iubilaeum peregrinationis

“He who would valiant be
'gainst all disaster,
let him in constancy
follow the Master.
There's no discouragement
shall make him once relent
his first avowed intent
to be a pilgrim.”

~ John Bunyan, from The Pilgrim’s Progress.

When I read reviews in late-2024 about two books written by the late Pope Francis (Light in the Night, and Faith is a Journey), both on the topic of life as pilgrimage, I immediately recognized my long-familar personal theme. Right away, I purchased both books, reading them carefully during my daily work commutes and coffee breaks. Consoling, inspiring, and relatable words are especially rare these days. Commemorating a quarter-century, a presiding Pope dedicates a year of jubilee to a motif, and for 2025 it was for individuals and communities to live their many-faceted lives as pilgrims of hope. The metaphor of pilgrimage centers around the intertwined voyage of spiritual and physical living, a one-way travel toward eternity. The grand journey happens with tangible and often small measures. Being so profoundly interior, each person determines how they signify progress in their journey. A way to do that is to write in a journal, and I view mine as a combination of itinerary, narrative, and means to look ahead. We each have our vital landmarks- geographic and spiritual. Our prayers and hopes generate our motions.

Pilgrimage as a practice is not new to me, as many readers of my years of essays know, but each experience is entirely new. Discovering ways to creatively apply the pilgrimage theme to a year of intense commitments and constant work is itself something new to me. Multiple “manifestations” blending into the broader theme, made for a year’s book of chapters. Journeying to destinations of significance, I honored every request for prayers from each person that asked. As well, I wholeheartedly brought my own- for the wellbeing of loved ones, for myself, and for better employment. When asked about wanderlust, my response is the journeying spirit is as much about change-of-scenery as it is for soul-wellness. There is a general overwhelming psychological sickness which has permeated this world. Considering current events, every workaday sunrise witnesses a threshold drop, prompting major sectors of the world’s population to submerge into various escapisms. By contrast, I’ve found periodic, reflective retreats to be healthful and replete with aesthetic inspiration. And learning. Places of pilgrimage draw people from many regions and of many ages; quite spontaneously, listening to one another, there are conversations about reading, artistic expression, and spiritual growth. The stuff of conscientious life. Alas, the job market is abysmal, most career professions unstable, and the world of employers is bewilderingly fickle. Millennia ago, an exasperated crowd asked John the Baptist, “What are we to do?” His reply, having also known places of desperation, was essentially to broaden one’s view of life: Give away your extra provisions; look after each other. It’s not a stretch to add: Help each other find peaceful housing and appropriate work. Hold the door for the person behind you, yield to the right-of-way, don’t forget to say please and thanks. Pilgrimage reminds us that on the one-way voyage to consummation, we see that we live this life but once. To sanctify the everyday is to recognize pilgrimage in the commonplace.

from Taizé, France


Weston Priory

My year of pilgrimage appropriately began at my beloved Weston Priory, in Vermont’s Green Mountains. My first-ever retreat was there among these brilliant and down-to-earth Benedictine monks, in 1994. I lived there for nearly two months in 1999, and I owe to them the highlights of my spiritual formation. As nurturing friendships lead to more kindred spirits, in 2001 the Weston monks introduced me to their brethren of the Taizé monastery in France. On this recent string of days, shortly before Advent, the Vermont landscape was snowcapped and russet. My room, named for Saint Joseph, had a view of Mount Okemo. “The Brothers’ services are hearteningly beautiful,” I wrote in my journal, referring to their homegrown sung liturgies. Comprehension demands patience. Brother Michael said, “Our future is open, and we create our future together though humility.” He added, “Scripture is living, and not a ‘dead letter.” Brother Elias added, “When we are giving, we find there is more; blessing is for us to pass along.” My drive back from the mountains was accompanied by gratitude for all I saw and heard.

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Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey

As Advent submerged into winter darkness, I strung together a week of paid-time-off, and drove to Mount Saint Mary’s, which is in southeastern Massachusetts. This was my second sojourn with the Cistercian community in Wrentham. Very thankfully, the weather’s snowy calmness matched the peacefulness of the countryside. Much as with Weston Priory, the community composes its own music, and lives ancient practices in vernacular and inclusive modernity, with barely any symbolism. Nature, silence, and chant are in themselves representative of contemplative life. I had brought the book, In Conversation With God along for the retreat, within which Carvajal wrote: “Our own personal history is full of signs, so that we do not mistake the way.” It took until the midpoint of the week for me to begin to slow down and rest. Getting outdoors with camera in hand allowed me to appreciate and perceive my surroundings. Plenty of walking always helps with the winding-down. I noticed how my attention was drawn by the paths I saw. With the community and various fellow pilgrims, I enjoyed reinforcing conversations about the jubilee year of being peaceful presences to those in our midsts.

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Boston

Saint Clement Eucharistic Shrine

This time, I extended my customary writing and study residency at Beacon Hill Friends House and at the Boston Athenaeum, by also making this sojourn a pilgrimage to sacred locations in the city. The month of April exemplifies renewal, and even in neighborhoods away from the Boston Public Garden the city is replete with budding branches, magnolia trees, and windowboxed daffodils. Visits on Beacon Hill regularly include sanctified destinations such as the National Shrine of Saint Anthony, the Church of the Advent, and the Quaker sanctuary at the Friends House, I threaded in two pilgrimage landmarks in the Back Bay: the Franciscan Chapel, and the Saint Clement Eucharistic Shrine. The latter was the city’s official Jubilee Year pilgrimage site, and this was my first visit to the large and ornate church. Upon exiting outdoors amidst a number of attendees, a man holding a phone picturing a map asked me if this was Saint Clement’s. After assuring him that he found the place, we had a great conversation on the steps; he was visiting from the west coast and wanted to see pilgrimage sites around Boston. Knowing the city as I do- and the topic- I gave him recommendations that included the precise subway and trolley stops for each sanctuary. We wished one another well, as he entered the lofty silence of the church, and I stepped down to the midday congested bustle of Boylston Street, my own pilgrimage winding alongside exuberant street musicians outside the Berklee College of Music. Quite a wondrous sum-total for my written reflections later that day, which still had plenty of time for more adventures.

Franciscan Chapel
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National Shrine of the Divine Mercy

Through the months back at work following the Boston sojourn, I was able to respond to the opportunity for a week’s pilgrimage in mid-July at the Divine Mercy Shrine, which is in the heart of the Berkshires. The unusually hot summer displayed some extremes in the mountainous region, with sweltering days, late sunsets, and dramatic rainstorms. Aware that I’d be navigating roads through summer tourism season, I gave myself plenty of time to reach Stockbridge. Indeed there were plenty of traffic stoppages along way, but I had music for the road trip, and a small Divine Mercy icon in my car’s console. As things worked out, I set forth fifteen minutes earlier than planned, and shut off the engine- over four hours later- at my destination, fifteen minutes before Mass. This was the monthly special service for Jubilee Year pilgrims, and I was doubly grateful to have made it- and to have arrived. I know the place very well, though for this pilgrimage I could see how the entire community responded to the Vatican’s designation of the shrine as a world destination for the extraordinary year. Contrasting all the activity in the town center in Stockbridge, the shrine itself was quiet enough to hear the wind in the trees. Staying within the community, I enjoyed encouraging conversations with various members of the Marian order. One of the Brothers noticed my typewriting, and that led to a visit of kindred spirits. I had timed my retreat to parallel the observance of the commemoration of Saint Bonaventure; it was great to be able to speak with members of the community about him. I had brought my studies with me, reading the Breviloquium. The Marian community added my prayers to theirs, and I appreciate their sincerity and seriousness. As I was packing my car to return to Maine, an elderly priest walked over to me and gave me his blessing. The perfect sendoff for the road.

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Maine

Kennebunkport, Maine

True to belief and practice, one’s pilgrimage of trust on earth is paced throughout life. It’s the daily trudge to and from bus stops; it’s also carefully advancing- in those same work shoes- toward receiving sacraments. Lent and Passover are pilgrimages through geography, time, and spirit. All forward motion, and chronologically at the very least. Waystations along the physical pilgrimage includes sanctuaries and memorials, and my steps connect them. The words of the Divine Hours that accompany my thirty-minute lunch breaks have been with me overseas and back, on the road, and when I can manage some unstructured time on weekends. Punctuating the year of intentional pilgrimages include sanctuaries that are close to where I live and work. Good Shepherd Parish, in Saco, provides an Adoration chapel which is a peaceful oasis for contemplative prayer. Less than twenty miles from Portland, I can easily get there when I have an afternoon off. And I make this a pilgrimage, bringing breviary and chaplet (in French and English)- always sensing the strong pull of the Spirit. The parish church itself displayed imagery and texts about the Jubilee Year of Pilgrimage, encouraging all who visit. Another place of nearby pilgrimage is the Saint Anthony Franciscan Monastery, in Kennebunkport. In milder weather, walking the wooded and coastal paths is as contemplative as absorbing the outdoor grotto. The Franciscans’ tradition of honoring nature is clearly evident throughout. Having such close destinations shifts attention away from physical distance, and more toward sanctified time.

Saco, Maine

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Mount Saint Mary’s

Although I hadn’t planned how the year would comprise these locations and their sequencing, my year of pilgrimage rather organically fell into place. I really noticed this, when I glanced back at the first half of the year and received a heartwarming invitation to return to Wrentham for a week during Advent. The Cistercian community welcomed me early in the year, and this recent sojourn took place at the close of the Jubilee year. My third time of travelling to their corner of Massachusetts, and being immersed in their antiphonal sung liturgies suddenly had the ring of familiarity. We now recognize each other, and good conversations follow- including the topic of being bearers of persevering hope. As well, now I know the highways and winding roads from memory, and can better comprehend the flow of the services. The year of pilgrimage took me hither-and-yon, all in New England- yet at once familiar and otherworldly, rotating the temporal of logistics with the ex temporé of response to the moment. I recall hearing an elder Quaker say that, “the Christian life is rough on the feet, but good on the soul.”

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Above: National Shrine of the Divine Mercy- Stockbridge, Massachusetts

Below: Kennebunkport, Maine

divine mercy

“For the days pass, and never return...
Take the Adventure, heed the call,
now ere the irrevocable moment passes!
‘Tis but a banging of the door behind you,
a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life
and into the new.”

~ Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows.






place

Pilgrimage blends together intention, travel, and place. Before any setting forth, before thoughts of destinations, there is longing, calling, urging for a communing with the wellsprings of creation. This type of thread has wound through countless lives, in entirely unique ways, over immeasurable time spans. The will to pursue purpose and fulfillment is as individual as a human spirit itself. We seek and we discover, as we are capable. As a soul develops, there follows an increasing ability to discover and appreciate. As well as an iconography accompanying roads, paths, and thresholds, there is double-meaning in the word intention, the term used both for purpose and for prayer request. Such concerted movement, driven by the seeming otherworldliness of prayer, represents a propelling ideal: hope. And that forward movement must continue, especially when there is no hope in sight.

Carving out some time, I chose to sojourn in the Berkshires, remembering the beautiful merging of the mountain landscape, the town of Stockbridge, and the Divine Mercy Shrine. The National Shrine of the Divine Mercy is a public place of prayer, and community of the Marian friars and brothers. The Catholic order originated in 17th century Poland, and established their community in Massachusetts during World War II. The congregation’s charism is based upon the devotion of Saint Faustina Kowalska, a Polish nun who died at the outset of the War. Her journals document her life, vocation, visions, and an extraordinary prayer that appeals for divine mercy for all persons. Her confidants successfully hid from the Nazis, and were able to spread the written prayers of Faustina. She was declared a saint by Pope John Paul II, in 2000. Some of her remains are in the church in Massachusetts.

My history with the Divine Mercy devotion dates back to an extremely difficult life-trial I had to endure thirteen years ago. Unable to right my ship on my existing resources and nerves, I sought the advice of a wise and trusted friend. My advising friend, Sister Sylvia, listened and offered her reflections. After one of our long talks, she gave me a recording which had been made at the Divine Mercy shrine church. I’d never heard of them before, though I knew the region of western Massachusetts and southern Vermont quite well. Sister Sylvia knew how much I love the outdoors, and encouraged me to make a trip to Stockbridge. Indeed, I followed the advice, made the pilgrimage, and have returned several times since.






prayer

The devotion prayer itself is sequential and repetitive. I find it to be a confluence of east and west. The practice of meditating upon the refrain, Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me, echoing the blind beggar’s prayer in Luke 18, is an ancient practice in Eastern Orthodoxy. A life’s adventure with that simple, poignant prayer is in the Russian classic, The Way of a Pilgrim. Saint Faustina’s Divine Mercy prayer uses the sequence of decades, as measured in rosary beads- a practice codified by Dominican friars in 13th century France. Faustina’s prayer refers to the suffering Messiah: “For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.” Extending personal prayer to all persons reflects the young sister’s anguish of having lived through a world war, and witnessing the horrific beginning of yet another. In her journals, she emphasized persevering with this devotion,“to obtain mercy, to trust in Christ's mercy, and to show mercy to others.” It is a message of compassion in the midst of persecution and cruelty.

Considering its origins and its biblical focus, the prayer itself is intense. At the shrine church, the daily hour of Divine Mercy is at 3pm, following the 2pm mass. It is a solemnity, and to pray for mercy is to bring one’s burdens, along with those of others, into focused intercession. As a place of pilgrimage, many come from a variety of distances to the church, and the printed texts are in a number of languages. At times, I notice the others praying in the church, and am struck by the plaintive, earnest, palpable reverence shared by so many different people. The times of liturgy and prayer bring those in attendance together as a momentary community of fellow pilgrims. I, too, brought my intentions on this pilgrimage- along with those dear to me who asked me before I set forth from Maine. Some ask for healing, others for spiritual growth, a graduating student worker asked me to pray for him. As for me, it is for sustaining and healthful employment. Things have become quite urgent, and retreating to the community was for refuge. In all, the congregational cries for mercy incorporated mine, too. True to the legacy of Saint Faustina, we do not live for ourselves alone, but must uphold the intentions of others in need. So many people struggle.






pathways

After exiting the church, following the intensity of the services, I regularly walked the nearby woods. Balancing the structured prayers is contemplative open air. The region is replete with hiking trails, rock ledges, and the Housatonic River. Early spring weather is consolingly moderate. Rural New England is especially calm during the off-season. My week in Stockbridge mingled the built sacred space and nature. As many pilgrims do, I lodged at the Red Lion Inn, enjoying the leafy village as well as walks to the shrine, which is in an area called Eden Hill. To relax my thoughts, I brought some light reading with me; just before leaving, I borrowed The Wind in the Willows from the Boston Athenaeum. I’d never read it completely before, the story became a companion along river trails and on the front porch of the Inn. As I found, the adventure takes place along a river. Words and imagery in the story strikingly matched the landscape in the Berkshires.

Hiking along the Housatonic, I made sure to look upward at treetops and mountains. The new spring growth in the forest sweetened the breezes, and with temperatures in the low 40s, I was not bothered by bugs. Such favorable conditions freed me to air my thoughts. It was a good thing I gave myself seven days, as I needed at least the first three to stop the workplace racket that followed me into my solitude. Gradually, the beautiful scenery, the equally beautiful prayers, and warm hospitality I received began to supercede residue from the situation I had interrupted for the retreat. As my steps followed a river curve, permitting a longer view, I told myself, “Don’t talk to the past. Just don’t. There’s nothing for you there.” Somehow, that became a refrain in a stream that flowed alongside the daily three o’clock Divine Mercy devotions.

Although the Divine Mercy prayer is repeated many times, it is so concise and poignant that my every pronouncement is entirely heartfelt. Along the trails, and even as my thoughts strayed, I noticed how the prayer would return to me. Recent years of tireless caregiving and employment turmoil generated a persistent insomnia. During my immersion of mountain air and the prayers, I found the retained refrains for mercy lulling me back to sleep. Involuntarily the words speed up and slow down. The prayer is with me, right to this moment of writing. A retreat is neither escapist, nor is it a problem-solving venture; it is an intentional pause, a surfacing for air. I return to the same difficulties that I’d interrupted, yet with some experiences for reflection, a little more strength, and new reminders of the broader universe. Matching the harsh roads of daily life is the terribly unreasonable holding on to hope. One cannot exceed one’s all, save for a trusting faith that extends beyond the all. That is the opposite of negotiating with things past.

sanctuaries in wales

“My pen is not able to set forth
the solemn quiet awe, the calm,
serene state of mind that I enjoyed
for many days, so that it seemed
that I had gotten into another world.”

~ Memoirs and Journal of Hugh Judge, 18th century Quaker

We may well consider that moving through hours and days, connecting locations and occasions by our paths, a voyage of distances and way-stations has long been in progress. We need only to realize. There is a natural longing for safe havens, and these manifest in as many ways as we are individuals. Viewing the whole of living as a continuous pilgrimage, sanctuary may be found as easily in a café as in a cathedral. Opening my journal to write, during a hillside intermezzo, the book itself represented a shelter of worded thoughts. Pages already inscribed enshrine sanctified ideas and impressions. The subsequent blank pages to follow are as lands yet untracked. The recording of moments resides in the liminal, with freshly written lines shining back available light. Though not always conscious of our searches for places of tranquility, they are surely recognizable in our unguarded wonder.

Hardly able to believe I had reached the Pilgrims' Way- and North Wales- I made sure to do this.

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Above two images and sculpted icon below: Saint David's Cathedral, Cardiff.

By definition, one may well think of high altars, congregational solemnities and ritual celebrations, but in general sanctuaries include places of refuge as well. Where refuge is found, tranquility, safety, and respite are discovered; these represent oases from such forces as those which exhaust and endanger the soul. Over the years, I’ve learned to seek out such locations and situations; they are vital and necessary. Sanctuaries are places conducive to strengthening, pointing wayfarers to reminders of God, of consolation, of the value in the voyage.

Above: Bible Garden, near Bangor Cathedral
Below: Bangor University Chapel.

A sanctuary may be perceived as something pulling the traveller off the road and interrupting progress. It may look to all the world like unproductive destinations, but indeed, I draw needed inspiration to retake the road undauntedly. Fresh starts are crucial, however they are tried in fresh continuances. Beginnings have their references in my continuum of terra cognita, but my journey’s end ever remains unknown to me. What I can and must do, is to hold the wise course of living faith.

Penmaenmawr




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Above: The small chapel at right was used by the BBC for Dylan Thomas to broadcast his poems and essays, just far enough away from the bombings of Swansea harbor during World War II.

Life as an ongoing pilgrimage of trust provides context as I string together nurturing venues amidst the constancy of transition. It is a process of learning and growth. Times of retreat provide for places of strengthening, sending me into the stream again, so that I can face the world newly intact. With a mindset of sanctuary, large and unfamiliar spaces can become intimate, with reminders of the Holy Spirit’s presence.

Recently, while travelling by train, I looked up from my writing and coffee to look around at my environs. Passengers with their belongings, and rolling scenery through the windows, brought to mind how the train itself was a sheltering passage toward future places. Returning to the view from my window, my thoughts turned to what I call “discovered sanctuary,” which is how I describe the realization of being in a peaceful place- when sanctuary is found incidentally. Then, turning back to my journal, the book itself reminded me of its own intrinsic properties as a portable refuge.

Caernarfon Castle. The photo below is the site of the castle's chapel.

In Wales, my experience was very much an incidental succession of sanctuaries, no matter where I travelled- indoors and outdoors alike. My steps crossed thresholds of holy places, paths, and homes. Each encounter was wrapped around a sincere welcome, and I was sure to express my appreciation. My seatmate on a train in North Wales happened to be from the Isle of Anglesey. I asked him what his favorite peaceful place was, and he replied with the 6th century Penmon Priory; he described the “quiet presence” there, and how much he loves to walk the grounds. I followed his advice, grateful that I’d asked.

Penmon Priory, Isle of Anglesey. Yes, I was really there.

The hospitable openness to converse, which I found everywhere, brought my steps to sacred sites I may not have easily found. Fellow pilgrims I met along the way pointed out where I could find stone circles and cairns.

Ancient cairns, Carmarthenshire.



Circle of standing stones, Bangor.



Circle of standing stones, Cardiff.

While in Swansea, I was told not to miss the colorfully-decorated Saint Teilo’s Church, north of Cardiff and Llandaff. The plain exterior offers no hint as to the brilliant frescoes that are inside.

Saint Teilo's Church :

In Cardiff, my curiosity to see the 200-year-old Tabernacl Caerdydd found the doors open to this extraordinary and majestic Baptist chapel. I’d learned just enough Welsh for salutations, and the congregants and ministers graciously regaled me in English; the associate pastor told me about how he had been to Maine. The downtown Welsh-speaking church had been the parish of the famous preacher Christmas Evans. Standing near the historic pulpit, I looked toward stained glass illustrations of the spiritual graces.

Cardiff Tabernacle

An enduring memory occurred during the deep silence of worship at the Quaker Meeting House in Bangor. As the community settled into the customary waiting upon the Holy Spirit, a tremendous rain fell upon the skylights and windows, pelting with sublime and persistent percussion upon the whole town while we were warmly sheltered inside the sanctuary. Each place I visited left profound impressions that remain with me.

Above: Quaker Meeting House, Bangor.
Below: Quaker Meeting House, Cardiff.







Above: Sign of peace, in English and Welsh, Quaker Meeting House, Cardiff.
Below: Cardiff Synagogue. The inscription is Isaiah 56:7.

While dining in a small streetcorner bistro, a glance about the place once more brought the idea of safe harbor to mind. Not unlike the train and the chapel, the quietly humming eatery was serving as a sheltering hearth. Momentarily setting down knife, fork, and pencil, I heard the dulcet chimes of porcelain, teacups, and glasses mixed with a din of soft voices. As with most sanctuaries, this was a place of temporary recess for those who had arrived and will press forward en route to subsequent places. Waystations have the inherent property of being short-term habitations. Perhaps your own discovered sanctuaries come to mind, as you ponder this. And common to the sanctuaries I’ve found is the stilling message of perseverance.

Penmon, Isle of Anglesey.