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Sleeping in the Ruins

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The first time I walked the Camino Frances, I noticed the broken walls and arches that remained, and I paused to take a picture. The next time, I went inside the gate and looked around. The ruins are of the 14th century convent of St. Anthony of Egypt, the place known as Arco San Anton. In the early centuries of the Camino, bread would be left for pilgrims in alcoves in the archway (“arco”). Today, coffee and conversation is offered to hundreds of passing pilgrims, and that is what I got two years ago.

This year, thinking it would be good to stay there, I got more. I arrived around 3 p.m. and there was still one bed—which was given to me. This is an unusual albergue. It is situated within the ruins. There are three rooms. One is the dormitory: twelve bunk beds (close together) with floor space for a couple of cots. The second room is the kitchen. These two rooms share a high ceiling, and smells and sounds travel from one to the other. The third room is a shower, sink, and toilet. Did I mention, there is no electricity? No hot water? And perhaps most challenging of all, no wi-fi?

Yet, every bed was taken, most of them by people half my age or younger. And it wasn’t just the price, although that too is very old Camino: donativo, pay what you want. The hosts—a pair of volunteers; there are new hosts every few weeks—organized our dinner and prepared our breakfast, and we joined in various ways with the chores.

__ At dinner, taken outside as the sun was setting, we each said our name and where we were from. Many people said also something personal, perhaps giving the reason they were walking. I found them amazing. There was someone about to go to work for IBM in Dutchess County, New York—my old stomping grounds. There was a French Canadian fellow who had just passed the bar and was soon to work as a lawyer. There was a Dutch woman who had recently completed a degree in international relations and was soon to work for army intelligence. On the other end of life, there was a man of many practical skills who had worked in Switzerland for years but now had nothing there, and (as best I could tell; much of this comes in translation) has been sleeping on church porches and the like for several years. All of them were interesting individuals, many of them conscious of the way they were being touched by the Camino. All together, it was a fascinating window into a very small piece of the immensity of what God is up to every day among us.

But there was also the temporal layer. We were having this wholesome, delicious yet simple meal of salad, lentil soup, and bread pudding, in the ruins of something that had been built 700 years ago. We were in a place where religious people had lived and prayed and worked, day after day, eating their own simple meals. For these hundreds of years, pilgrims had walked passed this place, on their way to Santiago de Compostela and then also on their way back home. That too is a window for our contemplation.

In 2026 God is working (at one and the same time) through many people and in so many ways we cannot possibly grasp. But turn off the wi-fi, turn off the electricity, turn off the hot water, step outside into a place that’s off the usual road, and you might be able to feel how God was doing that, with people like us, 500 years ago, 1000 years ago, and maybe on ground not unlike that which you are standing on.

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The Importance of Hello and Goodbye

 Impressions from the first four days on the Camino:
    It is easy to move quickly from exchanging names to things that are close to the heart. Who are you, and where are you from, and why are you here on the Camino? This last question occasionally—but only occasionally—gets a cynical answer. “You mean, why have I voluntarily traveled a zillion miles to lug around a pack that is too heavy and sleep in a crowded room with a bunch of snoring people, getting blisters on my feet and aches in my legs and shoulders?” But that cynical answer is a decoy. We are all here because of something in our heart that said, “I need to walk.”
    
Moving to the heart means we learn precious things about other people in a short time, but it is also the case on the Camino that, in a short time, we move on. Walking through a suburb on the way into Pamplona, I heard someone call out my name. On the sidewalk a group of pilgrims were eating lunch or having snacks or a midday drink. We talked awhile, then some took off; others took their place. Amidst lighter chatter serious things were shared—new jobs, relationships, career hopes. They ask me, and I say I wonder what God has for me to do in this new decade of life. One of them says this is the first time he’s heard religion mentioned on the Camino, which surprises him. But it’s there in the background, the God question, which is the Camino question.
    
Which is to say: The question of why someone is on the Camino is the question of God’s relationship to that person’s life. Of course, they may not know that is the question!
    
Although I write this on only the fourth day, it is already clear that the Camino is also about saying goodbye. Whenever we part from talking with one another, we don’t know when, or even if, we will meet again. If two pilgrims do meet again, then it is quite a surprise, and you can see in this delight of re-meeting, if you want, that every meeting up with someone is a new gift, a gift in a way unexpected. 
    
There was one fellow: I had a good talk with him for about an hour as we walked. He is a retired organic farmer. We talked about many things; I liked his wit, and also the way he would laugh bemusedly at himself. We stopped for coffee at a village, where many other pilgrims were. I said goodbye and went on. Later that day, he entered the same albergue I was staying at. It was an unexpected joy. And it gave me a chance to try to say a more adequate goodbye the next morning.
    
I have an old priest friend who never fails, at the end of a phone call, to express his affection. He will do that because, as he says, you never know whether there will be another chance to say it.
    
Hello’s are important, for God is always wanting to connect us with one another and, in our connections, to help us see the deep and true and wonderful things of human life. Goodbye’s are also important, because you never know if you will meet again on the Camino of life.
— 
    
Upcoming Good Books & Good Talk seminar: We’ll discuss Tolstoy’s story, “The Death of Ivan Ilych,” which can be found in many collections of his stories (but only sometimes is mentioned in the title). Any translation is fine for the seminar. This will be at St. Matthew’s Cathedral in Dallas at 5 p.m. on Sunday, June 14. Anyone who reads the story is invited to join the conversation.
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The Rev. Canon Victor Lee Austin. Ph.D., is the Theologian-in-Residence for the diocese and is the author of several books including, "Friendship: The Heart of Being Human" and "A Post-Covid Catechesis.: 

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