Extra or Ordinary?

I figured that Leap Day would be a big deal... after all, it only comes around every four years. Given my excitement over the lengthening days driven by the elegance of celestial mechanics, I imagined that I would take similar delight in the observance of this quadrennial calendrical nudge designed to keep our human timekeeping aligned with the turning of the world.

Leap Day 2012 Snow
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

The arrival of snow– an oddly novel event in this strangely dry winter– bestowed some enchantment upon the campus as students trekked with unaccustomed difficulty to classes recently made more arduous by exams and paper deadlines in these final days before spring break, which begins on Friday. Yet, as I spent another day at the office– working steadily through a research project for a dean, a series of documents for another department, and a guide to local attractions and services for attendees at a conference this summer– this February 29 passed rather unremarkably.

Snow settling on the shrubbery at my window

The tenets of Ignatian spirituality urge me to diligently seek and reverently praise the signs of God's presence, Christ's companionship, and the Spirit's guidance that I encounter in the course of a given day. Although I strive to apply these principles faithfully through my practices of prayer and reflection, I admit that it's more fun when the insights are profound, exciting, and undeniably strong. That's what I expected for an occasion as evidently significant as Leap Day, which has been inviting me to consider how I would spend an extra day. (Prayer, conversations with brethren and friends, a hike in the woods, and writing letters to distant companions topped the list.) However, such thoughts gave way to an uneasy sense of disappointment, perhaps even regret, that today I neither noticed nor strove to enact anything that, in my perspective, would be considered truly remarkable.

Smith Hall
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Having said this, I recognize that such a perspective is perhaps too narrow, too blind to subtle beauty, too organized and rational to appreciate the mysticism of the ordinary. If it's accurate to surmise that God desired that this should be my lesson for Leap Day 2012, then I can recognize no small amount of gentle pressure, and an even greater degree of loving admonition and encouragement, to deepen my desire for and acceptance of a graced ability to see and savor the trappings of the ordinary as gifts no less priceless and satisfying than the resplendent manifestations of the sublime. God willing, I'll grow in this capacity each day, rather than awaken to this and other lessons only once every four years.

Poetic Friendship

I often find that poets are graced with linguistic talent that eloquently clarifies my own reflections. In that vein, and in light of my previous post, I happily rediscovered the following poem by Robert Frost over the weekend. According to the marginal notes I keep in a volume of his works, I've shared it with many friends over the years, and even used it in a talk on vocations.

"Revelation"

We make ourselves a place apart

Behind light words that tease and flout,

But oh, the agitated heart

Till someone really find us out.

'Tis pity if the case require

(Or so we say) that in the end

We speak the literal to inspire

The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play

At hide-and-seek to Fod afar,

So all who hide too well away

Must speak and tell us where they are.

–Robert Frost

[in "The Poetry of Robert Frost," edited by Edward Connery Lathem]

Deserting Friendships

Faithful friends are a sturdy shelter; whoever finds one finds a treasure. Faithful friends are beyond price, no amount can balance their worth. Faithful friends are life-saving medicine; those who fear God will find them. Those who fear the Lord enjoy stable friendship, for as they are, so will their neighbors be.

– Sirach 6:14-17

This text– the first reading at the funeral of a Jesuit who interviewed me eight years ago when I applied to join the Society– struck me deeply, and continues to echo in my prayers and thoughts in these early days of Lent. I agree wholeheartedly with the wisdom of Sirach about the gift and power of a strong friendship, yet also heard these words as a genuine challenge to examine the health of my own friendships, both within and beyond the Jesuit community to which I belong.

I've long considered myself to have the qualities of a good friend– I tend to be a good listener, I'm relatively generous in sacrificing my time and attention to attend to someone in a time of need, and I place importance on sustaining regular contact with friends, whether they live near to or far from wherever I happen to call home at a given time. Yet I'm also increasingly aware– and not without some unsettling honesty and troubling realizations– that I tend to be hesitant, sometimes even afraid, to avail myself of the same in return, even when such treasures are generously offered. It's as if I come upon the sturdy shelter of a friendship yet prefer to remain exposed to the elements, or find myself ill in mind or spirit yet shun the medicine and healing that a friend's care can provide.

Atacama Desert, Chile

Whereas I've long found comfort, even solace, in the pursuit of prayerful solitude in physical and spiritual deserts, when I eschew or remain apart from friendships, I feel isolation and loneliness instead. Although I may find value and wisdom in the former, I am certainly not called to the latter, yet I easily fail to heed and recognize the difference between the two. Unfortunately, finding and following the journey that leads to the welcoming embrace of treasured and faithful friends– after no small period of wandering away from these graces and likely diminishing in my ability to convey them– does not seem as straightforward as I would like, and has not come to me readily in recent months.

This is not the sort of direction that I expected at this point in Lent, yet I do feel that Jesus, no stranger to the harshness of the desert as well as the growth and wisdom gleaned from sojourning there, is inviting me to travel this path. And I certainly desire to not only offer, but also to truly enter into, the rich friendship that Sirach praises.

Answer me, Lord, in your generous love;

in your great mercy turn to me.

Do not hide your face from your servant;

hasten to answer me, for I am in distress.

– Psalm 69:17-18

Ash Wednesday 2012

The season of Lent, which begins today, is often associated with the desert. Matthew, Mark, and Luke each devote a portion of their gospel accounts to Jesus' forty days of fasting and wandering in a barren landscape, followed by the devil's temptation to renounce his dependency upon and relationship with God. John the Baptist appears in the desert, calling people to repentance for personal and collective sins.

Atacama Desert, Chile

Desert imagery in the Bible and elsewhere evokes memories of three visits I've made to the desert in the past seven years. The first, as a Jesuit novice, saw me spend Holy Week in a small rural village in southwestern Mexico. The second, as a Jesuit scholastic, occurred three days in a small town in Chile's Atacama Desert, one of the driest places on earth. The third, amidst my transition from studies to teaching, consisted of a passage through the Southwest while traversing the United States by train. Whereas Jesus was alone during his desert sojourn, I was blessed with the company of fellow Jesuits, kind strangers, and old friends, respectively, in each of my desert visits. Yet I was also placed– not always comfortably– in a position of dependence upon those who called these particular deserts home.

As I begin my observance of Lent this year, I find that the season is shaping up to be full of subtle challenges and curiously secluded realms of grace and growth. For all the starkness of a desert landscape and its obvious attributes– piercing sunshine, sharply hewn rock and weathered sand, arid air that greedily sponges bodily moisture– much remains hidden from an initial sweeping overview. Prayerful efforts at visualizing the state of my soul and the vitality of my relationship with Jesus produce a similar view– my strengths and weaknesses are clearly evident, yet my needs and desires for more authentic prayer, more trusting self-expression, and more engaged reflection, dialogue, and practical action on pressing issues do not readily meet the eye. They are like tiny grains of sand– the irritating grit or smooth strata of daily experiences pressed and whirled on ever-shifting currents of circumstance and grace– continually shaping, eroding, and reshaping my personality and behavior. These movements, I believe, are what deserve my attention this Lent, especially given my inability to harness or control them, which produces no small measure of anxiety. Yet, by responding to them– even embracing them– with the same trusting dependency that opened me to wondrous instances of hospitality, humbling experiences of fellowship, and striking feelings of comfort in foreign lands amidst my three desert journeys, I earnestly believe that my companionship with Christ will be renewed and strengthened, and every contour of my life will be lovingly sculpted anew.

Called by Name

While walking to work this morning, I met a student who had been on the Spiritual Exercises earlier this year. Though she was not one of my directees, I greet her when we cross paths on campus, as I do with other Holy Cross students whom I know. Her name is an unusual one, so I've been worried that I wasn't pronouncing it correctly. When I sought some clarification this morning, the following conversation ensued:

Me: "Good morning, V!"

V: "Good morning, Chris!"

Me: "V, have I been pronouncing your name correctly?"

V: "Yes; in fact, I'm impressed you remember my name."

Me: "Well, thanks. Names have long been important to me. Whenever I'm on a retreat, like the Exercises, and people go around introducing themselves on the first night, I make an effort to pay close attention and remember everyone's name. I think it's really important to pray for people by name, and I try to do that as much as I can."

V: "Yeah, it's nice. We [she and other students, I imagine] like being called by name on campus."

Me: "Don't you get that all the time from your friends?"

V: "Not really... people will just say 'Hello!' or maybe wave, but we don't really call each other by name. So it's really nice when someone does."

By this point, we'd been standing in chilly air (about 20 degrees) and a light breeze, with the sun's first rays feebly shining through some gauzy low clouds on the horizon. So we quickly wrapped up our conversation, bidding one another a good day. Yet her comment stays with me, not only calling my attention to the significance of being called by name, but also urging me to consider the effects of an absence of such calls on the fabric of a community.

I've gotten to know many of the professors and staff whose offices are on the same floor as mine, even if only by name and department, and I enjoy opportunities throughout the day for brief chats... passing in the hallway, chatting around the water cooler, stopping by an open door to say hello and catch up on the affairs of life. I tend to greet them by name, but now I'm curious about how often they do the same (either with me or with their colleagues), and I'm going to pay attention over the coming week. Could it be simply a generational difference between professors and staff on the one hand, and V and her fellow students on the other? Is it a more widespread pattern? Or is it just a random effect dependent on individual personalities?

In any case, I'm still intent on remembering as many names as I can, and always grateful for opportunities to forge or sustain a connection by calling (and being called) by name.

A Simple Wish

In the course of talking with a number of students the other night, our conversational meanderings arrived at the topic of retreats. Upon my reference to the Spiritual Exercises– the Holy Cross version spans five days, features several talks each day by chaplains and guest directors, includes daily spiritual direction, and occurs in an atmosphere of intentional silence– those students who had made the retreat generally praised it, while those who had not generally stressed their anxiety about the silence, or even claimed near-certain knowledge that they would be incapable of quieting themselves for a week. Yet one student in the latter category swiftly added, "You know, we're all secretly looking for a chance to stop and breathe."

Last night, I attended a standing-room-only talk delivered by a sociology professor from MIT who studies the impact of technology on society. Sherry Turkle, officially the Abby Rockefeller Mauzé Professor of the Social Studies of Science and Technology (whew... my fingers need a break), shared an array of comments and themes drawn from her most recent book, Alone Together, which I would recommend on the basis of its intriguing inquiry into the effects of social media and communication technologies upon social and relational concepts (and experiences) of relationship, intimacy, and connection (as well as their converses). Though some members of the audience– most of them first-year students who had been examining her material in the context of various courses and seminars– may have interpreted her remarks as being highly critical of Facebook, Twitter, and other increasingly ubiquitous elements of the cultural and communicative landscape of certain segments of society, her intent was clearly the identification of serious and crucial questions regarding our usage of such technologies.

In a deliberate connection with the Turkle talk, these same first-year students are being invited and encouraged (yet not truly required) to refrain from texting, tweeting, using Facebook, and so on for a 24-hour period beginning around sundown this evening. Professors associated with the College's first-year program are providing them with small notebooks– bearing the word "Connections" on their covers– to write down their musings, experiences, and reflections as they communicate and interact without the influence of digital media. For myself, awareness of this event, as well as my own continuing reflections on Turkle's book, are leading me to strongly consider incorporating a similar measure into my observance of Lent this year; perhaps a Sunday devoid of Internet and cell phone usage, replaced with reading, writing letters, and intentional interpersonal interactions, for example.

In any event, it's my hope and desire that the students who choose to "disconnect" this evening and tomorrow are indeed able to "stop and breathe," but also to do much more. I hope that, in stepping back from the technology that so often surrounds them, they can see it as a suite of tools and capabilities that are valueless in themselves, but capable of supporting incredibly constructive and gravely destructive goals and behaviors. I hope that they can better recognize their own intentionality and agency– not merely in technology usage, but also in how they choose to interact with the world and its people, how they experience prayerful or meditative solitude, and how they devote their attention, their time, and their talents. These are questions that can't be fully examined, let alone answered, in a single day. Yet I hope such lines of inquiry are further opened by, and sustained long after, this experiment in "disconnection" and its inherent opportunities to explore methods of real connection.

Morning Glory

This morning's sunrise suffused my room with beauty as charming as any lyrical grandeur I've encountered in subtly crafted poetry or intricately composed music.

Five Days, Nine Weeks, and Beyond

A tangible reminder of my next race.

I received only one item of mail today, but it was an important one– my race number for the Martha's Vineyard 20-Miler this coming Saturday. Last year's race came in the heart of a frigid and snowy winter; this year, given the mild forecast and my own bravado, I may run in shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, with gloves and a hat to retain some bodily warmth. In any event, I'm eager to take part in this event for the fourth time in seven years, sharing with several hundred other runners the adventure of an early morning drive, a packed ferry ride, and a brisk spin around a picturesque island.

Like most folks who think it's quite desirable to utilize (and pay for) two modes of transportation and a modest entry fee to run 20 miles outdoors in the middle of a New England winter, I'm using Martha's Vineyard as a first big test of my progress towards the Boston Marathon, nine weeks away. It's my third time through this training cycle since I left St. Louis and moved to Worcester, and my first since switching assignments from teaching at a middle school to grant writing and informal ministry at a college. While I'm progressing smoothly thus far through the structure of my training plan, hopefully on pace to take aim at a sub-3-hour performance in April, I'm also pleased to notice that another, and even more important, training process seems to have regained its rhythm.

Although the 2010-2011 academic year made me increasingly aware that I wasn't entirely suited for the needs and demands of a middle school teaching position, leaving Nativity Worcester last June was a difficult move, even though I knew that it was the right decision. Finding my stride in a sudden transition to higher education– a new set of skills, a much different working environment, a host of organizational structures to learn and navigate, a much larger and more diverse group of colleagues– took most of last semester to accomplish, even though I seemed to adapt fairly swiftly. In the past week or so, I've noticed the comfort and poise that comes with having covered enough mileage– whether breaking new ground or retracing the well-worn paths of regular routines– to develop a genuine resonance between my own conditioning and the terrain of the course I'm running. My steps have not been without the occasional stumble, my growing confidence and delight not without the occasional doubt or disillusionment, but the way forward is clearer than it has been in a long time, and for that I'm deeply grateful. Whether or not these months ultimately put me on track for years of service and ministry in Jesuit higher education remains to be seen, but my progress along the course towards theological studies and preparation for ordination has some new spring in it, thanks be to God.

In five days, proudly wearing the number above on my high school cross-country singlet (12 years old and still a dear reminder of the four Philadelphia autumns that saw me fall in love with running), I'll make my way through a neighborhood of Victorian cottages, along a coastal wildlife refuge, and through an expansive forest in search of a targeted finishing time and a bowl of the best clam chowder in New England. I'll be moving 20 miles closer to the starting line of one of the best marathons in the world. And I'll be giving thanks for the renewed vitality of the training that's dearest to my heart– that of a gradually (and, I hope, gracefully) aging young man pursuing a call to Catholic priesthood, Christian discipleship, and companionship of God's people as a Jesuit.

On Being Busy

St. Michael's Cathedral
Springfield MA

"O God, who teach us that you abide
in hearts that are just and true,
grant that we may be so fashioned by your grace as to become a dwelling pleasing to you.
Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever."

– Collect prayer, Sixth Sunday of Ordinary Time

Whenever I find that there's something that I haven't done for a while– be it writing in my journal, sitting in my recliner to pray after a long day, posting a blog entry, calling my parents, and so on– I readily point to the circumstances and rhythm of my life and say, "Well, I've been busy." But when does that phrase represent an honest explanation, and when is it merely a dissimulating excuse?

This past week, I've been paying attention to the ways in which I've been busy. A proposal for a given faculty member necessitated a great deal of frenzied attention when some changes were made hours before the deadline, resulting in a series of technical issues that required hasty resolution. I spent many hours tweaking a slate of documents related to some upcoming projects, setting up meetings to discuss their contents with relative individuals at the College, and then ensuring that final drafts were agreed upon and filed properly. I offered time and a listening ear in the evenings to some friends going through challenging times, happily lingered with my fellow Jesuits at table, and set aside a few hours for a wonderful conversation with a priest friend who happened to be traveling through town. But I also found ways of avoiding an urge to sit down and be still, opportunities to fritter away time and attentiveness that could have been dedicated to responding to weeks-old letters, and an unsettling hesitancy to engage in prayer when I wasn't certain that my efforts would be "worthwhile," disillusioned by a frustrating spell of spiritual dryness. Looking back over the past week, I became aware, with some sobering humility, that not all of the activities that I'd freely chosen were genuinely satisfying, not all of my intentional busyness was truly productive, and not all of my devoted attention was prudently invested.

This self-examination of "being busy" is occurring at a favorable time; with Lent beginning in ten days, I'm praying about the changes that I wish to make, the patterns that I wish to amend, and the disciplines that I wish to renew in the upcoming liturgical season of prayer and penitence, of asceticism and almsgiving. Certainly, I desire a "heart that is just and true," and aspire to be "a dwelling pleasing" to God... not just as a Jesuit, but also as a person of prayer and a follower of Christ. I know that certain types of work and rest that I may undertake lead towards that goal, in cooperation with divine grace. Yet manners of activity and idleness that can frustrate progress towards that end are all too familiar to me, in both imagination and experience. As I prepare to greet a new week, I pray for greater resolve to busy myself in the construction and sustenance of harmonious relationships with God and with God's people, as well as firmer devotion to the fruitful activity and nourishing rest that will foster my flourishing at work and at home.

Ten-Hour Days

Boston skyline and Charles River

Owing to the ongoing snow drought and light winter here in central New England, this was the scene that I savored during an 18-mile training run around the Charles River on Saturday afternoon. At the time, I was unaware of another subtle wonder to be enjoyed– after nearly three months, sunrise and sunset are once again more than ten hours apart in this corner of the globe. As if on cue, the swelling emergence of dawn accompanied the entirety of this morning's run, instead of merely attending its final minutes. I'll still need my reflective vest for several more weeks, but I am happily bidding farewell to the dark mornings of December and January.

Mirroring the gentle climb in the quantity and intensity of my marathon training, work and ministry have been gathering momentum in the past week. Pesky government forms have been particularly beguiling in efforts to submit a faculty member's proposal; dealing with error messages in the final hours before a deadline resembled the frenzied grasping for energy and poise in the closing mile of an especially intense race. On the ministry side, as I work to develop programs and presence in a first-year dorm, I've likened an array of conversations with a number of staff members to the careful stretching I should always do– and occasionally rush– in order to have a smoother and more satisfying workout, whether I'm running, cycling, swimming, or hiking.

Regaining ten-hour days inspires musings upon how I fill the additional time that I perceive in daylight's subtle seasonal swelling during the weeks leading to the vernal equinox. When am I simply passing the time rather than truly filling it? When am I simply spending time, instead of savoring and sharing it, whether in solitude or in the company of others? Lately, I've noticed a pattern of moving from one task or activity to the next, regardless of how time-sensitive these various items may be. I certainly had to hustle with today's challenging grant submission, and I'm learning that scheduling appointments is rarely as straightforward or efficient as I would like, but amidst slower times– in the office, around campus, or in the community– I know that I could do better in adjusting my pacing to match a reduced level of urgency.

So, as the afternoon winds down, and the brilliance of fading sunlight (which was long gone at this time last month) casts long shadows that draw my attention as warmly as a friend's outstretched arm, I find myself moved to pray with gratitude for the hours of the day, petition for the grace to use and invest such time wisely, and hope for all that my tasks and activities, as well as my rest and recreation, can accomplish for others and in myself.

Sunset over Fenwick Hall
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Fraternal Admiration

I'm always excited when the lives, work, ministry, and legacy of my Jesuit brothers catches the attention of a wider audience. Today, I came across three items along these lines, which I offer for your consideration. Clicking on each title will lead you to another site as indicated. Enjoy!

Greg Boyle, SJ and the Homeboy Cafe in Los Angeles' City Hall

Greg Boyle, SJ has spent years ministering to current and former gang members in Los Angeles, and has worked with them to establish a variety of programs, services, and full-fledged businesses that provide a viable, safe, and fulfilling alternative to life on the streets for thousands of Los Angeles' youth. The "Homeboy Industries" organization that grew from Fr. Boyle's vision and devotion now operates a cafe in Los Angeles' City Hall; its opening is profiled in a short video linked above.

The Jesuit Post

The Jesuit Post is a blog recently launched through the efforts and collaboration of a number of young Jesuits around the country. Blogging on a variety of topics– from social issues to spirituality, from technology to theology, from cultural affairs to contemplative reflection– these Jesuits, many still studying and preparing for ordination to the priesthood, offer an intriguing perspective on the world in which we all live. The link above guides you to the blog's home page, where you can read about its staff and contributors, as well as peruse their writings.

The book "Fraternity" highlighted on the Callie Crossley Show

The Callie Crossley Show, aired on WGBH, a public radio and television station in Boston, profiled Fraternity, a new book by journalist Diane Brady that profiles a significant period in the history of the College of the Holy Cross. [This link directs you to a news article on the Holy Cross website.] Amidst the social and racial upheaval of the late 1960s, a Jesuit professor– who went on to become a dean and later president at Holy Cross, and who remains a beloved fixture and wisdom figure in the community– traveled throughout the South to recruit promising African-American men (Holy Cross became coeducational in 1972) to join the College community. As the book describes, their education and experience at Holy Cross, and the ongoing mentorship and support of Fr. John Brooks, SJ, set them on the path to success, prominence, and remarkable contributions to society. The link above directs you to the full audio of the one-hour show.

Traveling Light

It's been a while since I've posted, mainly as a result of traveling for much of the past week. My first experience of "business travel"– also my first experience of attending an academic conference– took me to Washington DC for three days of participation in the annual national meeting of the American Association of Colleges and Universities (AAC&U). Along with approximately 2,000 people who have made higher education their life's work, I attended a variety of 75-minute sessions concerning everything from the inner lives of students to increasing higher education access in rural settings to the role played by general education and liberal arts in a holistic undergraduate experience that does more than simply increase a student's likelihood of employment. My boss and two colleagues from a prestigious architectural firm specializing in academic science buildings gave a presentation on collaborative space and its impact on the general campus community, as well as scientific disciplines in particular. [A fine series of videos produced by the firm– EYP– that highlights the science complex at Holy Cross can be found here.]

Given the relatively brief duration of the trip, and my desire to avoid baggage fees, I traveled extremely lightly... needing just a backpack and a well-traveled shoulder bag from Chile. The notes that I took over the course of the conference span only ten pages– light in the physical sense, but much denser in terms of the thought and reflection they continue to inspire. And the conversations I shared with friends– while running 8 miles around the National Mall and neighborhoods to the north, over late evening refreshments a few blocks from my hotel, or amidst a long dinner and a relaxing stroll through the quaint, historic, brick-paved scenery of Old Town Alexandria– provided some refreshing and light-hearted relaxation following some days of intense listening and thinking.

What do I take away from this new set of experiences and renewed conversations with friends whom I haven't seen in months, or even years? First, the importance of genuine dialogue, rich interpersonal connections, and the space in which to discuss and debate topics of intellectual, moral, ethical, spiritual, and personal significance. I'm still meditating on a rich series of conversations that I had with a professor from a satellite campus of a state university in a rural setting on the topic of campus dialogue about controversial social and religious issues, comparing and contrasting how they are handled at public, private, and religiously-affiliated institutions. Second, the events and exchanges of a few hours or a few days can lead to connections and projects that evolve over weeks and months. In light of those same conversations referenced above, as well as other sessions I attended, I'm suddenly much more invested in exploring ways to increase my engagement in dialogue and programming at Holy Cross around everything from the experience of minority and first-generation students to how engagement in social issues and spiritual reflection is fostered in the context of the College's Jesuit and Catholic identity and its religiously diverse community of students, faculty, and staff. Third, a strong belief– and an energetic curiosity– in the role that higher education can play in creating a more just, equitable, and participatory society that addresses the health and well-being of one and all... and a keen desire to participate more actively in that process as an aspect of my ongoing life and ministry in the Society of Jesus.

More to follow on these themes, I hope.