heights, and I like them even less when I am on a narrow footpath precariously close to the edge of a 200-foot rocky cliff but that is where I found myself on the Way of St. David. I made the journey but not without literally walking through my fear.

Aren’t there days during the pandemic where we have a courage deficit? Days when we give into the fear even if just for a short time, when frustration or anger seeps in. I am not so sure that we have given ourselves enough credit for the courage that has gotten us this far. We shouldn’t overlook those little things like learning new technology, adapting to endless changes, refocussing our outlook and asking for or accepting help. All these things take courage. 

Grace

Some of you may recall the U2 song Grace from their 2000 album All That You Can’t Leave Behind. In it, we hear grace makes beauty out of ugly things and finds beauty and goodness in everything. The first day of our walk was anything but beautiful.

We started the day with worship at St. Jerome (a lovely medieval church built circa 1185-1215 and subsequently restored) and a pilgrim blessing for our journey. We then set off walking westward along the Milford Haven waterway. It drizzled all day, and we were surrounded by enormous petrochemical companies. I had seen too many British crime dramas (thinking specifically of Hinterland) to be daunted by a day of drizzle, but the prospect of five days was a bit ugly, and certainly the refineries stood in stark contrast to the beautiful landscape.

The next day dawned bright and we continued our westward journey, leaving the refineries behind us and eventually turning north to spend the balance of our walk along St. Bride’s Bay. In fact, the weather became so wonderful that we were scrambling for sunscreen. The portion of the Wales Coastal Path that we were on was simply stunning. Our little band of sojourners did not need much grace on our pilgrimage, however, the journey did much to restore it for the months to come.

God’s grace is central to me and without it living through the pandemic would have been quite ugly. ”What once was hurt, what once was friction, what left a mark no longer stings,” sings Bono, and that cannot be done without God’s grace. Throughout the pandemic, with all its messiness, there have been true moments of grace, and many of them have been the result of the little things. Small gestures have resulted in reconciliation. Kind words have healed wounds or provided comfort. Friends have reached out to support each other. God’s love bats last.

Resilience

I can clearly hear Iain say “just beyond the next headland” in response to us (it might have been just me) asking how much longer. The headlands came and went. The ascents and descents kept coming; they seemed relentless. We had trained on the mainly flat and well-maintained trails in Brampton and this was completely different. Sometimes the Way of St. David was easy and comfortable while at other times it could be wearisome and gruelling. I can clearly remember repeating my words over and over again during yet another climb just to keep me focussed, just to get to the top. But steady-on and we would eventually land in a quiet safe harbour to end the day. Isn’t this what it has been like during the pandemic? One pivot after another, grief and losses, joy and celebrations but for me it is the steady-on that will land us in that safe harbour. 

With the rhythm of the days, the wonderful companionship and the beauty of creation to energize us, we never did take that day off. When the pandemic is behind us and it is safe to do so, it will be another pilgrimage for me.

Walking the Way

May you find a new rhythm
Watching the waves,
Listening to the birds,
By walking the Way.
May you find a new rhythm,
Engaging with thoughts,
Conversing with strangers,
By walking the Way.
May you find a new rhythm,
In opening your heart,
And freeing your soul
By walking the Way.

The Little Book of Celtic Blessing by Iain Tweedale, 2021. Printed with permission from the author.

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How do we respond? Getting to know the place where you live and serve is one way. The Bishop’s Committee on Creation Care is inviting every parish in the diocese to participate in a joyful and challenging project called “The Watershed Pilgrimage.” The project is rooted in the principles of watershed discipleship and pilgrimage and will help parishioners get to know their place, tell its stories and see where the land is flourishing and where it is suffering.

The committee is working on a resource that will guide parish groups. A series of explorations will help people learn about their watershed and create a pilgrimage walk, starting from the door of the church, so that others can connect more deeply with the land. The guide will be divided into six units, and parishes can take as long as they need to complete each unit. 

Each parish will also be encouraged to reach out to neighbouring parishes to see if they can connect the routes of their pilgrimage walks, creating longer walks throughout the diocese. 

The ancient spiritual practice of pilgrimage calls us to journey on sacred paths to holy places in order to come into a deeper relationship with the land and with God. Anglicans are no strangers to the idea of our parishes serving our neighbourhoods; watershed discipleship encourages us to widen our definition of neighbour beyond the human community to include the plants, animals, birds and even the soil that supports life in the place where we live. One of the principles of watershed discipleship articulated by environmentalist Baba Dioum is to love where you live: “In the end we will conserve only what we love; we will love only what we understand; and we will understand only what we are taught.” 

These two practices — watershed discipleship and pilgrimage — deepen our relationship with our place and inspire us to respond to the impact of climate change where we live. 

The guide for the “Watershed Pilgrimage” will be shared in the spring and is designed to be suitable for use in any season. Each unit will be rooted in biblical reflection on our relationship with creation as we experience it at the local level. It will include practical advice about uncovering the hidden stories and unique aspects of our watershed and culminate in the creation of a parish-based pilgrimage walk that can be shared with others, offering friends and visitors the opportunity to know and love the watershed as well.

“Our hope is to launch the watershed pilgrimage with a walk led by Bishop Andrew Asbil, from St. James Cathedral to the parish church of St. Andrew by-the-Lake,” says the Rev. Susan Spicer, co-chair of the Bishop’s Committee on Creation Care. For more information, contact creation.care@toronto.anglican.ca 

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I considered walking part of the Camino de Santiago, as several friends have done, but it didn’t feel quite right; it didn’t feel like my land. Instead, what began to coalesce was the thought of finding a path that would take me through my own home country of Scotland, where I was born and spent my early childhood. And then I hit upon the idea of walking to the island of Iona, one of the Inner Hebrides off the west coast of Scotland.

St. Aidan, patron of my parish, was a monk on Iona in the seventh century. Iona was the cradle of Celtic Christianity, and when the King of Northumbria in England wanted to restore Christianity to his realm, he asked for one of the monks from Iona to come. Ultimately it was Aidan who established a monastery there, on the island of Lindisfarne, and Celtic Christianity took root and flourished.

These two holy islands associated with Aidan, Lindisfarne and Iona, are some 550 kilometres apart on foot, linked by no single pilgrims’ way but by a series of ancient footpaths and old roads, some well signposted and others not so much. With my sister and her partner as our accompanying support team, with their caravan and a tent, and with a thick sheaf of detailed maps, we set out on May 5 from Lindisfarne with June 1 as our planned arrival date on Iona.

David and I were also celebrating our 40th wedding anniversary that year. I pictured the pilgrimage as a special experience that we would share together, as we walked in prayerful contemplation from Lindisfarne, where we had spent retreats as young clergy newly ordained in England, over the hills of the border country, past the great ruined abbeys of Jedburgh and Melrose, along the shores of Loch Lomond, up the West Highland Way, and finally to the islands of Mull and Iona. It would be a pilgrimage of the heart and soul, in the footsteps of the great St. Aidan, after whom one of our sons is named. What could be more romantic?

The reality was far more challenging, physically painful, emotionally tough and spiritually rewarding than anything I could have imagined, and our experiences were so markedly different that we each tell the story now from our own perspective.

Caught up in wonder

David:
I am married to a planner, and our support team was her UK sister and partner. Perhaps unwisely, I chose to let them do the planning – unwise, not because they needed supervision, but because I did not get engaged in owning this early part of the walk. As we walked, I was frequently irritated by what seemed like bad planning or odd choices. But actually, the choices they made in careful planning were always correct. Next time I will take ownership in all the stages. Planning and route-finding for an un-commercialized pilgrimage are vital. Hindsight cost me a lot of grumpiness and frustration. Perhaps this, for me, was a necessary transition out of busy parish life and into the silent walking of pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage is not conversational. Paths tend to be single file, so chatting is hard and distracts you from finding your footing on irregular surfaces, and the wind tends to whip your words away over the hill before they have a chance of being heard. Even being together, much of the walking was silent. That too requires some adjustment. We would walk through the morning and stop for a path-side lunch. These lunches were the springs of life! First the feet were set free, then the bodies reclined, and then conversation over a sandwich.

The third challenge was footwear and rain-proofing. I can only suggest that buying where you are walking is better than buying from MEC, which is Canada-centric. I replaced everything enroute.

By now, reading this, I ask, “Why go?” Well, it took me about half the pilgrimage to discover this. “Dis-cover” sounds to me like taking the covering off something. It began for me with clouds as we crossed Glen Coe. We paused for a break as we entered this huge valley, made by a collapsed volcano and then chiselled out by glaciers ages ago. As we descended into the glen, we stopped for a rest after the long morning walk. Lying back on the heather and looking up, there were clouds – white against a cobalt blue sky. Clouds of such magnificence and wonder, mesmerizing in their shape and sheer volume. I was caught up in wonder. I could have spent all day looking at them. What was actually happening was the Spirit finally finding a way to open my eyes and my heart and turn down the noise of my mind and my beloved “critical thinking” mode. Pilgrimage is not a problem to be solved, a project to complete or an item on a bucket list; it is removing yourself from a place where you know, where you are in control, where you are able to carry on as normal. Pilgrimage, for me, was the dismantling, the stripping away of my interface with daily life and leaving me emotionally and spiritually undefended and open.

I never quite recovered from the clouds: even when they were emptying sheets of rain on us, I continued, to Lucy’s slight bemusement, to look up and say, “See how magnificent the rain looks as it sweeps over the cliff above us!” In fact, I was astonished by waves in the sea, by grasses blown by the wind, by the gulls that could hang in the air then tumble, screaming down only to sweep up for sheer joy, by the stonework of a wall made by hands long dead and farms long abandoned by the Clearances. Darkly I found an inner fury at the English wealthy for the callous disregard they had had of “inconvenient peasants” farming where they wanted to shoot pheasants for fun. Pilgrimage opened a way of perceiving. The simplicity of mist spoke of holiness in creation. A beautiful old country estate house spoke of arrogance and greed.

Each day ended in a pub. We called up our support team (whose support, I slowly realized, more and more came from their grace-filled openness of heart) and had a welcomed drink. It was not the distance walked that finally mattered to me; it was the breaking open of my narrowed, outcome-oriented vision, my defences of logic and practicality. It was the awakening of my soul to the unnoticed beauty of dew on the moss in a stone wall, the majesty of a lake, the surge of the sea against rocks, crashing as if for the sheer joy of it all, and God’s invitation to me to dance in this, to delight in it, and continue to notice it. For that too is where God is! 

Pilgrimage is about letting go

Lucy:
I knew we were approaching the pilgrimage with different agendas when David baulked at the idea of walking barefoot across the sands that separate Lindisfarne from the mainland. Pilgrims to Holy Island, as it is called locally, have been crossing barefoot for many centuries, following tall wooden staves that mark a safe passage at low tide. “It’s a pilgrimage tradition!” I urged him. “It’ll be cold and uncomfortable,” he objected. David is a rationalist to my idealism, and he was rightly worrying about keeping our feet dry and unscathed. He is also doggedly loyal and supportive, so took his shoes and socks off as I did, and plodded dubiously across the cold, wet sands on that first hour of our long walk.

I began to question the wisdom of my dream when David strained a knee on Day 4. It grew increasingly painful daily, and he was fearful of a permanent injury. Then we both developed blisters – the walkers’ curse. Small but fiercely painful, they made every step a mental challenge. And we still had hundreds of miles ahead of us, with some challenging terrain. We took a rest day then carried on, David gritting his teeth while I took on the role of encourager and official optimist, while silently wondering if we should give it up.

The turning point came when we faced a two-day hike along the West Highland Way, out of reach of roads and phone range, and so without the safety net of our support duo picking us up, bringing us to our tent and feeding us. We would be carrying extra gear and staying in a hostel between two days of gruelling, rugged walking. It was decision time: press on and take the risk of not being able to make it or wave a white flag now and simply drive the rest of the way to Iona. We decided to press on.

Miraculously, a new pair of walking boots, a knee brace, plus some encouraging words from a German physician staying in the hostel, gave David renewed confidence and the comfort in walking that he’d been desperate for. The mood between us shifted and the land offered up breathtaking beauty with vast banks of bluebells, the long loch and then the highlands opening up before us. The day we emerged successfully from the challenge of that stage is the one day we asked another walker to take a picture of us both, and I still see the quiet, weary joy in that image.

Pilgrimage is about letting go, it seems to me. I had to let go of my preconceived ideas of how it would be, and of how we would experience it together. I had to let David’s experience be his, and mine be mine. We continued to walk together, but we were on different pilgrimages internally, spiritually. I let go of the romantic image I’d had of the two of us chanting psalms and singing hymns as we walked, and instead found simple Celtic prayers like mantras to recite silently. And the more I was able to let go of, like a ship shedding excess cargo, the more I was able to receive.

The day we walked onto the tiny ferry that would take us the last mile to Iona, I felt not euphoria or victory but a quiet, deep sense of peace and gratitude. We spent three days there, joining in the nourishing worship of the Iona Community in the abbey, and letting the gifts of the pilgrimage soak in. It felt like coming home: home to our final destination, but also home to my Scottish roots and home to a Celtic expression of Christianity that is profoundly life-affirming and creation-centred. The pilgrimage was over, and a prayer from the Iona abbey welcome service gave words to what was in my heart:

You, God, have brought us to this thin place
where earth and heaven embrace,
the past interweaves with the future,
and what we want is replaced by what we need.
…. God, you are good to us. Amen.

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On Jan. 10, some Christian denominations, including the global Anglican Church, commemorated the “Baptism of the Lord” by John the Baptist in the Jordan River. According to the scriptures, the Holy Trinity – the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit – are here manifested together: the voice of the Father speaking from heaven, the physical presence of Jesus the Son being baptized and the Holy Spirit descending in the form of a dove. (Mk 1: 10-11)

That afternoon, I received an uplifting email from a couple who had been part of a pilgrimage group that I had organized and led to the Holy Land a few years ago. As St. Mark’s account of the sacred event was proclaimed during the service they attended that morning, vivid memories took them back to the Holy Land. They recalled the day they stood on the bank of the Jordan River with their fellow pilgrims. The scripture passage (above) was read to the group and, using the baptismal liturgy (The Book of Alternative Services, page 158), we renewed our baptismal vows. Standing in the river, I sprinkled the pilgrims with water, using a sprig from a eucalyptus tree nearby. We then said some prayers and broke out in song from our song sheets – good old, “Shall we Gather at the River?” Other groups of pilgrims joined us in singing!

After posing for and taking copious pictures, we were to return to our waiting “deluxe air-conditioned sightseeing motorcoach,” as the trip’s brochure advertised, to continue our sacred journey! Ah, but the only way back to the coach led through the attractive, overpriced souvenir shop! As is the expectation, we stopped to shop for souvenirs. The list of beautifully displayed items ranged from soup to nuts, but among the popular items were spices such as za’atar, where the main ingredient is biblical hyssop (Ex 12:22; Jn 19:29). Hyssop is a flowering herb of the mint family. Za’atar is made of hyssop crushed and mixed with olive oil, sesame seeds, garlic and salt for dipping bread. This simple and tasty treat was enjoyed in the area in the first century, as it still is today. But perhaps the most purchased products were honey made from local dates and a special blend of date honey with sesame seeds. Well worth the time and cost – part of the trip’s adventure!

But this popular spot is not the recognized site of Jesus’ baptism. It is a convenient place with easy access to the river, set up to accommodate pilgrims like us who would desire to remember Jesus’ baptism and either renew their own baptismal vows (as we did) or be baptized by full immersion in the river. The place long venerated by the Church and pilgrims as the original site of the baptism of Jesus and of the ministry of John the Baptist is shared between Israel and Jordan. In Israel, it is located on the west bank of the Jordan River just above where it empties into the Dead Sea. Interestingly, it is within sight of Qumran, where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered in 1947-8 and was home of the Essene community where John the Baptist could have come from. The baptismal site in Israel is called “Qasr el Yahud” or “Fortress of the Jews.” Right across from there, on the east bank, is biblical “Bethany beyond the Jordan” or “Al Maghtas” – Arabic for “immersion” – in Jordan. A yellow line of floating balloons in the middle of the river marks the border between the two countries at that point.

The Gospel of John names the place of John the Baptist’s ministry at the Jordan as “Bethany beyond the Jordan,” later named “Al Maghtas”: Now they had been sent from the Pharisees. They asked him (John the Baptist), “Then why are you baptizing, if you are neither the Christ, nor Eli’jah, nor the prophet?” John answered them, “I baptize with water; but among you stands one whom you do not know, even he who comes after me, the thong of whose sandal I am not worthy to untie.” This took place in Bethany beyond the Jordan, where John was baptizing. (Jn 1: 24-28).

Bethany beyond the Jordan has been visited by international pilgrims and venerated as the original place of Jesus’ baptism and of the ministry of John the Baptist since Byzantine times (c. 324 – 638CE). Various archaeological digs over the centuries have uncovered the ruins of a large monastery on a high place known as Elijah’s Hill and a sprawling area near the riverbank with ruins of more than 20 Roman and Byzantine churches and chapels, pools for baptism, dwelling places for pilgrims and some caves where desert hermits would have lived. The site was closed for decades due to the thousands of landmines planted there and left over from the 1967 Six Day War between Israel and Jordan. The mines were cleared, and in 2015 Bethany beyond the Jordan was re-discovered and designated a World Heritage site by UNESCO.

According to early local tradition, Bethany beyond the Jordan is also the place where Joshua and the Israelites crossed over into the land of Canaan at the end of their wilderness journey from Egypt. (Jos 3:14–17) Local tradition also holds that from this place, the prophet Elijah was “taken up to heaven by a whirlwind.” (2 Ki 2:1)

Qasr el Yahud on the Israel side has not been designated a World Heritage site but was uncovered and renovated and opened to pilgrims around 2010. Just two years ago, the Rev. Canon Geoff Sangwine (of St. Peter & St. Simon, Toronto) and I (of St. Thomas, Brooklin), co-led a Holy Land pilgrimage with some of our parishioners and friends. We visited the impressive complex of Qasr el Yahud with its massive buildings, stone plaza and steps, sheltered chapels for services, and easy access to the river for baptism. There, beside the always-murky waters of the Jordan, we solemnly renewed our baptismal vows, read corresponding scripture, said prayers and sang a hymn. We looked longingly across the river towards Bethany beyond the Jordan, in Jordan, just yards away! Unfortunately, swimming across the narrow divide was not an option; we could only access the Jordan by visiting the Hashemite

Kingdom itself!

Celebrating Epiphany at the Jordan River

In the Orthodox Church, Epiphany commemorates the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River rather than the arrival of the Wise Men, as the Western Church celebrates on Jan 6. Since the mid-1800s and even earlier, thousands of pilgrims from Orthodox churches around the world would arrive in droves to the area annually to mark the occasion. Bishops and priests would preside over elaborate liturgies of baptisms and renewals of baptisms and enact ancient traditions such as the blessing of the water by immersing holy crosses in the river and releasing white doves into the air, reminiscent of the Holy Spirit. Myriads of frenzied pilgrims would immerse themselves in the water numerous times as if to relive their baptisms over and over. Russian Orthodox pilgrims have been known to come to the river dressed in their white burial shrouds or with them draped over their arms as they enter the muddy river. Those shrouds would then be kept for their burial. In 2021, despite the pandemic, it is reported that pilgrims still come in relatively large numbers to celebrate Jesus’ baptism at the Jordan.

In my previous life as a tour operator, I specialized in organizing and leading study tours and pilgrimage to biblical lands. The Holy Land, in times of peace and war and in-between, has provided the “mother of all Christian pilgrimage” experiences for centuries. It is the ideal pilgrimage destination for the three monotheistic faiths – Judaism, Christianity and Islam. In 10 days or so, Christian pilgrims can reach most of the accessible sites of both Old and New Testaments (some are seen from a distance). Pilgrims would read scripture at its geographical location, say prayers and sing hymns throughout the land.

The Rt. Rev. Kenneth Cragg, famed biblical scholar and Anglican bishop of Jerusalem and later Cairo, proposed that the combination of the biblical story and place, through the inner witness of the Holy Spirit, can be a means of grace – can be sacramental. The Rev. Dr. Stanford R. Lucyk, who has led pilgrimage worldwide for 40 years, contends that just as linking the Word to bread and wine is sacramental, so likewise linking biblical geographical place to the applicable biblical narrative can be a sacramental experience. One may cruise the waters of the Sea of Galilee and reflect on corresponding scripture and gain insight into the miracles of Jesus around that freshwater lake that Matthew, Mark, Luke and John tell us about. On another level, those seeking a cure from conditions like psoriasis may sample the therapeutic waters of the Dead Sea and be healed (there are proven documented cases) or one may simply “float” on the amazing Yam ha Melah or Salt Sea (Gen 14:3) near the infamous cities of Sodom and Gomorrah (Gen 18-19), referenced numerous times throughout the Bible, even by Jesus himself. Overnights would be spent in key locations, ideally ending up in the eternal city of Jerusalem – the goal of all pilgrimage.

Enroute, lasting friendships are developed as the community of pilgrims share, eat together, engage with the scripture on location and pray and care for each other. Not only do pilgrims encounter the ancient ruins but also the “living stones” of the land such as the wonderful people who work to preserve the sacred sites; the colourful merchants who peddle their wares everywhere and those who would look after us daily. We also engaged with local Christian communities – the brothers and sisters of St. George’s Anglican Cathedral in Jerusalem, and with others. There were sometimes opportunities for interfaith outreach with local Jews and Muslims. The stories and memories so impact and enrich one’s spiritual experience and do last for a lifetime!

The season of Epiphany and its focus on Jesus’ baptism and ours, and how we live out our baptismal vows, give way to the solemnity of Lent and our preparations to commemorate Holy Week, then to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ our Saviour. The words of St. Paul to the already-established Christian community in Rome express our eternal hope: Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. (Rom 6: 3-6)

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I arrived in Santiago de Compostela on Oct. 6, 2018, shortly before noon. There was also rain (a lot of it). The only challenge was that with my guidebook soaking wet and the travel data plan on my phone expired, I couldn’t find the albergue (pilgrim hostel) where I had made a reservation. At 16 euros for the night, it was like the Shangri-La compared to some of the previous albergues in which I had stayed. For one thing, I shared the room with only three other people. For another, we had our own bathroom. If there is one thing you learn when walking the Camino de Santiago, it’s to be grateful for small blessings.

Camino de Santiago translates as the “Way of Saint James.” The geographic endpoint is the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, which is believed to be where the remains of the apostle Saint James are at rest. At roughly 800 km in length and traversed on foot with all your gear in a backpack, simplicity is not just a matter of piety, or a sign of humility: it’s essential. The rule of thumb is that whatever you carry should be no greater than 10 per cent of your body weight, to a maximum of 22 pounds. All that you need for 35 days of walking (the guidebook-standard time to walk the Camino) should be able to fit in a 40-50 litre backpack. Most pilgrims pack two outfits: one for walking during the day (which gets washed upon arrival, and hopefully dried), and the second for relaxing in the evening, which will become the next day’s travelling outfit (repeat this regimen for 35 days, or longer – or until a physician tells you to stop).

It is common for pilgrims to discover after a few days of walking that they can still shed a few pounds of gear, either by shipping it ahead to Compostela de Santiago or by abandoning it altogether. Take the guidebook, for example. Many pilgrims, after walking a section of the Camino, will remove the corresponding pages from the book. I knew pilgrims who half-emptied lotion containers and toothpaste tubes and broke bars of soap in half. I encountered others who declined to carry a bath towel (even a lightweight backpacker’s towel), opting instead for a shammy towel the size of a handkerchief. Fortunately, most pilgrims would dress before exiting the shower stalls. As a 26-year-old seminarian from southwestern Ontario, my training around boundaries and bridges, as well as cultural sensitivity, assumed a whole new level of importance while walking the Camino. Deo Gratias.

Night after night, I slept in albergues in dormitory rooms with with 10, 20, or even 100 other people. It’s said that the soundtrack of the Camino can be described in one letter: Zzzzzzzz. That brings me to boundary lesson number one: bring earplugs for sleeping.

Day after day, I’d find myself in conversations with strangers, both fellow pilgrims on the way and locals interested in chatting and passing well-wishes to pilgrims passing through. Boundary lesson number two: be thankful for the conversation, but also learn how and when to politely bring a conversation to a wrap. This was often a simple matter of saying, “Buen Camino!” Regardless of whatever the encounter had been, positive or negative (or just odd), it was always possible to part ways politely and wish the other person a good journey.

By this point, you may be asking: why walk the Camino? Or for that matter, why embark on a pilgrimage at all? As Christians, we have just ventured through a season of the liturgical year, Advent, that calls us on a journey. We have heard the prophet Isaiah proclaim, “In the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” This message is repeated by the wild-eyed John the Baptist. In the Gospel of Luke, we hear of a peasant couple, Mary (who is pregnant) and Joseph, who embark on a journey to Bethlehem so that they may be registered in an imperial census. And in the Gospel of Matthew, we read of the Magi from the East who witness the rising of a star and decide to pack their camels with gifts and venture forth; crossing deserts, climbing mountains, and fording streams so that they can see this king whose arrival has been heralded by a star.

As a season, Advent is rich with the symbolism of pilgrimage and journeying. At the church of St. John the Baptist in the Beach neighbourhood of Toronto, we followed a Christian learning curriculum called “Journeying in the Way of Love,” which we gratefully borrowed from our siblings in the Episcopal Church of the United States. Throughout Advent, we explored a Christian rule of life that called us to embrace seven practices to help guide us in the way of Jesus: gathering for worship, going forth into the world, reflecting on scripture, praying daily, blessing others and sharing our faith, pausing and turning towards Jesus, and —often the most difficult—taking a day of rest. You can learn more about this program on the Episcopal Church’s journeying- way-love.

So again, the question: why embark on a pilgrimage, or an extended journey of any sort? Especially one that leads the traveller far from home and loved ones, and with minimal comfort and security. Isaiah calls the Israelite people to return home. Mary and Joseph travel because an imperial edict requires that they do so. And the Magi travel because they believe that a prophesy foretelling the arrival of a king is nearing its fulfilment. I did not walk the Camino to return home from exile, or because I was commanded to do so by an emperor. Nor did I walk it because I imagined that witnessing the swinging of the Botafumeiro (the massive thurible dispersing clouds of incense used to cover the stink of dusty pilgrims) would somehow signal the fulfilment of a promise from God (but I did sing the Advent hymn, “Lo, He Comes with Clouds Descending” with gusto from my apartment living room).

I didn’t know at the beginning of the Camino why I was walking it, or where I imagined I would be (spiritually) at its conclusion. I just knew I was being called to dare to risk journeying in the way of faith. Looking back, I can recall one day, on a dusty old Roman road in the countryside of the Rioja wine region, when God planted the answer in my soul. It was a portion of Psalm 103: Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name. With my knees badly enflamed and in agony, and my heart yearning for home, that verse sustained me. I kept repeating it in the silent darkness of the mornings when I was guided only by fading starlight overhead as night turned to dawn. And it calmed my fears as I walked alone across an exposed mountaintop in Galicia during a lightning storm. Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name.

We walk, and we keep walking, and then we walk some more, because our lives give glory to God. Whether on a distant pilgrimage route or a local neighbourhood street; in school playground or a hospital hallway; our feet touch the ground and the psalm verse is traced on our lips and hearts, and on the lives of those with whom we share the Good News. May we dare to walk by the light of faith and invite others to take those first tentative steps walking in the way of Jesus.

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