From Santiago de Compostela: It was only after celebrating the triumph of Jesus Christ in the Mass that I made my way to the crypt. I was surprised that there was almost no one in line, I made my way down the steps, leading below the altar, to the shrine dedicated to St. James
As I wrote earlier, I admit to a certain critical skepticism. As a professor, quite used to research and the technical elements of establishing credibility and arriving at reasonable conclusions, I admit, again, that I have my doubts about whose bones would be found in St. James’ tomb. In fact, I simply cannot bring myself to believe that they are his.
And yet I didn’t care for even one moment.
Here in this place, for over a millennia, pilgrims like myself have gathered to remember the martyr James, and to celebrate the obedience of the apostolic commission to proclaim the Kingdom to the furthest ends of the earth. The fact that I came from a yet further corner of the world from the Holy Land, living within sight of the west coast of North America, where the faith is also present, is not lost on me. Whether James brought that faith himself, personally, to Spain, is irrelevant. It got here. I choose to celebrate that, acknowledging that the faith was spread by people who, like James, ventured into a hostile world to preach what was truly good news, that there is a God breaking into the world, who doesn’t ask for the sacrifice of our lives or our children’s lives, but dies Himself for us…because that God fashioned us and still loves us, and forgives us. In that earlier, harsh world populated by believers of yet more savage gods, it was truly good news.
I venture to James’ memorial, whether or not it is, in fact, his tomb, to celebrate that triumph.
But there is yet more.
I remain, as always, enchanted by the creative, poetic fancies of the medieval world, and though they be whimsical, even irrational tales, I remain moved by the hunger for encountering the holy that drove them, embodied in a millennia of visits to this tomb.
I just couldn’t permit my skeptical mind get in the way of this moment.
I knelt and prayed for the intercession of St. James for my parishioners, for my family and friends, and for me.
Acts 6:9, 11 – 9 When he broke open the fifth seal, I saw underneath the altar the souls of those who had been slaughtered because of the witness they bore to the word of God…11 Each of them was given a white robe, and they were told to be patient a little while longer until the number was filled of their fellow servants and brothers who were going to be killed as they had been.”
For reflection: I have been opposed for nothing more than that I am a person of faith, and mildly mocked. I have, more often, had Catholics of an intolerant nature apply litmus tests to my preaching and teaching, finding me wanting, usually for not promoting their politics. I have been judged for being a priest in a time when the appalling behavior of some clergy has come to light. I have felt alienated from the values of the world in which I live. Yet I have never been in a situation where my faith has led to any threats of physical violence. It’s impossible to speak with absolute certitude about the future, but I don’t fear that I will ever suffer profound physical loss or death for being a believer.
Perhaps your story is similar, as you ponder your time with the martyrs under the heavenly altar, as portrayed by John’s vision in Revelation, and the memory of the martyrdom of James? You’ve probably had your own share of difficulties, pains and religious struggles, yet have also never been asked to choose between your faith and your life.
There are other ways, though, to live out the spirit of martyrdom.
The whole arena of living and dying needs to be overshadowed by the two greatest commandments of the Law (Matt 22:36-40), to love God with all our hearts, our souls and our minds (Deut 6:5), and to love our neighbor as much as we love ourselves (Lev 19:18; Jas 2:8). There is a selflessness that this summons us to (John 15:13; 1 Cor 13:5) that is its own self gift. While not requiring the end of our lives, this generosity shapes our living. Each act of loving kindness becomes its own act of sharing in the cross of Christ. Each recognition, particularly of God’s least ones, becomes an act of recognition of the godly likeness built into every human person, and an act of love of both the least one, and also of God.
Perhaps the most pious act, while visiting the memorial of a martyred apostle, having shed all the encumbrances of life in the Camino, is to commit ourselves to return home, free from the unnecessary accumulations that have accreted to us, burdened only by our commitment to be lovers of God and neighbor, and by that very act, proclaiming the breaking into the world by a loving God in whatever corner of the world in which we live.
