Glimpses of a Liturgical Nomad

For the first time in several years, I celebrated the various liturgies of the Easter Triduum in a number of different places. Far from being a disjointed experience of the holiest days of the Christian calendar, my travels as a liturgical nomad brought unexpected integration and harmony after a Lenten season that was rarely marked my such graces. Whether washing the feet of a fellow worshipper at Holy Cross on Thursday evening, kneeling with barefoot monks amidst a soulfully intoned proclamation of the Passion on Good Friday, or singing enthusiastically at the bilingual Easter Vigil as the Easter bonfire illuminated the towering vaults of the cathedral in downtown Worcester, I encountered the mystery, the power, and the deep reality of these communal recollections of Jesus' journey from life through death to new life.

Tomorrow, along with my colleagues and students, I return to the classroom. Six weeks remain until the school year closes, and the Nativity community celebrates the graduation of the fourteen 8th graders in the class named for Jesuit martyr Miguel Pro. I go back with some slight trepidation– a natural result of all my struggles there over the past several months– but also with some renewed confidence and hope that, finally, I can see in my scattered and uncertain efforts the same kind of progress, unity, and fruitfulness that I experienced in several very different liturgies over the past several days. The same holds true as I meditate upon my place in the school community; whereas I have often felt distant and isolated, perhaps that is merely an illusion. For in going to some of these services on my own, and despite not personally knowing my fellow worshippers, I felt that we were nonetheless joined in familiarity and faith, forming solidarity from a group of strangers, and creating inclusiveness among a gathering of individuals. I hope and pray that these lessons may be well learned– and perhaps even taught anew– in the Easter season.

Praying

Tonight, after quiet visits to a number of local parishes for Eucharistic Adoration, I was reminded of a poem I composed for Holy Thursday three years ago. Though I don't quite feel the consolation and vitality I did in spring of 2008, these words still ring true to me.

We've washed, we've eaten.

Walking out into the darkness,

the Lord seeks our company

for a less gleeful sharing.

And so we seek him,

journeying from church to church,

faithful havens we often pass

in our hurried lives.

Each a modern Gethsemane

in a city honoring a saint

yet abounding in valleys

of gloom, despair, and tears.

No longer bread and wine,

now it is glorified flesh

and a cup of blood whose

fearfulness we can never know.

Spirits hover in darkened vaults

while cassocked seminarians,

and plainclothes religious,

and sacred laity pray together.

Lost in one way or another,

found here on their knees,

inclining toward a troubled light

still needed beyond the door.

Waiting

East Brookfield, MA

A country drive this morning with two of my brothers, which included a visit to the nearby Trappist monastery as well as an apple orchard several hills away, occasioned some reflections on the slow return of life and vitality to the more rural landscapes surrounding Worcester. As I've noted, it's been a long winter, in terms of physical weather and my own spiritual climate. With the conclusion of Lent, I've been musing on what has been accomplished by my training in prayer and action. I wish I could be prouder of my accomplishments in this area than I am of my shared achievements on the Boston Marathon course; it seems that I was not entirely successful in attaining my goals. As the Easter Triduum begins this evening with the remembrance of the Last Supper, I feel an affinity with some of the landscapes and scenes I witnessed today– fields still littered with autumnal detritus yet ready for new growth; bright yet still feeble flowers assailed by a blustery wind; the robin's nest outside my window, built delicately with a haphazard tangle of material. What will that future growth look like, and when will it emerge? What wondrous moments along that course are occurring today?

"A Prayer in Spring"

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away

As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid-air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

The which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends He will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

– Robert Frost

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Settling

Athletes' Village, Hopkinton MA

A number of times along the Boston Marathon course yesterday, Matt and I remarked to one another that the full sense of the experience– cheering crowds, different towns, challenging hills, long final miles– would slowly sink in after the fact. Speaking for myself, as I've relived and reflected upon the race over the past 24 hours, I'd have to agree.

I'm impressed by and grateful for the way that Matt and I worked together through each of the towns from Hopkinton to Boston. Whether I was telling him to slow down in the early downhill miles, helping him run the inside tangents, or sharing memories from last year, there was something wonderful about keeping pace with a friend who has helped and accompanied me through countless miles in St. Louis winters and a Washington DC summer. Entering the Newton Hills, I was led up them by his strong climbing as much as by all of my training on the wicked inclines scattered around my Saturday morning routes south of Worcester. In the final miles along Beacon Street, when he offered to let me go ahead and chase something– a faster time, a stronger finish, whatever– I declined, and did my best to balance a steady rhythm with a pace that wouldn't leave him behind. We finished together, tired yet fulfilled and jubilant.

I've been finding links between my running and my teaching through the course of my training, and today I discovered another one. At the end of the Haunted Mile, when Matt offered to cut me loose, I gave that idea more than passing consideration. At that point, with four miles to go, I still had a long shot of finishing just under three hours. It would have required significant speed, gritty perseverance, and a lonely surge through considerable pain and fatigue. It would also have meant leaving Matt to his own devices, and while I knew he could finish, I knew he was struggling no less than I was. And I realized that I had no personal goal that could offer as much fulfillment of staying with Matt until the (hopefully not too bitter) end of the course. There was also the distinct possibility that each of us could collapse if we chose to work individually after striving together for two and a half hours. Today it hit me: in my worst and most selfish moments, I've wanted to escape the confines and disappointments of a situation in which I feel I'm not doing my best or actualizing my full potential, and moving on to some other position that would be "easier," more "glamorous," or less messy. Why be a mediocre middle school teacher when I could be an outstanding campus minister? Why ease off the throttle and roll to three hours and some extra minutes when I could fire up the afterburners and chase down another sub-three hour performance? Amid the roar of the crowd, the gently searing pain of lactic acid seeping through my quadriceps, my friendship and company with Matt gave me my answer. Those things I dream of... there's no guarantee that they'd come to pass. The gifts in the present moment... I may not realize in the moment how precious they are, but I'd later regret giving them up if I did. Reaching the end of Boylston would have been a lesser celebration without Matt at my side; any "success" I might have had in a different ministry would have been lessened by the notion that I chose, as various social and economic structures have done with varying degrees of collective intentionality, to leave behind some wonderful boys in the humble city that I now call home.

God willing, plenty of other races and marathons remain in my future, just as my course of Jesuit formation offers many exciting opportunities for personal, professional, pastoral, and intellectual growth in the coming years. But I was blessed by a memorable reminder of the importance and joy of staying the course, of running the race set out for me– on the roads, in the classroom, wherever life asks and invites me to keep putting one foot in front of the other, helping others and myself to make progress.

Putting my feet up!

Marathon Monday

2011 Boston Marathon finishers

Matt and I ran the whole course together, through ups and downs that were as physical and mental as they were topographical. After training together for three years, in two different cities, our third marathon together was the best. Thanks, Matt, for a great race, and the blessings of an ongoing journey of training and friendship.

More stories tomorrow.

Oh, we finished in 3:05:37.

Ready, Set...

Hopkinton, MA

After fourteen weeks of training, nearly 450 miles (many of them run in temperatures below freezing), and a few recent days of exciting suspense, I'm turning in early for my pre-marathon sleep. Tomorrow's an early start: up before 5am, meeting Matt at the T by 5:30am, boarding a bus at 6am for the frighteningly long ride to Hopkinton, swapping stories for a few hours with some of the other 27,000 intrepid souls running the marathon tomorrow. After so much preparation, it all starts here. Ready, set...

Claude has his spot picked out...

An inspirational New Balance ad (Park Street Station)

Only 26. 2 miles away!

Beguiled

Mile 21, Boston Marathon

Nearly a month ago, I wrote about where my Boston Marathon training stood– a combination of strengths and weaknesses, successes and setbacks. Over the past few weeks, thanks to patience, perseverance, and some slightly torturous sessions of physical therapy involving a long metal bar dragged across my iliotibial band, I got back on the road, built my endurance back to 18 miles, and regained a sense of confidence that I can make it from Hopkinton to Boston on Monday.

Yet I've not been deceived into thinking that it will be an easy effort on Patriots' Day, even with a favorable weather forecast: upper 40s to low 50s, partly cloudy, and a 20mph tailwind. Having run the course the last year, I know many of its secrets. The first four miles are almost all downhill– so don't go out too fast. The large crowd filling the common in Natick at mile 10– the first undeniable sign that this race is a big deal for spectators– is a few miles short of the halfway mark. The sharp descent through Newton Lower Falls just past mile 15 is soon followed by Hell's Alley, the long, slow, barren climb over I-95 that will surely be a swirl of wind, highway noise, and loneliness. Then, the famous firehouse turn at 17 miles, and the legendary Newton Hills. If they're run well, cresting Heartbreak Hill and passing Boston College at mile 21 can feel like a triumphant conquest– but it's still five miles to Copley Square, and the first of those miles is haunted. Last year, I stared down those ghosts and ran a 6:35 from BC to Cleveland Circle, but then Beacon Street grabbed my ankles, slowing me to a 6:54 pace. There's a nasty underpass at Mass. Ave. with half a mile to go (St. Louisans: remember running under Grand and then climbing the Death Hill past Chaifetz and Harris-Stowe?), and for all the hoopla and energy on Boylston Street for the final straightaway, it's still a long five blocks.

Where I have been deceived, though, is at school. In the past four weeks, as my marathon training has regained steam, it seems like my teaching has fallen apart. Some of my 8th grade students are, quite understandably and appropriately, ready to move on to high school. Yet when that anticipation is expressed in ways that frustrate me– sluggishness to follow instructions, deliberately working below potential on assignments, rude reactions to gentle reminders– I begin to wonder where I'm going wrong. My enthusiasm for teaching material I know and enjoy– from Reconstruction in the South after the Civil War, to methods of prayer and discernment from Ignatian spirituality– wavers in the face of anxiety about getting pushed around in the classroom, and roughed up by my own self-criticism afterwards. And whereas I've find comfort in the solitude of long Saturday morning training runs for the past few months, at school I've been trapped in the negativity of the other side of that coin– isolation from my colleagues over my fears that I'm not skilled, talented, or successful enough to teach alongside them. Though I've only run Boston once, I can still clearly recall many of the details and quirks of that 26.2-mile course. This closed loop of fear, anxiety, and cynicism that I've traced at work, though well worn, remains a mysterious course bereft of landmarks, progress, and a clear way out. I know that I've gone off course, having misread, or failed to follow, some important signs.

Perhaps the greatest secret of Marathon Monday, one especially difficult to explain to first-timers, is the power of the spectators. Little kids holding out their gloved hands for a high five. The auto glass shop in Framingham that puts dark reflective shades in its plate-glass storefront and proudly advertises: "Check yourself out in our windows!" The house just past Lake Cochituate, right before mile 10 in Natick, with a huge banner and an arrow pointing to the front door labeled "Shortcut!" The rolling screams of the Wellesley students at mile 12. The way that a wall of cheers, drumbeats, horns, whistles, and even costumes (last year I saw Captain America at mile 20) from a crowd at least six deep, on both sides of Commonwealth Avenue, for the four grueling uphill miles from the Newton Firehouse to Boston College carries the wicked strong and the seriously wavering alike through the Newtown Hills. The transformation of Kenmore Square, heralded by the looming and immovable CITGO sign, from a snarl of traffic to a sea of spectators, with runners funneled through a narrow ribbon of pavement, in a parade of glory and exuberance that transcends the pain flooding tired legs, spent muscles, and a mind weary from a duel of wills between perseverance and fatigue.

Ultimately, come Monday, I just want to run and have a great time– in both the experiential and the chronological sense of the word. My friend and longtime training partner Matt, with whom I've prepared for three marathons and run two (he did an extra while I did a two-day cycling fundraiser), will be running his first Boston. Some colleagues from school– the same whose good opinions of me I often struggle to believe– will be scattered along the course. My parents will be at the finish, as they have been for three of my previous five marathons. When I return to school after Easter break, I just want to teach and do well, and perhaps more importantly, to finally believe that I have been doing so for longer than I think. It's time to vanquish some uncertainties, illusions, and deceptions. A marathon does that so well. And this one may just get me back on course.

Boylston Street, Boston Marathon

Rhode Island Weekend

Cliff Walk, Newport RI

I spent much of this weekend in Rhode Island for an extended Dartmouth reunion of sorts– my classmate Monica is in a doctoral program in art history at Brown, and our friend Anna Mae (a longtime chaplain at the Dartmouth's Catholic Student Center) is director of campus ministry at Salve Regina University. Amid the first genuinely springlike Saturday and Sunday of the season, Monica, Anna Mae, and I attended Mass, enjoyed swapping years of stories (it's been seven years since we all gathered in the same place), and strolled Newport's famous Cliff Walk past impressive mansions, a few of which are on Salve's campus.

This post is also an opportunity to introduce a traveling companion of mine– a gargoyle whom I've named Claude (pronounced, of course, "Clawed"). During my years as a scholastic at Saint Louis University, a number of students and I frequented a particular spot on campus, and were likened to gargoyles by one of the campus ministers. Upon graduation in May 2009, members of our informal Gargoyle Club not only bestowed on me the honor of "superior gargoyle emeritus," but also gifted me with a gargoyle figurine. That summer, Claude accompanied me to San Francisco and back, and more recently, has come along for various expeditions around New England. Claude had a great time visiting Newport's Cliff Walk today.

Claude visits The Breakers, Newport RI

Claude on the Cliff Walk, Newport RI

The homily at Mass this morning– on Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead in Chapter 11 of John's Gospel– was striking to me in an unexpected way. It didn't specifically address some of the major themes in this powerful story– the fact that Lazarus dies while Jesus waits two days before going to visit him and his sisters; the contrast between the faith of Martha and Mary, and the confusion of the disciples; the growing tension between Jesus and the Pharisees that heightens in the aftermath of this event. Instead, the celebrant chose to preach on Jesus' internal reactions to the situation developing around him– the emotions of Lazarus' sisters, the reaction of the crowd, the nearness of death– in a way that led me to reflect on my own responses to challenging and difficult situations that appear on the horizon. As I've written earlier this Lent, my efforts to diminish my tendency to self-criticism have been hard-fought yet inconsistent, and every looming setback fills me more with foreboding than with boldness. Yet in following an praying with Jesus over the last three Sundays of Lent– meeting the woman at the well (John 4:5-42), healing the man born blind (John 9:1-41), and now raising Lazarus (John 11:1-45)– has urged me to recognize my own need for honesty with myself and with others (and rebuilding the relationships of trust and mutual acceptance that enable that honesty to develop), to see myself more authentically (and also through the eyes of those who know me well), and to recognize that Jesus is present not only in my progress and accomplishments, but also in times when I'm dismayed, for he too felt this on that fateful day in Bethany.

All things considered, it was a pretty fabulous weekend– great weather, some refreshing solitary rambling, the delight of sharing hours of warm company and rich conversation, the insights of quiet prayer, and the growing mildness that heralds, at last, the arrival of spring here in New England.

Daffodils, Providence RI

High Points

Jerimoth Hill, RI

In making a bucket list for my three years of regency in Worcester, I included two sets of items designed to encourage travel, prayer, and some enjoyment of the great outdoors. New England has 11 dioceses, which means there are 11 cathedral to visit. Each state also has a high point, some more accessible than others. Today I checked off both sites in Rhode Island– Jerimoth Hill (elevation 812 feet) and the Cathedral of Sts. Peter and Paul in downtown Providence.

The hilltop is just a three-minute stroll from the side of a state highway, and in the middle of a stand of trees. The cathedral, some 25 miles away, is in the midst of a brick plaza bounded by apartments, a diocesan office building, and a small park. Neither space had the grandeur and impressiveness of the other cathedrals and high points I've reached, but I enjoyed being able to visit both within two hours, and the way that each quietly raised my spirits on a mild spring afternoon.

Cathedral of Sts. Peter and Paul, Providence RI

Waiting

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

The temperature did hit 50 degrees in Worcester this afternoon, though a brisk north wind carried some chilliness that blunted the strength of the warm sunshine. After sitting on a bench for a short while, I strolled by the greenhouse, and noticed how full it suddenly was. So many plants and flowers, all neatly arranged, waiting to be spread out around campus.

Spring is taking a long time to arrive in Worcester this year... I don't remember it being this much of a wait last year. Some other things that I've been waiting for lately have also been taking a long time to arrive: more confidence in the classroom, less self-criticism about myself in general, a greater readiness to be generous with my time and my talents when the situations in which I might do so inspire more fear than fortitude, more anxiety than ambition.

I'm trying to hope that these graces I seek– but don't always ask for– are growing somewhere, and will one day be given to me to take root in my life, somehow... just like a campus that is still not quite ready for the flowers in the greenhouse, though desirous of the season that they signify.

Fooled

Despite awaking to this scene outside my window, we did have school today, and it's just as well. First Friday Mass was celebrated, the third marking period was officially closed, and no foolish pranks were pulled on me. Most of the snow was gone by the end of the day, and while the Red Sox lost their opener in Texas, the Phillies came from behind at home against Houston to win in the bottom of the ninth.

Farewell, winter... it's time for spring... and baseball season is here!