Pilgrimage to Medjugorje

From the time the 727 approached the airport in Split, soaring over arid hills and turquoise bays, all through the white-knuckle bus ride along the coastal cliffs of Croatia, until we finally arrived in the town of Medjugorje, I felt as if I were locked in a daydream. There was something surreal in the way just several days before, I had learned I would be traveling to Western Europe in a group that included my mother, my half-brother, and a Catholic priest named Father Rick Velie. And now here I was, breathing the brisk mountain air of the region labeled by many as "The Powder Keg of the World".

My mother had returned from Medjugorje only six months before from a one-week trip. It had moved her so much . . . in fact, it had changed her life so dramatically . . . that she desired nothing more than to take my brother and I to experience the same. Many times I had heard the strange story about what was supposedly happening there; in 1981, a group of six Medjugorje children claimed to have been visited by the Virgin Mary. To this day, they say, she continues to appear to them, dispensing messages and secrets, some of which are said to be very troubling for the future of the world. As a writer and rational-minded person, I was extremely skeptical of such a story. I knew it would take nothing less than hard evidence to convince me that the happenings in Medjugorje were valid.

The rest of the 12-person group was comprised of children, adults, and several people that hovered somewhere in between. The youngest person, a 12-year-old Arkansas boy named Brian Holliday, proved to be the most interesting of all. He had been to Medjugorje once before with his parents, but this time he was traveling without any family. Father Rick was his chaperone.

During the exhausting airplane trip, my mother had explained to me the reasons why Brian was returning to Medjugorje. She told me that during his previous trip, Brian had climbed Cross Mountain at night with his dad and Father Rick. Cross Mountain, the tallest peak in Bosnia, overlooks Medjugorje. In 1933, Pope Pius had a dream in which he was urged to erect a stone crucifix atop the tallest mountain in Bosnia to commemorate the anniversary of Jesus' death. That enormous cement cross still stands today, undaunted by the harsh Yugoslav climate. Many people on pilgrimage to Medjugorje climb Cross Mountain, or Mount Krizevac as it is known by native Bosnians, in order to pray the rosary at the top, which is exactly why Brian was climbing that night. It seems that while praying on the mountaintop only ten yards away from the others, Brian saw a nearby tree begin shaking violently and glowing. Brian then heard a beautiful voice claiming to be Mary.

"If you're really Mary, then stop shaking the tree," said the terrified Brian. And immediately the tree stopped shaking, but it continued to glow. Brian claims that Mary then told him three secrets about his life, two of which have since come true. Still shaken from the experience, Brian urged Father Rick and his dad to start the long climb down. His dad remained to pray alone, so Father Rick and Brian embarked on the rocky, briar-ridden trail that led down to Medjugorje. Brian suddenly took off, leaping from rock to rock faster and farther than what seemed humanly possible. Father Rick hurried after him, but the steep, treacherous trail made moving very difficult. He soon heard Brian screaming and crying, and when he finally got to him, Brian was lying on the rocky ground holding his still-kicking legs.

"I can't feel my legs!" he cried. "I can't control them!"

Father Rick immediately thought that Brian had fallen and broken his back and was now paralyzed, but his legs were still moving and there was not a scratch on him. Finally, Brian calmed down and decided to continue walking. This time, he held Father Rick's hand as they carefully took one step at a time down the rocky trail.

Minutes later, however, Brian bolted away again. Father Rick claims to have seen Brian's feet not touching the ground but still moving as if running. It was as if, Father Rick later told me, an invisible force was carrying him. And this time Brian was laughing.

"Yeah, right," I had said to my mother. And before even meeting the kid, I jokingly referred to him as Flyin' Brian.

On my first afternoon in Medjugorje, I attended the English-speaking Mass in Saint James Church with the rest of the group. As I sat there and listened to the priest, I tried to recall when I had last been to church, but I could not remember. I had to watch what the other people were doing and try to mirror their ways, trying vainly not to look like an alien among them. My unease was only heightened when it was time for the Eucharist and I had to remain at the pew while everyone else moved solemnly to the altar; while growing up, I had never even come close to receiving my First Communion.

Later on, I sat alone on a bench in the churchyard and stared up at Cross Mountain as the sun sank low on the horizon, setting the hills ablaze. Had I made a mistake by coming here? It didn't seem as though I fit in with the predominantly Catholic crowd. Having been raised by my loving yet unreligious father, I had virtually no concept of religious faith. One thing I believed for certain was that there was some supernatural, invisible force within mankind's realm; I had experienced evidence of it several times before, such as the ghost that once inhabited my mother's house, or a variety of uncanny coincidences that could not be rationally explained. But I was also very hard-set against organized religion, mainly because I did not understand it. My place of worship had always been the wilderness; as a fishing guide and outdoorsman, immersing myself in nature is how I learned the value of patience and contemplation, not in a church pew being addressed by a priest.

And so I decided to try out Medjugorje the only way I really knew: I grabbed my trusty backpack and headed for the woods. I left a note at the lodge telling my mother not to worry, that I had gone to climb Cross Mountain alone and would be back by sunrise.

I walked through the narrow Medjugorje streets as children and old women stared at me from open windows. It felt good to be alone in such a foreign world, surrounded by exotic people that held no prejudices against me. A few chickens followed me until I got to the base of the mountain. Staring up at the far-off peak, I took off my shoes and put them in my backpack. I had heard that climbing the mountain barefoot was a good way to be relinquished of the burdens of one's sins, and I was up for a challenge anyway.

The worn path was a painful combination of sharp, gray rocks and briar-laced vines. At times it was so steep that I had to use both my hands and feet to ascend, all the while going at a laggard pace. At different intervals along the climb were the Stations of the Cross. These large, bronze plaques depicted the different points along the way of Jesus' crucifixion. I decided to stop at each one, praying fervently that I might be granted some sort of sign that the Medjugorje phenomenon was real, and at the same time resting my bloodied feet.

The sun had nearly set and the mountain was bathed in pinkish light. I was trudging along a relatively tame straightway in the trail. Up ahead I could see the third station of the cross. As I had been doing for nearly the entire climb, I glanced down to watch my step, and then looked up again to be sure I was walking in the right direction. It was then that I saw a figure turning the corner just fifteen feet away, coming towards me. He was dressed in a white priest's robe, as if he was at the altar during Mass, and he had an enormous rosary around his neck.

I glanced briefly again at my feet, making sure not to step in any precarious places. In this brief series of seconds, I thought to myself: What in the heck is this priest doing on a mountain dressed like that? I looked up again for the strange man, but he was gone. An overwhelming feeling of awe and wonder rushed through me as I ran to the spot that I had seen the priest walking just seconds before. I looked in the nearby briars to see if he was playing some sick joke on me, but I was alone. Beaming with happiness, I dropped to my knees and prayed a quick "Thanks, God". I didn't know what else to say.

The rest of my climb was under the darkness of night, and the stars overhead were amazing. It wasn't all that difficult walking barefoot anymore; it was as if my feet could find the smoothest stones to step on, even though I was walking in the dark. I couldn't stop thinking about the phantom priest, and soon I started to wonder what purpose his appearing to me had served.

After nearly two hours of climbing, I finally rounded the last steep bend and came to the peak. There was the huge cement cross, standing so magnificently against the cosmos as a backdrop. The very second that I stepped on the pathway leading up to the cross's altar, a meteorite dashed across the sky, fizzling out behind the crucifix. I made my way to the altar and sat down on the cool cement, peering down at the lights of Medjugorje far below. I shivered against the cold wind that was whipping across the mountain peak. I noticed that my feet, which had been throbbing and bleeding during my ascent, were now comfortable and void of even the slightest lacerations.

I took out the rosary that my mother had given me, along with a little pamphlet that explained how to use it. I had been telling myself that I would learn how to pray the rosary, and so I used my flashlight to read, all the while clenching each tiny bead and reciting the prayers. I prayed for my family and for my friends and even those that had wronged me in the past, and then I got up to have a look around.

Behind the cross, I was startled to find what looked like a large, mangy bear sleeping on sharp rocks. I could hear the creature's husky breathing and could smell the foul odor that surrounded it. Taking a step back, I shined my flashlight on it; the creature rose its large head and stared at me with glowing eyes. It was in fact a dog, one like I had never seen before, with a thick black coat and a wide, menacing head. How it had gotten to the mountaintop, I had no idea. But as the animal rose to its feet and continued to glare at me, I felt a strange unease, as if something was just not right. So I grabbed my backpack, put on my shoes, and began my descent. During the entire climb down, I had the eerie feeling that something was watching and following me.

During the next week in Medjugorje, I stayed mostly with the group, trying to spend time with my mother whom I hadn't actually lived with since I was three years old. Little Brian Holliday and I formed a close bond that to this day I do not understand. It seems that although separated by nearly ten years of age, he and I both shared a calm maturity that led us to deep conversations about life and spirit. Also, Father Rick and I stayed up well into the night on many occasions, talking person to person about religion.

On one of these nights, we were sitting on the lodge's porch, watching the crucifix on Cross Mountain glow red. On certain nights, Father Rick told me, especially on Christian holidays, the huge cement cross would glow quite vividly. I still can think of no explanation as to how it could have been glowing; there was surely no electricity on the mountain, and candlelight would not be able to illuminate it so brightly.

Nevertheless, on this particular night, I was able to express to Father Rick my hesitations about Catholicism, pointing out that my main qualm with it was the fact that it seemed to look down upon the other major religions of the world.

"The most dangerous and intolerant people are those who claim God as their own," I said, citing an anonymous quote I had read long ago.

A very open-minded priest, who had once been a soldier in Vietnam and later a high-paid business man, Father Rick explained to me that he believes one should be faithful to whatever religion one is born into. He also allotted to me the fact that he had once considered quitting the priesthood. But Medjugorje changed his mind, and in fact, it made him cherish his work.

"It might change your mind, too," he said, pulling out a collection of Mary's messages from Medjugorje.

He showed me one particular passage, in which a Catholic priest was confused as to why Mary, through one of the visionaries, had miraculously healed a child of the Orthodox faith. In Bosnia, the tension between Catholics and the Serbian Orthodox Christians was extremely volatile at the time. Talking to one of the visionaries, this was Mary's response:

"Tell this priest, tell everyone, that it is you who are divided on earth. The Muslims and the Orthodox, for the same reason as Catholics, are equal before my Son and me. You are all my children. Certainly, all religions are not equal, but all men are equal before God, as St. Paul says. It does not suffice to belong to the Catholic Church to be saved, but it is necessary to respect the commandments of God in following one's conscience.

Those who are not Catholics, are no less creatures made in the image of God, and destined to rejoin someday the House of the Father. Salvation is available to everyone, without exception. Only those who refuse God deliberately are condemned. To him who has been given little, little will be asked for. To whoever has been given much, very much will be required. It is God alone, in His infinite justice, who determines the degree of responsibility and pronounces judgement."

The message hit me hard. This did not sound like the traditional message of television evangelists and preachers of my youth that without Jesus as your savior, you are destined to burn in hell. This one Marian message was a beautiful relief for me.

Throughout the rest of the trip I began to really enjoy going to Mass and attending prayer groups with various other pilgrims. I had an undaunting urge to read the Gospels in the Bible. Strangely, almost everywhere I went, I continued to see the large, eerie-looking dog that had been on the mountain. He would be lounging around the statue of the risen Jesus behind the church, just staring at people as they prayed. I also saw him wandering about the cemetery at the edge of town. And other people started talking about him, too. At one point someone said they saw him on Podbrdo Hill, the site of the first apparition, while someone else saw him at exactly the same time sleeping behind the church, which was miles away. Father Rick was certain that the dog was satanic in some way.

"Wherever God tries to create something special, Satan is always lurking in the shadows," he told me. "You can be sure of that."

A true dog-lover, I argued that maybe he was just a friendly dog that liked the company of people, or quite possibly, an angel that had taken the form of a dog in order to watch over the faithful. But Father Rick was certain it was quite the opposite.

I continued to climb Cross Mountain every chance I got. Often I would climb with Father Rick, my mother or young Brian Holliday and stay behind when they were ready to climb down. I discovered a secluded, rocky alcove on the other side of the peak where I would sit for nearly the entire day, praying and pondering, gazing at the captivating Bosnian countryside. The mountain quickly became my own personal place of meditation, and it was there that I worked out many of the issues that had been weighing heavy on my heart. Every time I climbed the mountain, the strange dog was there, oftentimes sleeping on the same sharp rocks, or milling about the outskirts of the peak.

On one particular night, I climbed with Father Rick, Brian, and my 17-year-old brother Royce. Upon reaching the peak, we sat among some shrubs and prayed the rosary, then we just talked about Medjugorje. Afterwards, while walking around the peak, we came upon the dog. He was just sitting and staring into space, and then he turned to us. Father Rick was very disturbed by the odd way the dog was acting, and so he decided that we should all leave. As we slowly made our way off the peak and onto the trail, the dog followed us. It didn't seem at all menacing until it honed in on Brian, following closely behind the terrified boy.

"Be gone, Satan!" shouted Father Rick, which caught me off-guard. I had only heard phrases like that in movies like The Exorcist.

The dog did in fact hesitate for a moment, and while it did, I was able to put myself in between him and Brian. As the others continued down the trail, I knelt down and looked at the dog. It sat and stared back, its tongue hanging out like any other friendly dog I'd ever seen. How could this mutt be demonic? I thought to myself. But in truth, I did sense something a little peculiar in his intense gaze, as if he possessed some intellect beyond that of a normal dog.

With the urgings of Father Rick who was by now much further along the trail, I stood and followed rather quickly. I could hear the dog's husky breathing as he trailed close behind. Quickening my pace, the dog persevered. I could see Father Rick, Brian, and Royce up ahead on a relatively steep section of the trail. When they saw that the dog was following me, they began to go faster. I finally looked back at the mongrel, and as his eyes caught mine, he quickly dodged off the trail into the brush. By the time I caught up to the others, they had all stopped and were now gazing fearfully ahead. I could see a Station of the Cross up ahead, and sure enough, there was the dog just standing and staring at it, intense and completely still. He had somehow, in complete darkness, found his way through the woods in order to get ahead of us.

As we cautiously made our way past the dog, it continued to look at the station, not even glancing at us. As we left the beast in our wake, I knew for certain that this dog was in some way supernatural. The rest of the descent was quite hastened; Brian was very shaken from his encounter with the dog. Halfway down, we came upon an old Croatian woman who was sitting in front of a station and looking out upon the Medjugorje valley. As we passed her one by one, she said "Ave Maria" to each of us. As Father Rick passed, however, the old woman stared wickedly at him and hissed "You're not going to make it." Father Rick gave her a questioning expression, but the old woman turned away.

"As a priest, I am attacked every day," Father Rick later told me. "I can't tell you how many times people have accosted me for no reason other than the fact that I am a priest. Satan is real. But God is much greater."

Towards the end of our pilgrimage we took a bus to Mostar, a city devastated by constant war. Nearly every building was destroyed, and the others were all pockmarked with mortar holes. What were once city parks were now graveyards. Medjugorje was actually the only town in Bosnia not even touched by the battles that raged all around it. Many bombs were dropped there, but inexplicably, none of them exploded. Mostar, however, was a mass of rubble and sorrow. The bus continued to a small town outside of Mostar, to the large Catholic church where Father Jozo Zovko presided. Father Jozo, a Franciscan priest, had been at Medjugorje in the beginning of the apparitions. He was imprisoned by the then-communist Yugoslav government for hiding the visionaries from being interrogated. While in prison for several years, locked away in a solitary cell and constantly tortured, he claims that the Virgin Mary often appeared to him and kept him alive from a certain death under the hands of the communists.

Before going into the church, Father Rick took me to a cave on the church grounds where forty Franciscan monks had been executed by the communists. Upon entering, an eerie feeling came over me. Spiders crawled along the dank walls. A slow, cold breeze whistled through the entrance. We did not remain for very long. Inside the church, we listened to Father Jozo speak through an interpreter about his experiences with the Virgin Mary. He was the most peaceful-looking man I had ever seen, and despite all he had been through, his smile was radiant. After he was done, he asked all of the priests in the audience to approach the altar. Along with three other priests from different groups, Father Rick went up and knelt before Father Jozo. I was unsure of what was happening, but I remembered that Father Rick had told me he believed something special would occur on this particular day. Father Jozo began to pray fervently over each kneeling priest. Three of the priests, including Father Rick, began to cry. Father Jozo then asked the entire audience to line up side by side along the inside walls of the church.

Soon the priests that Father Jozo had prayed over began to individually pray over each of the pilgrims that were lined up. I was standing alongside my mother, and when I asked her what was happening, she shushed me. I watched one of the priests praying over a man, and suddenly the man fell backwards with his eyes closed, into the waiting arms of two volunteer catchers. On the other side of the church, I watched as a woman who was being prayed over collapsed as well.

What in the world is going on? I thought to myself. I had seen things like this happen on late-night evangelical shows, but I had always laughed at what I thought was good acting. Surely these people were just faking it, or possibly they were overwhelmed with emotion and were letting themselves fall down. But as I watched, I could see more and more people, some of them from my group, falling down in sleep-like states.

Pretty soon Father Rick had made his way to where my mother and I were standing. As he prayed over her, I just stared at the ground and listened. I caught something like "the blood of Christ washes over you," and another thing about the Holy Spirit, and then I watched in disbelief as my mother's feet slowly angled toward the ceiling. She was out cold.

Father Rick came to stand in front of me. I could sense the two "catchers" behind me as well. The very second he put his hands over my forehead, I could feel a surging of what seemed like electrical current going through my veins. My knees grew weak as he whispered a prayer, and soon I could no longer feel my arms. My heart was throbbing like it never had before. I felt so warm inside. But I fought it with everything I had. I did not want to fall down, so I fought to regain my senses, and it worked.

Father Rick moved to the young woman to my left and began to pray over her. I was still reeling from what had just happened, and a strange buzzing was still going through my body, but at least I was not on the ground like many of the others. But then, catching me off guard, Father Rick suddenly put his other hand over my head again, and a strange, ecstatic feeling surged through me. My limbs went instantly numb. I closed my eyes and forgot my surroundings, and the most beautiful sense of peace swept over me. I soon realized that I was no longer standing. In fact, I was being carefully lowered to the ground by the catchers. I clenched onto some inner strength and regained my mind, and I stood up before my body even touched the floor.

Still, I was so shaken that I had to sit down on the nearest bench. My mother was still lying on the floor as if asleep, a placid smile on her face. I watched as Father Rick came to little Brian Holliday and began to pray over him. Brian soon closed his eyes and fell back. As he was lowered to the ground, he began laughing uncontrollably. He lay there on the floor with his eyes closed and continued to laugh for nearly five minutes. It was a truly genuine laugh, but not like one would laugh at humor. He was in a state of complete, amplified happiness.

"Why were you laughing?" I asked him on the bus ride back to Medjugorje.

"I lost all of my fears," he said. "I was just so happy and unafraid."

I still regret not allowing myself to be overtaken by whatever was pulsing through my body. Although I experienced that utter bliss for only a matter of seconds, I now find myself craving it like an addictive drug. If indeed that sensation was like a little taste of God, then it feels good knowing there's more where it came from.