Private Graces

During many a waking moment in the past twenty-four hours, I've been reflecting on the wealth of experience that filled my participation in the Spiritual Exercises over the past five days. As a member of the retreat team, I was invited to offer a reflection, conduct a brief prayer service, and preach at a liturgy... occasions which necessitated no small amount of prayerful preparation and practice. As a spiritual director, I shared daily conversations with five students throughout the retreat, endeavoring to guide them through the landscape of thoughts, prayers, frustrations, ideas, and emotions that they sought to navigate. At the retreat's closing liturgy, in place of a homily, students and spiritual directors alike were invited to briefly share a significant grace that they had received during the retreat. This session moved me as deeply as many of the wonderful reflections offered by my fellow directors, and were as strikingly personal as the conversations I shared in confidence with each of my five directees.

This presents me with a challenging question: is the substance of that "shared homily" appropriate for a blog? It's obvious to me that revealing anything from spiritual direction is clearly inappropriate; even when describing such conversations in confidence with another Jesuit who supervises me in such ministry, I use no specific details and speak instead of my own responses and reactions to what I hear and what I say as a spiritual director, especially as one still developing this pastoral skill. Yet our retreat community– nearly 60 of us– shared some of our respective graces rather publicly with one another, and there was much poignancy in the depth of what was shared.

Much of what occasions this very question is rooted in my constantly shifting and evolving attitude towards the virtual, textual medium of a blog. When I discussed the retreat with my fellow Jesuits over dinner last evening, I felt comfortable relating some of the specific graces that were mentioned, though I made sure to provide no contextual details that could connect a given comment to a given student. I envision myself feeling comfortable doing the same in the company of a friend; in the context of a face-to-face conversation, it would be much more natural to share something that made a particular impact upon me. I worry that the blogging medium dilutes this.

A fascinating book that I'm reading in preparation for an academic talk and some related projects in the coming weeks shed very helpful light on this situation, offering guidance in addressing the very question that it raised. Alone Together by Sherry Turkle (well worth looking up and reading) addresses intriguing philosophical, moral, ethical, and social questions raised by increasingly advanced robotic technology that pushes concepts of personhood and relationships, as well as the increasingly questionable effects of social media on community, socialization, and isolation. The author is coming to campus in a few weeks, and it's been a long while since I've been so excited for an academic talk. In a chapter about the hyperconnectivity made possible by mobile devices and wireless networks, she relates a man's disgust when, amidst a dinner party he was hosting, a woman with whom he is conversing takes out her Blackberry and begins "blogging the conversation" (The entire episode is recounted in a fascinating paragraph on page 162 of Alone Together).

One of the things students initially find difficult about the retreat is the silence, and the detachment from cell phones and computers that is insisted upon. (In fact, several directors– myself included– had to loan students watches or alarm clocks, because their phones are their only timepieces.) Yet each found a certain comfort in stepping back from constant connectivity and settling into a vastly different realm of connection. Though perhaps frustrated by the inability to talk with one another, they quickly adapted ways of constructing and maintaining a community in the silence. They smiled at one another when passing in the hallways. They walked more slowly, held doors for one another, and approached thresholds between rooms slowly, aware that there could be someone on the other side. Most of all, they respected one another's silence, in a way that showed much more interpersonal engagement than simply walking past each other on campus while speaking on their phones, texting, or listening to their iPods. It seems that "blogging the retreat" is quite contrary to the spirit of the experience, even though having done so after a retreat of my own became one of many helpful exercises for further integrating what I experienced.

So, with some mixed feelings, I've decided to respect the sacredness I ascribe to the graces of the retreat by writing about and posting only those that I directly witnessed and experienced. Those that the students shared– likely even more inspiring than what I've written here– are theirs to share as they desire. That being said, I'll still feel comfortable relating them– with all due considerations to confidentiality– within contexts where I can trust in that same discretion, namely, personal conversations with those with whom I've established a strong mutual relationship in which such themes are appropriately reverenced. Perhaps that insight, that conviction, and that drawing of a certain boundary is itself another grace flowing from my past five days of retreat; one that I can honestly share, though I'm not entirely certain how well it can be understood if you don't hear it from me firsthand.

Exercises

Following up on last week's post about smart training for the Boston Marathon, which Mother Nature seems to have read with delight and taken as a challenge, I'm happy to report that I've enjoyed two fulfilling, exciting, and safe morning runs this week. They've been quite wintry, slightly gritty, yet not at all stupid (at least in my estimation... others may beg to differ). Yes, it was only 4 degrees on Monday morning, but there was clear pavement, no wind, and abundant warm clothing in my running drawer. Two well-chosen layers and a reasonably warm reflective vest did the job. Today, snow and slush on the ground... but no ice, and a well-timed window between overnight snow and some light rain forecast for later in the day. The schools were gracious enough to delay opening for two hours; the plows and I managed to avoid one another on lightly traveled streets. With 90 days to go until Boston, losing a day or two is fine if need be, but there's something comforting in clicking through my plan as smoothly as I click through five to seven miles on quiet, chilly weekday mornings.

This afternoon, in the company of nearly fifty Holy Cross students and eight other spiritual directors (Jesuits, women religious, and laypersons among them), I'll head to a Jesuit retreat house for the next five days, where together we'll share a silent retreat designed from the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola. The founder of the Jesuits referred to the sessions of prayer and meditation during a retreat as "exercises" because he felt that they were akin to the physical and mental conditioning that he pursued so diligently as a knight and courtier in his younger life. Prayer can indeed be about resting in God's presence, but the discipline needed to settle into a silent, focused attitude of mind and heart can be especially challenging in today's busy, "noisy" society. Students often come to this silent retreat– which is among the most popular spiritual programs offered by the chaplains' office– both craving the silence and nervous about its cavernous space. It's my hope that each of them– particularly the five students whom I'm blessed to accompany more closely in spiritual direction– will find genuine joy and fulfillment in the prayer of the coming days, and feel the benefits of shaping an even stronger and healthier spiritual life.

Moore State Park, Paxton MA
January 2010

Between today and Sunday, any prayers on our behalf would be greatly appreciated, as we each strive to enter into this community of contemplative prayer, seeking to better know, love, and follow Christ in our lives, and receive the blessings and graces we desire.

Remembering Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

In honor of today's national remembrance of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I offer two photos from the National Historic Site that honors and preserves his neighborhood in Atlanta– one of many highlights from my cross-country railroad pilgrimage in summer 2009.

Dr. King was born in the yellow house in the center.

One block west of his birthplace, he lies beside his wife, Coretta Scott King.

Calculated Risk

[This post developed as I ran my regular 7-mile route around Worcester amid fallen and falling snow this morning, my first foray into a genuine winter storm during this year's training for the Boston Marathon. Musings such as these help the miles to pass more quickly.]

I've been running year-round for a decade now, and have spent all of that time in regions prone to harsh and snowy winters. Through a bit of research and a great deal of experience, I consider myself a relative expert when it comes to winter training. Sunny, clear, and calm days– no matter how cold– are often more bearable than cloudy and blustery ones. Black ice is hard to see in the pre-dawn darkness, but I've learned that it tends to lurk at the side of the road, where liquid usually collects. I think my body has even figured out how to make fine-tuned adjustments to my stride and center of gravity in response to the degree of traction my feet find on various types of snow– hard-packed, soft powder, damp and slushy.

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA
January 2011
(As slippery as it is pretty)

Though I typically step out the door for each winter run with a measure of boldness and confidence, I'm also rather fastidious about accounting for various risks and dangers. What layers do I need, given the temperature and wind chill? Where was that stretch of icy runoff last week... and has there been enough sun and warmth enough to melt it? That streetlight was unlit the other morning... better be careful around that bend if it hasn't been fixed yet. Yet, despite all of my experience, skill, and preparation, Mother Nature always finds a way of surprising me, as she did last week with a patch of black ice. Consequently, every winter, there's a run that soon becomes a blatantly stupid exercise (no pun intended), an occasion when I should have recognized a situation that exceeded the limits of personal ability and common sense, and simply stayed inside to enjoy the hidden blessing of an extra day of rest.

On the other hand, those ill-advised training runs have become war stories that I proudly trade with fellow winter warriors at the spring races for which we all train through the dark, cold weeks between the two equinoxes. Several years ago, I set out from Dartmouth's campus for a long run on rolling farm roads across the river in Vermont, knowing that light flurries were forecast. On my way back, with six miles to go, the light flurries turned into heavy sleet. Last winter, taking advantage of a snow day, I set out early anyway, hoping to beat the commuter traffic. Unfortunately, I also beat the city's snow clearance fleet. What should have been a festive jog through a wintry wonderland became a speed workout as marauding plows chased me all over the city. This year, I'm trying to anticipate when conditions are ripe for a "stupid run" that would be best avoided, and thus deny Mother Nature the pleasure of proving me a fool for heading out against my better judgment.

Forgive me if you're still looking for the point of this reflection... I have a penchant for imagery-rich narratives that (I hope) contextualize a given idea that I'm trying to convey. Put simply, while my annual "stupid run" is often instantly visible in hindsight (or in the midst of the run itself), it's rarely as easy to discern the future payoffs of the calculated risks that I take throughout each winter training cycle. Hints of those results may briefly materialize amid a particularly strong workout on the track or the gradually evolving conquest of a menacing hill with which I regularly duel, but the experience of collecting and savoring my winnings must wait until the day of a spring marathon, a truth I'm living for the seventh consecutive winter.

I believe this applies to the pursuit of any lofty, challenging goal that offers the promise of elation and satisfaction, while necessitating the investment of time, disciplined work, and some measure of personal sacrifice. Along the way, obstacles are inevitable; one's response crucially affects the attainment of the goal in question. I'm well aware that training for a spring marathon is impossible without engaging the vagaries of winter, often quite pronounced and eccentric here in New England. I'm well aware that pursuing a vocation to religious life and priesthood is not only wondrous and life-giving, but also intense and demanding. In both instances, and with respect to many other goals that I pursue in my life, I wouldn't have it any other way. And as I recognize the tension between my boldness and my prudence, and the interplay of the abilities I've grown and the weaknesses that I continually work to understand and accept, I'm hoping to be a little less stupid this winter.

Success and Succession

"Mahogany Row"
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

The ground floor of the main administration building at Holy Cross is commonly known as “Mahogany Row.” It’s one of my favorite interior spaces on campus, and reminds me of a style more akin to the elite boarding school portrayed in one of my favorite films– Dead Poets Society. When I walk down its tiled hallway, past the panes of frosted glass on office doors that open inward, my attention is drawn upwards to the oil portraits of the College’s past presidents. Early last Friday morning, workers hung the thirty-first portrait, honoring Rev. Michael McFarland, SJ, whose nearly twelve years of leadership fostered significant growth and development of the College in nearly every aspect of its identity, and made an indelible impression on the life of the Holy Cross community.

[An excellent article about Fr. McFarland's time as president of Holy Cross appeared last month in the Worcester Telegram and Gazette.]

Rev. Michael McFarland, SJ
31st President of the College of the Holy Cross (2000-2012)

Having lived in community with Michael since moving to Worcester, I’ve admired his highly successful and effective leadership of Holy Cross, as well as his presence around the house. I’ve also enjoyed seeing him on the roads around the College, as we’re both avid early morning runners. I’m grateful for all that he’s taught me by his example– the importance of regular, visible, generous, and personal involvement in the life of the community, the asset of a creative balance between prayer and work, exercise and rest, and a clear sense that devotion to a given mission of the Society of Jesus is inseparable from attention to the hopes, dreams, concerns, and needs of the people whom it serves. Even from my humble post in the College’s grant-writing office, these are lessons that I’m trying to incorporate in my daily work, striving to aid in sustaining the mission and enhancing the legacy of Holy Cross.

[Also, just posted today on the Holy Cross website, is a brief announcement welcoming Rev. Philip Boroughs, SJ to campus on his first day serving as the College's thirty-second president. May God bless him and his ministry to the Holy Cross community!]

The Feast of the Epiphany

When Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the days of King Herod,

behold, magi from the east arrived in Jerusalem, saying,

"Where is the newborn king of the Jews?

We saw his star at its rising and have come to do him homage."

[Matthew 2:1-2]

Caravan at Lake Asele, Ethiopia
[Original image here; appears in January 2012
issue of National Geographic]

I've resolved this year to renew my reading of National Geographic, a magazine with which I often slaked my curiosity and wanderlust while pursuing my geography major at Dartmouth College, and again as a refreshing diversion from philosophy studies at St. Louis University. In a fascinating article about a massive geologic rift in northeastern Ethiopia, I came across this image, which transformed my meditation on the journey of the Magi celebrated in today's Feast of the Epiphany of Our Lord. Most religious art depicting the arrival of the three "kings" or "wise men" greeting Jesus along with Mary and Joseph in the stable where he was born, gives them deserved pride of place, with perhaps a few shepherds, or an angel and the star, filling in the background. But what of their journey to Jerusalem and Bethlehem from that unnamed land to the east, likely modern-day Iraq or Iran? Traveling "alone," even as a party of three, seems rather dangerous in such a vast expanse of desert. Yet, amidst the transitory community of a caravan, what would they have shared with their fellow travelers concerning the purpose of their journey? The guiding star would have been visible to all, along with the familiar constellations that aid navigation in terrain bereft of landmarks. What impact would the magi's tales of prophecy, faith, and eager questing have had on the rich traders, poor servants, and others with whom they walked?

After their audience with the king they set out.

And behold, the star that they had seen at its rising preceded them,
until it came and stopped over the place where the child was.
They were overjoyed at seeing the star,
and on entering the house
they saw the child with Mary his mother.
They prostrated themselves and did him homage.
Then they opened their treasures
and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

[Matthew 2:9-11]

Outdoor Nativity Scene
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

I do keep a small quantity of incense in my room to occasionally aid my prayer, but I'm fresh out of gold and myrrh. Yet I do strive to surround myself with reminders of the spiritual gifts and physical objects, rich in symbolism, that I've been given– a handmade rosary from a friend in Virginia, an array of Christmas cards and photographs enclosed therein, a small stained-glass window that recalls the Catholic community at Dartmouth and the chapel that witnessed so much prayer and discernment. They remind me to honor and give thanks for the wonderful people who accompany my spiritual journey, animate my growth and formation in my ever-fuller response to the call to ordained ministry, and to be generous in journeying with others through life, whether the path is well-marked, or wends its way through terrain where guiding signs and reliable landmarks are few.

And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, 

they departed for their country by another way.

[Matthew 2:12]

The Magi

This final verse from today's Gospel was perhaps the most striking of all. A dream leads the magi to defy a king, depart (presumably) with some measure of secrecy, and chart a new course to their homeland. Having followed clear signs throughout their previous journey, and been spurred on by hope and a clear destination, suddenly it's not only the journey that's changed, but also their whole approach to wayfinding. I can recall profound encounters with Christ in prayer or in the lives of those with whom I've worked and ministered; these memories are the signposts that remind me of the path I'm walking, and sustain my desire for finding the Lord anew and opening up the treasures that I'm sometimes tempted to hide. I wonder what was on the minds and in the hearts of the magi as they joined up with an eastbound caravan, laden with the riches of new questions, new dreams, a new vision, and a light of heavenly origin that now mysteriously yet undeniably dwelled upon the earth.

Looking, Finding, Staying

Praying before dawn on a frigid morning, peering through lightly frosted windows at the gradual swelling of clear bluish light, a phrase (emphasized in bold below) from today's Gospel caught my attention:

Professional Reading

The first additions to my office bookshelf.

For the first time since graduate school, where my diligent attention to extensive reading assignments in philosophy and theology inspired serious devotion to a healthy pursuit of pleasure reading that continues to this day, I'm reading some books directly related to projects at work. It feels odd to once again underline key phrases and scribble marginal notes with a pencil that constantly needs sharpening; after all, I haven't been a student since May 2009, and it seems that I won't return to that side of the classroom until August 2013. Yet I have found some fulfillment in this round of "professional reading," and look forward to participating in some vibrant discussions on leadership, socialization, innovation, and other themes being examined by some of the professors and administrators with whom I work at Holy Cross.

Wasting No Time

After a week or so of staying up late to enjoy celebrations and fellowship with my family and my Jesuit brethren, and sleeping in somewhat as a result, this morning I returned to my schedule of rising before the sun to train on the dark and relatively empty streets of Worcester. Having reset the odometer yesterday and officially begun training for the 116th Boston Marathon– 15 weeks from today– I wasted no time in posting my first mileage of the new year. Although winter hasn't entirely moved in yet– temperatures were still up in the mid-30s for my 7-miler this morning– a secluded stretch of my route served up a surprising patch of black ice. Suddenly a quick skid renewed my gratitude for divine protection, the mysterious sense of balance conferred by years of informal yoga practice, and even more, the excitement of overcoming an unexpected obstacle. Training for spring marathons each of the past six years, I have learned that the best, most streamlined regimens can be scrambled by injuries, weather, and other unpredictable circumstances. Just two days into this new year– and much sooner than I would have expected in this training cycle– nature mischievously reminded me that much can happen in fifteen weeks.  Hopefully, being accosted by a hidden icy patch turns out to be little more than a warning to remain attentive in the coming months, not only noticing the hazards that may emerge along my path, but also savoring the adventures amid the hundreds of miles that I'll cover en route to my goal: crossing the finish line in Copley Square on Patriot's Day.

A Prayer for the New Year

Cohasset MA

For thus says the Lord... I know well the plans I have in mind for you... plans for your welfare and not for woe, so as to give you a future of hope.

When you call me, and come and pray to me, I will listen to you.

When you look for me, you will find me. Yes, when you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me, says the Lord, and I will change your lot; I will gather you together from all the nations and all the places to which I have banished you... and bring you back to the place from which I have exiled you.

– Jeremiah 29:11-14