A Change in Culture
In my hometown of Quincy, Illinois, there’s a Thanksgiving morning tradition: a run/walk sponsored by the local YMCA. It’s been going on for 45 years.
At the Thanksgiving Day Turkey Run, there are two distinct groups of people. There’s a competitive category, and there’s a leisure or casual category. In the leisure category, people can walk or run a 1 mile or 5K course—untimed. It’s just for fun. Then they have a competitive 5K and 10K, both timed with results recorded.
When you show up, it’s usually pretty easy to spot who’s running competitively and who’s just out for a good time. The leisure crowd is drinking coffee, dressed warmly—maybe they had bacon and eggs or donuts for breakfast. They’re laughing, relaxed, often wearing fun costumes.
The competitive runners, on the other hand, have eaten a strategic breakfast. They’re stretching and getting warmed up. Even though it’s below freezing, they’re in skimpy shorts. There’s not much laughter because they’re focused—trying to set a new PR or win an award.
On the Camino, a similar dynamic occurs. To receive a certificate of completion, you have to walk a minimum of 100 km, or about 62 miles. So, a large number of people start from a couple of towns just outside that range, planning to walk for four to seven days to get the certificate.
These folks are easy to spot: big smiles, fresh enthusiasm, new shoes. Some carry only small day packs—or none at all—since they’re using services that transport their luggage. A few sport obnoxiously large walking sticks; others wear cute matching outfits. They’ve got energy and a bounce to their step.
Many of them—especially the young student groups—are loud. They block the trails, making it hard to get by. They fill the cafés, leading to long delays when stopping for a snack. They line up fifteen deep, waiting to get stamps for their passbooks.
Then you’ve got the people I’ve been with: the longer-term pilgrims who’ve been walking daily for weeks on end. Our shoes are worn. Our bodies are tired. We’re wearing the same clothes we’ve worn for a month.
Today, as I made eye contact with some of the longer-term pilgrims, I saw head shakes, eyes rolling, and one man who simply opened his palms toward heaven as if to say, “What is going on?” My new friends from Texas said, “Walking the trail yesterday felt like herding cattle!”
To be honest, in the midst of these new challenges, it’s hard for us longer-term pilgrims not to feel a little self-righteous—to carry ourselves with an air of superiority as we endure this wave of “casual pilgrims” who are killing our vibe.
But in reality, this is not our Camino. It’s been here for over a thousand years. It’s been walked by hundreds of thousands of people from all over the world. Whether someone is walking for four days or has been here for two months, we all have our own journeys. We all have unique motivations.
In the Hebrew Scriptures, the Lord exhorted His people:
“When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt…”
—Leviticus 19:33–34
It doesn’t matter whether it’s a nation wrestling with immigration, a church struggling with tensions over traditions and change, or even a community where grown adults don’t want to let new people into their little clubs.
It’s just easier to hold on to what we have—to try to keep others out—and then look down on them in judgment because they’re not like us. But that’s not the way of the Lord. It’s selfish. Arrogant. And calloused.
So maybe the call for those of us further down the road—on the Camino or in life—is not to scoff at those just starting out, but to remember our own early steps. To recall the fresh energy, the curiosity, and even the naivety we once carried. And instead of rolling our eyes, maybe we could extend a hand, make space on the path, and choose grace over pride.
