Last night before dinner I had what I’m going to claim as “a legitimate Camino-related mystical experience.” A Camino UFO of sorts.
I know it’s more likely that yet another long hike and six hours of introspection were just messing with my head. But it could have been a miracle, right? And a pilgrimage is nothing if not about suspending my disbelief, right?
Joe and I found ourselves at a parochial (church-run) albergue where we were encouraged to attend yet another Pilgrim Mass.
I know the Catholic liturgy by heart. It was written there in my childhood. So, most of the time I can pick out where we are in the service even when it’s in another language. It’s a timing and a cadence, a placement of certain prayers and Latin phrases.
But as the priest ambled through the Mass in Spanish I just couldn’t track. The only thing I picked up on was the pre-service admonishment to non-Catholics to stay clear of the wafer and wine. And I got this through body language and his pointing to the communion bowl.
I nudged Joe, my Jewish born agnostic, and translated: “Don’t take communion if you want to avoid burning in hell.”
Because we couldn’t otherwise follow the liturgy, both Joe and I kept our eyes on the elderly Spanish women in the row ahead of us for cues on when to sit, stand, kneel or mumble like we knew what we were saying. I think it's a thing in Spain, the trio of elderly ladies sitting in the first pew of every church.
Eventually after many, many Spanish words, I perceived the priest was starting his lesson about the scripture. I hunkered down into the pew for what was to come: a 30-minute unintelligible speech.
I’ve been to four or 10 Pilgrim Masses since arriving in Spain and I can tell the Spanish pride themselves in their ability to give and receive a loooong holy monologue. Joe and I propped each other up and got our pinchers ready in case one of us nodded off.
Still, about a minute into the homily I started to drift away. I closed my eyes and my mind zeroed in on the padre’s voice.
I thought “If I can’t understand it, maybe I can ride the tones as a sort of sound bath.”
Feeling rubbery and relaxed, I put my total focus on the (copious) words flowing down from the altar. At first they sounded mushy, like utterances in another language often do to those who don’t speak it. But eventually the rhythm sounded almost musical. The priest had a lovely tenor voice.
I was flying along his voice and headed into a meditative space when I realized that the words were in English. I mean I was hearing them in English even though the priest was speaking in Spanish. And more than that, I was hearing words that seemed directed to me, in particular.
It was as if he was dispensing wisdom to me and me alone.
When I snapped out of the meditation, the father was ending his speech in clear Spanish. But three English sentences remained with me:
The Camino is a walk of many but a pilgrimage is a journey of only one.
You are beloved and never alone.
Meet all pain with mercy and love.
I opened my eyes just as “the Peace” was being exchanged. That’s the point in the Mass where you greet your neighbor. I wrapped my arms around Joe and gave him a good squeeze and told him what I heard. The words may have been intended for me, but I knew I was meant to share them with him. He didn’t hear the English.
I was a little dizzy by the time communion came around but you can bet I stood up to receive the bread and wine when the three old ladies in front of us stood up.
I don’t usually take communion in Catholic churches anymore since I am what the Church considers “lapsed.” I’m not sure, but in Catholic dogma I think lapsed may be worse than heathen. But lapsed or not, either a non-English speaking priest just spoke in tongues to me and I understood him (which counts as a miracle) or a power higher than him just sent me a message (which also counts as a miracle). So, it seemed only right to get in line.
Like angels, I haven’t been much of a believer in miracles. Seems like most can be explained away by science or delusion.
But I guess I’m asking myself tonight, why not miracles? Why not believe the extraordinary can happen?
We live, we breathe. It’s all miraculous isn’t it?
Welcome home.
Beautiful beautiful piece of writing Cheryl. And what it said is beautiful too.