Alarm rings at 5 a.m. Wash face, stuff backpack, stumble out the door of my hostel by 5:30 am and try to find where I can have café con leche.
Walk three miles in the morning chill— sometimes in the 40s, sometimes in the 50s. Stop for breakfast, usually a Spanish omelet or pan con tomate.
Walk five more miles and stop for some lunch with my wine. Walk six to ten more miles; temperatures now in the 70s, 80s or even 90s. Try to stop by noon to avoid a heat stroke.
Walk through forests, over mountains, along rivers, in lush valleys, through sun-scorch desolate plains, across fields of grain. Walk through towns with populations of less than a hundred inhabitants and major cities housing some of the most opulent cathedrals in Europe.
Body hurts, lower back aches, calves throb, feet sore.
Stop, shower, write, some tapas with my wine, sleep, drinks with other pilgrims. Wake up the next day and repeat cycle.
—
Since June 24th, I have been walking el camino France, a 791-kilometer trek (a little under 500 miles) that starts at St. Jean Pied de Port in France and ends at Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Legend has it that the body of Santiago the apostle— beheaded by Herod— is housed there.
If I continue at this pace, I will arrive in time for St. James’s feast day.
After paying my respects— regardless of whether his body is there— I plan to continue my trek to the seashores of Finisterre, literally translated as the “end of the earth.”
It is 3 a.m. as I write these words in a town called Hontanas (population 70), where last night, Dominican sisters massaged my feet in an act of mercy and charity. Afterward, I joined them in a prayer service in the village’s 14th-century church. One of the nuns asked us, “Why are you here?”
Why, indeed, am I here? One must be crazy to put themselves through this grueling pace.
The academic reason is that I am writing a book comparing pilgrims of the 11th century to those walking el camino today. (Side note: if you have walked el camino, consider filling out this survey to help me collect data).
Also, I’m shooting a documentary of this journey.
But this answer is a bit of a cop-out. Obviously, I could engage in numerous other research projects that are not as demanding on my body. So, why am I here?
Some might claim that they walk this path to suffer with or for the Lord, seeking redemption through their pain. But womanist scholars have taught us that there is nothing redemptive about suffering.
The crucifixion is not a sign of redemption. Instead, it is a sign of solidarity— Jesús choosing to accompany the crucified people of the world.
Thus, if suffering is not redemptive, why participate? Why am I here?
Why am I walking with achilles tendinitis on my left leg and suffering from a hay fever that has clogged my sinuses? I feel miserable and yet I continue to walk.
Yes, I must be crazy.
During the walk, I came across graffiti sprayed by an evangelist on the wall of a town: “You don’t need to walk to find God; just read the Bible.” If I could reply to this vandal for Christ who defaced public property, I would have retorted: “I’m not seeking to find God; neither of us is lost; I’m seeking to find myself.”
Hours of walking in solitude, away from all forms of electronic distractions, are a gift that is teaching me to know myself, my body, and my limitations.
But amid this pain, there are unexpected joys: meeting a fellow pilgrim and enjoying their humanity. No one talks politics or religion.
What they believe and who they will vote for are unimportant. There is nothing that divides us.
They are simply fellow pilgrims who, for a time, accompany me on my quest for meaning. We become companions as we find our commonality in the journey.
We are quick to wish each other— and, in fact, all fellow sojourners— a heartfelt buen camino, a good walk.
El camino of life, like the trek across northern Spain, is full of joys and sufferings, awe and challenges, wonder and disappointments. The good and the bad come together.
The journey is both long and short, difficult and easy, lonely and communal. Much depends on the attitude you maintain during the el camino’s (and life’s) vicissitudes.
Maybe our world is in so much trouble, so divided, because we have lost touch with our humanity, with being in tune with our bodies and with ignoring our own limitations.
Not knowing ourselves makes it impossible to show mercy and charity to others whose limitations are apparent. Maybe in a crazy world, the sanest thing we can do is to find ourselves through the spirituality of walking— even as others deem us crazy.
Walking is indeed a spiritual act, whether it be on el camino or through life. And when this body of dust becomes food for the worms, I want my memorial to celebrate the full life I have lived, that the service does not end with the customary “Amen,” but instead, I ask that those who came to pay their last respects to wish me instead a final “bien camino.”
Professor of Social Ethics and Latinx Studies at Iliff School of Theology in Denver, Colorado, and a contributing correspondent at Good Faith Media.
