Bibliophilia

Rehm Library
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

The early days of June 2008 found me settling into a summer-long assignment to a clinical pastoral education (CPE) program at Georgetown University Hospital in Washington DC. Simply stated, my CPE unit was intended to develop my skills and self-knowledge as a pastoral person, and to simultaneously apply them in the context of my responsibilities as a hospital chaplain. Other Jesuits had informed me that the program was intense and demanding– not only visits and conversations with patients and their families, but also the self-reflective writing assignments and group discussions with my colleagues in the program. Nevertheless, having just completed my second of three years of philosophy studies in St. Louis, I was eager for a change from the more abstract realms of thought and argument I encountered in many of my courses. At the same time, I anticipated that I would enjoy– if not need– some relaxing intellectual activity to balance out the emotional and spiritual focus I'd bring to my days (and regular on-call nights) at the hospital. Among the items I packed for my eastward sojourn were several novels, and in making my way through seven books that summer, I initiated a discipline of pleasure reading that I've successfully striven to sustain in subsequent years.

Yesterday morning, relaxing in the mild sunshine streaming through my window, waiting for laundry to cycle through the machines down the hall, I finished my tenth book of the academic year– Nathaniel Philbrick's In the Heart of the Sea, which documents and narrates the demise of a 19th-century Nantucket whaling ship, sent to its watery grave by an enraged sperm whale, that inspired Herman Melville's legendary classic Moby-Dick. More than a mere accomplishment– though I was pleased to extend my streak of double-digit pleasure reading into a fourth consecutive academic year– the occasion drew my attention to why I've become so fond of, dedicated to, and mildly passionate about reading. A growing volume of ink (physical and digital) is being applied to the issue of reading's impact upon students of various ages, as well as the existence (and effects) of various types and extents of "reading gaps" between children of different backgrounds, economic classes, household situations, and so on. A piece in today's New York Times Sunday Review section included a captivating quote from Franz Kafka: "a book must be the ax for the frozen sea inside us." I've become such a consistent and devoted reader not only for the diversion from my life's work, prayer, and travel that it offers, but also for the enlightening perspective– ranging from consonance to counterpoint– that it bestows upon any and all aspects of the life that I lead.

I believe that what one reads provides not only a glimpse into his or her being, but also shapes one's identity. When visiting friends and other Jesuit communities alike, I regularly find myself drawn to their bookshelves, as if some casual bibliographic analysis of the works held there might convey an enlightening insight, or perhaps more practically, some suggestions for my "to-read" list. Despite my vowed commitment and habitual preference for a simple lifestyle, I confess to having a far greater quantity of books now than the dozen I brought along when I entered the novitiate in August 2004. Works on Jesuit history and spirituality share shelf space with several volumes of poetry; anthologies of Native American stories, essays on distance running, and some postmodern literature rub elbows with classics from both the English- and Spanish-language canons. Quasi-deliberate arrangement of my books has yielded some intriguing pairings– J.R.R. Tolkien and Isabel Allende; Robert Frost and Mary Oliver; Graham Greene and Nathan Englander– in the ordered linear spaces of my small library, let alone the imaginings of the minds of literary aficionados. Having recently enjoyed a conversation with the author of my current book– Eliza Griswold's The Tenth Parallel: Dispatches from the Fault Line Between Christianity and Islam– after a lecture she delivered on campus, I'm newly curious about the potential lurking in seemingly casual interactions between writers and readers.

A relaxed discipline that began as an escape of sorts– curling up at night with John Steinbeck's East of Eden after a long day at the hospital followed by the refreshing company and conversation shared with my Jesuit brothers amidst daily Mass and dinner– has happily evolved into a well-worn circular path. I read to immerse myself in a different reality, to learn about new topics, and to encounter a diverse array of characters. Yet the knowledge, insights, and interactions into which I'm drawn by my bibliophilia continually brings me back into the intricately rich reality in which I dwell, placing me squarely in the midst of a story where I am both author and subject, one character among many, charting a course with determination yet also quite clueless about the content of the next page. Let the story continue!

Decisions

Though the first competitors haven't yet started the race, this year's Boston Marathon is already making news. There's a record high forecast, with bright sunshine and only light winds, resulting in significant concerns and strident warnings about the dangers of exercising– let alone competing– in such conditions. I ran a workout on Tuesday morning in a hat and gloves, so my body isn't at all accustomed to, nor prepared for, such sudden and unseasonable warmth.

So when I learned that the race organizers were offering to defer anyone's entry to 2013 as long as he or she didn't start the race, I thought and prayed about the matter quite seriously. In line with the musings and mindsets that I described in my previous post, it wasn't a straightforward choice, even though prudential hindsight suggests that it should have been. I weighed the possibility of taking it super easy, resuming training after a short recovery, then running a qualifier in the fall with enough time to register for Boston 2013. I considered whether I'd want the experience (and the memory) of running a difficult, hot, and slow 26.2 miles after a fairly decent 15-week training regimen that, I dare presume, makes me capable of a performance far stronger and faster than what I'd be able to run in wicked warmth. I wondered how prudent I would be if I started and got into trouble.

Saturday evening Mass was an ideal venue for finalizing this discernment. With apologies to a Jesuit celebrant who surely offered a fine homily on the readings for Divine Mercy Sunday, the words Jesus spoke to Thomas were the ones that provided the conviction I needed: "Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed." (John 20:29)

I'd experience today's heat no matter what I chose, so it suddenly seemed obvious to believe the worst and choose to defer until next year. I also found myself making a new plan– just one click or entry form away– to register for the Providence Marathon (on May 6) and run it sight unseen, just for fun. In any event, though these decisions were difficult (I am somewhat disappointed over not running today), they certainly feel right... and part of an interesting twist in the story of this year's training, a narrative that just got a few weeks longer. I'm praying that everyone who did decide to run today makes good choices as well.

Jitters

Starting line encouragement in Hopkinton MA
2011 Boston Marathon

As usual, I’ve got some pre-race anxiety as Patriots Day approaches. Although it’s my third Boston Marathon, and my seventh attempt at this storied distance, I’ve learned from over a decade of running that experience does not make any race routine. The fruit of good training is revealed not only in physical preparation and endurance but also in mental adaptability and resolve amidst whatever surprises emerge along the course.

This year’s major worry– temperatures far warmer than average and quite higher than what is comfortable or ideal for a 26.2-mile run– is suddenly casting a very long shadow over the past fifteen weeks of training. The only other time I’ve run a marathon in similar conditions– Saint Louis in 2008– is the only occasion when I’ve finished slower than 3:11, as well as suffered the humbling, disheartening experience of “hitting the wall” and getting knocked backwards… hard. Moreover, when I was a younger, brasher runner, I hammered through a hot, sunny 10-miler at a pace that was far more ambitious than prudent. I literally cannot recall 4 of the last 5 miles from that day, yet I’m grateful for the fact that I do remember this one experience of heatstroke, as it still sounds a cautionary tone that I strive to heed during the warmer months of the year.

Surely my perspective on this year’s Boston– or any long-distance race, for that matter– does not entirely align with that of an equally rational non-athlete. There’s a certain degree of craziness and bravado mixed in with the courage and ambition that inspire and motivate people from many walks of life and a broad range of ages to test themselves on the marathon stage. We may share some kinship with Don Quixote in tilting at windmills, but we’re also pursuing some very clear and worthy objectives, and can be reluctant to abandon our respective quests. I’ve got a much different set of things at stake this Patriots Day, compared to the past two years– in 2010, fabulous training and ideal weather offered me the chance to pursue (and successfully achieve!) a sub-3-hour finish; in 2011, commitment to a friend and long-time training partner compelled and inspired a companionship unlike any I’d ever felt in a marathon. This time around, I could certainly chase a sub-3:05 in order to qualify anew, but the heat might be prohibitively adverse. I could experiment with a novel race plan– go prudently but uncomfortably slow for the first 10 to 12 miles, then ride the energy of the Wellesley Scream Tunnel and the big crowds along the Newton Hills, and perhaps even vanquish the demons I’ve always met on Beacon Street for 3 of the course’s final 4 miles. For the first time in a few years, an underlying goal that I’ve always taken for granted is poised to be the primary one– reach that finish line, and have as much fun as possible along the way. Who knows, if I miss my qualifying mark, I might find therein the motivation and justification to train through the summer for a classic fall marathon, like Philly or New York.

In any event, this year’s Boston will be unlike any of my previous six marathons, though hopefully no less satisfying, instructive, and memorable.  I’m eager to see what I find along my way to Copley Square, and what my next 26.2 miles will suggest for my ongoing journey through life.

Motivation on the T in Boston MA
2011 Boston Marathon Weekend

Holy Week in New York

Although my attention has shifted to the Easter season, a grant proposal being submitted tomorrow, and Monday's Boston Marathon, I'd be remiss if I failed to offer some reflections upon the many graces, experiences, conversations, and images that filled my recent Holy Week visit to New York City.

Central Park, New York NY

Contrasts: A large, noisy, bustling city... an expansive, vibrant, hushed park. The shift in sound, in the clarity and smell of the air, and from clean architectural lines to lovely natural contours never failed to echo and inspire a transition into (or out of) a more prayerful and meditative state. I felt a certain resonance with the final days of Jesus as they were experienced by him, his disciples, and the people of Jerusalem. Crowds walked the teeming streets, and among them were two who threaded their way to a certain man in a certain building, following instructions that were both specific and vague, compelling both attentiveness and faith. My movements around New York– to meet friends for meals, to attend various liturgies, to walk or run in Central Park– were equally anonymous to the general populace, yet equally purposeful for me and those whom I met. The ordinary cares of Jerusalem's citizens ostensibly continued apace in distant sectors of the city removed from the action, just as I remained heedless of events in the other four boroughs even while covering sizable swaths of Manhattan.

Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, New York NY

Imagery: Art and architecture complemented nature and humanity in composing the scenery that framed my travels. The city's crowds became the people of God; the city's churches became places of prayer. In my wide-ranging conversations with dear friends– touching upon the struggles of faith and the debates of politics, the labors and projects of work and the adventures and mysteries of relationships– I approached with greater depth and deeper appreciation the graced complexity found in a single life, and the joy of sharing something of that treasure through time spent in close company. In walking the streets alone between these hours-long encounters, I strove to envision in a similar light, with an attitude of humble reverence, each person whom I passed. Whom does this person love? For whom does this man walk the six dogs scattered around him at the corner? What thoughts and feelings lie behind the searching eyes of the older gentleman on the subway platform? What vibrant bond unites the three women pushing strollers through the park, chattering away in a language I don't recognize?

Lunch on Holy Thursday

Nourishment: If it weren't for the Dartmouth classmate with whom I shared lunch and strolled the full length of Central Park on a glorious afternoon, I would never have taken this picture nor many others. Without some courage from each of us, this occasion might not have occurred, nor would we have rediscovered the elements of a strong friendship hidden in scattered conversations from our undergraduate days and occasional exchanges strewn through subsequent years of benevolent distance. These tacos were delicious, yet the conversations and company I shared with Dartmouth friends and Jesuit brothers over five days nourished me even more deeply. The gifts of time and presence that we bestowed upon one another proved far richer and more satisfying than the solitary intervals that filled certain stretches of New York sojourn. Even when happily settled in the peace of prayerful searching for God's words to me, of contemplating Christ's suffering and death, of asking for the Spirit's guidance and inspiration in becoming and sharing more fully the person whom I'm called to be, a subtle force gently pushed me back into these delightful encounters with trustworthy companions.

Gramercy Park, New York NY

Dwelling: Christ is found in many places during Holy Week– Jerusalem's bustling streets, a quiet upper room, a secluded valley, rough paths beyond the city walls. New York teems with constructed dwellings, occasionally in some strange juxtapositions, such as this multiple-species high-rent district. The various churches I visited for liturgies offered a spiritual home for the faithful who chose to worship there. I'm challenged and also heartened whenever my musings on the notion of God's dwelling place point me not only outward to great houses of worship or spectacular natural settings, but also inward to the heart and soul that attract others to shelter there, despite the weaknesses and imperfections that I all too readily perceive. Yet in the hospitality of a Jesuit community, the comfort of a decade-long friendship, the living stones of a storied and diverse congregation, and even the thousands of people whom I passed on the city's streets and subways, I felt the gentle reminder to notice and appreciate the dwelling place that Christ makes (and finds) therein, with(in) both them and me.

More reflections to come, perhaps; in the meantime, your feedback and commentary are welcome.

Ninety Seconds

Central Park South, New York NY

God seems to enjoy testing and shaping my faith by means of tight connections at Boston's South Station. Last winter, the last transfer along a return from Chicago to Worcester involved dashing into a three-minute window between the arrival of an airport shuttle and the departure of a commuter train. Yesterday, the bus I took from New York to Boston left Manhattan late, encountered some heavy traffic, and ultimately took a longer (but delay-free) route. Fortunately, at the end of my hustle from the bus station to the commuter rail platform, the train waiting there was indeed the 3:05 to Worcester, and I gladly hopped aboard with (it turned out) ninety seconds to spare. Though not quite an experience of getting caught up to heaven in a cloud– after all, I was heading to Worcester– I did experience a great deal of relief, knowing that I would arrive home in time for Mass, the community Easter dinner, and the celebration for those in the house with April birthdays.

This episode concluded, with dramatic flourish, a wonderful six-day visit to New York City for Holy Week, as well as a side trip to South Jersey to surprise my parents for Easter dinner. I'll share stories from that stretch of time soon. As those memories echoed in my thoughts and prayers during yesterday's homeward journey, I was struck by how much I enjoyed them– not only in themselves, but also as experiences that I could never have scripted. Which brings me to the major grace and insight of my latest quasi-maddening travel dash– it would have been far less fun, meaningful, and insightful an experience if I had known the outcome in advance. Think about it: would you willingly choose an itinerary that you knew would include an airport terminal steeplechase right out of a movie? Would the sense of relief that attends the successful accomplishment of a frighteningly tight connection be as strong if you knew that you would make it? And, more to the point of the trajectory of Holy Week and Easter for Jesus' disciples, would their experience of Jesus rising from the dead and appearing to them in subsequent days be as powerful, lasting, and faith-inspiring if they had known that his crucifixion and burial was not the end of the story? Paul and the other New Testament writers, in readings heard during the Easter season, speak often of God's set plan for Christ's salvific death and resurrection– a series of events suggested by prior prophecies, and also mentioned by Jesus himself both publicly and privately. Yet these same events– in all of their drama, pathos, violence, and anguish– were experienced first and most intimately by those who never read the script. Whatever they may have believed, whatever they may have felt, it seems abundantly clear that they did not know how the story would end, and that they doubted the potential for any continuation after events so stark and final as those of Good Friday.

As much as I try to schedule my days and bring order to my life's activities, I'm regularly gladdened by the surprises that God generously pens throughout the weaving plot of my spiritual journey. The varied, fluid, and sometimes messy vicissitudes with which God fills my days are far richer and more vital than their containers– the somewhat rigid structures of habit and routine that I strive to keep so neat and crisp. Thankfully, I'm the kind of person who can increasingly relish the excitement of adapting to wrinkles in my plan imposed by forces beyond my control. This Easter season, I also pray that I'll continue to become the kind of person who recognizes, with humble gratitude and cooperative acceptance, the providential influence of a wiser author whose flair for the dramatic rarely fails to instruct, entertain, and amaze me.

Holland Tunnel Entrance, New York NY

Scheduled Searching

I'm going to New York City for the remainder of Holy Week. Though I've planned a series of meals with Dartmouth friends and liturgies at many of the city's great churches– Catholic and Protestant alike– I'm also approaching the trip as a pilgrimage of sorts. God willing, some desirable and timely graces will visit me amidst my travels, conversations, and worship in the city.

Pray-er's/Runner's/Writer's Block

National Cathedral, Washington DC

"... are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour? Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

– Mark 14: 37-38

This line from the Passion narrative in Mark's Gospel– chanted in parts at the Palm Sunday liturgy I attended– resonated deeply in my hearing. Gently holding a palm frond, listening to a tenor's voice intone these words of Jesus, I heard them expressing many emotions on his part: surprise, disappointment, perhaps even sympathy. So often this Lent, I've felt quite close to the disciples in the garden, visiting this scene often in my contemplative prayer. Professing eagerness to follow and accompany Jesus, the rapid withering of their resolve seems attributable to more than mere physical fatigue. Undoubtedly, their faith was gravely shaken as their miracle-working, wisdom-proclaiming, love-embodying teacher and friend asserted his imminent death, surrendered to violent captivity, and perished with little if any explicitly visible trace of his divine power. If I am like them, I too would be deeply troubled by the unprecedented predictions they heard, disillusioned by the events that they witnessed. If they were like me, the energy drawn into all the attendant anxiety and worry– whether consciously or unconsciously– exacts a heavy toll on physical vigor, mental crispness, and spiritual stability.

As I move into my final two weeks of training for the 2012 Boston Marathon, I'm in the heart of my tapering period, during which I deliberately reduce my mileage and slow my pace to allow my body to recover from the stresses of an arduous running schedule that covers nearly 500 miles in 15 weeks. Tapering has been described as gently and firmly coiling a spring, in advance of releasing it in a well-crafted surge of strength and energy on race day. As I settle into this year's taper, I feel with delight the increasing accumulation of some extra energy, liberated from the demands of miles and seconds that I'm temporarily relinquishing. I've learned to count on that energy around mile 23 of the Boston course– surrounded by cheering crowds on Beacon Street yet plunged deeply into the grueling weariness of legs nearly spent from almost three hours of running– to break through the metaphorical wall often encountered in a marathon's closing miles. If that reserve is lacking, or if I fail to draw upon it, collapse and agony are almost inevitable.

If the disciples weren't so worried, if their faith were greater, perhaps they would have stayed awake with Jesus during his fitful prayer in Gethsemane. I can say the same about my own discipline of prayer, which has been plagued throughout this Lent by fatigue-inducing anxiety, and a certain lack of focus attributable to a faith that's less grounded than I would like. If their confidence were firmer, perhaps they would have spoken with greater honesty about their own weakness, rather than being humbled by the emptiness of their proud assertions of fidelity and perseverance earlier in the course of events that bring each Gospel to its climax. I can say the same about my own efforts at reflection and writing, whether for broad expression or personal examination– too many good ideas have recently gone unexplored, kept from dialogue, ink, and page by a reticence masked by misguided assumptions about their lack of appeal or ability to make a contribution to any exchange.

This isn't how I expected, or desired, to approach Holy Week... feeling blocked in areas of my life where I genuinely desire greater vitality yet shrink from the humbling, vulnerable, and graced route to achieving such fruitfulness. In my training, paradoxically, the present moment calls for the very kind of holding back that has become so disillusioning in my prayer, my writing, and my friendships. I eagerly anticipate opening a biomechanical floodgate on Patriots' Day; I longingly await the day (or the hour) when the obstacles in my inner life are cleared away.