Berkley Center

Galicia, the northwestern province of Spain, is home to the third holiest city in Christendom. After Rome and Jerusalem, Santiago de Compostela has profound religious significance as a vibrant center of religious piety due to its long and unique religious history reaching back almost two millennia. The earliest manifestation of Galicia'’s religious history was a widely-believed folk mythology, the echoes of which are still noticeable in the daily religious life in the region. Nowhere else in Spain is the syncretic mix of antiquated folk mythology and traditional, orthodox Christianity so strong as in Galicia.

Galicia's religious tradition begins in the first century CE and revolves around James, the disciple of Christ, as the central figure. According to the myth, James set out on a missionary journey to bring the Gospel to Spain following the death of Christ. Meeting nothing but failure there, he returned back to Palestine where the church was in the midst of a bitter persecution; around that time, Herod the king laid violent hands on some who belonged to the church. He killed James, the brother of John, with the sword (Acts 12:1-2)”. James's beheading in Jerusalem (c. 44 CE) at the hands of Herod Agrippa made him the first disciple of Christ to suffer martyrdom.

Herod then disgraced the body of the apostle by not allowing it to be buried in Palestinian territory. Faithful even after James' death, his followers took the body by night and transported it in a stone boat to el final de la tierra (the end of the earth).” James was buried in a nondescript field in Galicia, and history quickly hid the exact location of his remains. Fortunately, James's bones were rumored to possess mystical powers of illumination, and in 813 CE, when a hermit named Paio looked out from his home and saw what he called a campus estrella (a “field of stars), he knew he had discovered the exact location of James' remains. (The name Compostela originates from a mix of these two words: campus estrella.) Although archaeological remains suggest that there was some limited social activity in the area before this time, the illumination of the bones of the apostle James in the year 813 CE is generally considered to be the founding of the city proper.

As word spread that the remains of James had been found, a virtually unprecedented phenomenon began to occur. From all corners of the Christian world, believers began to flock to Santiago by the thousands. Often braving dangerous weather and perilous traveling, these pilgrims would walk for months to see the bones of the apostle of Christ. Soon the primary veins of travel became routes of commerce, and the city grew steadily. The pilgrimage is a tradition that still continues today, and every day hundreds more pilgrims arrive to the cathedral that dates back almost a millennium. Some come directly from their route into the cathedral, drop their packs at the door, and sit down, exhausted and dirty from traveling, in the pew for the afternoon Mass.

The pilgrimage is a show of piety. Christians leave their normal lives behind for up to a month and walk across France and northern Spain, almost always through dreary and depressing rain on the Camino de Santiago—, to arrive at a cathedral that is easily accessible by tour bus in only a few hours. For the pilgrims, the journey is just as important as the destination. In the Middle Ages (c. 500–1500 CE), it was said that whoever made the trek was guaranteed a place in heaven, and even today the journey holds a certain sanctifying significance. It is a way of starting over, a way of reinvigorating a spiritual life that has become perfunctory, and an event worthy of speaking of in terms of “before and after.”

In the presence of such piety, the strength of the mythology that still permeates the contemporary religious landscape is startling. Scattered throughout the city are small churches. They are unimposing, often deteriorating buildings, —nothing like the immaculate cathedral to which Santiago is home. Yet the layout and background of these quiet little churches is less than orthodox. Before the advent of Christianity in Galicia, the area was dominated by a folk mythology complete with magic, witches, and luck. The mythology was pervasive, but it was centered in specific sacred areas throughout the region. When Christianity arrived, the sites were converted to churches, and each was “sanctified” with a ten foot pillar carved out of stone. At the top of each pillar is a depiction of Christ on the cross. In the middle, there typically appears some character from Galician mythology—, a witch, or another fantastic creature. Therefore, far from denoting these religious spaces as purely Christianized, the columns actually serve to cement the religious syncretism into the public consciousness.

Reflecting on the significance of such syncretism has shown me the resilience of cultural predispositions, especially in the realm of religion, that are active yet subtly unnoticed. It is unlikely that the average citizen of Santiago fully realizes the ubiquitous religious paradox in his own city, still less likely that he would find the paradox worth rectifying. And he would not be alone. Historically, Christianity has been very malleable to fit the various shapes of the culture in which it finds itself. The brand of Christianity observed in Rome during the time of Constantine is worlds apart from the brand practiced in contemporary America. Yet this diversity raises a difficulty. Social scientists are often tempted to speak of “the Christian world” as one monolithic entity, when in reality, the variation within a single religion covers a wide spectrum of beliefs and practices. Given such wide variation, can we still speak of orthodoxy and orthopraxy with any degree of significance? Has globalization revealed to us the inaccuracy and emptiness of such terms?

The echoes of folk mythology I heard in Galicia are challenging to me because they force me to confront the fact that I, as a Christian living in the modern United States, likely harbor some predispositions to which my culture has conditioned me without my recognition. Folk mythology seems backward and almost absurd to us scientific, modern Americans. But even if our predispositions are less primitive, are they any less substantial? Can Christ share space with the witches and sorcerers of Galicia any more easily than he can share significance with the wealth and ever-fleeting “success” toward which American culture —is so irreversibly inclined? Did Christ not warn against “the deceitfulness of riches” just as he warned against the dangers of idolatry? Studying and observing Galicia's religious practice and history have presented me with these challenging, yet not quite condemnatory, questions. They are uncomfortable to consider because they force me to suspect myself of harboring unobserved, unquestioned predispositions. That is what makes these questions difficult; that is what makes these questions important.