Day 45

Day 45 – Good Friday

It was my hope to be in Santiago for Easter weekend (along with tens of thousands of other people). But nothing about this journey has gone according to plan. So I have found myself in Villafranca del Bierzo instead.

In medieval times, pilgrims who couldn’t make the long trek all the way to Santiago could receive their absolution in Villafranca del Bierzo. By passing through the church's la puerta de pardon (the door of pardon, a north facing door). 

Perhaps it was Divine planning for me to be here all along!

With 3 churches, 2 convents, 1 monastery, and a castle, plus everyone in town being off work for holiday, there is a lot of activity this weekend!

The morning started with two processions, one on either side of town, meeting in the central park. I was on the side of town that followed Jesus carrying His cross, while the other side of town followed His mother Mary.

I have never experienced anything like this before. The first thing that caught my attention was how quiet everyone was. I guess I had envisioned a “parade” instead of a “procession”. But there was no band. No jeering or cheering or weeping. Even the children were quiet.

(Watching the news I see that the celebrations are unique in every town. Some are loud. Some are quiet. Some are elaborate. Some are simple. And each procession is to remember a different Holy Week event, so even in the same town they can be different from one day to the next.)

I wondered what that day, so long ago, must have been like. Was it hot? Did it rain? Was it simple, elaborate, quiet, or loud? 

Did Jesus' feet hurt anything like mine?

And what was it like for His followers? Did they follow quietly? Confidently? Naturally? Because as His replica passed by this morning, we all fell silently in step behind.

In the evening I went to Mass. Jesus hung on the cross at the altar, and after all of the gospel versions of the crucifixion were read, we were invited to come forward and kiss His feet.

As I stood in line I thought, “I’m not worthy to touch the feet of Jesus.”

I looked around to see if anyone else was looking at me, thinking the same thing. But as I drew nearer I was reminded that it was His being there, on the cross, that made me worthy. Not anything I have done or could ever do. And when it came my turn to approach, no one turned me away.

I’ve loved experiencing this acceptance from the church here in Spain.

I’m reminded of my first Mass. In Roncesvalles. I was fresh off the Pyrenees. With my pants still duct taped to my boots. Mud and snowmelt pooling at my feet. And still I was invited to come forward to receive the priest’s blessing.

Last week at the cathedral in Astorga, the priest’s acolyte wore jeans and a sweatshirt to perform his duties. And I didn’t hear a single person whispering about it.

And here today they’ve invited me to kiss the feet of Jesus.

After Mass was over, another silent procession formed to follow the crucified Jesus across town. I fell in step with the others, but quickly sensed discomfort.

The man behind me took my arm and pulled me aside, out of the procession. “No mujeres,” he said. And I realized why I had felt so out of place. I was the only woman in the line.

An older woman took me from him and pulled me even further from the procession. “No mujeres,” she repeated.

“Por que?” I asked. Why couldn’t I follow Jesus when I so desperately wanted to?

“No se,” she said, unable to give me a clear reason, yet simultaneously surprised that I would even question the tradition. “Hombres andan con Jesus. Mujeres miran.” The men walk. The women watch.

She could see that I was either going to argue or cry, so she attempted to distract me with questions about where I was from, what languages I spoke, if I was a pilgrim. A woman who I had seen at lunch with her young family came over and told me there would be a beautiful procession later tonight that I could walk in if I wanted. Several teenage girls stood close, listening to the conversation.

I’m actually very traditional in my religious beliefs. And I know the Scripture that says the women “watched from a distance”. But being asked not to participate in the procession stirred up a million emotions in me.

Embarrassment at being corrected in front of the entire village. Confusion because I had just felt so accepted by Jesus and the church. Alone (as if I needed another reminder that I am a stranger here).

And frustrated. Because I dropped everything to follow Jesus during this season of Lent. Like James the apostle, whose footsteps I walk in, who went to the ends of the earth because Jesus asked him to.