Lots of questions come up on pilgrimage. Where is the bathroom? Where is a fountain? What happened to the route? Why do my shoes smell like this? Is breakfast gelato appropriate?
Here’s another one: how, exactly, does one find God on pilgrimage?
Years ago, I found myself having this conversation with Father Brian, an American monk who was based at the Augustinian monastery in San Gimignano. Earlier in the day, I had been rejected from the monastery by, I believe, a Scottish monk. Despite having arranged a reservation, he found my pilgrim bonafides lacking. When he asked for proof that I was a pilgrim, I confidently presented my credential, filled with stamps. “This only proves you have walked,” he rebutted. It had nothing to do with the matter at hand.
Later in the day, Father Brian smuggled me back into the monastery, provided me with a room, and even shared his dinner with me. It turns out that I had stumbled headfirst into a long-time disagreement between the two Men of God. Whether a pilgrim arrived Christian or not, he said, he believed it was all for the good for people to be on pilgrimage. “Where better to find God,” I said, with impressive self-assurance for an avowed atheist, “than on pilgrimage!”
If that were true, one might have expected me to stumble across God at some point over the last couple decades. The believers out there, I am sure, would respond that He has been with me throughout! Regardless, setting aside my own spiritual standing, I’ve found myself returning to that larger question over the last two days. In particular, I’ve been thinking about what kinds of conditions on pilgrimage open one up to the divine, or make that more accessible.
The walk to Siena, despite passing through some similar Tuscan terrain, is fundamentally different from the walk out of it. Leaving Colle, there’s a delightful start to the day, following the turquoise river through the Parco Fluviale. While there’s a long, open stretch after that, the journey is filled with anticipation. The picturesque walled village of Monteriggioni sits not too far off, promising a scenic rest point, and even if the walls are currently closed for strolling, there’s still something exhilarating about the climb to this fortified medieval center. The day’s biggest surprise comes about an hour later, in a small village with a pair of perfect little castle towers. In the midst of that spot is a house lovingly converted into a pilgrim center, with loads of chairs, snacks, wifi, water, a snoozing dog, and even accommodation for those seeking it. All donation-based, of course.
With that behind you, the anticipation for Siena surges to a full boil. Inevitably, it takes longer than you would like, and there’s sure to be more auto traffic to navigate around than ideal, but any price is worth paying for what waits in the historic center of this Renaissance gem. And, oh yes, plenty of prices wait to be paid.
By contrast, there is nothing in particular to anticipate in the walk out of Siena. There are a couple small towns along the walk, of course. It’s possible to grab a coffee in Isola d’Arbia; Monteroni d’Arbia has more on offer, but it requires a half-kilometer detour. The church in Cuna is a treasure for Camino fans, given that it includes a painting of the Hanged Innocent, linking it to Santo Domingo de la Calzada (among other places), but it’s more likely to be locked tight than open and accessible. Even the day’s destination, Ponte d’Arbia, lacks pull. Sure, there’s a welcoming bar, and the hostel has a shady garden, but the sightseeing circuit blew a fuse.
And yet, unlike most cities, the walk out of Siena is a splendor. If you depart early, passing out the medieval gate and then descending from the hill town just after sunrise, you may catch the sky erupting in pink and orange. Lower your eyes, to spot the doe with two young deer cross the small road ahead of you, and then cast your gaze southward to see the hot air balloon. With seemingly no effort, it quickly outpaces you. Even as those flashes of excitement fade into memory, though, the landscape continues to unfold majestically, rippling outward in all directions, and you need only turn your head from side to side to find something stunning to admire.
Certainly, you could bemoan your timing. Six weeks earlier and you would have been immersed in fields blazing golden with sunflowers; today, you are left with their withered husks. Who knows what you missed in the many other surrounding fields that have been recently tilled, huge clumps of dirt churned upward in waving mounds.
But you weren’t here six weeks ago. You’re here today. And today has to be plenty good enough. It’s more than enough.
Heading towards Siena, you checked the time frequently. Were you on pace? What’s your updated time of arrival? How might that reshape your plans for your first couple hours in the city? Does it still make sense to visit the duomo upon arrival, as opposed to trying to check in at your accommodation first? By contrast, you haven’t once looked at the clock en route to Ponte d’Arbia. What does it matter? It’s a short day; you left early. Whether you arrive at noon or 2pm, does it make a difference? And so, you just stroll, with no concerns, no considerations, no urgency. At some point, it’s as though you emerge from a trance–you blink twice and discover that your destination, Ponte d’Arbia, is just ahead.
There’s another story to be told about two of the churches you might be inclined to visit in Siena.
OK, when it comes to the Duomo, there’s no “might” about it. You must, simply must, visit the Duomo; people would question your judgement if you didn’t. Arriving around the middle of a September weekday, the ticket line still wraps around the side and front of the cathedral, but like the 8 euro minimum price, that is also a more-than-acceptable price. Once the business is finally completed, and you then navigate another line on the other side of the church to present your ticket, brace yourself for an absolute sensory explosion.
There is, quite simply, not a single square meter of the Duomo that lacks decoration. Everything has been covered–the walls, the floors, the ceiling–with masterpieces. As the children would say, it’s non-stop bangers. Two Ninja Turtles are represented, though I think most would agree that Donatello beats Michelangelo in this showdown. The “zebra stripes” on the columns will likely catch your eye first, with alternating layers of black and white marble climbing from floor to ceiling. Unlike many cathedrals, though, the floor will steal your attention afterward, with 56 different marble panels that took nearly six hundred years to complete. These make for a logistical complication today, as most are roped off, forcing the hordes to navigate around them all. It might take you a little while to position yourself at the exact angle you like to best appreciate a certain scene. The 14th-century wooden choir seats behind the altar are impressive; Nicola Pisano’s pulpit might be the finest of these that you’ll ever see. On both occasions, you might have other visitors squeezing past you, as they work through the suggested itinerary. The Madonna del Voto, nestled in the marvelous Chigi Chapel, draws a crowd of her own. You’ll certainly need to be patient, waiting for a small sliver of space to appear inside the tiny chapel. Be sure to make time for the Piccolomini Library, though, which might be the most beautiful sight in the whole dang building. Make sure to move in a counter-clockwise direction, though, or you’ll end up swimming against the tide the whole way.
When you finish in the duomo, if you have the energy to descend one hill and climb another, you might be tempted to visit the Basilica Cateriniana San Domenico. It’s a towering brick structure; on the walk over, you’ll be able to admire it from a distance, standing proudly. And yet, a shocking scene awaits you once you pass through the side portal. The building is empty–an emptiness all the more profound given the size of the place. It’s like walking into an airplane hangar. No furniture, no people, barely any adornment whatsoever. Except, that is, for one mini-chapel on the southern part of the nave, around which a handful of pews radiate. In giant print, a sign on one side of the chapel declares, NO PHOTO and NO VIDEO. That sign means business.
A macabre scene waits in the center of that chapel. It’s a human head. Not a statue. Not a painting. The real deal. Mummified centuries ago, this is the head of Saint Catherine. Not many teeth remain; most suspect the eyebrows were painted on. Just to the right, one can also find her thumb on display, in a reliquary of its own.
As you take this all in, you might be joined, however briefly, by one or two other curious visitors. There might be another very devout individual, hunched over in prayer, in a pew off to the side. Otherwise, though, it’s easy to feel like you and Catherine have the place to yourselves.
It’s impossible to not emerge from this encounter wanting to know more about Catherine. Born as Catherine Benincasa in 1347, she was the youngest of twenty-five children. Say a prayer for her mother, if you’re so inclined. Her family was impoverished; her father was a dyer, and of course many of the children were also roped into the trade. Catherine, though, moved in a very different direction. At the age of 7, she had her first vision of Jesus. Growing up, she vowed perpetual virginity; when her parents sought to marry her off, Catherine chopped off her hair instead, in order to make herself as unappealing as possible. In her mind, she was already married; in a different vision, she had seen Jesus placing a ring on her finger, making her His bride. Just to underscore the seriousness of the vow, that ring was made out of Jesus’s foreskin. This undoubtedly circumscribed Catherine’s dating options.
As the years passed, Catherine became one of the most renowned Christian mystics. She claimed having experienced the stigmata, she was essentially a “holy anorexic” (living exclusively on raw vegetables and the Eucharist), and she was seen levitating during prayer at one point. She died in Rome at the age of 33, like her husband, and while canonization took a century she immediately became a figure of reverence. Her relics were subjects of high demand; while the Sienese understandably wanted to bring her home, Romans weren’t so forthcoming.
Thus, the plot: a group of Sienese religious leaders determined that it would be impossible to smuggle the whole body out, so they opted instead for Catherine’s head. They tossed it in the medieval equivalent of a paper bag and tried to walk past the guards. The guards were suspicious, though, and so they demanded that the bag be opened. Inside, in place of Catherine’s head, they discovered a sackful of rose petals. The transubstantiation of Catherine’s head was completed upon her return to Siena. The finger, meanwhile, has a special role of its own, as it is used to grant benediction to the Italian Armed Forces when the festival of Saint Catherine takes place.
It’s easy to get caught up in the disembodied head, the imaginary foreskin ring, and the blessed finger, but there’s an even more important story to be told about Catherine. I had the thought, when reading about Santa Fina, that I’ve run into an awful lot of female Catholic saints who are important for their meekness, their willingness to endure unbearable suffering, and their seemingly passive relinquishing of their lives. I don’t want to disparage that, but it risks playing to certain archaic notions of womanhood.
Catherine, however, emerged as an international diplomat. She advocated for peace between warring cities and promoted reconciliatory efforts between rival leaders. She strived in Florence, Pisa, and elsewhere to promote just and sensible local governance, combatting corruption in favor of Christian love. Her most remarkable success came when she successfully persuaded Pope Gregory XI to return to Rome from Avignon. She didn’t rely on sweet words; far from it. She compared Gregory to a neglectful father who fails his children and famously wrote, “Open your eyes and see the pestilence that follows if you do not come promptly to Rome… Pull the boat of the holy Church from the poison of Avignon.” Here is a woman who quite courageously spoke truth to power.
But let’s go back to the beginning. Where might one find God in all of this? I’m mindful of being overly simplistic. The joy that comes from a day filled with anticipation can be palpable; the buzz one experiences from an exceptional sight can last for days. But what space remains in the mind for reflection, for surprising discoveries, for absolute openness in any of that? By contrast, an open trail, an empty church, a singular locus of mystery… those are conduits. Those smack of possibility. Admittedly, they can also be quite boring! Cognitive work may be required to delve beneath the surface. When the surface is filled with every wonder imaginable, though, why ever leave?
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That’s one wild story!