Pilgrim

When you love words as much as I do, terms can be very important. Defining words and determining nuances can take up a lot of my time, leading me into a reflective mood that could actually last me for weeks at a time. And so it was when I encountered a man wearing a shirt that said: “Pilgrim not tourist.” Had I not been attending the World Youth Day in Sydney at the time I read it, I wouldn’t have cared. But there I was, thousands of miles away from home, getting reminded that I was, in fact, a pilgrim and not a tourist.

In these days of package tours and pilgrimage destinations, it is often easy to lose sight of what a pilgrimage actually is. And knowing the difference between the two spells whether or not an experience becomes a memorable trip or a life-altering journey.

A tourist is one who goes to a different country in the hopes of experiencing a different culture, of sampling different cuisine and of meeting different people. A pilgrimage is an encounter with the Divine. For the Muslims, it is Allah they hope to encounter at Mecca. But for me, I had traveled a long way in the hopes of encountering Christ. And so the meeting of the different cultures and people became a means to encounter Christ and not the whole point of the journey. And every encounter became more meaningful because I learned to see it as part of the divine plan.

A tourist travels in style. After all, going to different countries in this day of soaring fuel prices is a luxury that very few can afford. But a pilgrim must be aware that sacrifice is part of the journey. This, I had to remind myself constantly. As I walked up and down the crowded streets with blisters on my feet, as I curled up in my sleeping bag in zero-degree weather, as I put on my unwashed jeans for the third straight day. A picnic in the park doesn’t sound so appetizing when you’ve had canned tuna for the millionth time that week.

A tourist worries about what he can take with him on a trip. He wonders where he can get the best deals to do some heavy shopping. He plans the day according to how he can take in the best parts of the city and bring it home with him, at least in pictures. But a pilgrim, I found out the hard way, must always think of what else she can give up. Of what more will be asked of her.

And this for me, was the most difficult part of the pilgrimage. For every moment I found that I was constantly asked to give up something. Every step was an emptying of myself. At first I tried to take it all in stride, to put on a brave face and say that I didn’t care if I didn’t sleep well or eat well or shower well. And when the adrenaline died down, I desperately tried to rebel against everything. But by then I had no more energy left and so I let go. And when I had felt stripped of everything I thought I needed to be sane, when I was emptied of strength, of sleep, of comfort, of warmth, of nourishment…everything became a prayer—the walking on the pavements, the singing in the street, the carrying of the heavy luggage, the waking up at dawn, the sleeping in the field, the smiling of the strangers, the greeting of the locals, the aching of the back (not to mention the shoulders and the knees), the opening of every can of tuna, the waving to the alleluia. When every last ounce of strength had been torn to shreds by the cold winter, it was then that I felt such a profound sense of gratitude. For never had I, until that moment, felt so utterly, completely, and helplessly dependent on Divine Love.

I knew it in my head but I never quite understood that it was not food, or sleep, or showers or even water that kept me alive. But it was love that kept me alive. And that was when I realized that it is when we empty ourselves of everything that the Spirit is truly able to fill us with His power. And the words that everybody kept hammering in my head rang true: You will receive the power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be my witnesses.

 And so here I am, days later, still trying to make sense out of everything around me, still trying to count the numerous graces that I received, still trying to remember every little detail and every precious second, still reeling from the immense feeling of being called, still overwhelmed by the knowledge that somehow things will never be the same…because I was a pilgrim…because I am a witness.