When I was a priest in Buenos Aires, and I kept this habit even as a bishop in my hometown, I loved walking on foot through various neighborhoods to meet with fellow priests, visit a religious community, or speak with friends. Walking is good for us: it connects us with what is happening around us, helps us discover the sounds, smells, and noises of the reality that surrounds us—in other words, it brings us closer to the lives of others.
Walking means not staying still: to believe means having an inner restlessness that drives us towards something “more,” to take one more step forward towards a height to be reached today, knowing that tomorrow the path will take us higher— or deeper—in our relationship with God, which is exactly like the relationship with a beloved person in our life or between friends: it is never finished, never taken for granted, never fully satisfied, always searching, not yet sufficient. It is impossible to say with God: “All done; everything is in its place; that’s enough.”
For this reason, the Jubilee of 2025, along with the essential dimension of hope, should push us to an ever-greater awareness that faith is a pilgrimage and that we are pilgrims on this earth. We are not tourists or wanderers: we do not move aimlessly, existentially speaking. We are pilgrims. The pilgrim lives their journey in light of three key words: risk, effort, and goal.
Risk. Today, we struggle to understand what it meant for Christians of the past to undertake a pilgrimage, as we are accustomed to the speed and comfort of traveling by plane or train. But setting out on a journey a thousand years ago meant taking the risk of never returning home due to the many dangers encountered along various routes. The faith of those who chose to set out on the road was stronger than any fear. The pilgrims of the past teach us this trust in God, who called them to journey to the tomb of the Apostles, the Holy Land, or a certain sanctuary. We too ask the Lord to have a small portion of that faith, to accept the risk of abandoning ourselves to His will, knowing that His will is that of a good Father who desires for His children only what is best for them.
Effort. Walking indeed means exertion. This is well known to the many pilgrims who have once again crowded the ancient pilgrimage routes. I think of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, the Via Francigena, and the various paths that have emerged in Italy, inspired by some of the most well-known saints or witnesses (Saint Francis, Saint Thomas, as well as Don Tonino Bello) thanks to positive cooperation between public institutions and religious organizations. Walking entails the effort of getting up early, preparing a backpack with essentials, and eating something simple.
And then there are aching feet and the sharp thirst, especially on hot summer days. But this effort is rewarded by the many gifts encountered on the journey: the beauty of creation, the sweetness of art, the hospitality of local people. Those who undertake a pilgrimage on foot—many can testify to this—receive much more than the effort expended. They establish beautiful bonds with people they meet along the way, experience moments of genuine silence and fruitful introspection that the hectic pace of our time often makes impossible, and understand the value of essentials compared to the glitter of having all the unnecessary things but missing what is needed.
Goal. Walking as pilgrims means we have a destination and that our movement has direction, a purpose. Walking means having a goal, not being at the mercy of chance. Those who walk have a direction, do not wander aimlessly, know where they are going, and do not waste time zigzagging from one place to another. That is why I have often emphasized how similar walking and being believers are. Those who have God in their hearts have received the gift of a guiding star to follow—the love we have received from God is the reason for the love we must offer to others. God is our goal, but we cannot reach Him in the same way we reach a sanctuary or a basilica.
Indeed, those who have completed pilgrimages on foot know well that finally reaching the longed-for destination—I am thinking of the Chartres Cathedral, which has long experienced a revival in pilgrimages thanks to the initiative, a century ago, of the poet Charles Péguy—does not mean feeling fulfilled. In other words, while outwardly the pilgrim knows they have arrived, inwardly they are aware that the journey is not over. God is like that: He is a goal that drives us further, a goal that continuously calls us to move forward because He is always greater than the idea we have of Him.
God Himself explained it through the prophet Isaiah: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, my thoughts higher than your thoughts” (Is 55:9). With God, we are never finished; we never reach Him. We are always on the journey, always searching for Him. But it is precisely this walking toward God that gives us the exhilarating certainty that He awaits us to give us His consolation and His grace.
