Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage. (Psalm 84:5)
The Heart of the Pilgrimage
There is something in the human soul that yearns for journey, for movement toward a destination that matters more than comfort or convenience. We aren’t made to be stationary beings, content with spiritual lethargy or satisfied with yesterday’s encounter with God. From the moment the Lord called Abraham to leave everything familiar and walk toward a land he had never seen, the life of faith has been understood as pilgrimage, not a single decision but a lifetime of walking, not a moment of arrival but a sustained direction of the heart. Devotio Antiqua recognizes this deep truth: that to follow Christ is to join the great company of pilgrims who have walked the narrow and good path across the centuries.
This pilgrimage is what Eugene Peterson beautifully called “a long obedience in the same direction,” not the frantic sprint of religious activism nor the leisurely stroll of casual Christianity, but the steady, deliberate pace of those who know where they’re going and why the journey matters. The path isn’t wide or easy, for it leads through the narrow gate that opens onto life abundant and eternal. It’s often obscured by the brambles of cultural distraction and the fog of worldly allure, yet it remains the good way, the ancient path where pilgrims find rest for their souls (Jeremiah 6:16). This isn’t a road we invent or improve upon but one we receive as gift and grace, a path worn smooth by countless faithful feet, marked by the prayers of saints, and sanctified by the presence of Christ himself.
The biblical narrative is saturated with this imagery of journey and pilgrimage. Adam and Eve walked with God in the cool of the day before sin shattered that communion. Enoch walked with God so faithfully that God took him without experiencing death. Noah walked with God through judgment and into new creation. Abraham became the father of faith by leaving everything familiar to follow God’s call into the unknown. The entire Exodus story is the pilgrimage of a people from slavery to freedom, from Egypt to the Promised Land, through wilderness toward home.
The Psalms overflow with the language of paths and journeys. Psalm 1 speaks of the way of the righteous versus the way of the wicked. Psalm 23 describes the Good Shepherd leading his sheep along right paths. The Songs of Ascent (Psalms 120-134) were sung by pilgrims traveling to Jerusalem for the great feasts, their physical journey embodying the spiritual ascent of the soul toward God. These ancient songs remind us that every step toward the holy city is also a step deeper into the heart of God.
In the New Testament, this pilgrimage imagery reaches its fulfillment in Christ, who declares “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). Jesus doesn’t merely show us the path, he is the path. The early church was known simply as “the Way” (Acts 9:2), a designation that emphasized the comprehensive nature of Christian discipleship. Following Jesus isn’t about adopting a set of beliefs or observing certain rituals; it’s about walking a path, living a life, becoming a certain kind of person through sustained relationship with Christ and his people.
The Narrow Way That Leads to Life
When Jesus spoke of the narrow road that leads to life in Matthew 7:13-14, he wasn’t describing God’s reluctance to save but the nature of true discipleship. The path is narrow not because Heaven has limited seating but because following Christ requires the whole person; heart, soul, mind, and strength given wholly to God. The wide road accommodates our competing loyalties, our divided hearts, our desire to serve both God and mammon. The narrow road demands choice, focus, surrender of those comfortable compromises that keep us from wholehearted devotion.
This is the difference between religious sentiment and spiritual transformation, between admiring Jesus from a distance and taking up our cross to follow him wherever he leads. The wide road allows us to maintain our autonomy while claiming Christian identity. The narrow path requires us to die to ourselves that we might truly live in Christ. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” Yet this death is not the end but the beginning, not defeat but the doorway to resurrection life.
The narrowness of the path speaks to its exclusivity in another sense: it excludes all those things that would hinder our progress toward God. Sin cannot walk this road; it must be left behind at the narrow gate. Pride cannot squeeze through; humility is required. Self-sufficiency won’t fit; dependence on God is essential. The lusts of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life (1 John 2:16) cannot travel the narrow way; they must be stripped away like excess baggage that would slow our journey.
Yet this narrowness isn’t a burden but a blessing, not a restriction but a protection. Like riverbanks that channel the flow of water toward its destination, the boundaries of the narrow path guide us toward the fullness of life that God intends. The saints who’ve walked this road before us testify not to a life of grim limitation but to one of increasing freedom, deepening joy, and expanding love. When we submit to the discipline of the narrow way, we do not lose ourselves but find our truest identity, the self hidden with Christ in God, the person we were created to be before the foundations of the world (Colossians 3:3).
Consider the paradox: the narrow path is the way of greatest liberty. The wide road, for all its apparent freedom, leads ultimately to the slavery of sin, the tyranny of self, the prison of meaninglessness. The narrow path, though demanding, leads to the freedom of knowing who we are in Christ, why we exist, and where we are going. It is the freedom of purpose, the freedom of forgiveness, the freedom of transformation, the freedom of eternal life.
The narrow path of Devotio Antiqua isn’t merely doctrinal, though it is grounded in eternal truth. It isn’t merely emotional, though it stirs the depths of the heart. It’s a way of living, a comprehensive pattern of worship, obedience, wisdom, and love that shapes every aspect of existence. Like a well-crafted rule of life, it provides the framework within which our souls can grow toward maturity in Christ.
More Than Direction
When Jesus declared “I am the way” in John 14:6, he wasn’t merely offering directions to Heaven or providing a moral example to follow. He was making a claim of cosmic significance: that he himself is the path, the journey, and the destination. This profoundly shapes how we understand Christian pilgrimage.
First, it means that following Christ is fundamentally relational rather than merely transactional. We don’t just follow Jesus’ teachings or imitate his example from a distance; we walk with him, learn from him, abide in him, are united to him. The Christian life is not about achieving certain moral standards or accumulating spiritual merit; it’s about deepening fellowship with the living Christ who walks beside us every step of the way.
Second, it means that the path itself is grace. We don’t earn our way to God through disciplined spiritual practice; we receive the gift of Christ, who is himself the way home. Every spiritual discipline, every act of obedience, every step of progress is made possible only because we are united to Christ through faith. As the branches can do nothing apart from the vine (John 15:5), so we can walk the narrow path only as we abide in Christ, drawing life and strength from him.
Third, it means that the narrow path is trustworthy even when we cannot see the destination. Abraham went out not knowing where he was going (Hebrews 11:8), yet his faith was counted as righteousness because he trusted the God who called him. When we walk with Christ, we walk by faith, not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7). The path may wind through dark valleys and over steep mountains, but Christ who is the way never loses his way. He knows every turn of the road because he has walked it before us.
The early church’s identification as “the Way” (Acts 9:2, 19:9, 19:23, 22:4, 24:14, 24:22) suggests that Christianity was understood not primarily as a set of doctrines to believe or rituals to observe but as a way of life to be lived. This way encompassed every aspect of existence, how believers related to God, to one another, to their neighbors, to their enemies, to their possessions, to the empire, to creation itself. It was comprehensive, demanding, distinctive, and life-giving.
A Life to Be Lived
In our age of information overload and intellectual Christianity, Devotio Antiqua reminds us that faith isn’t primarily about accumulating correct opinions but about embodying divine love. The ancient path calls us beyond mere mental assent to the deeper waters of incarnational discipleship, living out the truths we profess in the concrete realities of daily life.
This is devotion as Jesus understood it: not just believing the right things about God but walking as he walked, loving as he loved, serving as he served. The word “devotion” itself comes from the Latin devotio, meaning “to vow” or “to dedicate,” it speaks of a life given over completely to God, held back from nothing, offered freely in love and gratitude.
This lived devotion expresses itself in countless ways throughout the ordinary moments of our days. It’s seen in the morning prayer that begins each day in God’s presence, anchoring our hearts before the distractions descend. It’s embodied in the evening examen that reviews God’s faithfulness, helping us recognize his hand in the day’s events. It’s practiced in the Sabbath rest that declares our trust in his provision, resisting the tyranny of productivity and reclaiming our identity as God’s beloved children rather than human doings.
Consider how the ancient path transforms the mundane into the sacred. The act of hospitality, welcoming the stranger, sharing a meal, offering a listening ear, becomes a means of encountering Christ himself, who said “I was a stranger and you invited me in” (Matthew 25:35). Practices of simplicity free us from materialism’s grip, creating space in our lives and hearts for what truly matters. Disciplines of silence create room for God’s voice to be heard above the cacophony of competing messages that assault us daily.
It’s the patient word spoken to a difficult colleague when every instinct screams for retaliation. It’s the generous gift given to someone in need when scarcity mentality whispers that we don’t have enough. It’s the faithful presence offered to a grieving friend when busyness beckons us elsewhere. All these flow from a heart that has been shaped by walking the ancient path, a soul that has learned to see the world as God sees it, to love as God loves, to serve as Christ served.
The beauty of this approach is that it transforms us gradually but surely, not through the force of willpower but through the gentle power of grace working within established rhythms of devotion. Like a river slowly carving its channel through rock, the practices of ancient devotion shape our souls into the likeness of Christ over time. We are not self-made but God-formed, not reformed by techniques but transformed by the renewing of our minds (Romans 12:2).
This is why Devotio Antiqua emphasizes not just what we believe but how we live, not merely theological correctness but practical holiness, not intellectual assent alone but embodied faith. The ancient path is walked with our feet, not merely contemplated with our minds. It is lived in our homes, our workplaces, our neighborhoods, wherever God has planted us to be salt and light.
Walking Together Through Time
One of the great lies of modern spirituality is that faith is a private matter, a personal journey that we must navigate alone. Devotio Antiqua knows better. From the beginning, God has called his people not to solitary wandering but to communal pilgrimage, not to individual enlightenment but to corporate transformation.
The narrow path, though demanding, is wide enough for fellowship. When we walk the ancient way, we join not only contemporary believers but the great cloud of witnesses who have traveled this road before us: apostles and martyrs, desert fathers and Celtic saints, medieval mystics and Reformation heroes, Puritan divines and Methodist revivalists. We are surrounded by “so great a cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12:1), those who have finished their earthly race and now cheer us on from the heavenly stands.
This communion of saints isn’t merely a theological doctrine but a living reality that enriches every step of our journey. The voices of Scripture whisper wisdom from ages past; the hymns of faithful generations echo in our ears; the prayers of spiritual ancestors rise like incense before the throne of God. We’re surrounded by their witness, encouraged by their example, instructed by their teaching, and challenged by their devotion.
When we read Augustine’s Confessions, we hear the heart cry of a fourth-century bishop whose struggles with sin and longings for God mirror our own. When we pray the prayers of Thomas à Kempis in The Imitation of Christ, we join our voices with countless medieval souls who sought to follow Jesus more nearly. When we sing the hymns of Charles Wesley, we participate in the Methodist revival’s fervor for holiness and social transformation. We aren’t merely studying history but joining a conversation that spans the centuries, a fellowship that transcends time and space.
But this fellowship includes more than the saints of old. The narrow path is walked today by ordinary believers in every corner of the world, mothers and fathers seeking to raise their children in the fear of the Lord, workers striving to glorify God in their vocations, students learning to think God’s thoughts after him, elderly saints finishing their race with joy. These contemporary pilgrims become our companions on the journey, sharing our burdens, celebrating our victories, and encouraging us when the path grows steep and difficult.
The Celtic Christians understood this reality through their concept of anamchara, the soul friend, a spiritual companion with whom one shares the deepest struggles and joys of the inner life. The monastic tradition institutionalized this wisdom through spiritual direction, recognizing that we all need guides who have walked further down the path. The early Methodists practiced it through their band meetings and class meetings, where small groups held one another accountable to growth in holiness. The Puritans knew it through spiritual friendships that combined theological depth with pastoral care.
In every age, the pilgrims who made the most progress on the ancient path did so not alone but in company, iron sharpening iron (Proverbs 27:17), believers stimulating one another to love and good deeds (Hebrews 10:24), the strong bearing the weaknesses of those without strength (Romans 15:1). We need companions who will speak truth when we’re deceived, offer grace when we’ve fallen, celebrate with us when we make progress, and walk beside us through the dark valleys.
How Pilgrims Are Made
The genius of Devotio Antiqua lies not in its antiquity alone but in its understanding of how human beings are formed and transformed. The ancient path recognizes that we become what we repeatedly do, that our habits shape our hearts, that our practices form our character more powerfully than our intentions.
This is why the narrow way isn’t merely a set of beliefs to affirm but a pattern of life to embody, not just truth to understand but rhythm to live. The disciples of old knew what modern psychology has rediscovered: that lasting change happens not through dramatic moments alone but through the accumulation of small, faithful choices made day after day.
James K.A. Smith, in his work on liturgical formation, reminds us that we are fundamentally “liturgical animals,” shaped more by our habits and practices than by our ideas. The question isn’t whether we will be formed but what will form us. Will we be shaped by the liturgies of consumerism, entertainment, and technology, or by the liturgies of Scripture, prayer, and worship?
The practices of ancient devotion, daily prayer, regular Scripture meditation, weekly Sabbath keeping, seasonal fasting, acts of mercy and justice, aren’t arbitrary religious duties but time-tested means of grace. They create space in our lives for God to work, silence in our souls for his voice to be heard, and openness in our hearts for his love to transform us.
Like a skilled gardener who knows that fruit grows slowly and requires careful tending, Devotio Antiqua provides the conditions within which spiritual maturity can flourish. The morning prayer shapes our perspective for the day ahead, orienting our hearts toward God before the world’s demands assault us. The evening reflection helps us recognize God’s faithfulness in the day’s events, training us to see his hand in all things. The weekly rest reminds us that our identity comes from being God’s children, not from our productivity or achievements.
Consider how the practice of Lectio Divina, the ancient art of praying Scripture, forms us over time. This isn’t speed-reading for information but slow, meditative dwelling with the Word. We read a passage multiple times, allowing it to sink deep into our consciousness. We meditate on it, turning it over in our minds like a jewel catching the light from different angles. We pray it back to God, letting it shape our conversation with him. We contemplate it, resting in God’s presence as the truth takes root in our hearts.
Done once, this practice might offer a moment’s insight. Done daily over months and years, it rewrites the script of our lives. Scripture becomes not just a book we’ve read but a reality we inhabit. The mind of Christ gradually becomes our mind. The heart of God slowly becomes our heart. We are being transformed by the renewing of our minds (Romans 12:2), conformed to the image of Christ (Romans 8:29).
This formational approach requires patience both from us and from those who walk alongside us. In a culture obsessed with quick fixes and instant transformation, the ancient path offers something better: deep, lasting change that reaches to the very roots of our being. We aren’t merely saved from something but saved for something, conformed to the image of Christ through the slow, faithful work of the Holy Spirit operating within the rhythms of devotion.
The Way Who Walks With Us
If the Christian life is indeed a pilgrimage, then Christ isn’t merely our destination but our constant companion on the journey. He is the Way itself (John 14:6), the Good Shepherd who walks with his sheep through every valley and over every hill (Psalm 23). The ancient path is not ultimately about our effort to reach God but about God’s gracious presence with us at every step of the journey.
When Jesus called his first disciples, he didn’t give them a map and send them on their way; he invited them to walk with him, to learn from him, to become like him through sustained relationship and shared experience. “Come, follow me,” he said (Matthew 4:19), and they left their nets to walk in his footsteps. For three years they journeyed together – eating, sleeping, ministering, praying, learning, failing, being restored. The path of discipleship was learned not in a classroom but on the road with Jesus.
This understanding transforms how we approach the disciplines and practices of ancient devotion. We don’t pray, fast, or meditate in order to earn God’s favor or manipulate his blessing. We engage in these practices because they create opportunities for deeper fellowship with the One who already loves us perfectly and walks beside us faithfully.
When the path grows dark and we cannot see our way forward, Christ is our light (John 8:12). When the journey becomes lonely and we feel isolated in our struggles, he is our friend who sticks closer than a brother (Proverbs 18:24). When we stumble and fall, betrayed by our own weakness and sin, he is the one who lifts us up, sets our feet again upon the narrow way, and speaks the words we most need to hear: “Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more” (John 8:11).
The presence of Christ with us in the journey means that even our failures and shortcomings become part of the formational process. When we miss our morning prayers because we’ve hit the snooze button too many times, Christ doesn’t abandon us in disgust. When we lose our temper with a family member despite our intentions to love as he loved, he doesn’t strike us from the pilgrim roll. When we struggle with doubt and discouragement, questioning whether this narrow path is worth the cost, he doesn’t leave us to wallow in despair.
Instead, he meets us in our weakness with his strength (2 Corinthians 12:9). He transforms our failures into lessons in humility and dependence. He uses our stumbling to teach us that apart from him we can do nothing (John 15:5), but in him we can do all things (Philippians 4:13). The narrow way is not a path of sinless perfection but of progressive sanctification, not a road reserved for spiritual athletes but a way of grace available to all who would follow Jesus.
This is the glory of walking with Christ: he knows the road ahead because he has walked it before us. He knows every temptation we will face because he himself was tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin (Hebrews 4:15). He knows every sorrow we will bear because he himself was “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). He knows every joy we will taste because he endured the cross for the joy set before him (Hebrews 12:2). There is no part of the pilgrim way that Christ has not already traveled.
The Long Obedience
Perhaps the most challenging aspect of Devotio Antiqua for our instant-gratification culture is its insistence on the long view, its commitment to sustained faithfulness over flashy spirituality. The narrow path is not a shortcut to spiritual maturity but a lifetime journey that requires what Eugene Peterson called “a long obedience in the same direction.”
This long obedience isn’t driven by grim determination but by patient love, not by fear of failure but by hope in God’s faithfulness, not by our strength but by his grace that is sufficient for every step of the journey. It recognizes that spiritual formation is more like growing a garden than building a machine; it takes time, requires patience, involves seasons of growth and dormancy, and ultimately depends on grace we cannot manufacture.
The long obedience means that we measure our progress not in weeks or months but in years and decades. We learn to find joy in small advances rather than demanding dramatic breakthroughs. We celebrate the gradual development of patience, kindness, and self-control even as we continue to struggle with pride, anger, and fear. We discover that the goal is not to arrive at some state of spiritual perfection in this life but to remain on the path, walking with Christ toward the fullness of his Kingdom that will only be realized in the age to come.
Consider the witness of Scripture’s great pilgrims. Abraham waited twenty-five years between God’s promise of a son and Isaac’s birth. Moses spent forty years in the wilderness before God called him to lead Israel out of Egypt, then another forty years leading them through the wilderness. David was anointed king as a youth but didn’t assume the throne until middle age, spending years fleeing from Saul’s jealous rage. Paul labored for decades planting churches, enduring beatings, shipwrecks, and imprisonments, with no earthly success to show for much of it.
These weren’t spiritual sprinters but marathon runners. They didn’t expect immediate results but trusted in God’s timing. They didn’t demand constant excitement but found faithfulness in the mundane. They understood what we must learn: that God is far more concerned with who we’re becoming than with what we’re achieving, that character matters more than accomplishments, that the fruit of the Spirit grows slowly through seasons of sunshine and rain, growth and pruning.
The long obedience also means we must resist the temptation to compare our progress with others’. The pilgrim who looks enviously at another traveler’s pace will stumble over the stones in his own path. Each of us has been given a unique journey to walk, with terrain and challenges suited to our formation. What matters is not how we measure up against others but whether we’re faithfully following Christ along the path he has marked out for us.
Like Abraham, who “went out, not knowing where he was going” but trusting in God’s promise (Hebrews 11:8), we learn to find our security not in knowing exactly what lies ahead but in knowing who walks beside us. The narrow path may wind through valleys we’d rather avoid and over mountains that test our strength, but Christ has promised never to leave us or forsake us (Hebrews 13:5). His presence is our confidence; his faithfulness is our hope.
This perspective liberates us from the tyranny of spiritual scorekeeping and the discouragement that comes from comparing our inside struggles with others’ outside appearances. The narrow path is not a race to be won but a pilgrimage to be savored, not a test to be passed but a life to be lived in fellowship with the God who calls us his beloved children.
Finding Our Soul’s Home
At the heart of God’s invitation to walk the ancient path lies a promise that speaks to the deepest longing of every human heart: “You will find rest for your souls” (Jeremiah 6:16). This isn’t the rest of inactivity but the rest of purpose, not the rest of escape but the rest of engagement with what matters most.
It’s the deep satisfaction that comes from knowing we’re walking in step with God’s will, the peace that passes understanding when our lives are aligned with his purposes, the joy that cannot be shaken because it’s rooted in eternal realities rather than temporal circumstances. This is the rest that Jesus offers when he says, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30).
Notice the paradox: Jesus offers rest through a yoke, peace through discipline, ease through surrender. This rest isn’t freedom from all demands but freedom for meaningful purpose. It’s the rest of knowing we’re yoked together with Christ, sharing the burden rather than carrying it alone. It’s the rest of learning from one who is gentle and lowly in heart, rather than striving under the harsh taskmasters of human ambition and worldly success.
This rest is available to us even in the midst of life’s storms and struggles because it isn’t dependent on our circumstances but on our relationship with the One who stills the storm. When we walk the narrow path of ancient devotion, we discover that God’s yoke is easy and his burden is light (Matthew 11:30), not because the Christian life lacks challenge but because we’re yoked together with Christ, sharing the load and drawing strength from his inexhaustible resources.
The practices of devotion become not additional burdens to bear but sources of renewal and refreshment for the journey ahead. Morning prayer isn’t one more thing on our to-do list but the very thing that makes everything else manageable. Sabbath rest isn’t wasteful downtime but the most productive thing we can do, resting in God’s sufficiency rather than our own. Scripture meditation isn’t a chore to complete but a feast for starving souls.
The promise of rest also speaks to the ultimate destination of our pilgrimage, that city with foundations whose architect and builder is God (Hebrews 11:10). The narrow path leads not merely to moral improvement or spiritual experience but to the very presence of God himself, where every longing is fulfilled and every question answered.
The book of Revelation gives us glimpses of this eternal rest: a new heaven and new earth where God dwells with his people (Revelation 21:3), where there is no more death or mourning or crying or pain (Revelation 21:4), where his servants will worship him and see his face (Revelation 22:3-4). The narrow path we walk now is the road home, the journey toward that city where rest and worship become one, where the pilgrimage ends and the eternal feast begins.
This eternal perspective gives meaning to every step of the journey and hope for every difficulty we encounter along the way. When the path grows steep and our legs grow weary, we remember that we’re not walking in circles but moving toward a destination, the full realization of God’s Kingdom, the complete restoration of all things, the final victory of love over hate, life over death, light over darkness.
The rest we find now, in the midst of the journey, is both real and anticipatory, a genuine taste of the eternal rest to come, like the Israelites eating the fruit of Canaan while still on the journey (Joshua 5:10-12). Every moment of deep peace we experience in God’s presence, every taste of joy in worship, every glimpse of his beauty in creation or community is a preview of the rest that awaits us at journey’s end.
Walking Points: Steps on the Ancient Path
The pilgrim way is not walked by contemplation alone but by concrete steps of obedience and devotion. Here are three practical ways to embrace the journey of Devotio Antiqua:
Walking Point 1: Morning Pilgrimage Prayer
Begin each day with a simple pilgrimage prayer that orients your heart toward the journey ahead. Before the demands descend, pray: “Lord Jesus, you are the Way I walk today. Guide my steps, join my journey, and help me see every moment as sacred ground. Let me walk as a pilgrim, not a tourist, moving toward you with purpose, not drifting through the day without direction. Amen.” This brief prayer transforms your morning from reactive to intentional, from aimless to purposeful.
Walking Point 2: Weekly Sabbath Walk
Set aside one hour each week for a contemplative walk, a physical pilgrimage that embodies the spiritual journey. Leave your phone behind. Walk with awareness, noticing God’s presence in creation. Pray the Psalms of Ascent (Psalms 120-134) as you walk, letting ancient pilgrimage songs accompany your steps. Return to the same route each week, allowing familiarity to deepen your attentiveness rather than dull it. This practice roots the metaphor of pilgrimage in your body, not just your mind.
Walking Point 3: Pilgrim Reading
Choose one book each quarter from the saints who have walked the ancient path before us. Read slowly, as a fellow pilgrim rather than a distant observer. Keep a journal of insights that speak to your own journey. Some suggestions to begin: The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis, Confessions by St. Augustine, The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan, or Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich. Let these pilgrim voices become traveling companions, teaching you the wisdom of the way.
Questions for Reflection
- How does understanding the Christian life as pilgrimage rather than destination change your approach to spiritual growth?
- Where in your life are you experiencing the narrow way of discipleship as burdensome rather than liberating? What might need to change?
- Who are your companions on the pilgrim way, both contemporary believers and voices from Christian history? How might you deepen those relationships?
- What practices or rhythms help you experience Christ as a companion rather than a distant deity?
- In what ways do you struggle with the “long obedience,” with patience, perseverance, and measuring progress over years rather than weeks?
Prayer for the Pilgrim Way
O Christ, our Way and Truth and Life, you have walked this narrow path before us, not as one exempt from struggle but as one who knows every stone that bruises the foot, every valley that shadows the heart, every mountain that tests our strength.
Teach us to walk this ancient path with courage, neither shrinking from its demands nor trusting in our own ability to endure, but leaning always on your everlasting arms.
Let each day’s journey form in us the life of devotion: quiet faith that does not need applause, steady love that persists through disappointment, obedient joy that finds its source in you alone.
Surround us with companions for the way: saints whose voices still speak wisdom, friends who share both burden and blessing, fellow pilgrims who encourage us when the path grows steep and difficult.
Keep our feet from wandering toward easier roads, our hearts from hardening against your gentle correction, our minds from the distractions that would turn us aside from this good way.
And when our earthly pilgrimage is ended, receive us not as strangers but as those who have walked the road that leads home to your heart, where every step finds its meaning and every mile its reward.
In your holy name we pray, Jesus, the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
Amen.
