Week 3: Inward  

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“I do not think anyone would be surprised if we stated the existence of a lonely traveler well inside ourselves...”  

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          Reading the opening chapter of Luis Goncalves da Camara’s transcribed Autobiography of Ignatius of Loyola, one hears in their imagination a torrent of anguished cries and discharging cannons, metal crashing against metal, the spurt and slither of blood. An overwhelming force of French and Navarrese forces swarmed and penetrated the undermanned stronghold at Pamplona, a major strategic point for the Spanish in their war with the Hapsburgs in the early sixteenth century. In the moments before the bombardment the youthful and ultra vain, Inigo de Loyola, convinced the commander of the garrison to remain steadfast and repel the oncoming forces rather than surrender peacefully. Whatever reasons the twenty-six year old Inigo gave, they were enough for the commander to direct his soldiers to fight against the oncoming army much larger than themselves. As the fray wore on a cannonball smashed through Inigo's leg and badly injured the other. This instant, this vicious rupture in the trajectory of Ignatius’ story thus far shaped by bravado and narcissism, military aspiration and sexual conquest, marks the beginning of a quite different and far more epic mystical journey, a pilgrimage of the heart.

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          After another eventful week of teaching I ventured into the heart of Catalonia to visit Manresa and Montserrat, two locations significant in the immediate post-cannonball life of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Rather than walk in the order of Ignatius’ footsteps from Montserrat to Manresa, I decided to arrive at Manresa precisely when the doors of the church built over the famous cave would be opened. My strategy proved perfect, a rarity! I dismounted from the train into the morning sun and made like Frogger across the small highway separating the train tracks from the town of Manresa on the mountainside. Two jewels, the Basilica of la Seu and the Church sitting atop ‘The Cave,’ greet hordes of visitors from around the world each year. Today they would welcome another traveler!  I proceeded across the medieval footbridge, stopping to survey the mountainside town and look at the River Cordaner gurgling below. I'm not sure how long I leaned against the ancient stone wall listening to the water, but by the time I crossed the bridge my consciousness was heightened. No...I did not have an ecstatic vision on the Old Bridge over the River Cardoner. But Ignatius did! Camara wrote in The Autobiography:

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While he was seated there, the eyes of his understanding began to be opened; not that he saw any vision, but he understood and learnt many things, both spiritual matters and matters of faith and of scholarship, and this was so great an enlightenment that everything seemed new to him. 

 

There are few additional details about Ignatius’ mystical vision at the River Cardoner. How to explain unexplainable understanding after all? How to make a spiritual bridge across the vast chasm separating experience and expression? Nevertheless, I was transported. Come to think of it now I did not see a soul from the time I left the Old Bridge to when I exited the cave an hour later. It was as if the entire place was emptied for me to experience alone. 

 

          I entered the Church and was met by a quintessentially ornate display of Baroque art and architecture that I recommend not Googling because you ought to experience it yourself first-hand. An unassuming sign with an arrow and the words “cave, cueva, cova” directed me to the left of the church through a vestibule. Then, I was in the cave. According to tradition, Ignatius crossed the same Old Bridge and lived in this very cave formed by the rushing water of the Cardenor centuries before. For eleven months between the March of 1522 and February of 1523 he spent hours working in a hospice (formerly named the Hospital of Saint Lucia) by day and fasting and beginning to compose the Spiritual Exercises by candlelight. The entire space was pulsing with silence. Immediately I noticed my quickened breathing, the tension in my muscles, the random thoughts popping and flitting around my (mostly hollow) mind. I removed my backpack and sat down in a small chair facing the ivory inlaid carving of Ignatius with quill in hand. It took some time to calm myself, to be still and silent, to settle my breathing and collapse into a prayerful state. From this point, it is difficult to make my interior movements into words. I could try. But for now, I wish to hold them close. What I will say is that this cave was no battlefield, the complete opposite.  My time in the cave was moving. My journey intersected with another person’s before me whom I have chosen to orient much of my life around since first walking through the Blue Doors at Canisius High School over a decade ago. I certainly will not forget it. 

 

          Riding the Ignatian high I quickly crossed town to the colossal Basilica of la Seu, a splendid structure to walk through as shafts of high noon sunlight filtered through massive stained glass windows. For most of my visit I was again alone in this gigantic space save an organist practicing his numbers. The images featured below don’t do justice to the immensity and solemnity of the Basilica. After attempting and failing numerous times to capture the perfect panoramic image, I cracked on back to the train station and made a beeline to Montserrat a few miles away.  As the story goes, Ignatius stopped at the 11th century Benedictine monastery at Montserrat before descending from the mountains to the town of Manresa a few miles north. Here is where Ignatius made a general confession and shed himself of his armor and assumed the life of a beggar. Montserrat is also where Ignatius ceremoniously laid his sword and dagger before the statue of the “Black Madonna.” I was granted an opportunity to rest my hand on the orb of the earth held in the Madonna’s right hand for a few seconds before exiting to a rear chamber where the statue could be viewed from behind and prayed over. The mountains of Montserrat are saw-like with jagged edges and perilous pathways, which made me wonder how Ignatius would have managed walking up (or rather limping) to the monastery without the aid of a mule. Today there are four main hiking trails, one of which leads to the summit of the mountain on a rock called the “Elephant.” Unfortunately time constrained me from making the long hike up the great elephant, but I managed to find some impressive views walking on trails heading in the opposite direction where there were fewer tourists. Some quiet space atop a high rock (yes mom, I was being careful) granted me a view stretching  from the Pyrenees to Barcelona. Descending a ways further, one could see from the San Miguel cross at the edge of a cliff with a view of the Abbey's face. (See image below!)

 

          With no reading material at my disposal, I spent the two hour train ride back to Barcelona reflecting. And in my reflection I thought about the word “pilgrim.” Before departing in the morning’s early hours I stuffed the “Pilgrim’s Guide” lent to me by Fr. Mullen SJ in my bag. While the maps and descriptions of the Ignatian sites were helpful throughout the day, the little book’s introduction struck many chords. This particularly portion resonated: 

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The pilgrim is not a self-taught person wandering without destination, but their own steps come in addition to those of so many other lives from a long time ago...The pilgrim is fed by the wisdom of their predecessors. And they direct themselves towards well chosen spots, heaped with history, which talk about an interior transformation. It is here, in particular, where we find the “key” to the pilgrimage: the pilgrim does not only explore outwards, but especially inwards. They are definitively guided by paths which were previously explored by others. But they know that the true course for any traveler is the interior one...

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There is something mysterious and divine hidden deep inside every pilgrim’s heart. Mining for this mysterious something cannot be done with intellectual might. Discovering the path we are meant to take requires silence. It requires time alone getting lost; it requires vulnerability and courage. Treading this path inward is ridden with anxiety and always seems fraught with danger. I am not immune to such challenges. I am on a journey like everyone else. Sometimes when I try to go inward I can feel like I am under siege. But there are other times when the journey inward is sublimely illuminating and transformative! 

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          As the train drew close to the center of Barcelona, my mind drifted to my late aunt, Carol Maranto. She passed unexpectedly in June after a gutsy and spirited fight with cancer. My imagination took me back to her funeral, a difficult experience. Yet what I remember most vividly from that day was my uncle’s homily, (Fr. Bob Reiser, Prep President from 2006-2013) about Carol's pilgrimage. The memory made me pull out Fr. Mullin’s handy guide once more: 

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The authentic pilgrimage...is not only concluded at the end of our lives. But, while we are alive, we discover that the God we thought to know is growing bigger and bigger, more fascinating and confusing at the same time; God who lives beyond our ideas, our comforts and the compelling limits we impose on him. Sometimes, the pilgrim has the temptation of saying: “At last, here I am.” Later on, they find out that it cannot be so, that the closer they are to God, the more is left for them to walk and surrender. In this way, the pilgrimage is turned into an exercise of generosity, of constant approximation and deviation from God, which is to last the whole of our lives. 

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I wish I had learned more about my aunt’s life. Although I think the way someone lives among others communicates a lot about the extent and depth of their interior journey. I believe there was a moment or perhaps a series of moments in my aunt’s prayer life when she decided to “surrender,”  to fully absorb herself in an exercise of generosity-as a nurse, a sister, a mother, a wife, a friend, a caregiver, as a damn good cook and a welcoming host-and in doing so growing ever closer, ever distant in her relationship with God. My aunt’s orientation toward others was a celebration of her conviction, a celebration of finding her way. Her pilgrimage encourages me to continue seeking inwardly, traveling, wandering, and I hope, surrendering quite absolutely one day too. 

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Reflection for SPP students:  

 

"The God...growing bigger and bigger, more fascinating and confusing at the same time." 

Can you know God? If yes, what might that mean?

 

Aside from sleeping, do you find time to sit in silence? Find some time and silent space and consider who in your life is an exemplary pilgrim. What makes them so?  

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Vestibule Before Entering the Cave

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Basilica de la Seu (Manresa)

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