The Camino Canticle: God's Mercy and Grace

A pilgrimage is a deliberate decision to step into the divine harmony of God’s creation in the world - a melody unfolding through space and time.

The Way of Saint James is not just another hiking route across continental Europe. It is a path trodden for centuries by souls seeking mercy, healing, and God. And at its centre stands Saint James the Apostle - not just as a distant historical figure, but as a fellow pilgrim: one who walked with Christ, misunderstood Him, stumbled, and was eventually sent out to proclaim Him. There, beneath the city and cathedral bearing his name, lies his tomb.

Photo: Catedral de Santiago de Compostela

I set out on the Camino del Norte in May this year, not seeking scenery or escape. I walked with the intention of thanking God for His enduring Mercy, and of offering my journey as atonement for all the sins I have ever committed.

This was not merely a hiking journey from one town to another. It was a descent into the cadence of divine love. In hindsight, each day spent on my Camino was divinely orchestrated. Every step, encounter, and physical pain I endured led me into a deeper awareness of God’s presence.

That presence was gentle: in the breaking of dawn, robed in crimson and gold; in the whisper of wind across meadows; in the far-off tolling of church bells echoing like divine chimes. These were not chance occurrences - they were the quiet notes of a symphony that I had only just begun to hear again. They reminded me that God’s work is not finished, and that even now, God is calling us back to Him.

As I walked, I began to hear the counterpoint of fellowship. Though I started alone, strangers became fellow pilgrims, each adding their unique pitch to the harmony. We shared meals, stories, and moments of silence. There was an unspoken unity in our walking - a quiet acknowledgement that we were all seeking something greater than ourselves. These shared moments, simple and sacred, reminded me that redemption rarely happens in isolation.

There was one evening in particular that I will never forget. It was after walking 34 kilometres from San Sebastián to Zumaia. I arrived in time for Mass, but by the time I reached the albergue on the hill, it was full. With tourists crowding the town and listings unreliable, I found myself with no place to stay. Eventually, I settled beneath the porch of a chapel beside a cemetery. That morning, I had prayed the Rosary for the poor. That night, I shared in their reality.

I woke to find a man beside me using drugs. At first, I was afraid. But his unexpected warmth disarmed me - he offered conversation, laughter, even some of his beer.

In that silent, wind-blown corner of town, I remembered Christ’s words: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me” (Saint Matthew 25:40).

As I sat beside him, I thought of Saint Teresa of Calcutta, who once said, “Each one of them is Jesus in disguise.” That night, I had no roof over my head, but I was not alone. Grace was still there - hidden, quiet, unmistakable. “If we love one another, God lives in us, and His love is made complete in us” (1 John 4:12).

There are stretches of the Camino that seemingly never end - those long and lonely walks with not a soul in sight. In such moments, there is that deafening silence. Not empty, but resonant. A silence where I encountered the deepest parts of myself and of God. A silence that became a mirror, and at times a storm. In those quiet hours, the dissonance surfaced: old regrets, unspoken fears, failures I had never properly confessed. But as in 1 Kings 19:11–13, God was not in the wind or the fire, but in the still small voice.

I encountered Him not in dramatic moments, but in the hush after a hard climb, in the chapel where no words were needed, in the quiet moments before Our Blessed Lord in the Sacrament of the Altar.

This silence was the rest in the divine music. And in it, I realised that my past need not be my future, and that Our Lord will provide us with the necessary strength and courage to live true to His teachings, if only we are willing to listen to His voice and be changed. Our Lord provides. He truly does. And in the silence, His providence is made even more visible.

The Way of Saint James, like a well-crafted composition, had its crescendos - moments of breathtaking grace, awe, and insight - but also adagios - long, weary stretches that tested both my body and soul. Yet through it all, the melody of grace never left me. Even in pain, it played softly, patiently, weaving itself into every tension and resolution.

By the time I reached Santiago de Compostela, I knew that the true destination was never the cathedral, but the transformation that had quietly taken root along the way. I began to hear the sacred notes in the world around me - in creation, in the kindness of others, and in the silence that no longer frightened me.

Yet, while standing in the crypt before the reliquary that holds the relics of the saint whose namesake marked the path, I was struck not only by the ending of a journey, but by the beginning of a new one. Saint James gave his life to carry the Gospel outward — his bones resting here, his spirit urging pilgrims onward. He reminds us that our walk of faith never truly ends at the tomb. It continues, just as he did - into the world, bearing witness through our lives.

Photo: Catedral de Santiago de Compostela