Day 6: Early outing, Blue Cross, Sunday Mass, Divine Mercy Shrine, and more
Day six in Medjugorje began long before the sun rose. I took off around 2 a.m. and felt drawn out into the night. The streets were still and cool, the only sounds the faint rustle of olive trees and the soft hum of prayer that seems to hover over this whole town. I walked alone through the cemetery, where Fr. Slavko Barbarić rests alongside three other Franciscan brothers and many local faithful. The graves are simple, but their silence speaks powerfully. I paused at Fr. Slavko’s tomb and prayed a bit. The friars buried there gave everything for Christ and for this place; to stand among them in the dark, cassock brushing the dew-soaked grass, was humbling. Here's a picture from the night before:
From there I walked to the Risen Christ statue, that striking bronze figure behind the church—Christ emerging from the cross, arms outstretched in triumph. The statue is famous for a mysterious phenomenon: drops of water seep from one of its knees, as if it weeps with both sorrow and resurrection joy. Many pilgrims collect the water on tissues or touch it reverently. I stood there for a long while, and finally, one small drop trickled down—a reminder that grace, like that water, comes in its own time. I touched my rosary to the drop of water. It was about 3 a.m., and except for one other solitary pilgrim praying silently nearby, I was completely alone with our Lord and our Lady. The moonlight fell over the church steeples, and I felt such deep peace that I could have stayed there forever.
A few hours of rest followed, and then after breakfast a few of us went again to the Blue Cross, seeking quiet time in prayer. I brought my breviary and prayed the Office of Readings there. The antiphons and psalms felt uncannily tailored to this pilgrimage, as if God were echoing everything we’ve been living. The first antiphon read: “Who can climb the Lord’s mountain, or stand in his holy place?”—and I smiled, thinking of our climbs up Apparition Hill and Cross Mountain. Then came Psalm 24: “Who shall climb the mountain of the Lord? Who shall stand in his holy place?” The very words seemed to describe this pilgrimage of heart and body. The next psalm was Psalm 66, with the line: “He has kept our feet from stumbling.” How true that is! On these rocky paths, people from all over the world—elderly, barefoot, children—walk without falling. It’s almost miraculous. When one climbs for and with the Lord, somehow He steadies every step.
Then came the responsory after the first reading: “Go up into the hill country and build a house; and I will take pleasure in it, says the Lord. My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations.”
That’s exactly what Medjugorje is—a house of prayer for all nations. Everywhere you turn, people are praying: in fields, chapels, cafes, on benches, under olive trees. In fact, as we walked these days we've often been praying the rosary, only to find folks walking the opposite way joining in on our prayers as they passed the other way. Heaven has built a spiritual home here, and all of us are just guests within it. The second reading in the Office spoke of peace, and again it struck me: peace is the heartbeat of Medjugorje. You can feel it in the air. The world outside feels restless and divided, but here peace feels like something you can almost touch. It was a perfect morning of stillness, Scripture, and reflection by the Blue Cross.
On the way to Mass, we stopped at the Chapel of Life, a small, beautiful chapel dedicated to the protection of unborn life and the dignity of every human person. Next to it stands a memorial to the martyred Franciscans of Široki Brijeg, where we visited the other day.
Then came Mass. The principal celebrant was the bishop of Rwanda, a humble and holy man whose life of service to the poor is a sermon in itself. He spoke quietly but with great warmth, radiating the peace of someone who walks close with Christ. The homily, however, was given by Fr. Cassian, my old friend—one of those providential threads woven throughout this pilgrimage. His message was about gratitude. I got to thinking: how many climb Cross Mountain to give thanks to God? Most go to ask. We go to God because we want something. But we must learn to go to Him simply to say, Thank You. Always and always.
His message sure hit home. I thought of myself and all the pilgrims from everywhere who arrive burdened, praying for healings, conversions, vocations—and rightly so—but how few ascend those stones purely to give thanks for what already is. That homily planted something in me: a desire to become more grateful, to pray not just with needs but with praise.
After lunch we went to the Divine Mercy Shrine, one of the most serene spots in the region. The chapel is filled with light, and before the great image of Jesus—“Jesus, I trust in You”—we chanted the Chaplet of Divine Mercy together. It was especially moving because this day marked the first-ever feast day of St. Carlo Acutis, who was himself deeply devoted to the Divine Mercy message. We prayed for young people, for conversion, for mercy upon the world.
Fr. Jack pointed out that within the shrine was also an image of Our Lady of Akita, a 1973 apparition in Japan where Mary warned that humanity’s rebellion against God and the loss of faith would bring suffering—but that prayer, repentance, and reparation could avert disaster. Her message, so similar to Medjugorje’s, calls for the rosary and for peace. Nearby was a fountain, said to have sprung up through prayer, where pilgrims draw water and bless themselves. We each filled our bottles there—a simple gesture of trust that God refreshes the soul as surely as the body.
From there we returned to town, stopping for ice cream and snacks—a little joy amid the sacred rhythm of prayer. What a joy to just talk with each other! Later came the evening program at St. James. Tonight I heard confessions one last time for this trip—at least for now—in what truly feels like the “confessional of the world.” The peace that flows in this sacrament is unmistakable. Afterward, there was a concert in the St. John Paul II Hall. Then a wonderful dinner with Rita, who has been on all but one pilgrimage over these years.
I’ve come to love walking through town in my cassock. Here, it isn’t strange—it’s welcomed. People smile, stop for blessings, wave. There’s no cynicism, no mockery—just reverence and affection. One woman told me today something her mother used to say when she was a child: “I am not perfect, and I make mistakes. But when I don’t do things right as a mother, remember that SHE—the Blessed Mother—is your perfect Mother.” I loved that. It sums up Medjugorje perfectly: we must have trust in a perfect Mother who never fails us.
As the night ended, I thought back to that silent walk at 2 a.m.—the dripping water from Christ’s knee, the tombs, the peace of prayer. From the grave to the cross, from Blue Cross to Divine Mercy, from confession to laughter—every step here speaks of resurrection. And every heart that comes open to grace leaves renewed.
