Today’s Podcast
On a dusty road leading into Rome, sometime in the last years of the 13th century, an old man walked slowly, stooped with age but determined. He had come from the edge of Christendom, crossing mountains and rivers, guided by the simple desire of his heart: to look upon the Holy Face of Christ. When he arrived, he found not just the image he had long sought—but a Pope waiting to receive him. This quiet moment, tucked into a corner of devotion and obscured by the sweep of time, would later become the spark that inspired the first Holy Year in the history of the Church.
The pilgrim was said to be 107 years old. His purpose? To see the Veronica—the Holy Veil, bearing what tradition holds to be the true image of the suffering Christ, miraculously imprinted when Saint Veronica wiped His face on the road to Calvary. In a city crowded with relics and saints, nothing compared to the Volto Santo, the “Holy Face,” housed in the depths of the old Vatican Basilica.
That the aged pilgrim was granted an audience with Pope Boniface VIII is remarkable. More remarkable still: it was this encounter, some say, that moved the Pontiff to proclaim the Jubilee of 1300—a Holy Year that would draw pilgrims from every corner of Europe and re-center Christian devotion around the mercy of God, made visible in the suffering face of Christ.
The Veronica and the Heart of Roman Devotion
In our time, the Veil of Veronica may seem a faint and distant legend—its story buried under centuries of pious repetition and artistic imagination. But in the Rome of the High Middle Ages, the Veronica was no mere relic. It was the relic. At a time when relics were seen as portals into the sacred, the Veil stood at the heart of Roman devotion.
Housed in the old Constantinian Basilica of St. Peter’s, the Veronica was kept in the upper balcony, the loggia of the relics, in the great apse. Only on special days—Passion Sunday above all—was it solemnly brought forth, veiled and censed, to be shown to the faithful gathered below. The chant that accompanied its unveiling, “Salve Sancta Facies”, captured the gravity of the moment: “Hail, Holy Face of our Redeemer, on which the Holy Trinity impressed its image.”
Pope Innocent III had established the rite in the early 1200s: a procession from the Lateran to St. Peter’s, with penitential litanies, fasting, and indulgences. At its climax, the Holy Veil was unveiled for all to see. And it wasn’t merely about veneration—it was encounter. To look upon the face of Christ in His Passion was to look upon divine mercy. It was a moment of judgment, yes, but also of profound love.
A Pilgrim’s Gaze and a Pope’s Decision
We do not know the name of the old pilgrim. His story is preserved only in passing, in chronicles and oral tradition. But in him, Boniface VIII saw something more than a pious old man. He saw a soul willing to risk everything for a glimpse of the face of Christ.
Moved by the pilgrim’s faith—and the sheer physical effort he had made to come to Rome—Boniface is said to have been pierced to the heart. In the face of the pilgrim, he recognized the thirst of the whole Christian world: a longing not only for forgiveness, but for presence. The presence of Christ, not in theory, but in person—embodied, visible, near.
That encounter helped crystalize what had long been stirring in Boniface’s mind: the need for a universal pilgrimage, a sacred moment when the Church could return to the sources of its mercy and the visible expression of its Redeemer’s love.
So it was, on Christmas of 1299, that Boniface VIII proclaimed a Jubilee Year, beginning on January 1, 1300. It would offer a plenary indulgence to all who, having confessed their sins, made pilgrimage to the tombs of Peter and Paul. The year became a floodgate. Hundreds of thousands poured into Rome, many of them in the footsteps of that same unnamed pilgrim, seeking what he had found: not a theory, not a doctrine, but a Face.
The Jubilee and the Turning of Time
The word “jubilee” had ancient Jewish roots—a year of liberty and mercy, of debts forgiven and slaves freed. But never before had it been used this way. Boniface’s Holy Year set a pattern that would be repeated every 25 or 50 years for the next seven centuries.
The indulgence was generous: visit the basilicas of the Apostles, confess your sins, pray for the Pope, and receive the grace of remission—not only of punishment due to sin, but of the interior burden that sin lays upon the heart. In essence, the Church opened the treasury of grace, and the key was pilgrimage.
But what truly defined the Jubilee of 1300 wasn’t its legal structure or the number of pilgrims. It was the image that anchored it all: the Face of Christ. The Veronica was shown regularly during that year, brought to the loggia above the altar of St. Peter’s, and displayed before a sea of pilgrims. Accounts describe men and women falling to their knees, weeping, throwing themselves prostrate at the sight of it. And at the center stood Boniface himself—wearing the tiara, seated on his throne, yet dwarfed by the presence of the suffering Christ.
In that moment, the Pope was not a monarch, nor a judge, but a witness—one who, like Veronica herself, had drawn near to the mystery of the Passion and dared to hold the image of God close.
Looking Upon the Holy Face Today
The original Veronica Veil has long since been hidden from public view. Whether it still survives intact is a matter of scholarly debate. But the devotion it inspired has not faded.
Indeed, the Holy Face devotion found new life in the 19th and 20th centuries, especially through figures like Sister Marie of St. Peter in France and St. Thérèse of Lisieux, who took the name “of the Holy Face” in her Carmelite profession. Today, in Manoppello, a cloth bearing what many believe to be the true image of Christ’s face is once again drawing pilgrims. Pope Benedict XVI himself went there in 2006, referring to the Holy Face of Manoppello as a sign of “that mystery of love which is the heart of our faith.”
But long before modern investigations and devotions, there was that old man—anonymous, aged, aching—climbing the steps of the Vatican Basilica to look into the eyes of his Lord. And in doing so, he became an agent of history. His gaze moved a pope. And his longing opened a door.
For all who walk the stational pilgrimage, especially during Passiontide, this is the invitation: to turn our faces again toward Christ, to see Him not only in doctrine but in devotion, not only in mystery but in image. The Veronica—like the Jubilee it inspired—reminds us that to be a pilgrim is to search for the Face of God. And in that search, we find our home.
“Thy face, O Lord, do I seek; hide not Thy face from me.”
— Psalm 27:8-9
Accompanying Video
If you need a helpful book of meditations for this Season of Lent, check out my publication of meditations on the Passion of Jesus written for young Passionist novices.
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