by Elizabeth (Argue) Weicher ‘14

My ninth grade English teacher loved to shock us by proclaiming, “there are no new stories after The Odyssey.”

I am unqualified to confirm the truth of that claim, but it is true that literature is rife with the Homeric storyline of a traveler and his companions struggling to return to their homeland. Odysseus relies on his companions to help him at crucial moments, even commanding them to tie him to the mast of his ship to prevent his being lured away from the journey home. The Odyssey and the many stories that record a journey home resonate within our hearts, and thus endure through generations, because we all know the longing to reach home.

For Christians, this yearning goes even deeper. We know that houses, towns, and native lands are mere shadows of our true homeland. This life is an epic pilgrimage toward death and, beyond, to the Kingdom of God, opened to us by Christ’s death and resurrection. Unlike Odysseus, the Christian’s destination is not on earth; it is the eternal Kingdom of God. But like Odysseus, the journey of the Christian pilgrim requires companionship on the long, and sometimes confusing, journey.

Our heavenly destination is difficult to conceptualize, so it is easy to become weak and tired of our walk. Christ knew this when he instituted the Sacraments, which are physical signs of the ultimate reality—God, our final destination. The Sacraments confer grace, freely given help from God. Sacramental grace nourishes us and gives us real, substantial aid on the pilgrimage of life.

Just as Sacraments strengthen us on our journey to Heaven, we need earthly companions to bolster us on our way.

Once, hiking down a rocky dirt path along the Camino de Santiago with some classmates, I met an elderly French man whose worn shoes and weathered backpack put our “day trip” gear to shame. My French was mediocre at best but, from our brief conversation, I gathered that his wife had recently died and, having no one left, this man had simply started walking.

After a short exchange—one of a hundred encounters he must have had each day—my classmates and I strode off. Imprinted on me in that brief conversation was the notion that when this man found himself all alone in life, he became a pilgrim. And as he hiked the Camino, he was anything but alone.

Christian pilgrims tread a path which has been beaten down by millennia of believers. Through Baptism, we become part of the Church—the Body of Christ. As members of this community of pilgrims, we are obliged to act as Christ’s hands, feet, and mouth in the world. When we sin, the Body of Christ suffers. When we do good, the Body of Christ rejoices. We are asked to love our neighbors as ourselves and to perform corporal and spiritual works of mercy such as sheltering the homeless, clothing the naked, advising, forgiving, consoling.

Repeatedly in life, in literature, and in art we are reminded of our Christian duty to be good companions to our neighbors.

Sometimes these reminders come in unexpected places. In Jane Austen’s Emma, Mr. Knightly chastises Emma for her rude and self-centered joke at the expense of a poor friend. He says:

“It was badly done, indeed! […]— and before others, many of whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by your treatment of her. This is not pleasant to you, Emma–and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will—I will tell you truths while I can.” (Vol. 3, Chapt. 7)

This much-deserved rebuke, appropriately delivered in private, is a pivotal turning point in the novel, as it deeply impacts Emma’s character. It is a simple example of how the charitable correction of a friend can be the impetus that brings the wayward pilgrim back to the correct path.

Mr. Knightly’s rebuke reminds me of my first few days at Notre Dame, when I had allowed myself to be swept into a group of friends with unhealthy habits. My sister perceived that they were a bad influence, took me to lunch, and kindly, but forcefully, told me that she wished I would extricate myself from the current social group and find some friends who were on a better path. She encouraged me to attend daily Mass and to join clubs where I might meet people who shared my values. After half-heartedly defending my new friends, I left the conversation angry and embarrassed. It took a few days for the truth to sink in, but I came to see that my sister was right. Gradually, following her advice, I found friends who made me happier and inspired me to be better. For these virtuous friends, many of whom I still have today, I thank the charitable attention and kind, sisterly correction that altered the course of my college social life.

Although the people we encounter during our lives are obvious companions, not all of our help can be discerned by the human senses. As baptized Christians, we are united to the entire Body of Christ, including the saints in Heaven. During the Eucharistic prayer, the priest says, “And so, with the angels and all the saints we declare your glory, as with one voice we acclaim: Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, God of hosts…” In this moment, we are not praying on our own, but are speaking as one with Mary, John, Peter, Therese, Cecilia, Damian, and all the saints and angels. The Mass proclaims the truth that, as one body of Christ, we do indeed stand in their company. Although my understanding is dim, this mystery transforms the Mass from an experience I passively receive to a rite of sacrifice and praise in which I should actively participate.

Not only do we join the saints and angels in praise at the throne of God, but they also materially help us during life—and death. About ten years ago, on the Feast of the Assumption, my grandfather lay dying. He had spoken his last words several days before, and had since fallen into a deep, sleep-like state. My family gathered ’round his bed that day and began singing some of the Marian hymns we had heard at Mass. As we sang the Hail Holy Queen, his face became suddenly animated. He lifted his eyebrows, opened his mouth, and tried to move his lips as if he were singing. This movement must have required tremendous effort from a man too weak to open his eyes or to shift his hands. The joy on his face expressed the comfort he found in the voices of his family that he had loved so well, and in Our Lady— “our life, our sweetness, and our hope.”

As I reflect on these last moments with my grandfather, I am struck by the unity of the Body of Christ, which is not broken by death. Death is something every human being must endure alone. Yet, as my grandfather’s family—his closest community on earth—we held vigil with him as he awaited that great mystery. While none of our human medical inventions could now save his body, we were able to pray that the saints he had loved in life would greet him at the moment we said goodbye. We knew by his attempts to sing that he, too, was pleading Our Lady to be his companion “at the hour of his death.”

The saints support us during our pilgrimage and, because the Kingdom of Heaven is not a feast with a finite amount of wine or a limited room capacity, the joy there increases with each guest. Thus, the saints and angels ardently desire for each of us to join them at the heavenly banquet. This earthly pilgrimage is no easy journey. Christ himself warned us that the path is a difficult one. Yet he desires our success, and so has united his followers into one Body—both on earth and in Heaven—that we might assist each other along the way.

Through the unity of the Church, we walk our pilgrim path among strong hands who will reach out to assist us if only we ask.

Image Credits:
John William Waterhouse, Ulysses and the Sirens, (1891)
Diego Charlón Sánchez, Camino de Santiago, via Flickr, (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)
Chris Hammon, Emma, (1898)
El Greco, The Assumption of the Virgin, (1577-9)