Random Order

It's been a busy week at work as the grant proposal I'm involved with nears conclusion, and many large pieces of the project fall into place. In focusing so heavily on making my fullest and best contributions to a final product that will hopefully be convincing, I've found myself a little too preoccupied with order and perfection to notice the random, scattered, and subtle reminders of God's presence around and within me. These days have been filled with some measure of tension– unsettled weather wavering between summer and fall, the semester's smoothly building momentum approaching a one-week break in mid-October, and baseball playoff races instilling a range of emotion, from swelling hope in St. Louis to frustrated exasperation in Red Sox Nation.

A friend's visit this weekend inspired a hiking trip in northwestern Massachusetts, where recent rains from two hurricanes have left a mountainous natural landscape lush with vegetation, as well as devastating flooding in the villages and towns nestled in the valleys below. The mere– in reality, a rather majestic– experience of being in the woods, sheltered from gentle rain by a canopy of leaves slowly altering their hues, surrounded by a preponderance of fungi and seeping dampness, instilled in me a renewed admiration for the beauty to be found in the flow of water, the slithering progress of a slug on a fallen log, or a single golden leaf suspended from an ethereal filament of a spider's long-abandoned spinning. Though all are merely elements of nature following physical laws, I saw them as portraying so much more.

Earlier in the week, praying with the Gospel story that describes the call of St. Matthew (Matthew 9:9-13), I was blessed with a similar realization about his response to an unexpected encounter with the divine. In my journal, I wrote, "Jesus didn't call a tax collector, he called Matthew... a distinction lost on those who focused on his occupation more than his identity. He may not have known how to be a disciple of Jesus, but he was convinced that he wanted to follow Jesus. I may not always feel capable in my job, but I want to offer myself to the mission I've been given, and the one who entrusts me with it."

These insights, and others throughout the week, weren't easily found amid the clutter of stress that I unconsciously allowed to gather around me. Thankfully, I'm getting better at settling myself during various moments, whether deliberately scheduled prayer times or serendipitous and unstructured intervals that emerge in a day's rhythm. The intentional effort of a planned hiking expedition yielded to surprises and wonders I could never have imagined or planned. I'm hesitant to abandon too much of the structure in my life, yet I'm stirred to delve more deeply into the divinely ordered mystery that provides the real vitality in the world, the people surrounding me, and the landscape of my existence.

[All pictures taken along Gould Trail, Mt. Greylock, Adams MA]

Beckoning Changes

"A Time to Talk"

When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

I don't stand still and look around

On all the hills I haven't hoed,

And shout from where I am, "What is it?"

No, not as there is a time to talk.

I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,

Blade-end up and five feet tall,

And plod: I go up to the stone wall

For a friendly visit.

– Robert Frost

It's been a long week filled with much activity– various labors on the different aspects of the grant proposal with which I'm involved, attending a number of campus events, receiving and meditating upon several letters from friends, a series of conversations that have been both challenging and rewarding, and trying to avail myself of opportunities for rest and prayer amidst it all.

A strong cold front passed through New England late Thursday night, ushering in the first taste of autumn after a warm summer and a spell of flooding tropical rains as the academic year opened a few weeks ago. Beyond the initial sense of refreshment and excitement that I feel with the arrival of cooler temperatures, crisper air, and the first hints of changing foliage, I notice God's invitation to the sort of friendly visit that Frost describes in this poem. After a week of writing and meetings related to the grant project, I feel the call to relate some of my story. After some sessions of intense listening, I feel as if God may be willing to listen to me. Reflecting on my growing participation in campus life, I sense an opening to deepen my participation in God's designs for my life.

Though the weather is growing cooler, I still feel the draw to come outside– both in a physical sense and a spiritual sense. Though my spirit is willing, my mind can be weak or resistant... and so I go slowly to the edge of the wall that I have built, and hope to more freely meet the one who patiently awaits me there. 

Exaltation of the Holy Cross

Today the Catholic Church celebrates a feast called "The Exaltation of the Holy Cross," one of the few occasions when, instead of honoring a particular saint, believers are called to focus their devotion and attention on a particular item with great significance in the Catholic faith. Most Jesuit schools in the United States are named after saints, Jesuits and otherwise, or the locales where they were established; as far as I know, Holy Cross is the lone exception. So why name the College, which in turn takes its name from the Catholic cathedral in Boston, after not a saint but an object?

  

The readings for Mass today, and the homily that was offered at midday by one of my fellow Jesuits, present the cross as a sign of God's love for humanity, Jesus' desire to reconcile human sinfulness with divine forgiveness, and the power of grace to turn any instrument or event– even one of intense suffering and cruel humiliation– into a means of healing and rebirth.

I've been thinking about this lately in the context of conversations with a good friend who is processing some past trauma, and the lingering effects of this on her self-image, relationships with others, and overall practical and spiritual worldview. In the course of these discussions, I'm quite aware of how reluctant I am to admit and face the sufferings in my own life; I prefer to ignore them, and struggle to believe that God can be present in them or bring any good out of them. Yet I've been blessed to see a gradual, sometimes halting, yet undeniably vigorous process of healing and recovery gathering momentum in my friend's life. I have deep faith in, and profound admiration for, the profound grace animating her rebirth, a power that inspires me to look upon my suffering and invite the power of God to lift me up, as I see it lifting her.

I can't help but think that this mysterious process is, in part, a key aspect of the existence, work, and legacy of the College. In offering an education that strives not only to develop some of the best and the brightest undergraduates, but also form them into "men and women for others," Holy Cross does more than merely show students what there is to know and learn about the world– it invites them to know and learn about themselves through God's eyes. And insofar as this enables all members of our community to become their fullest selves, share their gifts fruitfully with those around them, and lean on their companions through a variety of joys and sorrows, successes and sufferings, we all experience deeply the joy of being raised up. Lift high the Cross!

[Photo captions: Top: Jesuit Cemetery, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA; Middle: Jesuit Community Retreat, southern Chile; Bottom: Driftwood Cross, Mississippi River/White House Retreat, St. Louis MO]

Hospitality

Several times each year, the trustees of the College of the Holy Cross gather on campus for several days of meetings. It's become a tradition during their September visit to host them for dinner at the Jesuit community– an event that transforms our modest and comfortable home into an especially attractive and inviting venue. Years ago, as a Jesuit novice, my brothers and I took turns doing all the domestic tasks of the community– cleaning (bathrooms included), shopping, yard work, keeping the cars serviced, minor household repairs, and cooking. Even for our larger annual functions– a Christmas party for the men and women who welcomed us to join in their work with the needy in Syracuse, a vocations event for men considering life as a Jesuit, a weekend for our families to visit, and the annual celebration of vows– we did all the preparation, cooking, and cleaning, though we did rent a bunch of tables and chairs when necessary. One of my brothers joked that we ran the best catering service in upstate New York, and another said that the most important item in the house was our commercial dishwasher. There was no such work for my community in Worcester to do last night– we simply opened our doors, appreciated the hard work of a wonderful staff from dining services as they prepared and served a fine meal, and welcomed a group of devoted and generous trustees and administrators into our home.

Trustee Dinner @ Ciampi Hall

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

There's a spot on the community bulletin board where the guest list is posted, indicating who's coming to stay with us for one or more days. At the top of the list is the phrase "Hospes venit, Christus venit"– "A guest comes, Christ comes." While it's a custom for Jesuit houses to welcome traveling Jesuits, and occasionally relatives and friends, whether they're arriving from across the state or across the sea, I've found this hospitality to be particularly pronounced, and refreshingly expansive, in the community where I now live. Hosting a dinner for 75 is a big deal, given that there are usually 20 of us around for dinner on a given night. Yet whenever I've been called upon to share in the community's mission of making space for guests, I've always found myself filled by the energy, newness, and presence that they bring when they come under our roof.

When I traveled across the country by train in July and August of 2009, I depended heavily on the hospitality of Jesuits, friends, and family along my journey from San Francisco to Worcester. I was often touched by the kindness of the hospitality that I received, as I know that it necessitated some work: setting up an extra room or a couch, making sure I was well nourished, showing me around their neighborhoods, driving me to and from train stations at times and locations that weren't entirely convenient (the Phoenix stop is in the middle of the desert 30+ miles away from the city; the Sunset Limited pulled into Houston just before sunrise). And just a few weeks ago, while in Syracuse for vow weekend (novitiate catering was at its finest, by the way), I stopped by to visit a family from the parish where I worshipped during my first two years as a Jesuit. They gladly welcomed me in, and within ten minutes there was freshly sliced cheese, a nice spread of crackers and hummus, and some lemonade at the table where we sat, gleefully catching up on one another's lives and adventures from the past year.

Such hospitality is nothing new– it's deeply embedded in many cultures around the world, it's a key characteristic in strong bonds among families and friends, and it's a relatively straightforward way to extend and share happiness, peace, and nourishment for body and soul. Yet I occasionally need to be reminded– as I was last night amid good company– that the effort involved in being hospitable returns to me with those whom I may welcome, and allows me to better glimpse Christ, who welcomes us all.

[A slightly related postscript: NPR recently featured a story on Baghdad College, a school established in the Iraqi capital and staffed by New England Jesuits from the 1930s until the late 1960s. I know several of the Jesuits who were interviewed for this story, though they aren't mentioned by name, and several members of my community lived and taught in Baghdad when they were my age. As of this posting, the story can be found here.]

New Spaces

As I mentioned in my previous post, the area north of the Hogan Campus Center at Holy Cross underwent a major transformation that required nearly the entire summer to complete. Crews began the project on the first business day after Commencement in May, and laid down the last rolls of sod two days before first-year students arrived on campus at the end of August. A key route between many locations– the library, the campus center, and the complex of buildings that houses most faculty and administrative offices– was fenced off, and the end result lay indiscernible amid piles of dirt, coils of wire, pallets of brick and stone, and a small armada of construction equipment.

When the machines rolled away and the fences were removed, the resulting landscape looked both perfectly natural and stunningly new. A space that had once consisted of a road, a swath of concrete worn and chipped by brutal winters, and a modest area of grass became a sweeping lawn edged by curving stone, terraced beds of rose bushes, and expansive views. At once a pedestrian thoroughfare and a gathering place, stocked with new benches and a shaded seating area, it is emerging as a new hub of activity on campus.

I'm fascinated by the shift in campus culture being driven by this reshaping of the built environment. (With regard to the natural environment, although some shrubbery and a particular tree were sacrificed, much of the plant life was retained, and one tree is delighting in a newfound starring role.) Recent warm weather has helped, but the space itself seems to be encouraging students, faculty, and staff alike to walk a little more slowly and consciously through the plaza, or use it as a place to work, eat, study, relax, or toss baseballs, footballs, and frisbees. In spending some time there myself, whether steadily revising a grant proposal, reading a book in the early evening, or meeting and passing members of the College community, I've heard many positive comments about the new plaza, as well as some rather creative nicknames. (My favorite is "The Hoval"– shortened from "The Hogan Oval.")

I'm sure that things will change as the semester gets busier, the weather turns cooler, and the novelty of the new configuration starts to wear off. Yet I'm optimistic that there will be a lasting change in more than just how students, faculty, and staff move about this area of the campus. Some of the chatter that I've heard suggests to me that folks are impressed with more than just "The Hoval," but with the investment Holy Cross has made in creating a space that's aesthetically welcoming as well as comfortably functional. I can't help but wonder if this might inspire people to attend to their own patterns of interaction in a manner that produces a similar smoothness and harmony in accomplishing tasks, advancing projects, and building community. I know that I'm thinking about such things as I savor not only the redesigned space, but also the reshaped patterns resulting within me.

Labor Day

Throughout this past summer, I couldn't walk around the Holy Cross campus without running into, then detouring around, a construction project. The new senior apartments, started the previous summer, were completed, which included some serious landscaping and a repaving of the adjacent (and expanded) parking lot. Routine maintenance on infrastructure necessitated a number of deep trenches that revealed a network of underground pipes, conduits, and the like. Interior work resulted in some new configurations within various academic buildings. The largest project– a major facelift in front of the student center– transformed a space at the heart of campus, and is now reshaping the experience of the community... more on that in a forthcoming post.

Today, most of those summer construction workers are elsewhere, and the equipment and materials of their trade have been removed. The College is in session; the heavy and unmistakable manual labor of the past few months is largely replaced by the quieter, subtler intellectual toil of the semester. On this Labor Day, I find myself grateful for the efforts of the laborers whose work done to maintain, beautify, and transform the campus where I reside is now having a noticeable impact. I've overheard many students, faculty, and staff commenting about how wonderful Holy Cross looks these days. I hope that today we all give some thought to, and perhaps offer some prayers for, those whose labors enable and sustain so much of what we do, and strive for fruitful, beneficial effects in our own work.

Summer construction

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA