Time Out

St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

Early this morning, while most of Worcester County slept, one of my Jesuit brothers and I rose in the pre-dawn darkness, made our way to a nearby Trappist monastery, and settled into the hushed silence of the visitors' alcove in the main chapel. At 3:25am, the clear peals of the monastery's bells, swung by a middle-aged monk whose vigor seemed both beyond and at home in his slight frame, parted the night's stillness to summon the community, and the rare visitors like us, to prayer.

Having slept soundly for the previous six hours, and still not entirely awake, the bells remain my clearest memory of a 45-minute service of chants, hymns, readings, and prayers drawn from the Liturgy of the Hours, a form and structure of praying throughout the day. My prayer was surely not as vigorous or focused as that of the monks, and as I write this about twelve hours later, my recollection of its substance and content is equally vague. In fact, as my brother and I discussed our trip to Vigils– a rare effort for us requiring some advance planning and extra sleep, but an unchanging component of the monks' daily order– we both agreed that it seemed to be out of the normal flow of time, an isolated interval belonging neither to Thursday nor Friday.

Yet we were there, and speaking for myself, I wanted to pray as best as I could. I've been going through a tough patch with my spiritual life lately... falling into a regular temptation to make my prayer more intellectual than anything else, losing touch with feelings as I seek comfort and certainty in thoughts, having trouble listening to God no less than I talk about myself. I don't believe that I accomplished any of those goals in a time shrouded by drowsiness, but I do find myself continuing to meditate on that very experience of being, if only briefly, removed from my usual experience of the flow of time.

When does time stop, recede, or cease to matter for you? In the company of a beloved friend, significant other, or dear family member? In physical exercise or artistic activity? In prayer or worship? In sleep? While my vocation is not to the monastic life, in my various visits to cloistered communities of prayer and work in the Christian tradition, I have long admired how the order of their day prioritizes regular "time out" to pause, worship, and pray. In my pious imaginations, I envision that these intervals are full of brilliant enlightenment and graceful interaction with God. Perhaps their reality is, if only occasionally, closer to the dullness I currently feel, and includes a hunger and thirst for spiritual vibrancy. I know that making it to Vigils is something that I can only do once or twice a year– it takes so much effort, and feels almost alien to the rhythm of my life. But I can take deliberative measures to ensure that I regularly include this "time out" in my days, trusting that the eternal God is always there to meet me.

Visitor's chapel window

St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

Branching Out

Rehm Library

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

I've been spending lots of time with my laptop lately, doing research and writing for a grant-writing project at Holy Cross. In seeking some music to keep me company during long hours in this lovely library, I've discovered some wonderful folk artists whose artful compositions and finely crafted lyrics have filled me with unexpected inspiration and admiration. Today, the song "Head Full of Doubt" by the Avett Brothers caught my attention– I listened to it several times– with its rich musical texture, several stark phrases (let alone the opening refrain), and some questions it poses to me about dreams, authenticity, and happiness. Feel free to look it up, have a listen, and let me know what you think.

Also, I'm trying out something new for the style of this blog; the large picture between the blog title and the most recent post will reflect the image I have on my desktop. As always, your comments are most welcome!

Passages

Copley Square

Boston MA

For the past two Sundays, I've had the opportunity to fill in for a Jesuit in my community who serves as a hospital chaplain, leading a pair of communion services while he was away on vacation. Over the past week or so, with many members of the community traveling for retreats, family visits, conferences, and vacations, we've had some smaller numbers at the afternoon liturgy in the house. Consequently, I've stepped into the role of lector with greater than usual frequency. Apart from the experience of these liturgical ministries, I've been struck by the depth and relevance of the Scriptures that have been the focus of my reading and preaching this month.

The parables from chapter 13 of Matthew's Gospel– the sower and the seed (Matthew 13:1-23), the weeds and the wheat (Matthew 13:24-43)– that have appeared the past two Sundays, along with the successive episodes from Exodus in the weekday readings, have together presented a helpful framework for meditating on the state of my spirit and the progression of my journey as I near the completion of my seventh year as a Jesuit. I'm the kind of person who struggles with perfectionist tendencies, and I've long held myself to high standards that sometimes exceed my reach more than they motivate me to stretch and grow. I can appreciate the wonders, graces, and quaint surprises to be found on a leisurely drive through the countryside, yet I do not always have the same patience and acceptance of delays, detours, or obstacles in the path that I've envisioned for myself. Although it's easy to say, along with the owner of the field where weeds are scattered amidst the wheat, "An enemy has done this" (Matthew 13:28), I know that I'm quite responsible for my own reactions to the personal imperfections, blemishes, and shortcomings that I all to easily see in myself. Moreover, I do not always respond with the wisdom of the landowner, who notes, "if you pull up the weeds you might uproot the wheat along with them. Let them grow together until harvest..." (Matthew 13:29-30).

As I renew my efforts to see God's care and wisdom in the coexistence of weeds and wheat in my life, I've been inspired by the comparatively arid imagery of Israel in the desert. Fleeing from the Egyptians, passing through the Red Sea, gathering manna, complaining about harsh conditions, I can easily see myself among this crowd. The hot and hazy July weather, the long arc of priestly formation, the ongoing transition into work at Holy Cross, the various summer projects still unfinished– these all push me to wonder not only what lies beyond the next bend in the road, but also when I'll get there. When I've wondered where God is amid this sometimes trackless expanse, in the imagery of Exodus an answer emerges: all around me. In the passage through the Red Sea, the physical and symbolic chaos of the ocean surrounds, but does not overwhelm, the Israelites. When manna is provided from heaven to nourish the Israelites in the desert, it blankets their entire camp and remains for them to gather, rather than simply appearing in their tents. God's gentle and powerful omnipresence becomes humble, personal, on a human scale– with a little bit of work on our part to gather in or walk among such signs.

I believe that each of us is on a journey, and that our paths, though unique, are never completely separate. Whether intersecting briefly, aligning for a time, or regularly and repeatedly crossing over one another, the routes we travel are surrounded by God, laid through landscapes that are rarely uniform, yet ultimately destined for good and fruitful harvests, and often marked by early hints of such abundance. Be assured of my prayers for your journeys, and kindly remember mine in yours.

For Team and Country

Although my primary athletic pursuits– distance running and hiking– do lend themselves to my more individualistic and contemplative side, in recent years I've become an avid fan of two team sports: baseball and soccer. I owe the renewal of my passion for our national pastime to my three years in St. Louis, and, I suppose, my current residence in territory solidly included in the Red Sox Nation. Living in a region where people of all ages, economic levels, backgrounds, and neighborhoods unite in support of their team, and where many players on the local team take an active (and interactive) interest in the lives of their fans and the situations in their cities, provides an image of community that regularly inspires me. I owe my enthusiasm for soccer– and tendency to shout in Spanish and jump around during especially tense moments in the game– to the Chilean Jesuits with whom I spent three months in the summer of 2007. The fact that their national team was playing in the Copa America tournament at the time, a situation which somewhat modified the house schedule according to the team's matches, certainly didn't hurt.

It's a great time of year for my two favorite sports. Major League Baseball is celebrating All-Star Week, with many of the game's most famous and most talented athletes setting aside team affiliations and engaging in contests that highlight not only their skills and cooperation, but also the way that the game can bring together fans from throughout the country. The Women's World Cup, currently being held in Germany, has reached its semifinal stage, with only four teams remaining from the sixteen who began the tournament at the beginning of the month. I spent much of the weekend watching the quarterfinal matches, which featured surprises, disappointments, some controversial officiating, and wild swings of momentum and emotion. Germany, the host nation, was eliminated after a scoreless tie went into extra time and was finally broken by a Japanese team that played with the skill, heart, and soul of not only their 11 players on the pitch, but also, it seemed, of their entire nation. The United States, as individuals and a team, battled their way back after giving up a lead, having a player sent off, surrendering a goal in overtime, and surviving nearly an hour of soccer, one player short, to triumph at the last moment by scoring a tying goal and winning a penalty shootout as time ran out– all against an incredibly talented, artistic, and often dazzling Brazilian team. In several postgame interviews, the American women regularly referred their gratitude, their amazement, and their speechless joy to the way their teammates competed, held together, and never gave up hope... and stated in various ways that such a display is emblematic of the best ideals of their country and its people. After watching these women play some of the most thrilling and memorable soccer I've seen for quite some time, I couldn't help but agree with them.

A week after celebrating the 4th of July, as the United States and its people move into the height of summer, and alongside the diversions of baseball and soccer, countless hopes, challenges, dreams, tensions, and thoughts animate the hearts and minds of the nation. How can we look up to and imitate not only those who swing bats to the accolades of millions, but also the millions who swing hammers in humbler arenas? Do we admire wearers of numbered jerseys as well as those who don suits and keep numbers and figures in order? A number of the women on the World Cup team are mothers; after the game, goalkeeper Hope Solo headed to the stands and was handed a small child, whom she held with a delicacy as profound as the fierceness with which she stopped a decisive penalty shot ten minutes earlier. Countless mothers among us are no less heroic, and perhaps far less widely noted. The gifts and contributions of individuals on our nation's great team– more than 300 million strong– represent a remarkable resource, with the potential to lift up homes, neighborhoods, cities, perhaps even the whole world. Let's make sure we do our best– for team and country.

And, in case anyone's wondering, although I live in Red Sox Nation, I'm an unapologetic Phillies fan, and will be rooting for the National League tomorrow night.

The Phillie Phanatic

Permeability

"For just as from the heavens

the rain and snow come down

And do not return there

till they have watered the earth,

making it fertile and fruitful,

Giving seed to him who sows

and bread to him who eats,

So shall my word be

that goes forth from my mouth;

It shall not return to me void,

but shall do my will,

achieving the end for which I sent it."

– Isaiah 55:10-11

This passage, which is the first reading for this coming Sunday, has been on my mind recently, as I've been asked to lead a communion service at a local hospital where one of my brothers is a chaplain. I've always enjoyed its imagery for divine grace– especially as we in New England have seen a prodigious amount of snow and rain this winter and spring, producing some lovely seasonal scenery. Perhaps God has much to tell us!

I was blessed with an experience during my morning run today that hasn't happened in quite some time– I was caught in a rainstorm. After fifteen minutes of steady downpour, torrents of runoff flowed through the streets, creating small rivers that eventually, I was forced to stride through. Then it hit me– when I'm more resistant to God's presence in my life, or various blessings offered to me through daily events and interactions, perhaps the result is lots of stormy runoff. I've lately found it more challenging to be like grassy fields, verdant shrubs, or stately trees– patient with growth, depending on external influences, and "softer" than the hard, artificial surfaces on which I run. Yet it is these elements of creation that are highlighted by Isaiah, and these that I found myself admiring during my sodden spin around the neighborhood. Oddly enough, it was the act of getting soaked that encouraged me to be more open to God's word through the remainder of the day, and still motivates the journey of spiritual renewal that is one of my summer projects.

Outlet of South Pond

Salisbury CT

Freedom

New senior apartments (opening August 2011)

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Earlier this evening, as I've done many times over the past several days, I went for a stroll around campus after dinner. Holy Cross is rather quiet at this time of year; other than a basketball camp for local youth, an array of construction projects, and a handful of administrators working on summer projects, there aren't many people around, and the place really empties out by 5pm. A long stretch of rainy days at the end of June has given way to a refreshing and pleasant pattern of bright, crisp mornings giving way to mild, sunny days that gently slide into clear, cool nights– perfect for lingering outdoors at any hour.

At this halfway point of the year, a long weekend encompassing national holidays in both Canada and the United States, I find myself musing on what I've learned during 2011 thus far, and wondering what the remainder of this year holds. Thanks to my friendship with a Canadian Jesuit who spent some time in our community, I feel a closer affinity to our neighbor to the north. Thanks to a transition from teaching at Nativity to working at the College, I'm experiencing the newness of a different schedule, a new line of work, and a welcome shift in the focus of my days. With a calmer and less stressful routine, I'm finding more time and energy to pray, a gift that is revealing the aspects of my relationship with Jesus that need renewal. Simply having the time and space to come to that realization is itself a gift, and it's my hope that the coming summer weeks will continue to offer an atmosphere in which to devote the effort and energy necessary to allow greater vibrancy and familiarity to return to a valued friendship whose strength and support I've been missing. Thanks to the witness of several close friends who, whether frankly revealing the pain of current struggles, excitedly sharing new opportunities that beckon, or calling out of me some tales of the joys and anxieties that I harbor quietly, I've got a partial map, and some inspiring examples, to follow along this length of my spiritual journey.

Freedom is striking me anew as the wonderful gift that it is, and the responsibility that it carries. It is by no means a liberation from work, but rather a key tool for doing, and being, my best as a Jesuit, friend, member of my family, and global citizen. It is indeed something to celebrate, whether with others or alone, ably honored with fireworks and jubilation, yet just as fruitfully savored during a tranquil stroll through a quiet place under a lovely sky.

Sunset over Fenwick Hall

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA