How much of the story of St. James’ missionary work in Spain, and the return of his body after his beheading is historical? If you are a modern, scientifically influenced person deeply interested in the measurable facts (do observe the emphasis), and have a good understanding of the limits of medieval historiography, and maintain a healthy sense of skepticism, like myself, you probably doubt the whole thing. And that’s fine, and probably a good starting point.
The earliest evidence for St. James’ ministry in Spain is late, in the second half of the first millennium. The first mention comes from the Breviary of the Apostles, a late 6th Century translation of an earlier Greek work. It mentions that James went to western Spain to preach. St. Isidore of Seville (c. 560 – April 4, 636), credits James with spreading the light to the people in Spain and the West. Abbot Aldhelm of Malmesbury (c. 639-709) composed a hymn celebrating James’ work in Spain. The Commentary on the Apocalypse, by Beatus of Liébana, composed about 785 AD, assigned Spain to St. James. The Parisian monk, Usuard, wrote a martyrology (877) including reference to the transferal of James’ body to Spain’s furthest corner, where it was reverenced by the people there. Another martyrology, by a Swiss monk, Notker the Stammerer (840 – 912), credits James’ burial in Spain, close to the British Sea, as suitable because of the miracles he had worked, and the people he had brought to belief there.
So, if in 814 AD St. James’ bones were, in fact, discovered in Santiago by the hermit Pelagius and validated by Bishop Theodomirus, it was hardly the first mention of that possibility. The idea of the “translation” of James’ bones from the Holy Land to Westernmost Spain had already spread, centuries before to France and Switzerland.
It is not impossible that James could have made a missionary journey to Spain to fulfill Jesus commissioning of the disciples: “You will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, throughout Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8). But is it likely? The Scriptures aren’t helpful in answering our question. Acts 12:1-5 says,: “1 About that time King Herod laid hands upon some members of the church to harm them. 2 He had James, the brother of John, killed by the sword, 3 and when he saw that this was pleasing to the Jews he proceeded to arrest Peter also.” Herod Agrippa, mentioned here, ruled in Judea from 41 to 44 AD.
James had between roughly 36 AD and Herod Agrippa’s death in 44 AD, by which time James had been put to death, to complete such a journey. Beginning in ch. 13, as Paul’s letters verify, Acts recounts how Paul made a number of extended preaching journeys throughout the Eastern Mediterranean, returning to Antioch and Jerusalem. Could it be that James’ journey to Spain, and his subsequent return to Judea, served as a model for Paul and Barnabus in their journeys?
It’s curious that if James did preach in Spain, that the Scriptures make no mention of it. Acts of the Apostles gave encouraging accounts of Philip’s mission to Samaria (Acts 8), and even more extensive coverage of Paul’s travels throughout the Eastern Mediterranean. The lack of any scriptural evidence for James’ missionary efforts in Spain suggest that James lived, probably ministered, and died in the Near East.
Having said that, as a Scripture scholar, I have had to develop a strategy for appreciating the places in the Holy Land linked to the ministry of Jesus, which I have transferred to those places traditionally associated with James in Spain. It is a approach I developed only after the first time I went to Israel and Jordan, when I skeptically asked at every place, “Is this the very place where Jesus multiplied loaves, or healed a blind man or was transfigured? My skepticism didn’t make the experience a deeper, richer or more prayerful experience for me. In fact, it left me cold.
In subsequent journeys to Israel, I resolved that I would gather in spirit with all those who have come to those spots before me, accurate or not, for the past sixteen hundred years, to celebrate the breaking of God into the world. It made for a much fuller dive into the experience, joining with all those fellow pilgrims, who came to this particular place to remember, in Luke’s Gospel for example, where Jesus wept. I abandoned the hunt for history and facts. I set aside even the pursuit of the historical Jesus and whatever facts could be pursued there. Instead, I entered into communion with everyone with me at the time, along with all those who had proceeded me, seeking the thin places where God might break through my hardened skepticism, and touch my heart. It was more than enough for me, a much more soul satisfying approach to encountering the holy.
In the ancient world, there was a greater openness to intimacy with the holy, a strong sense of the immanence of God, and the ongoing care of the saints for those of us on earth. With unscientific exuberance, the miraculous was almost expected and the breath of God was felt in every breeze. They didn’t suffer from our skepticism.
So how do we enter into their moment, their time and their experience of piety and holiness? If you can read the four Gospels, that tell stories of Jesus that differ without getting lost in the minutiae and, in fact, enjoying them for their differences, you have a window in. If you can read books of modern fiction, and enter into the story lines, pretending for just the moment, that the stories portray real people, all the while crying at the hero’s tragedies and triumphing in the heroines’ victories, you have the beginnings of a whole portal in. And if you can read Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, or perhaps enjoyed reading Harry Potter to your children or grandchildren (or perhaps for your own enjoyment?), then you have a wide avenue into their world.
I encourage you to be as carefully realistic as you need to be to defend your intellectual integrity. Then jump in anyway and enjoy the fables, the medieval poetry, all the while asking if there isn’t some important spiritual work for you to do in this place of vigorous credulity.
Does it call for the willful suspension of disbelief? Yes, it does. But does it really call for any greater openness to the fantastical miracles than it does to imagine a world with hobbits, magical academies, and superheroes, or even that George Washington cut down a cherry tree?
The question then becomes what message can I take from the myth, the date, or the place? We do something similar when we hear fables. We can spend our time pursuing facts, but that may not be the best use of our energy. I offer you Aesop’s fable, “The Tortoise and the Hare.” The fact is, tortoises and hares do not race. Yet does it not remain true that dogged perseverance sometimes triumphs while erratic brilliance fails? If we get lost in the facts, and never make it to the truths, we’ve done ourselves a disservice, and certainly missed the point.
It’s a deliberate decision, to set aside our analytical rationalism. But it has a purpose. We are trying to join in an ancient endeavor and make the most of it. And whether something is a fact, or not, is a separate question than does this place, or this story, or that whimsical expression of faith tell us something true about God breaking into the human condition. And whether something is a fact or not, in the given place of Santiago (or Zaragoza, or Padron), for over a thousand years people have gathered to celebrate the presence of God breaking into their lives with fantastic stories. Why wouldn’t we want to suspend disbelief for just this moment, diving in deeply with eyes wide open, to be, even for the suspended moments of pilgrimage, in contact with the ages of pilgrims who have gone before us, seeking that same experience of the divine..
That may be too far a leap for some…and I think that’s fine. But for those who can jump, I say jump with enthusiasm.