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

(Re)calling

November 5 is the day when the Society of Jesus celebrates all of its members whom the Catholic Church has honored as saints and blesseds. It's quite a crew– from St. Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis Xavier to St. Alberto Hurtado and Blessed Miguel Pro. From the heroic to the humble, those revered by whole nations and those less widely known, no two are alike.

This feast is an occasion used for promoting vocations, encouraging young men who may be thinking about life as a Jesuit to gather in our houses, meet the men who make up our communities, and discuss personal experiences of calling, discernment, and wrestling with questions of what to do with one's life. As my community hosted such an event yesterday, drawing a number of students for Mass, lunch, and conversation, I was reminded of my own experience of calling during sophomore year, and a journey of prayer, discernment, and dialogue that stretched through my junior and senior years. Unlike at Holy Cross, there was no formal vocation discernment group at Dartmouth, yet I was blessed with the company, support, and generous listening of some good friends, helpful professors, and wise campus ministers who helped me to make the decision that matched my desires. And I'm extremely grateful for the Society's decision to accept my application, for the communities with whom I've been shaped, and for the fascinating directions in which my formation journey continually carries me.

More than seven years after joining the Jesuits, in the course of sharing the story of my vocation with young men pondering theirs, I found myself returning to several key questions, no less relevant for me than for them:

• How do I experience God's presence? Christ's call? The Holy Spirit's guidance?
• Where do I find fulfillment?
• What have I learned in the past several years that I couldn't have imagined several years ago?
• What do I wish to give, share, and pass on?

While I could think of some quick and "easy" answers to convey in the course of a few minutes, these questions warrant much more attention. So while I take them up in prayer during the coming week, I invite you to do the same. Look for some further personal reflections on these questions in the near future, and know of my prayers and encouragement for each of you in seeking, finding, and following your own vocations.

Jesuit Community Chapel

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Prayer Ledge

This week I decided that it was time to do some "fall cleaning" in my room. That meant washing windows, dusting shelves and ledges, and a thorough sweep with the vacuum cleaner. This decision afforded me the opportunity to rearrange one of my favorite parts of my room– the so-called "prayer ledge." Running the length of the three windows that look out upon a quiet dead-end street, the objects and images that I keep here anchor me in the friendships, inspiring figures, and memories expressing divine grace and instilling personal gratitude when I quiet myself enough to truly notice them. Just as gently as these windows draw my attention from interior concerns to the exterior world in which I dwell, the array of items on my ledge– from prayer cards to photographs, from decorative tiles to Boston Marathon medals– enables me to step more fluidly into prayer and meditation. It's a cozy space, one I'm pleased to appreciate anew after sprucing it up.