2011 Review, Part III

September 2011 

Mount Greylock State Reservation, Adams MA

I still vividly remember this moment: hiking to the summit of Massachusetts’ highest peak with a friend, grateful for the shelter of the forest canopy on a damp and misty Saturday, I nearly walked into this leaf. Suspended from an unseen filament, readily explained by natural forces yet defying the normal order of things, it stopped me in my tracks. Neither pictures nor words can do justice to the sense of wonder, disbelief, and intrigued curiosity that seeped up from my soul as gently as the soft autumn moisture continued to trickle down into the sodden woods. During the busy, sometimes frenetic, pace of adjusting to a new job in the midst of a major grant project overseen by a committee whose members I just met, I rarely paid any attention to the subtle changes that were creeping along beneath the more tangible tasks of revising drafts, scheduling meetings, and endlessly refining a budget that boasted more than 100 line items and often drifted perilously close to its $1.6 million ceiling. Though I often felt myself precariously clinging to a newfound platform of work and collaboration, I was in fact gracefully supported by the unseen threads of mentorship, acceptance, patience, and even confidence, on the part of my colleagues and my community. A wondrous thing indeed.

October 2011

Overlook Farm, Clarksville MO

After serving as a spiritual director for Holy Cross students on a five-day silent retreat over fall break, I traveled to St. Louis for a long weekend to attend a good friend’s wedding. On a delightfully perfect autumn day– abundant sunshine, gently crisp air, smells of the harvest pervading the sweeping river valleys carved and watered by the Missisippi– it seemed that every detail had been lovingly crafted for the occasion. Even the propane tank at the farm where the reception was held had been decorated with the couple’s initials and festooned with seasonal accoutrements. The subtle touches of divine splendor, human creativity, and caring hospitality transformed the occasion of a wedding into a celebration of the beauty in strong relationships and the majesty of the season. I learned and appreciated how small, welcoming touches– whether in a room or a landscape, whether for a wedding or a simple visit– make a world of difference, and powerfully express the dignity and goodness of the earth and its people.

November 2011

Thanksgiving Dinner with Family

In my seven and a half years as a Jesuit, this fall was only the third time that I traveled home to South Jersey for Thanksgiving (and later, Christmas) with my family. I’ve grown accustomed to living at a distance, both geographical and otherwise, from my parents, sister, and extended family as my Jesuit life has carried me around the United States and Latin America, and into new realms of intellectual, spiritual, and personal exploration and discovery. Yet as we all grow older– many of my cousins are now married with children, and a growing number of my aunts and uncles are now either grandparents or in their sixties– I’ve been feeling a desire to regain a deeper connection with my family. Laughter and good storytelling abounded at Thanksgiving, and spilled over into informal gatherings– particularly one memorably raucous game night involving just the cousins– throughout the long weekend. I’ve long felt comfortable and at home with my Jesuit family, so much so that it now feels a little odd to hop in the car for the 4.5-hour (5 hours if I’m talking to Mom) drive to South Jersey, even as the brethren disperse to their families after a wonderful Thanksgiving celebration in the community earlier in the week. My connections to my two wonderful families do exist in some tension– they’re each familiar with different aspects of my life story, and I neither can nor desire to shuttle frequently between the two– but they are hardly at odds with one another. That’s a satisfying insight that’s been nourishing me long after the last of the turkey was consumed.

December 2011

Quabbin Reservoir, Hardwick MA

Look carefully… there’s a powerful reflection lurking in this image. With the year drawing to a close, daylight hours faded towards the winter solstice while inner light gently swelled with the graces of the Advent season– hope, gratitude, making room for the new and unexpected. Whereas my life seemed to turn upside down in June amidst a sudden departure from one job and a rapid start in another, the days of December revealed to me the fruitful results of a months-long current of progress– in my apostolic work, in my relationships with others, in my own spiritual depths– that has righted the ship. In a similar vein, amid reflecting on the blessings of companionship and support provided to me by fellow Jesuits, friends, and family throughout the year, I’ve also come to appreciate their gratitude for the blessings that my presence, friendship, and support have bestowed upon them. That’s not a perspective I’m accustomed to taking, yet this reversed view has illuminated some of my best qualities as I continue to navigate a rising tide of confidence, enthusiasm, and connectedness into the uncharted realm of the coming year.

2011 Review, Part II

 May 2011

Mount Frissell CT

Before I finish my assignment in Worcester, I aim to reach the highest point in each of the six New England states. This month saw me tackle my fourth– Connecticut’s Mt. Frissell– once again in the company of a friend. Our shared hiking background and expertise proved useful, as the appointed day brought shrouds of fog barely stirred by faint rustlings of feeble winds and steady gurgles of runoff-swollen streams. Our progress, thanks to the sodden soil, suggested traipsing more than hiking, bumbling through tangled undergrowth when clearer paths towards our goal proved to be submerged under vernal pools. A vital and verdant landscape, hidden in mysterious moisture, may have redirected our steps, yet this realm still ushered us to a peak notable for its memorable insights as well as its geographic significance.

June 2011

Moore State Park, Paxton MA

In a sudden and disconcerting impulse of self-indulgence, I traveled to this nearby park on my birthday for a few hours of quiet reading, reflection, and photography. Falling in the middle of the month, this day and its images mysteriously encompassed the balance and transition that characterized my June, as well as the tranquil fluidity of God’s presence and grace that wondrously surfaced above other perturbations. Somehow this pond, just upstream of a dam and waterfall servicing an old mill, expressed to me both the mysterious marvel of my birth yet also the ordinary spectacle of that given day and its annual remembrance. That’s a tension I’ve been challenged to embrace… humbly respecting the ordinary while also gratefully accepting the wondrousness of my life, my relationships, and my call to deep involvement in the life of the community.

July 2011

WaterFire, Providence RI

After struggling for much of the first half of 2011, my capacity for enthusiasm, creativity, and satisfying engagement with work seemed to suddenly catch fire. A large and complex grant proposal– the first assignment in my new job at Holy Cross– suddenly swept me into regular contact with wonderful professors and administrators, pushed me into various tasks with quick turnaround times, and stirred anew my interest in the workings of higher education. At the same time, various fires sprung up, or were gently stirred, in my friendships. Whether sharing the warmth of their company or feeling the harshness of their suffering– caused by the illness of a relative, the loss of a job, or the vagaries of depression– strong bonds were forged or fused even more tightly.

August 2011

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

The return of students to the Holy Cross campus at the end of the month echoed a return of my own optimism and enthusiasm as the new academic year began. My annual 8-day retreat, completed in the middle of the month, restored my connection with the roots of my vocation, a firm calling planted in the midst of an ever-changing world. Fittingly, the entire landscape around this tree changed during the summer, yielding a new campus gathering space that has been warmly and enthusiastically claimed by grateful students. As I spent time here, encountering students and faculty doing the same, the atmosphere of community took on palpable presence in physical space. With so many academic pursuits, spiritual adventures, and personal journeys entering a new phase at this time of year– an array of concerns whose complexity I could only imagine as I gazed upon those passing through this new space– I’ve felt myself drawn to the still-blank pages in my own life story, and eager for the experiences that will fill them.

2011 Review, Part I

To focus my reflection upon the events, thoughts, feelings, challenges, successes, relationships, and blessings that filled this past year, I selected one photograph per month, using it to ground a single paragraph summarizing the same month. Given such a perspective, and the fact that I spent much of this year in my head, meditating continuously on items from the above list, single events rarely emerged as significant; rather, the flow and growth bestowed in a given month is what I tended to notice. Oddly enough, that's something I'd like to tweak for 2012... as the year taught me that there's so much more to learn from and savor in life than what I can intellectually grasp.

January 2011

Ciampi Hall, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA 

Each week this month brought a storm that disrupted school and threw off routines, but also offered beautiful imagery of adaptation and persistence in the natural world. Trees swayed yet held in chilly winds, drifting snow bestowed dynamic contours upon otherwise static lawns and hillsides, birds fluttered and nibbled in turn while bustling about a feeder situated for easy viewing and admiration from the expansive windows of our dining room. Amidst obstacles of climate, I did my best to train for the Boston Marathon. Within my duties as a teacher, I strove to keep my classes on track while shuffling around snow days. My chief lessons and greatest strides came from imitating the birds… be persistent, be patient, and eat well!

February 2011

Vineyard Haven Harbor, Martha's Vineyard MA

Seaworthy vessels lay anchored, gently riding an aqueous turbulence that mirrors a subtler and slower flow aloft. My own travels during this month– a 20-mile race on Martha’s Vineyard, a week visiting Jesuits and friends in Chicago– brought refreshing movement that served as a gentle counterpoint to the ongoing grind of lesson planning, teaching, and grading that felt steady but not always satisfying. The difference between a stabilizing anchor and a restricting chain was not always evident as I reflected upon my experiences of gladness and sadness, fulfillment and frustration, success and setback. The one reliable constant was a sense of steady flow, reflected in grandiose swirling of water, wind, and snow.

March 2011

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Nature’s pattern of achieving great beauty from small, fragile, humble starts annually astounds me as the first buds and blooms appear. The scale of an unfinished project, the massiveness of a shift I desire to make in my attitude and outlook, or a challenging situation in need of resolution often daunts me, especially at the outset. Though my running keeps me familiar with the adage that “the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” taking that same first step, making that sort of small start, does not come as readily to my more internal endeavors. Nature’s reminders are helpful and inspiring.

April 2011

Boston Public Garden

Spring blooms. Water liberated from ice. Winds that are gentle and pleasant, rather than biting and fierce. The mellowing of nature softens a soul hardened by more than the harshness of winter.  After three and a half long months of training, my second Boston Marathon carried a powerful lesson about humility and fidelity: my friend Matt and I ran the entire route side by side, pacing each other through our respective periods of strength and fatigue, confidence and doubt, pain and delight. A drama honored by, but perhaps also hidden from, the tens of thousands of spectators whose cheers spurred us on, sustained our spirits, and guided us from humble Hopkinton to boisterous Boston. A single day that inspired an entire month.

The Next Volume

By sheer coincidence, I’m approaching the last page in my journal in the last days of 2011. Whether looking back over the course of this year, as I’ll do in the next three posts, or flipping to my journal's first page (which describes an unseasonably warm afternoon in April 2010, a wonderful surprise meeting with a former student while strolling the Holy Cross campus, and a subtle case of nerves building in the days before my first Boston Marathon), I’m impressed by the variety of experiences, memories, and lessons chronicled in a given volume of text and time. I feel doubly blessed as I anticipate opening two fresh covers, inking two fresh pages, and continuing one delightful life journey this coming Sunday.

Calm and Bright

Apart from this calm and bright scene early in the morning, there was hardly a dull moment on Christmas this year. Molly mustered some puppy-like energy and actually unwrapped a few of her presents. My mom and I toiled in the kitchen to prepare dinner for my uncles, aunts, and cousins who came and filled the house with good cheer. My dad and my sister pitched in for a first round of doing dishes, rearranging furniture, and counting the place settings– every year someone jokes about "borrowing" some of the silverware– before calling it a night. Even in the quiet of night, I could still hear ringing laughter, boisterous conversation, and other joyful sounds of our celebration.

During the brief time that I snuck away for some prayer– while the jambalaya cooked– it occurred to me that the original Nativity scene was hardly a still life. Maybe there were some blissfully quiet moments when the little child was sleeping in a manger, but on that cold night, I envisioned Mary and Joseph as anxiously worrying about whether the child would be warm enough. Shepherds and magi alike were pressed into service– whether tending to the animals, helping Joseph arrange the family's belongings, or listening to Mary figure out what to do next. That drafty stable was hardly a place for passive bystanders; it was a place of activity where unexpected visitors became welcome friends and necessary participants in the newly unfolding human and divine story. As I returned to the kitchen, and then shared in the joy of hosting and catching up with relatives, that recognition of the very active nature of the Nativity story calmly and brightly illumined the evening. Everyone went home warm and well-fed, and nobody ran off with any of the silver. Thanks to us all, it was a truly merry Christmas indeed.

Most of the cousins on my mom's side... and I really am the second oldest.

We Need a Little Christmas

When I was younger (back in the days of VHS tapes!), my family always found time to pull out The Muppet Family Christmas just after school closed for the Christmas break. [If, by some remote chance, you haven't seen this remarkable film... skip the following spoilers and go the next paragraph.] I remember being amazed when the Sesame Street gang showed up at Fozzie's mother's farmhouse, being fascinated by the efforts of the Swedish Chef to cook Big Bird for dinner, and wondering how Miss Piggy would ever get out of the snowstorm that almost made her miss the party. Great jokes and songs abound throughout the show– it famously concludes with a cast of hundreds of Muppets singing carols by the fire– but the opening number seems especially appropriate this year.

I've had a good Advent... some gathering momentum in prayer, some beautiful services and festive celebrations with my community and the broader Holy Cross family, and a much deeper sense of the holiness in this time of year. But I do (still) need a little Christmas. The weather has been oddly warm lately, both in central Massachusetts and in southern New Jersey, and there's no snow in either locale. I've been involved in an unusual streak of bad news and sorrowful situations this week– two cancer diagnoses (an uncle's sister and a friend's close friend), a wake and a funeral for an aunt's brother, and a friend's ongoing struggle with depression and isolation made paradoxically sharper by the pressures of Christmas celebrations. The decorations are in place, the lights and ornaments are on the tree, and the table is being set (we're hosting 18 relatives for Christmas dinner tomorrow night), but I don't have that Christmas feeling that I've so easily recognized and savored in years past. Instead of gleeful anticipation, I've occasionally noticed myself as worn-out as Molly, our 15-year-old Beagle, who spends most of her day sleeping, sometimes in positions that defy presumed definitions of comfort and peace.

I had some time to meditate and reflect on all this at length during a 13-mile run this morning around some local neighborhoods and parks. It's long been familiar terrain, but I can recall when I was mapping and testing these routes for the first time, back when 13 miles was the limit of my training range and my athletic ambitions. Would I have done anything differently if I had known what my future held? Would I have had more confidence? Would the thrill of pushing limits have lost its appeal if replaced by the certainty that I'd one day achieve my dream of finishing the Boston Marathon? What did I gain by not knowing the end of the story?

Perhaps the grace that I'm receiving at the close of Advent 2011 is a connection with those unaware of the end of the Christmas story. The people of Israel who heard Isaiah's prophecies didn't know that they would actually come to pass. The shepherds and magi who followed a star and eluded a jealous king didn't know exactly what they would find, or how their lives could be changed, in the encounter at the end of their journeys to Bethlehem. No small measure of what I sense in the tough news this week, and those who bear its burden, is that they don't know how (or if) such grave issues will be resolved in a positive way.

So while I "need a little Christmas," I'm not sure where I'll find it. I don't know how the story of Advent 2011 will transition into a new chapter of my life, or the lives of those whom I hold dear. Yet I feel that I'm in good company with all who, throughout the course of history, have waited, hoped, prayed, and searched for an encounter with God in the midst of their humanity. Wherever you may be this year, and with whomever you may celebrate, I pray that you have a delightful Christmas, filled with all the blessings of this time of year.

Names

The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ,
the son of David, the son of Abraham.

Abraham became the father of Isaac,
Isaac the father of Jacob,
Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers.
Judah became the father of Perez and Zerah,
whose mother was Tamar.
Perez became the father of Hezron,
Hezron the father of Ram,
Ram the father of Amminadab.
Amminadab became the father of Nahshon,
Nahshon the father of Salmon,
Salmon the father of Boaz,
whose mother was Rahab.
Boaz became the father of Obed,
whose mother was Ruth.
Obed became the father of Jesse,
Jesse the father of David the king.

David became the father of Solomon,
whose mother had been the wife of Uriah.
Solomon became the father of Rehoboam,
Rehoboam the father of Abijah,
Abijah the father of Asaph.
Asaph became the father of Jehoshaphat,
Jehoshaphat the father of Joram,
Joram the father of Uzziah.
Uzziah became the father of Jotham,
Jotham the father of Ahaz,
Ahaz the father of Hezekiah.
Hezekiah became the father of Manasseh,
Manasseh the father of Amos,
Amos the father of Josiah.
Josiah became the father of Jechoniah and his brothers
at the time of the Babylonian exile.

After the Babylonian exile,
Jechoniah became the father of Shealtiel,
Shealtiel the father of Zerubbabel,
Zerubbabel the father of Abiud.
Abiud became the father of Eliakim,
Eliakim the father of Azor,
Azor the father of Zadok.
Zadok became the father of Achim,
Achim the father of Eliud,
Eliud the father of Eleazar.
Eleazar became the father of Matthan,
Matthan the father of Jacob,
Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary.
Of her was born Jesus who is called the Christ.

Thus the total number of generations
from Abraham to David
is fourteen generations;
from David to the Babylonian exile, fourteen generations;
from the Babylonian exile to the Christ,
fourteen generations.


– Matthew 1:1-17


This long reading always shows up during Advent. Even though I've been exposed to plenty of good scholarship concerning this introduction to Matthew's Gospel, I invariably find myself straining to pay attention during this minutes-long recitation of names. Typically, the celebrant gets a number of smiles and words of congratulations after Mass for getting through this accounting of Jesus' genealogy, and some names that are rather uncommon, difficult to pronounce, and not at all familiar. What do we know about Shealtiel? What kind of a guy was Jotham? Why call attention to each one of the 42 generations leading up to the birth of Jesus Christ?


Francis. Therese. Liz. Kelsey. Rachel. Beth. Christine. Monica. Elise. Andrew. Zac. Alison. Mara. Krista. Jordan. Alana. Jon. Sara. Kristen. Alli. Christina. Rachael. Dave. Virginia. Liz. Jesse. Daniel. Michelle. Sam. Rick. Tom. John. Brendan. Dora. Jane. Anna Mae. Katie. Jill. Hollyce. Betsy. Jenna. Lisa. Ken. Abbie. Patricia. Kim. Caitlin. Clara. Peter. Jim. Lloyd. Sean. Bill. Pat. Simon.


Just a list of names, right? Well, in one way, yes. In another way, so much more. Each is a family member, fellow Jesuit, or friend from Dartmouth, St. Louis University, Holy Cross, or other community where I've spent time. Each has made a powerful, meaningful, undeniable contribution to my life, and allowed me to be a meaningful presence in his or her life, this year. We've helped to define each other's experiences of the past twelve months, and hopefully, to better grasp the mystery of God's abiding presence and ongoing work in each of us. Jesus' birth is somehow tied to the countless generations that preceded him, and his ongoing presence is somehow tied to each of us, participants in the great genealogy of the human race, at least as I see it. Treasure the names on your list, and even more importantly, the people in your life.

Hallway Wisdom

A certain professor's take on the new liturgical translations...

Encountering the Unexpected

In light of a conversation with some students after Mass on Sunday evening, I’ve been thinking about what may happen when Catholics who haven’t been to church for a while show up for Mass on Christmas. They’ll hopefully find the same decorations, seasonal music, festive atmosphere, and warm welcome that would characterize a vibrant parish community at this time of year. Yet they’ll also find that the language of the liturgy has changed, and that the changes, though perhaps relatively slight, could sound quite jarring.

I can imagine some confusion– “Why has this happened?”– as well as some annoyance and frustration– “Who made this decision? What does this all mean?” I could even imagine some reactions of resentment– “Why were these changes made without talking to us?”

I’ve been thinking a great deal about the new liturgical translations– their sources, their impact, their reception by the clergy and the laity, and the theological worldview that they express. Some of the more contentious issues– the process that produced the new translation, the heightened sense of human imperfection in relationship to divine grace, and a shift away from colloquial to more formal language– I’ll set aside for the moment. What strikes me at the moment is that potentially stark encounter between a new ritual language and a group of individuals whom it may surprise and shock. But wasn’t Jesus’ birth– God made human, a poor and unmarried woman bearing the world’s savior– no less surprising and unexpected, whether to those familiar with prophecies or those who simply received the news? 

These are themes that continue to characterize my prayer this Advent; I can't imagine how or why Christ would choose to dwell in the spaces of darkness, emptiness, and brokenness that I feel within me. Yet I sense a call to await his coming even there, perhaps more so than in the places where I'm used to finding him– a conversation with a friend, contemplation on a favorite psalm, or amidst a quiet stroll at sunrise. As Advent goes on, and Christmas draws closer, I believe that Christ continually desires to surprise us, to encounter us in unexpected ways, and to gently challenge us to develop a truly honest vision of one another and the ties that bind us. Hopefully this message will be clearly heard this Christmas, regardless of how the new language of the Mass sounds.

Advent (Week II)

Some images and experiences from Week II of Advent 2011:

Frost on the windows above my prayer ledge nicely framed a memento of Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish, my faith community for three years in St. Louis, on a chilly morning in Worcester.

Over breakfast on Wednesday morning, the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, some of my octogenarian brothers shared stories of where they were on that "day that shall live in infamy." Crisp memories of their high school classes being interrupted by radio bulletins impressed me with the power of recollection, and the value of honoring and drawing on such living links to the past, in order that we may live better in the present and future. 

My ongoing adjustment to the new translation of the Roman Missal has inspired some more careful study of the text. Even though there's still a long road of formation and preparation before I can be considered for priestly ordination (prayers always appreciated!), I'm finding fulfillment in meditating on the texts that have been created to guide the people of God– priests, ministers, and laypersons–  in their celebration of the Mass.

"Grant that your people, we pray, almighty God,

may be ever watchful

for the coming of your Only Begotten Son

that, as the author of our salvation himself has taught us,

we may hasten, alert and with lighted lamps,

to meet him when he comes.

Who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,

one God, forever and ever."

– Collect, Mass for Friday of the Second Week of Advent

Already? Not Yet!

I can’t believe that it’s already the second week of Advent, let alone twenty days until Christmas. The days and weeks seem to be moving so quickly, whether approaching the end of 2011 or advancing from the start of the liturgical year.

Yesterday evening at Mass, an Australian Jesuit preached on the notion that Advent waiting isn’t something passive. Yes, God’s decision to take on the full experience of humanity– body, mind, and soul– in Jesus is entirely God’s own, yet we are, especially in this time of year, invited to prepare to receive that mystery into the substance of our own lives. Such preparation requires effort, no less than that involved in cleaning one’s house before a friend’s visit, spending hours in the kitchen to prepare a family meal, or cultivating the vision that enables one to see God in friend and stranger, colleague and enemy, the comfortable and the afflicted.

As this insight continues to take deeper root in me– within the context of my hopes for renewal in confidence and community– I find that it grows my desire to more fully encounter not only God’s presence, but also God’s loving acceptance, in interactions with those whom I meet. Yet I often feel too hurried by the swift passage of time to recognize and embrace the opportunities for this longed-for grace to take living form in my words and actions. So many such moments have surely passed already in the past week, stirring some regrets over missing them. But it’s not yet the end of Advent by any means, and I suspect that God won’t withdraw this insight, nor its fruits, once Christmas is over. Still, I can’t just wait around.

In the readings for the Second Sunday of Advent, people filled with hope and longing, people who are encouraged to wait confidently for God’s triumph of peace and justice for all humanity, go out into the desert to encounter a prophet announcing these same tidings, and preaching a way of life that fosters their full reception. I already know well the landscape of my own inner desert, but I’ve not yet fully allowed it to be a place of encounter with fellow men and women of faith who, like me, await the renewing, vivifying, enlightening arrival of Christ. That’s what I hope for, as Advent has already progressed this far, and I’m not yet where I wish to be. I’ve got my own work and preparation to do, and while it’s not yet finished, I gratefully recognize that it’s already underway.

Atacama Desert, Chile

Waiting Together

Some experiences, graces, and insights are starting to converge in my observance of Advent this year.

Earlier this week, I was at the door of the student center at Holy Cross, waiting for some bank executives to arrive for a signing ceremony inside. My task was simply to offer an initial welcome and guide them to the room where the ceremony would occur. A public safety officer was stationed nearby, ready to move aside the barricades that were reserving spaces in the parking lot for the visiting dignitaries. After the first car arrived, I greeted its occupants, escorted them upstairs, and came back outside. I stood there for a few moments, watching the turbulent clouds presaging a chilly drizzle, my mind's contours similarly shaped by the movement of random thoughts. Then, suddenly, this thought occurred to me: go and talk to the public safety officer. So I crossed over into the parking lot, introduced myself, and we struck up a conversation. As I recall, we talked about our work, Thanksgiving, the incoming president of Holy Cross, and the weather. Nothing particularly intense or weighty... just shooting the breeze amid quickening winds and a bit of rain until the rest of the bank people arrived.

Also this week, I've shared some conversations with friends who are struggling to find love, peace, and acceptance in their lives. As a result of various circumstances, they each tend to see more darkness than light in themselves, and experience more anxiety and fear than confidence and hope. Looking back on the difficult periods in my previous assignment as a middle school teacher, I recall stretches of days or even weeks when I saw my failures and shortcomings all too easily, and despaired of ever being successful in my work or accepted among my colleagues. I feel that I too can relate, though perhaps not perfectly, to my friends' troubling and painful experiences of feeling isolated, rejected, and adversely judged. Although it comes naturally to me to listen, whether the words and stories are light or heavy, pleasant or painful, it does not come so naturally to freely and deeply share my own tales. Yet, despite my long-standing pattern of being terribly slow and reluctant to reveal my struggles, and the thoughts and feelings associated with them, I am increasingly aware that I have a strong and genuine desire to do so.

The readings from Isaiah in these opening days of Advent are filled with hopeful prophecies about God's presence, the restoration of God's people, and a new age of harmony and peace. Yet they were originally addressed to, and received by, a people still awaiting deliverance from war, exile, and even internal strife. Based on my own experiences of waiting, such a state is more comfortable and less fearful when shared. Did my conversation with the public safety officer dramatically improve his day or mine? I cannot say for sure, but I felt a little happier, a little more whole, for having passed some waiting time in his company, and shared the grace of getting to know one another rather than remaining strangers. Will the friends whom I've been accompanying in their struggles ever meet one another? I doubt it, yet I believe that in alluding to the fact that I'm in contact with others facing similar issues, I can offer them some assurance that they are not the only ones walking these challenging and arduous paths. No less importantly, I'm recognizing that I need not remain alone in my waiting, nor in my desires for a deeper foundation in community, confidence, and faith. God's desire and choice to dwell within and among us, sharing the full breadth of the human experience, is a gift offered to each of us individually, yet in receiving and nurturing this blessing, we share its impacts with the surrounding community. And in drawing together our individual flickerings of light and hope, however feeble they may be, we begin to glow together with anticipation for the arrival of Christ, the light of the world.

Rose window, National Cathedral, Washington DC

Still Giving Thanks

The commercialism of Black Friday and Cyber Monday have clamored for attention. Holiday decorations have gone up in shopping centers, government buildings, and private homes. I'm listening to seasonal music as I write my first batch of Christmas cards. Yet, a week after Thanksgiving and almost 300 miles away from where I celebrated that feast, I'm still savoring some leftovers– not only sliced turkey and mince pie, but also memories and images from a wonderful series of gatherings with family. Though greeting December and moving closer to the heart of Advent, I'm still grateful for the blessings of Thanksgiving, and aware that they're too deep and lasting to be celebrated on just one day.

 

Molly enjoys a quiet moment

 My sister and I at Thanksgiving dinner (she insisted that I post this)

The "cousins without children" table had the most fun

One of many charming images from hosting my cousin, his wife, and their 22-month-old son

Advent

After several exciting, fun-filled days with my family in South Jersey for Thanksgiving, I'm back home in Worcester, eagerly entering the season of Advent.

Amidst my awareness of the new liturgical year, the revised liturgy translations being introduced at Mass, and the intensity of work that awaits students, professors, and administrators returning to campus for the final few weeks of the semester, it was a phrase from the closing prayer at Mass this evening that particularly caught my attention: "May these mysteries, O Lord, in which we have participated, profit us, we pray, for even now, as we walk amid passing things, you teach us by them to love the things of heaven and hold fast to what endures."


Ordinary "passing things" abound in my life, yet I'm not always good at letting them turn my gaze to God's presence in that same life. Even with my habits of prayer and reflection– themselves always a work in progress– I can still rush through life and hurry past signs with smug assurance, as readily as I traveled the familiar route between my family home in South Jersey and my home with the Jesuit community in Worcester, scarcely bothering to notice the familiar scenery along the highway. I need the encouragement to slow down, discerning and relishing the blessings to be seen in a conversation with a visiting classmate, the fact of my safe arrival after a 5-hour drive, or the way that an empty chalice sitting on the altar reminds me of my own desire to be filled with God's life-giving grace. I need the darkness at this time of year to draw my eyes toward the feeble yet swelling light of this season– an extra candle flame in the Advent wreath each week, the nearing time of Christ's arrival, the slow lengthening of days and shortening of nights that will begin in several weeks at the winter solstice. I need to do my share of the disciplined, diligent devotion that builds up a solid life of prayer and faith, while also inviting and accepting the graces that will sustain me in my efforts to be a faithful disciple, companion, and colleague.

Some Comforts of Home

I don't often return to my parents' house and the neighborhood where I grew up; my schedule of work, Jesuit gatherings, summer programs, and the like generally limits such trips to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a week or so in June or August. Thought I no longer reside here, and my old room has been converted into a guest room frequently offered to relatives visiting from afar, whenever I am "home," however briefly and rarely, there are some simple things that I never fail to appreciate. Whether it's a chat with Mom while walking around the neighborhood (where the majestic trees never fail to inspire me), reading on the couch in the den with a view of the backyard, or spending some quality time with Molly, our 15-year-old beagle, I'm grateful for many pleasant blessings to enjoy.

Hitting the Road

I'm heading to South Jersey today to be with my family for Thanksgiving. Yesterday afternoon, having wrapped up my work in the office, I went for a prayerful stroll around the increasingly quiet Holy Cross campus, slowly emptying as students begin their own homeward journeys. Several minutes into my walk, I noticed myself feeling a sense of anticipation, preparation, even gathering momentum– like a bird that tentatively stretches its wings and quickens its gait before taking off, or the way that a flag lifts and flutters before fully unfurling in a freshening breeze. I recalled feeling this way on numerous occasions when, as a student at Dartmouth, I readied myself logistically, mentally, even spiritually for the long drive home from the Upper Valley to the Delaware Valley. While I'm hoping that my travels tomorrow will be relatively smooth and free of delays, I'm well aware of the potential obstacles that I'll encounter– bad weather, construction, accidents, and the glorious jungle of creatively engineered highways that encircles New York City, entangling traffic as readily as a spider's web immobilizes unsuspecting prey in its intricately woven threads.

George Washington Bridge, New York NY

Summer 2010

I also mused on various journeys described in the Scriptures– Noah sailing with his family and animals on a well-laden ark (how full can you pack your car?), Moses and the Israelites traveling in the desert (four hours can seem like forty years on the New Jersey Turnpike), and the number of Jesus' parables that either begin with someone taking a journey, or are narrated amidst his own travels between various towns. I'm certainly carrying more than a walking stick and a pair of sandals today, but I'm hardly taking two of everything. If all goes well, I'll not only stop briefly in Manhattan to visit some friends for dinner, but also arrive at home before my parents lock up the house for the night.

Being fond of maps and blessed with an innate navigational ability, I'm usually quite confident in my ability to travel from Point A to Point B along any path I might choose– be it a network of interstate highways or a collection of back roads. It's the spiritual journey, though, that has brought me more surprises in its deviations from the route I'm typically trying to design. When the path to be followed is not a physical road or trail but an all-encompassing relationship both tangible and mysterious, I'm not always certain about where the route will carry me, and who or what I'll encounter along the way.

Near Salisbury CT

May 2011

Whether or not I hit traffic this afternoon and evening, I expect to spend no small part of my journey praying. I'll have plenty on my mind, but also hope that I'll encounter once again the graced presence of Jesus as a companion along my life's journey– as a person of faith, a Jesuit being formed for priesthood, and today, as a member of the vast community of travelers bound for Thanksgiving celebrations with family and friends. May we all journey in safety, and reach our destinations happily.

The Heart of Autumn

The Heart of Autumn

The afternoon ends early,

the twilight is amassed,

as memories of summer

recede into the past.

The long nights gain momentum,

light slants more feebly still,

as indoors-driven viewers

take refuge from the chill.

Beyond Thanksgiving's gathering,

a breadth of bounty spread,

as winter's thinness nears us

an Advent lies ahead.

Year-end decay dispelling

seeking for darkness light

obscure amid the bustling

that overlooks delight.

In sweet good time arriving,

when blessings may seem few,

it comes, my faith rekindling,

ever ancient, ever new.

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Fading

This afternoon's fading light captivated me, drawing me out for a walk around campus on a calm, chilly afternoon. With sunset now well before 5pm, and Thanksgiving right around the corner, I can feel the year winding down. What I've taken to calling "the heart of autumn"– when frost-hardened leaves skitter down pavement before equally crisp breezes, when the cirrus swirls and creeping twilight seem to trace the vestiges of light being drawn into lengthening nights– brings into clarity the flickering of my own spirit as a challenging and sometimes turbulent year approaches its final month.

The liturgical season of Advent– the beginning of the Catholic Church's liturgical year– arrives next Sunday. For me, it's as important as a new calendar year, though my observance of it is much more subtle than the midnight celebrations that usher in the first of January. It's a time for me to hear and pray with readings that speak of peace and joy, imagery that radiates light, and warm gatherings of the faithful that counteract the cold gloom of isolation. As much as I'm looking forward to turkey and homemade stuffing, my aunt's sweet potato casserole, and the company of my extended family over Thanksgiving, I'm gently anticipating the nourishment offered by Advent, and a fresh acceptance of the call to live in faith, hope, and love.

Hearing Witnesses

On this day in 1989, six Jesuits working in El Salvador, along with their housekeeper and her daughter, were dragged from their residence and shot in the early morning hours by government soldiers. Their deaths came amidst a violent civil war that engulfed this Central American nation for many years, a conflict in which these Jesuits stood in solidarity with the working poor of the country, advocating an end to violence, a fair distribution of land and wealth, and the assurance of human rights and dignity for all people. Their witness to these values, and their concern for the well-being of not only the poor but also their entire nation, had drawn a long series of threats and attacks from the government and the military that culminated in their slaying.

Today, on the campuses of Jesuit schools around the country, these six priests and two women are honored as martyrs for their fellow Salvadorans, defenders of the poor and downtrodden, and figures whose voices have not been silenced by their deaths, but rather given far-reaching influence over the past twenty-two years. The memorial at Holy Cross, depicted here, was a modest arrangement of crosses and images of the deceased constructed along a well-traveled pathway connecting the student center, main library, and a key academic building. I spent some time there in the middle of the day, chatting with student organizers and observing the various ways in which members of the College community passed through the space. Some stopped to sign a petition and talk with the students overseeing the memorial, others paused briefly in silence, and some simply strode through, perhaps casting a passing glance at the crosses.

There's been much in the national news lately about police officers and city workers clearing out members of the Occupy movement and their encampments in downtown parks around the country. These individuals are also giving witness to a range of passionately held beliefs and opinions about the affairs of our country, the effects of various economic, social, and legislative policies, and the hardships being endured by my many Americans amidst various forms of inequality. In cities where the Occupy movement has a presence, I imagine that those passing by have a variety of responses– engaged interest or direct involvement, willful ignorance, or perhaps simply noticing their presence while moving along with their own affairs.

It's up to wiser minds to evaluate any relative linkages or disconnects between Jesuits in El Salvador standing with the poor in the midst of a violent civil war and Americans in the Occupy movement camping out and protesting against some significant economic woes and social ills in our country. In each instance, though, I'm drawn to the notion of giving witness– not only in speaking out, but also in whether or not anyone is listening. What forms of speech and action truly compel our attention and motivate our participation in efforts to build and maintain communities of justice and peace? What influences our choices to heed or ignore not only the high-profile and vocal witnesses but also the subtle expressions of truth and beauty that may gain our attention in any given moment? What attitudes and beliefs do we express, intentionally or otherwise, through our words and actions? When social media allows us to "comment" on anything, what is the content of the dialogue in which we are most genuinely engaged, and what is its practical outcome for the lives of our neighbors? These aren't easy or straightforward questions, yet lest we address them, I worry that the messages of the Jesuits in El Salvador, the Occupy protesters, and the people whom we daily meet may fall on ears that do not fully hear.

Present from the Archives

Recently I've been encouraged to write about my daily experiences in a way that's immediate and uncritical, as a complement to my style of prayer and reflection that's more analytical and intellectual. Although both avenues assist me in my desire to recognize God's presence, follow Christ's call, and heed the Spirit's guidance, I tend to privilege the latter, and often deny myself the liberty to engage the former. Rummaging through a (physical, not virtual) folder of poetry that I used actively during philosophy studies, yet have neglected on my shelf for much of my regency here in Worcester, I found many treasures that I'd forgotten, relics of a familiar yet now distant part of my identity. I'm praying for a renewal of this sort of vision and expression, for even a brief reading of several such poems– including the one below, written at the foot of the tree pictured with it– clearly affirmed that inspirational substance is never lacking.

"Fallen Leaves"

Draped in tranquil muted brilliance

obscuring grass withered by hardening soil

atrophied shards of life flung down

by ominous breezes

or chilling, slicking drops

their ephemeral beauty threatened

by those who would remove

the unkempt detritus

rather than slow and reap

a second autumn harvest

and live more deeply

their solidarity with the fallen.

I bared my feet in humility

sunk against the hardness of dormant life

letting its crackles rekindle my vital flames

sent to gather the fallen

into the smudged liberation that

(I) found (me)

at the foot of deeply rooted

redeeming wood.

Tower Grove Park

St. Louis MO

Inviting Answers

What do I wish to give, share, and pass on?

• A vibrant, authentic, intelligible witness to the loving, caring, sustaining presence of God in the world.
• More than just the time of day... the time of my day, and all of the attention and thoughtfulness I can muster.
• A listening ear that speaks of the value, dignity, and sacredness of another person's story.
• The companionship, support, and joy to be found in communities great and small.
• The very questions that I've been posing to myself, adapted according to the circumstances of those who consider them.
• A love of running, cycling, hiking... whatever gets you into the great outdoors and deeply in tune with the strengths and limitations of your body and mind.
• Experiences that nourish the soul.
• Images that reflect an inward gaze sharpened by the lens of outward-looking friendship, service, worship, and prayer.
• A desire to continue seeking, learning, and offering wisdom gained by growth in all things practical and spiritual, lofty and mundane. 

Unimagined

What have I learned in the past several years that I couldn't have imagined several years ago?

• That I would learn Spanish, travel to two wonderful (and very different) Latin American countries, and accompany some amazing families through the arduous legal labyrinths and emotional tensions of navigating the immigration process.
• That, despite the pain and suffering I encountered daily during my six-week "hospital experiment" on a terminal cancer ward, looking back, it's among the experiences that brought out the deepest and most authentic elements of my character, my faith, and my vocation.
• That three years of study, ministry, community, friendship, and growth in St. Louis would change my life, in ways that I'm still discovering and appreciating.
• That I'd have to grapple with feelings of uselessness, even failure, in an assignment for which I'd initially thought myself reasonably qualified.
• That developing and sustaining a genuine prayer life is as challenging and demanding as training for and completing a marathon– and no less rewarding, I'd hasten to add!
• That, despite the company of support of some wonderful brothers and steadfast friends, I'd encounter periods of loneliness that force me to address my limitations and weaknesses, and dare to accept them as part of my very nature. Still working on this, and not always making progress.
• That I would change so much (or perceive this to be the case) that I would feel the need to get to know some important people in my life all over again, and afford them the opportunity to do the same.
• That, although the "easy" and "enjoyable" aspects of my Jesuit life are welcome blessings, it's been the lessons and graces received amid more challenging, difficult, and painful intervals over the past seven years that have grounded me in my vocation, and my desire to remain faithful to it.
• That some of God's best work in my life begins at the limits of my imagination. 

Siasconset Beach

Nantucket MA

Filled or Filling?

Where do I find fulfillment?
Is this even the right question to ask? I've tended to raise it in conversations geared toward helping a friend evaluate his or her life, deal with a challenging situation, or contemplate a change in his or her career, relationship situation, worship habits, involvement in the community, and so on. Yet turning this question back on myself usually seems a bit selfish. Why should I be so concerned about my own fulfillment when other responsibilities and needs solicit and attract my attention?


However, if I'm honest with myself, it was the sense of fulfillment that I encountered in the Jesuits whom I knew during my high school years, and in the priests and laypersons who served as Catholic chaplains at Dartmouth, that deepened in me the idea of a vocation. I had heard Christ's call fairly clearly during a semester in Prague, but in meeting and getting to know Jesuits who had embraced similar calls to religious life and priestly ministry, I grew in confidence and faith that I too could find, in accepting the invitation to be a Jesuit, the same measure of consolation and fulfillment that these men enjoyed.


Seven years into my ongoing formation process, returning to this question of fulfillment has brought some disturbance as well as direction. I'm still struggling to understand why a challenging teaching position didn't work out for me despite my best intentions, while the comparatively steep and swift learning curve in my current grant-writing assignment brings satisfaction as well as some lingering anxiety. When my short-term perspective presents constancy neither in abounding happiness nor in creeping despair, but rather in an often-changing mixture of successes and shortfalls, enthusiasm and error, I wonder what might bring a lasting sense of fulfillment, and whether or not I'd even recognize it. There's a certain ease in gravitating toward the things that I'm good at, and the situations in which I'm comfortable, but keeping myself confined to these areas is not the sort of existence that I desire, as I've learned from experiences that have pushed me beyond my comfort zone and my perceived limitations.

Autumn Woods

Hardwick, MA

The more I sit with this issue of fulfillment, the more I realize that it's not a feeling or goal I desire to attain; rather, it emerges as a validation of being in "the right place," doing "the right thing," recognizing a consistency between my vocation and my life, whether in an expansive sense or in a finite moment. St. Ignatius, in his spiritual writings, refers to this as "consolation"– a felt resonance among the mind, heart, and body that comes from being in relationship with God, living for the end for which one has been created, and moving toward the fullest possible expression of this unique identity and purpose that one has been given. I experienced this feeling often during my discernment process while at Dartmouth– serving as a catechist for fellow students, pursuing studies in human geography that touched on topics of community and environment, shepherding and accompanying a variety of friends and acquaintances through some deep darknesses, and amid weekly visits and cribbage games with residents of a local nursing home where I quietly volunteered for a few years. It has also occurred during countless experiences in my Jesuit formation– from working as an orderly on a terminal cancer ward to assisting with Holy Week liturgies in a rural Mexican village; from laboring to support the various programs of a dynamic Hispanic parish to memorizing the Gettysburg Address for a Civil War lesson in my 8th grade history class last year.  Sometimes, consolation surprises me in a far more ordinary moment– today, for example, I felt it while walking down the hill from my house to the office, joining the footsteps of fellow Jesuits and other Holy Cross faculty and staff on a pleasant autumn morning.

The question above isn't entirely off the mark, yet praying with it has led me to recognize anew that such consolation tends to come not when I'm seeking to be fulfilled, but when I'm living in a way that's fulfilling. Such consolation feels most rewarding and most authentic when I'm responding to a call I've received, needs I've witnessed, or even a gust of creative inspiration... and when I'm able to appreciate God's subtle power and influence giving my words and actions the potential to expand and deepen beyond the range of my vision and influence. That grace is what I continue to see in the Jesuits whom I admire, the colleagues whom I respect, and the friends whom I value. That's the attitude I desire to have, the freedom I desire to experience, and the source of fulfillment that nourishes my vocation.

Questions

Following up on Sunday's post, here is a response to one set of questions with which I've been inspired to pray through the course of this week.


How do I experience God's presence? Christ's call? The Holy Spirit's guidance?
God's grandeur greeted me in the horizon's fiery sunrise glow as I began a new week with a run around Worcester's hilly neighborhoods. My foggy breath, visible in the calm and frosty air, reminded me of the locomotives that ply Worcester's railyards– hulking machines with cores of diesel-fueled steel inspiring my meeker frame of blood-stoked, air-powered, muscle-driven flesh. 


In meeting and greeting two of my brothers around campus before 7am– one heading to his office, another heading to the gym– I recalled the variety of morning people and night owls in the house. We're a community that rarely sleeps; at almost every hour of the day, at least one of us is awake– rising before the sun to pray, correcting papers in the wee hours of the night, teaching a class or meeting with students, ministering to hospital patients in the middle of the day or the middle of the night, writing a scholarly article or an insightful homily, celebrating Mass, gathering for food and fellowship with the community. I'm one of the early birds; this morning offered me the insight of appreciating the place of my own daily rhythms of work, prayer, and rest within those of the community.


I feel called to see (and be) Christ's caring presence in the house as much as outside of it. I beheld such care today when, coming home for lunch, I found that one of my brothers had left at my door the special section of today's New York Times that detailed the results and stories of yesterday's New York City Marathon. Later in the afternoon, mulling over a new project for work and some other ideas brewing over the past few weeks, I noticed a growing desire for creativity that's slowly nudging aside some old attitudes of frustration. I'm used to waiting for an invitation to get involved in a project, and am more comfortable responding to immediate needs and requests than I am with proposing new ideas to address a given issue or area of concern. That won't change overnight, yet notions of such a shift in my way of thinking, doing, and being are slowly reaching into my heart, just as the streaks of late-afternoon sunlight slant delightfully through my windows and spread their subtle illuminations into my room.

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA