Deliver Us from Evil

On April 23, 2004—35½ years late—I finally walked THE labyrinth.

You see, on September 5, 1968, I arrived in France for a year of foreign study, and the very first building I entered was the Cathedral at Chartres, often considered the greatest of all gothic cathedrals. I took a seat near the rear and gazed in wonder at the stunning stained glass windows with their famous deep bright blue, never equaled anywhere. All I could think was: what a powerful faith! A faith that enabled Chartres, a medieval town of 20,000, to build one of the world's great wonders in less than 30 years—and this after the site’s three previous churches were destroyed by fire!

What I did not think (because I just didn’t know) was that I was sitting on the top of Christianity’s most important labyrinth, the sand-colored path paved into the black stone floor beneath my feet.

Almost everybody knows what a labyrinth is, but almost nobody knows what a labyrinth is for. Most people know something about its place in Greek myth as a kind of trap or impossible task (see Ariadne’s thread), and most people also confuse labyrinth with maze. But Catholic tradition has transformed the labyrinth into an instrument of Christian spirituality.

Two years ago, after I’d learned about Christian labyrinths, I returned to Chartres, only to discover that the chairs still covering the Labyrinth are removed only on Fridays. So this year I made sure to go on a Friday morning. As the train pulls into Chartres, the Cathedral looms into view like a mountain over a plain. To get there, you just head for the towers.

Once inside, you notice first how the stained-glass-colored light shafts through the darkness. The second thing you notice is the labyrinth, covering 60 feet of stone floor space directly in front of you.

The average tourist simply continues forward, crossing the labyrinth unawares. But I stepped to the entry-stone and began following the path.

From the very start, I was distracted. A preacher’s voice boomed from unseen speakers: somewhere in the Cathedral, Mass was underway. Tourists swarmed by me, and even those who started walking the labyrinth walked so fast I was constantly being passed. How, I wondered, did one do this with so many distractions? How to block them out? The answer was not in some extraordinary act of concentration. The answer was “letting go,” allowing the swirl around me to continue, and even to continue to distract me, but to keep walking the labyrinth path anyway. I knew, after all, that I could not go wrong.

You see, the Christian labyrinth is not a maze with multiple paths to puzzle you with endless dead ends, or worse to trap you inside with no hope of finding your way out. Christian labyrinths follow a single winding path from outer edge to center. You enter and you follow the path, certain it will lead you to the ultimate destination without fail. At Chartres, the labyrinth is named “The Path to Jerusalem.” It originated to serve pilgrims unable to travel to the Holy Land, enabling them to make a “mini-pilgrimage” which some faithful performed barefoot, or even on their knees.

Over time, the “pilgrimage” theme evolved into a more general experience of silence, reflection, and withdrawal from daily routine, which became for some Catholics a regular spiritual exercise. Many cathedrals built labyrinths into their floors, but most dug them up as interest waned or as clerics took offense at children using the paved patterns to play games. Chartres now boasts the largest, oldest intact labyrinth.

The last 20 years witnessed a revived interest in labyrinths in general and the “Path to Jerusalem" in particular. Copies have been built in the US, and portable copies are available for use in retreats, workshops, and even in personal devotion (one laptop version lets your fingers do the walking!). In short, a traditional but long-lost Catholic devotion has been re-born, inspired by Chartres.

I noticed several people started walking the path, only to quit after a few minutes—they lacked the patience to let the path lead them to the center. The path’s clear message: “being anxious will get you nowhere.” The path’s invitation: “be at rest in the moment, in the now.”

Now I was getting the hang of it. A young Asian woman bumped me, oblivious to the path I was walking. Another woman, following behind me, kept passing me going the other way as the path reversed directions. Several “pilgrims” returning from the center approached, and I stepped aside. I simply let all this happen, and continued on my way.

Finally I reached the center, alone. Quite suddenly I had the sensation of being “inside” a space reserved for me; looking around, it seemed everyone else was on the “outside.” It was as if, by the very fact of following the path as it wound round and round the center, I had wrapped that path around me until all that remained of the labyrinth was the center itself.

I felt no pressure to stay or go—I simply savored the moment and the sensation it brought. The very act of reaching the center—which took about 15 minutes—had trained me to drop all concern about past or future, or any other place, and to immerse myself in the “here” and “now”—which, for me, was in fact the center I was in.

A minute later others arrived, and my “now” changed again. I waited until they all entered. As two young Spanish women walked in, one whispered to the other, “Now we’re at the center of the world”—and it seemed to me she was right.

Then I began my trek back to the “outside,” retracing my earlier steps. Mass had reached the “Lamb of God,” and an urge to leave the path to take communion passed through me and was gone. I realized I had let go of everything now but the completion of my journey.

I now saw that walking the path was a way of acting out what Christians mean by grace: the path, like grace, enabled me to find the center. I needed only to follow its direction as it led me. I did not have to find my way, or choose the direction, but only to follow the path. There was a sense of peace and serenity in this act—there was no chance of making a wrong turn. Yet I also kept a sense of freedom—after all, I could quit or leave or go faster or skip across to the center anytime I wanted. If I followed this pre-determined path leading to the center, it was because I freely chose to do so. Like the Grace of God, the labyrinth invited me to freely accept its guiding path—and my acceptance freed me to be led to the center.

The cathedral bells struck noon as I approached the place where I’d begun. As I finished and stepped away, it felt as if I were rejoining the world that I had left behind.

A young man approached the entry, removing his shoes and socks to enter barefoot. I felt mild regret I hadn’t thought of that, but then I took my final labyrinth lesson: like grace itself, this journey is unique for each person. He would have his journey barefoot—but my journey is now mine forever.

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