A Pilgrimage to Our Lady of Walsingham

This July I had the wonderful opportunity of traveling to England: a trip that became a spiritual as well as a sight-seeing journey. One of the places I visited was the Anglican Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham: known as England’s Nazareth, it has been a place of pilgrimage since the eleventh century. My interest in Walsingham had been piqued at home in Carlsbad: my church, St. Michael’s-by-the-Sea, has a statue of Our Lady of Walsingham at the Mary Altar, which is a focus of our healing ministry. A visit to Walsingham seemed like an ideal way to continue my exploration of Anglican history and tradition, so I arranged a two and a half-day visit to Walsingham as part of my trip. It was well worth it.

I’d read on another blog somewhere that “Nobody gets to Walsingham by accident.” That turned out to be very true! Just getting to Walsingham was an adventure. Bus from Oxford to London King’s Cross; train from King’s Cross to King’s Lynn; bus from King’s Lynn to a small town called Fakenham; car ride (courtesy of my extremely kind hostess at St. David’s House) from Fakenham to Walsingham. Whew! But I immediately saw the benefits of heading so far off the beaten track. While Oxford was crowded with tourists, even in its churches and cathedral, Walsingham was very clearly a place of pilgrimage. As I walked down the cobbled street toward the Shrine grounds, I made the conscious decision to take these next few days not as a tourist, but as a seeker after Christ.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon and made my way to the Shrine for an informal visit before the start of the pilgrimage program on Saturday. The Holy House is contained within the larger Shrine Church, which itself contains smaller chapels; outside there is a refectory, other chapels and pilgrim accommodations, and a beautiful lawn and garden. The whole place has a lovely, restful air about it.

Since I’d had a busy morning of travel, I decided to follow the Stations of the Cross through the Shrine grounds as a way for me to get “centered” as a pilgrim. The Stations ended in a replica of Jesus’ tomb, so I went inside to reflect. The little rock chamber was shadowy, damp, and dusty, with a spider in the corner; it felt both ordinary and very lonely. I knelt down beside the empty niche, and thought about the first Easter. From inside, I could see a sliver of bright sunlight, trees, green grass. Inside the tomb it was quiet, but I could hear laughing voices outside. It might have just as beautiful a day when Mary Magdalen came to the tomb, but that would just have made it worse. As far as she knew, everything was lost. Her Master was dead, and all the life outside would have seemed just a mockery.

Then she would have seen the empty tomb – and met the risen Lord. He is risen! and with Him all of creation. Even the trees and grasses outside would have been charged with His glory, as the crucified and risen Lord of all. It’s hard to put into words, but it seemed like I could see how that sliver of bright sunlight and happy voices and trees and flowers had all its meaning because it was framed by the rock walls of the tomb; because I was looking out from death into life.

That was quite an intense way to start the weekend.

The formal pilgrimage program started on Saturday afternoon, with a Pilgrimage Mass at the Shrine Church. After dinner we returned for an evening candlelit procession around the grounds of the Shrine, returning to the church for Benediction. Afterwards some of the pilgrims stayed for prayer, and I decided to pray alone in a side chapel dedicated to the Risen Christ. I re-lit my candle and placed it there, realizing that the image of the candle had some significance for me. Gradually I saw that it represents the Light of Christ: no matter how confusing my life seems, I just need to stay focused on following Christ, and He will get me through. Though I didn’t realize it, I must have been in prayer for a long while, because when I got up, the church was totally quiet and empty. I went back to my hostel with a glad heart.

On Sunday morning we all attended mass at the parish church of St. Mary’s, returning after lunch to the Shrine for the Sprinkling at the Well. One of the priests explained the significance of the three types of “sprinkling” that we pilgrims would receive. First, we would drink a sip of the holy water, which, as it became part of our bodies, represented God’s strength that we ask for and receive. Second, we would have the sign of the cross traced on our forehead with the water, reminding us of what Christ did for us on the cross. Last, the water would be poured into and over our cupped hands, representing God’s grace, which overflows everything that we could possibly ask for. After receiving the sprinkling, we all filed back to the pews for the next part of the service, which was the laying on of hands.

So far the sprinkling had been an interesting experience, but one that I was having a hard time entering into. As I joined the line of people making their way forward to the priests, I couldn’t help thinking that it felt a little impersonal. The priests didn’t say a blessing out loud, just praying over them silently. OK, I thought, I’m sure this is good for me even if it feels very ordinary. When it was my turn I stepped up to the priest and he laid his hands on me.

I was totally unprepared for what happened then. I suddenly became intensely aware of Christ’s presence there with us, and I felt His healing touch flood into me through the priest’s hands on my shoulders. It was a good thing that I didn’t have to say anything, because I was completely shaken.

I’d bought a little wooden pilgrim’s cross the first day I was in Walsingham and had worn it all weekend. On Sunday afternoon, after the closing Procession of the Blessed Sacrament and Benediction, I asked one of the priests to bless my cross, which he did. Since then, I’ve been keeping it in my pocket, where it’s been a reminder that He is with me, my Light to follow.

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