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At every point of my life on pilgrimage, it has been ineluctably associated with legend. Whether the sites of visitation were attributed to Jesus, Peter and Paul, or James–all ostensibly “real” men, actual historical figures–the stories associated with them have to varying degrees transcended their literal achievements on earth. James, in particular, functioned so well as a figure around whom to construct the Santiago Peregrino narrative because of the paucity of documentation available about his life. Here was an apostle, one of those closest to Jesus, about whom we know precious little, and thus could be transformed into almost anything. Other saints are pure legend; San Rocco or Roch, a fixture on the Via Podiensis and here in Puglia, never existed. And this morning, of course, I arose in a town linked to the appearance of a devil-hunting angel, Saint Michael, guardian of high places and westward-facing vantage points, ever vigilant.
This has, in many ways, been a very easy, comfortable sort of religiosity for a non-religious person to engage with. After all, those legends are part and parcel of the surrounding legends that fill the trail, like Roland and El Cid on the Camino. Setting aside the often ghastly image of Santiago Matamoros, heads lolling under hoof, there’s nothing particularly threatening about these figures in an ideological sense. A secular individual can lump them in easily enough with the Santa Clauses of the world, characters who bring a little extra color to life and might offer value in the realms of allegory, comfort, or merely entertainment. Veneration has little to do with it, even if one strives instead for respectful curiosity.
Today, though, I walked from legend into reality, at least a much firmer shade of it. The relatively short stage was a delight by every measure, following the ridge line westward from Monte Sant’Angelo, with breathtaking views in both directions for the better part of an hour, before I finally said farewell to the Adriatic. As I’ve moved northward, I’ve tracked the progressive flowering of cherry blossoms, and I arrived just in time for an explosion across these hills, adding a resolute cheeriness that couldn’t be diluted by occasional showers. The kilometers flew past, and before I knew it I had arrived in San Giovanni Rotondo, much as I had hoped.
The city is associated with one man: Saint Pio da Pietrelcina, born Francesco Forgione, but known to all as Padre Pio. Compared with James, Peter, and Paul, we’re on much firmer ground in the case of Padre Pio. We know when he was born (1887) and also where (Pietrelcina in Southern Italy). We know that he entered the convent at the age of 16, was ordained a priest at 23, and thus spent most of his life as a Capuchin friar. We know that even priests were expected to provide military service, and that Padre Pio was called upon in 1915 to fight in World War I. More consequentially, perhaps, the following year brought him to San Giovanni Rotondo, which would become his home for the remainder of his days. We know quite a bit about–from my vantage point–his most significant accomplishment, the building of a hospital in San Giovanni Rotondo. I passed by it as I walked over to visit the saint himself.
For all that, though, the ground quickly softens underfoot when one begins grappling with Padre Pio’s complicated relationship with the Holy See, a tension that arose as a consequence of his growing stature in the Catholic world. From an early age, he demonstrated unusual religiosity, experiencing ecstatic states and divine visions at just five years old. More dramatic were the events that first transpired in 1911 and would continue weekly for the next seven years–Padre Pio’s manifestation of stigmata–during which time he also battled demonic temptations. Church leaders were skeptical; some claimed the stigmata was self-inflicted. Pope John XXIII wrote of his “immense deception” and dismissed him as a fraud and a womanizer. A Vatican doctor was even blunter, characterizing Padre Pio as “an ignorant and self-mutilating psychopath who exploited people’s credulity.” Padre Pio endured disciplinary consequences at multiple points as a consequence, including two years of spiritual isolation between 1931 and 1933, and endless rounds of investigation.
Through it all, Padre Pio’s followers only swelled in numbers. He became famous for his “martyrdom in the confessional,” his remarkable devotion to the sacrament of confession, giving countless hours to the rite. His masses were regarded by many as transcendent affairs, resulting in services being moved outdoors in 1954 to accommodate the crowds. If there was cause, at times, to question aspects of the man’s practice or behavior, what seems to have been most central to his identity and approach was his deep understanding of suffering. He was a man who suffered intensely throughout his life, and through his practice as a priest and his construction of the hospital, he endeavored to treat spiritual and physical pain alike.
Padre Pio died in 1968. After running into trouble with multiple popes during his life, though, he was fortunate to have an ally in death. Pope John Paul II oversaw Padre Pio’s canonization in 2002, making him one of our most recent saints. Even in death, though, Padre Pio could not escape controversy. In 2008, his body was placed on display in San Giovanni Rotondo, forty years after his death. It’s a jarring thing to experience, seeing the many lying in rest in his tomb beneath the church, surrounded by glass walls. Saints are to be venerated, after all, and veneration requires accessibility, proximity. Claims circulated that Padre Pio had been discovered to be incorruptible, his body remarkably preserved after those four decades. And yet, that incorruptibility did not encompass the entirety of his head, necessitating the addition of a silicone face mask, the kind of thing one might see in a wax museum. Only Padre Pio’s fingertips–blackened ever after all these years–are visible. The rest is covered up.
Far from kindling some measure of spiritual enrichment, the whole arrangement left me feeling uneasy, even troubled. The Church, which had so little regard for the man in his life, has shown little compunction about making full use of him in death. Upon reflection, though, I can’t help but wonder if Padre Pio, for all his pronunciations of humility, would be pleased to know how this has played out. From his earliest days, intentionally or not, the man was equal parts symbol and vessel, a demonstration of faith and reverence, and one equally devoted to the demands of the spiritual and physical realms. And now, his perpetual vigil keeps him alongside his hospital, a reminder to all of the importance of doing good with the time we have.
