by Bethany Marsh
When people think of a pilgrimage, many would imagine a once-in-a-lifetime undertaking – travailing dangerous roads to the Holy Land, crossing the Pyrenees mountains as part of the Camino de Santiago, or persevering through the gruelling 2,000 kilometres of the Via Francigena from the UK to Rome.
The term ‘pilgrimage’ may evoke a relic of the past – a lone traveller bearing a staff and pilgrim shell, showing the pious devotion of a medieval peasant.
What many people probably wouldn’t envisage is a mass of 700 people – children, teenagers, mums, dads and grandparents – trudging through the Victorian countryside from one cathedral to another.
But that’s my reality as a pilgrim.
The Christus Rex (Latin for ‘Christ the King’) pilgrimage is an annual 97-kilometre walk from Ballarat to Bendigo. The hundreds of participants meander through beautiful Victorian landscapes, setting out from one cathedral and retiring at another, sleeping in fields and country halls, eating humble meals, singing, praising God and praying.
Worship is all in the traditional form, meaning plenty of incense, Gregorian chant, hymns, litanies, devotions, meditations, chances for communal prayer and quiet reflection – and even some bagpipes to close the day (a small nod to the Irish Catholic heritage of many taking part).
Some – including me – have been walking this since they were small children and now some of those now-adults take children of their own along. A common attribute for most attendees is that it’s not their first pilgrimage, and certainly won’t be their last.
‘It’s in our blood’, my Dad told me one year, packing (very last-minute) at the crack of dawn on a warm October morning.
He’s a pilgrim, through and through. He’s been doing this since its inception and now hires buses to ferry the dozens of pilgrims (including 10 from our own family) from Adelaide to Ballarat.
No matter what we do, we can’t seem to avoid the irresistible urge to go back, year after year.
So, what are we trying to prove by taking three days to walk by a non-descript stretch of Victorian freeway, which could be covered in just an hour by car?
I ask myself this question every year … mostly on Day Two, 35 kilometres in, when the first blisters have well and truly formed, and my calves realise they have been chronically under-worked on the other 360 days of the year.
And after 17 pilgrimages – and more than 1,600kms, dozens of blisters and a few sprained ankles later – I think I finally know why. There are four reasons:
1. ‘Life is a pilgrimage.’
This age-old adage is a perfect analogy for the human experience. Born, as it were, into sin in a foreign land, we each embark on our spiritual pilgrimage back towards our eternal home: God. Life, with its daily hardships and joys, its trials and abundant blessings, is that pilgrimage.
Dad was right: it is in our blood. Pilgrimage is simply part of the human psyche. And for centuries Christians have been clamouring for more.
To conquer something difficult, you should undertake something even more burdensome.
And putting one foot in front of the other for 130,000 steps is no walk in the park (although we do end up in our fair share of national reserves). There’s nothing like trudging through overgrown grass on the side of the road for three days straight to give you some real strength to overcome daily hardships.
2. During those three days, I get the feeling that the pilgrimage is a little closer to what life is supposed to be.
It’s a welcome break from our frenetic lifestyles that push endlessly onward, longing for the next thing, the next holiday, the next iPhone, the next job. The pilgrimage gives you permission to switch off and put aside the countless distractions vying for your attention. It gives you the ability to breathe, to live in the simplicity and honesty of God’s creation.
It’s the beauty of Christian community, the body of believers, the building up of the kingdom on earth and the opportunity to share the joy of the gospel with friends, neighbours, fellow wanderers and total strangers.
And, above all, it’s the simple joy of being surrounded by people who live as though God is alive.
3. The ‘snapshot moments’ – these are priceless moments of honesty and beauty that serve as a kind of spiritual injection for the rest of the year.
Highlights include a small army of children proudly singing church hymns by themselves, altar servers faithfully kneeling during a two-hour liturgy, an ex-army priest walking in blistering heat in full cassock, a man carrying gold candlesticks in his backpack so ‘God would have the best’, a liturgy celebrated in a forest, the smells, the bells, the crickets, the happy, grumpy and tired faces, new loves and old loves, friendships and conversations, the blisters, and the flood of gratitude when you realise there’s hot water in the showers.
All this is not to say that the pilgrimage is perfect. Each year has its distinct challenges (although I suppose that is the point).
One year it was bushfires. Another time a house fire affected a local farmer. (The pilgrims were quick to jump into action when they were woken by smoke and flames at 4am!). Then there have been mosquito plagues, fly plagues, relentless heat and subzero temperatures that only regional Victoria during spring can provide.
But these and the other trials – blisters, sunstroke, that strap on your backpack that never seems to sit comfortably – always seem to pale at the end of the three days, and you are left with the feeling of camaraderie, grace and consolation that helps you pick up your cross and continue your daily pilgrimage.
4. It’s the chance to treat time as cyclical, not linear, as you allow yourself to return to the same point, walk the same path, and recover some of the wisdom that you forgot (once again) during the year.
I am happily counting down the days until I can pack for Christus Rex 2025.
For now, though, I will continue with the pilgrimage that is life … and, hopefully, remember the blister band-aids this time round.
Bethany Marsh is the LCANZ Communications and Engagement Officer. She attends the Latin Mass at Church of the Holy Name, Stepney, South Australia.
