Music of a Mild Day

Fraternal Admiration

2012-02-02T16:13:00.000-05:00

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

2012-02-01T16:24:00.000-05:00

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.

Private Graces

2012-01-23T16:13:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-17T11:42:00.000-05:00

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.

2012-01-16T09:17:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-12T22:14:00.000-05:00

[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

2012-01-09T20:33:00.000-05:00

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

The ground floor of the main administration building at HolyCross is commonly known as “Mahogany Row.” It’s one of my favorite interiorspaces on campus, and reminds me of a style more akin to the elite boardingschool portrayed in one of my favorite films– Dead Poets Society. When I walk down its tiled hallway, past thepanes of frosted glass on office doors that open inward, my attention is drawnupwards to the oil portraits of the College’s past presidents. Early last Fridaymorning, workers hung the thirty-first portrait, honoring Rev. MichaelMcFarland, SJ, whose nearly twelve years of leadership fostered significantgrowth 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 toWorcester, I’ve admired his highly successful and effective leadership of Holy Cross, as well as his presencearound the house. I’ve also enjoyed seeing him on the roads around the College, aswe’re both avid early morning runners. I’m grateful for all that he’s taught meby his example– the importance of regular, visible, generous, and personalinvolvement in the life of the community, the asset of a creative balancebetween prayer and work, exercise and rest, and a clear sense that devotion toa given mission of the Society of Jesus is inseparable from attention to thehopes, dreams, concerns, and needs of the people whom it serves. Even from my humblepost in the College’s grant-writing office, these are lessons that I’m tryingto incorporate in my daily work, striving to aid in sustainingthe 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

2012-01-08T15:11:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-04T17:09:00.001-05:00

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:

John [the Baptist] was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he said, "Behold, the Lamb of God." The two disciples heard what he said and followed Jesus. Jesus turned and saw them following him and said to them, "What are you looking for?" They said to him, "Rabbi" (which translated means Teacher), "where are you staying?" He said to them, "Come, and you will see." So they went and saw where he was staying, and they stayed with him that day. It was about four in the afternoon. Andrew, the brother of Simon Peter, was one of the two who heard John and followed Jesus. He first found his own brother Simon and told him, "We have found the Messiah," which is translated Christ. Then he brought him to Jesus. Jesus looked at him and said, "You are Simon the son of John; you will be called Cephas," which is translated Peter.

– John 1:35-42

Imagining where the disciples might have been that day brought to mind memories of places where I've had strong encounters with Jesus– a hospital ward in Washington DC, visiting patients awaiting or recovering from various orthopedic procedures; a small hostel at the edge of a small village in the Chilean desert, chatting over tea, crackers, and cheese with the family who owned the establishment; the echoing silence of a retreat house by the ocean, amidst my thirty-day retreat as a novice that began seven years ago this week.

Yet this phrase also invited me to sharpen my ongoing practice of the Ignatian Examen– prayerfully reviewing the events, actions, and thoughts of any given day, looking for the occasions when I encountered divine grace, contributed to the goodness of someone's day, or possibly resisted God's presence or put my own needs ahead of someone else's. I moved around a great deal today– revising some scholarship proposals in the office, driving a Jesuit friend to the airport, enjoying a quiet lunch on my own in a small coffee shop, participating in a productive meeting, beating the afternoon traffic back to Worcester.

Did I stay with Jesus today? To wholeheartedly affirm that I did would not be entirely honest, as my mind and heart were hardly occupied exclusively with pious musings throughout the past eleven hours. Was I looking to see where Jesus was staying today? I believe that I was indeed doing so, if only subtly. I do know that I moved through the day with a desire and an openness to "come and see," and a gentle joy over the signs of Jesus and his presence that I did find. That in itself is a state of mind and heart that I count as a blessing, and perhaps a lesson about how to stay with Jesus, one day at a time.

Professional Reading

2012-01-02T09:01:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-02T08:42:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-01T07:58:00.000-05:00

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

2011 Review, Part III

2011-12-31T13:48:00.001-05:00

September 2011

Mount Greylock State Reservation, Adams MA

I still vividly remember this moment: hiking to the summit ofMassachusetts’ highest peak with a friend, grateful for the shelter of theforest canopy on a damp and misty Saturday, I nearly walked into this leaf.Suspended from an unseen filament, readily explained by natural forces yetdefying the normal order of things, it stopped me in my tracks. Neitherpictures nor words can do justice to the sense of wonder, disbelief, andintrigued curiosity that seeped up from my soul as gently as the soft autumnmoisture continued to trickle down into the sodden woods. During the busy,sometimes frenetic, pace of adjusting to a new job in the midst of a majorgrant project overseen by a committee whose members I just met, I rarely paidany attention to the subtle changes that were creeping along beneath the moretangible tasks of revising drafts, scheduling meetings, and endlessly refininga budget that boasted more than 100 line items and often drifted perilouslyclose to its $1.6 million ceiling. Though I often felt myself precariouslyclinging to a newfound platform of work and collaboration, I was in factgracefully supported by the unseen threads of mentorship, acceptance, patience,and even confidence, on the part of my colleagues and my community. A wondrousthing indeed.

October 2011

Overlook Farm, Clarksville MO

After serving as a spiritual director for Holy Cross students on a five-day silent retreat over fall break, I traveled to St. Louis for a long weekend to attend a goodfriend’s wedding. On a delightfully perfect autumn day– abundant sunshine,gently crisp air, smells of the harvest pervading the sweeping river valleyscarved and watered by the Missisippi– it seemed that every detail had beenlovingly crafted for the occasion. Even the propane tank at the farm where thereception was held had been decorated with the couple’s initials and festoonedwith seasonal accoutrements. The subtle touches of divine splendor, humancreativity, and caring hospitality transformed the occasion of a wedding into acelebration of the beauty in strong relationships and the majesty of theseason. I learned and appreciated how small, welcoming touches– whether in aroom or a landscape, whether for a wedding or a simple visit– make a world ofdifference, and powerfully express the dignity and goodness of the earth andits people.

November 2011

Thanksgiving Dinner with Family

In my seven and a half years as a Jesuit, this fall was onlythe third time that I traveled home to South Jersey for Thanksgiving (andlater, Christmas) with my family. I’ve grown accustomed to living at adistance, both geographical and otherwise, from my parents, sister, and extendedfamily as my Jesuit life has carried me around the United States and LatinAmerica, and into new realms of intellectual, spiritual, and personalexploration and discovery. Yet as we all grow older– many of my cousins are nowmarried with children, and a growing number of my aunts and uncles are noweither grandparents or in their sixties– I’ve been feeling a desire to regain adeeper connection with my family. Laughter and good storytellingabounded at Thanksgiving, and spilled over into informal gatherings–particularly one memorably raucous game night involving just the cousins–throughout the long weekend. I’ve long felt comfortable and at home with myJesuit family, so much so that it now feels a little odd to hop in the car forthe 4.5-hour (5 hours if I’m talking to Mom) drive to South Jersey, even as thebrethren disperse to their families after a wonderful Thanksgiving celebrationin the community earlier in the week. My connections to my two wonderfulfamilies do exist in some tension– they’re each familiar with different aspectsof my life story, and I neither can nor desire to shuttle frequently betweenthe two– but they are hardly at odds with one another. That’s a satisfyinginsight that’s been nourishing me long after the last of the turkey wasconsumed.

December 2011

Quabbin Reservoir, Hardwick MA

Look carefully… there’s a powerful reflection lurking inthis image. With the year drawing to a close, daylight hours faded towards thewinter solstice while inner light gently swelled with the graces of the Adventseason– hope, gratitude, making room for the new and unexpected. Whereas mylife seemed to turn upside down in June amidst a sudden departure from one joband a rapid start in another, the days of December revealed to me the fruitfulresults of a months-long current of progress– in my apostolic work, in myrelationships with others, in my own spiritual depths– that has righted theship. In a similar vein, amid reflecting on the blessings of companionship andsupport provided to me by fellow Jesuits, friends, and family throughout theyear, I’ve also come to appreciate their gratitude for the blessings that mypresence, friendship, and support have bestowed upon them. That’s not aperspective I’m accustomed to taking, yet this reversed view has illuminatedsome of my best qualities as I continue to navigate a rising tide ofconfidence, enthusiasm, and connectedness into the uncharted realm of thecoming year.

2011 Review, Part II

2011-12-31T13:35:00.000-05:00

May 2011

Mount Frissell CT

Before I finish my assignment in Worcester, I aim to reachthe highest point in each of the six New England states. This month saw metackle my fourth– Connecticut’s Mt. Frissell– once again in the company of afriend. Our shared hiking background and expertise proved useful, as theappointed day brought shrouds of fog barely stirred by faint rustlings offeeble winds and steady gurgles of runoff-swollen streams. Our progress, thanksto the sodden soil, suggested traipsing more than hiking, bumbling through tangledundergrowth when clearer paths towards our goal proved to be submerged undervernal pools. A vital and verdant landscape, hidden in mysterious moisture, mayhave redirected our steps, yet this realm still ushered us to a peak notablefor its memorable insights as well as its geographic significance.

June 2011

Moore State Park, Paxton MA

In a sudden and disconcerting impulse of self-indulgence, Itraveled to this nearby park on my birthday for a few hours of quiet reading,reflection, and photography. Falling in the middle of the month, this day andits images mysteriously encompassed the balance and transition thatcharacterized my June, as well as the tranquil fluidity of God’s presence andgrace that wondrously surfaced above other perturbations. Somehow this pond,just upstream of a dam and waterfall servicing an old mill, expressed to meboth the mysterious marvel of my birth yet also the ordinary spectacle of that givenday and its annual remembrance. That’s a tension I’ve been challenged toembrace… humbly respecting the ordinary while also gratefully accepting thewondrousness of my life, my relationships, and my call to deep involvement inthe life of the community.

July 2011

WaterFire, Providence RI

After struggling for much of the first half of 2011, mycapacity for enthusiasm, creativity, and satisfying engagement with work seemedto suddenly catch fire. A large and complex grant proposal– the firstassignment in my new job at Holy Cross– suddenly swept me into regular contactwith wonderful professors and administrators, pushed me into various tasks withquick turnaround times, and stirred anew my interest in the workings of highereducation. At the same time, various fires sprung up, or were gently stirred,in my friendships. Whether sharing the warmth of their company or feeling the harshnessof their suffering– caused by the illness of a relative, the loss of a job, orthe vagaries of depression– strong bonds were forged or fused even moretightly.

August 2011

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

The return of students tothe Holy Cross campus at the end of the month echoed a return of my ownoptimism and enthusiasm as the new academic year began. My annual 8-dayretreat, completed in the middle of the month, restored my connection with theroots of my vocation, a firm calling planted in the midst of an ever-changingworld. Fittingly, the entire landscape around this tree changed during thesummer, yielding a new campus gathering space that has been warmly andenthusiastically claimed by grateful students. As I spent time here,encountering students and faculty doing the same, the atmosphere of communitytook on palpable presence in physical space. With so many academic pursuits,spiritual adventures, and personal journeys entering a new phase at this timeof year– an array of concerns whose complexity I could only imagine as I gazedupon those passing through this new space– I’ve felt myself drawn to thestill-blank pages in my own life story, and eager for the experiences that willfill them.

2011 Review, Part I

2011-12-31T13:34:00.000-05:00

To focus my reflection upon the events, thoughts, feelings, challenges, successes, relationships, and blessings that filled this past year, I selected one photograph per month, using it to ground a single paragraph summarizing the same month. Given such a perspective, and the fact that I spent much of this year in my head, meditating continuously on items from the above list, single events rarely emerged as significant; rather, the flow and growth bestowed in a given month is what I tended to notice. Oddly enough, that's something I'd like to tweak for 2012... as the year taught me that there's so much more to learn from and savor in life than what I can intellectually grasp.

January 2011

Ciampi Hall, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Each week this month brought a storm that disrupted school and threw offroutines, but also offered beautiful imagery of adaptation and persistence inthe natural world. Trees swayed yet held in chilly winds, drifting snow bestoweddynamic contours upon otherwise static lawns and hillsides, birds fluttered andnibbled in turn while bustling about a feeder situated for easy viewing andadmiration from the expansive windows of our dining room. Amidst obstacles ofclimate, I did my best to train for the Boston Marathon. Within my duties as ateacher, I strove to keep my classes on track while shuffling around snow days.My chief lessons and greatest strides came from imitating the birds… bepersistent, be patient, and eat well!

February 2011

Vineyard Haven Harbor, Martha's Vineyard MA

Seaworthy vessels lay anchored, gently riding an aqueousturbulence that mirrors a subtler and slower flow aloft. My own travels duringthis month– a 20-mile race on Martha’s Vineyard, a week visiting Jesuits andfriends in Chicago– brought refreshing movement that served as a gentlecounterpoint to the ongoing grind of lesson planning, teaching, and gradingthat felt steady but not always satisfying. The difference between astabilizing anchor and a restricting chain was not always evident as Ireflected upon my experiences of gladness and sadness, fulfillment andfrustration, success and setback. The one reliable constant was a sense ofsteady flow, reflected in grandiose swirling of water, wind, and snow.

March 2011

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Nature’s pattern of achieving great beauty from small,fragile, humble starts annually astounds me as the first buds and bloomsappear. The scale of an unfinished project, the massiveness of a shift I desireto make in my attitude and outlook, or a challenging situation in need ofresolution often daunts me, especially at the outset. Though my running keepsme familiar with the adage that “the journey of a thousand miles begins with asingle step,” taking that same first step, making that sort of small start,does not come as readily to my more internal endeavors. Nature’s reminders arehelpful and inspiring.

April 2011

Boston Public Garden

Spring blooms. Water liberated from ice. Winds that aregentle and pleasant, rather than biting and fierce. The mellowing of naturesoftens a soul hardened by more than the harshness of winter. After three and a half long months oftraining, my second Boston Marathon carried a powerful lesson about humilityand fidelity: my friend Matt and I ran the entire route side by side, pacingeach other through our respective periods of strength and fatigue, confidenceand doubt, pain and delight. A drama honored by, but perhaps also hidden from,the tens of thousands of spectators whose cheers spurred us on, sustained ourspirits, and guided us from humble Hopkinton to boisterous Boston. A single daythat inspired an entire month.

The Next Volume

2011-12-30T11:42:00.001-05:00

By sheer coincidence, I’m approaching the last page in myjournal in the last days of 2011. Whether looking back over the course of thisyear, as I’ll do in the next three posts, or flipping to my journal's first page (which describes an unseasonably warm afternoon in April 2010, awonderful surprise meeting with a former student while strolling the HolyCross campus, and a subtle case of nerves building in the days before my first Boston Marathon), I’m impressed by the variety of experiences,memories, and lessons chronicled in a given volume of text and time. I feeldoubly blessed as I anticipate opening two fresh covers, inking two freshpages, and continuing one delightful life journey this coming Sunday.

Calm and Bright

2011-12-26T14:08:00.001-05:00

Apart from this calm and bright scene early in the morning, there was hardly a dull moment on Christmas this year. Molly mustered some puppy-like energy and actually unwrapped a few of her presents. My mom and I toiled in the kitchen to prepare dinner for my uncles, aunts, and cousins who came and filled the house with good cheer. My dad and my sister pitched in for a first round of doing dishes, rearranging furniture, and counting the place settings– every year someone jokes about "borrowing" some of the silverware– before calling it a night. Even in the quiet of night, I could still hear ringing laughter, boisterous conversation, and other joyful sounds of our celebration.

During the brief time that I snuck away for some prayer– while the jambalaya cooked– it occurred to me that the original Nativity scene was hardly a still life. Maybe there were some blissfully quiet moments when the little child was sleeping in a manger, but on that cold night, I envisioned Mary and Joseph as anxiously worrying about whether the child would be warm enough. Shepherds and magi alike were pressed into service– whether tending to the animals, helping Joseph arrange the family's belongings, or listening to Mary figure out what to do next. That drafty stable was hardly a place for passive bystanders; it was a place of activity where unexpected visitors became welcome friends and necessary participants in the newly unfolding human and divine story. As I returned to the kitchen, and then shared in the joy of hosting and catching up with relatives, that recognition of the very active nature of the Nativity story calmly and brightly illumined the evening. Everyone went home warm and well-fed, and nobody ran off with any of the silver. Thanks to us all, it was a truly merry Christmas indeed.

Most of the cousins on my mom's side... and I really am the second oldest.

We Need a Little Christmas

2011-12-24T13:19:00.000-05:00

When I was younger (back in the days of VHS tapes!), my family always found time to pull out The Muppet Family Christmas just after school closed for the Christmas break. [If, by some remote chance, you haven't seen this remarkable film... skip the following spoilers and go the next paragraph.] I remember being amazed when the Sesame Street gang showed up at Fozzie's mother's farmhouse, being fascinated by the efforts of the Swedish Chef to cook Big Bird for dinner, and wondering how Miss Piggy would ever get out of the snowstorm that almost made her miss the party. Great jokes and songs abound throughout the show– it famously concludes with a cast of hundreds of Muppets singing carols by the fire– but the opening number seems especially appropriate this year.

I've had a good Advent... some gathering momentum in prayer, some beautiful services and festive celebrations with my community and the broader Holy Cross family, and a much deeper sense of the holiness in this time of year. But I do (still) need a little Christmas. The weather has been oddly warm lately, both in central Massachusetts and in southern New Jersey, and there's no snow in either locale. I've been involved in an unusual streak of bad news and sorrowful situations this week– two cancer diagnoses (an uncle's sister and a friend's close friend), a wake and a funeral for an aunt's brother, and a friend's ongoing struggle with depression and isolation made paradoxically sharper by the pressures of Christmas celebrations. The decorations are in place, the lights and ornaments are on the tree, and the table is being set (we're hosting 18 relatives for Christmas dinner tomorrow night), but I don't have that Christmas feeling that I've so easily recognized and savored in years past. Instead of gleeful anticipation, I've occasionally noticed myself as worn-out as Molly, our 15-year-old Beagle, who spends most of her day sleeping, sometimes in positions that defy presumed definitions of comfort and peace.

I had some time to meditate and reflect on all this at length during a 13-mile run this morning around some local neighborhoods and parks. It's long been familiar terrain, but I can recall when I was mapping and testing these routes for the first time, back when 13 miles was the limit of my training range and my athletic ambitions. Would I have done anything differently if I had known what my future held? Would I have had more confidence? Would the thrill of pushing limits have lost its appeal if replaced by the certainty that I'd one day achieve my dream of finishing the Boston Marathon? What did I gain by not knowing the end of the story?

Perhaps the grace that I'm receiving at the close of Advent 2011 is a connection with those unaware of the end of the Christmas story. The people of Israel who heard Isaiah's prophecies didn't know that they would actually come to pass. The shepherds and magi who followed a star and eluded a jealous king didn't know exactly what they would find, or how their lives could be changed, in the encounter at the end of their journeys to Bethlehem. No small measure of what I sense in the tough news this week, and those who bear its burden, is that they don't know how (or if) such grave issues will be resolved in a positive way.

So while I "need a little Christmas," I'm not sure where I'll find it. I don't know how the story of Advent 2011 will transition into a new chapter of my life, or the lives of those whom I hold dear. Yet I feel that I'm in good company with all who, throughout the course of history, have waited, hoped, prayed, and searched for an encounter with God in the midst of their humanity. Wherever you may be this year, and with whomever you may celebrate, I pray that you have a delightful Christmas, filled with all the blessings of this time of year.

Names

2011-12-17T16:42:00.003-05:00

The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ,
the son of David, the son of Abraham.

Abraham became the father of Isaac,
Isaac the father of Jacob,
Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers.
Judah became the father of Perez and Zerah,
whose mother was Tamar.
Perez became the father of Hezron,
Hezron the father of Ram,
Ram the father of Amminadab.
Amminadab became the father of Nahshon,
Nahshon the father of Salmon,
Salmon the father of Boaz,
whose mother was Rahab.
Boaz became the father of Obed,
whose mother was Ruth.
Obed became the father of Jesse,
Jesse the father of David the king.

David became the father of Solomon,
whose mother had been the wife of Uriah.
Solomon became the father of Rehoboam,
Rehoboam the father of Abijah,
Abijah the father of Asaph.
Asaph became the father of Jehoshaphat,
Jehoshaphat the father of Joram,
Joram the father of Uzziah.
Uzziah became the father of Jotham,
Jotham the father of Ahaz,
Ahaz the father of Hezekiah.
Hezekiah became the father of Manasseh,
Manasseh the father of Amos,
Amos the father of Josiah.
Josiah became the father of Jechoniah and his brothers
at the time of the Babylonian exile.

After the Babylonian exile,
Jechoniah became the father of Shealtiel,
Shealtiel the father of Zerubbabel,
Zerubbabel the father of Abiud.
Abiud became the father of Eliakim,
Eliakim the father of Azor,
Azor the father of Zadok.
Zadok became the father of Achim,
Achim the father of Eliud,
Eliud the father of Eleazar.
Eleazar became the father of Matthan,
Matthan the father of Jacob,
Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary.
Of her was born Jesus who is called the Christ.

Thus the total number of generations
from Abraham to David
is fourteen generations;
from David to the Babylonian exile, fourteen generations;
from the Babylonian exile to the Christ,
fourteen generations.

– Matthew 1:1-17

This long reading always shows up during Advent. Even though I've been exposed to plenty of good scholarship concerning this introduction to Matthew's Gospel, I invariably find myself straining to pay attention during this minutes-long recitation of names. Typically, the celebrant gets a number of smiles and words of congratulations after Mass for getting through this accounting of Jesus' genealogy, and some names that are rather uncommon, difficult to pronounce, and not at all familiar. What do we know about Shealtiel? What kind of a guy was Jotham? Why call attention to each one of the 42 generations leading up to the birth of Jesus Christ?

Francis. Therese. Liz. Kelsey. Rachel. Beth. Christine. Monica. Elise. Andrew. Zac. Alison. Mara. Krista. Jordan. Alana. Jon. Sara. Kristen. Alli. Christina. Rachael. Dave. Virginia. Liz. Jesse. Daniel. Michelle. Sam. Rick. Tom. John. Brendan. Dora. Jane. Anna Mae. Katie. Jill. Hollyce. Betsy. Jenna. Lisa. Ken. Abbie. Patricia. Kim. Caitlin. Clara. Peter. Jim. Lloyd. Sean. Bill. Pat. Simon.

Just a list of names, right? Well, in one way, yes. In another way, so much more. Each is a family member, fellow Jesuit, or friend from Dartmouth, St. Louis University, Holy Cross, or other community where I've spent time. Each has made a powerful, meaningful, undeniable contribution to my life, and allowed me to be a meaningful presence in his or her life, this year. We've helped to define each other's experiences of the past twelve months, and hopefully, to better grasp the mystery of God's abiding presence and ongoing work in each of us. Jesus' birth is somehow tied to the countless generations that preceded him, and his ongoing presence is somehow tied to each of us, participants in the great genealogy of the human race, at least as I see it. Treasure the names on your list, and even more importantly, the people in your life.

Hallway Wisdom

2011-12-15T20:17:00.000-05:00

A certain professor's take on the new liturgical translations...

Encountering the Unexpected

2011-12-14T08:30:00.000-05:00

In light of a conversation with some students after Mass onSunday evening, I’ve been thinking about what may happen when Catholics whohaven’t been to church for a while show up for Mass on Christmas. They’llhopefully find the same decorations, seasonal music, festive atmosphere, andwarm welcome that would characterize a vibrant parish community at this time ofyear. Yet they’ll also find that the language of the liturgy has changed, andthat the changes, though perhaps relatively slight, could sound quite jarring.

I can imagine some confusion– “Why has this happened?”– aswell as some annoyance and frustration– “Who made this decision? What does thisall mean?” I could even imagine some reactions of resentment– “Why were thesechanges made without talking to us?”

I’ve been thinking a great deal about the new liturgicaltranslations– their sources, their impact, their reception by the clergy andthe laity, and the theological worldview that they express. Some of the morecontentious issues– the process that produced the new translation, the heightened sense ofhuman imperfection in relationship to divine grace, and a shift away fromcolloquial to more formal language– I’ll set aside for the moment. What strikesme at the moment is that potentially stark encounter between a new rituallanguage and a group of individuals whom it may surprise and shock. But wasn’tJesus’ birth– God made human, a poor and unmarried woman bearing the world’ssavior– no less surprising and unexpected, whether to those familiar with prophecies or those whosimply received the news?

These are themes that continue to characterize my prayer this Advent; I can't imagine how or why Christ would choose to dwell in the spaces of darkness, emptiness, and brokenness that I feel within me. Yet I sense a call to await his coming even there, perhaps more so than in the places where I'm used to finding him– a conversation with a friend, contemplation on a favorite psalm, or amidst a quiet stroll at sunrise. As Advent goes on, and Christmas draws closer, I believe that Christ continually desires to surprise us, to encounter us in unexpected ways, and to gently challenge us to develop a truly honest vision of one another and the ties that bind us. Hopefully this message will be clearly heard this Christmas, regardless of how the new language of the Mass sounds.

Advent (Week II)

2011-12-09T09:14:00.001-05:00

Some images and experiences from Week II of Advent 2011:

Frost on the windows above my prayer ledge nicely framed a memento of Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish, my faith community for three years in St. Louis, on a chilly morning in Worcester.

Over breakfast on Wednesday morning, the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, some of my octogenarian brothers shared stories of where they were on that "day that shall live in infamy." Crisp memories of their high school classes being interrupted by radio bulletins impressed me with the power of recollection, and the value of honoring and drawing on such living links to the past, in order that we may live better in the present and future.

My ongoing adjustment to the new translation of the Roman Missal has inspired some more careful study of the text. Even though there's still a long road of formation and preparation before I can be considered for priestly ordination (prayers always appreciated!), I'm finding fulfillment in meditating on the texts that have been created to guide the people of God– priests, ministers, and laypersons– in their celebration of the Mass.

"Grant that your people, we pray, almighty God,

may be ever watchful

for the coming of your Only Begotten Son

that, as the author of our salvation himself has taught us,

we may hasten, alert and with lighted lamps,

to meet him when he comes.

Who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,

one God, forever and ever."

– Collect, Mass for Friday of the Second Week of Advent

Already? Not Yet!

2011-12-05T10:03:00.001-05:00

I can’t believe that it’s already the second week of Advent,let alone twenty days until Christmas. The days and weeks seem to be moving soquickly, whether approaching the end of 2011 or advancing from the start of theliturgical year.

Yesterday evening at Mass, an Australian Jesuit preached onthe notion that Advent waiting isn’t something passive. Yes, God’s decision totake on the full experience of humanity– body, mind, and soul– in Jesus isentirely God’s own, yet we are, especially in this time of year, invited toprepare to receive that mystery into the substance of our own lives. Suchpreparation requires effort, no less than that involved in cleaning one’s housebefore a friend’s visit, spending hours in the kitchen to prepare a familymeal, or cultivating the vision that enables one to see God in friend andstranger, colleague and enemy, the comfortable and the afflicted.

As this insight continues to take deeper root in me– withinthe context of my hopes for renewal in confidence and community– I find that itgrows my desire to more fully encounter not only God’s presence, but also God’sloving acceptance, in interactions with those whom I meet. Yet I often feel toohurried by the swift passage of time to recognize and embrace the opportunitiesfor this longed-for grace to take living form in my words and actions. So manysuch moments have surely passed already in the past week, stirring some regretsover missing them. But it’s not yet the end of Advent by any means, and Isuspect that God won’t withdraw this insight, nor its fruits, once Christmas isover. Still, I can’t just wait around.

In the readings for the Second Sunday of Advent, peoplefilled with hope and longing, people who are encouraged to wait confidently forGod’s triumph of peace and justice for all humanity, go out into the desert toencounter a prophet announcing these same tidings, and preaching a way of lifethat fosters their full reception. I already know well the landscape of my owninner desert, but I’ve not yet fully allowed it to be a place of encounter withfellow men and women of faith who, like me, await the renewing, vivifying,enlightening arrival of Christ. That’s what I hope for, as Advent has alreadyprogressed this far, and I’m not yet where I wish to be. I’ve got my own workand preparation to do, and while it’s not yet finished, I gratefully recognizethat it’s already underway.

Atacama Desert, Chile

Waiting Together

2011-12-02T13:00:00.000-05:00

Some experiences, graces, and insights are starting to converge in my observance of Advent this year.

Earlier this week, I was at the door of the student center at Holy Cross, waiting for some bank executives to arrive for a signing ceremony inside. My task was simply to offer an initial welcome and guide them to the room where the ceremony would occur. A public safety officer was stationed nearby, ready to move aside the barricades that were reserving spaces in the parking lot for the visiting dignitaries. After the first car arrived, I greeted its occupants, escorted them upstairs, and came back outside. I stood there for a few moments, watching the turbulent clouds presaging a chilly drizzle, my mind's contours similarly shaped by the movement of random thoughts. Then, suddenly, this thought occurred to me: go and talk to the public safety officer. So I crossed over into the parking lot, introduced myself, and we struck up a conversation. As I recall, we talked about our work, Thanksgiving, the incoming president of Holy Cross, and the weather. Nothing particularly intense or weighty... just shooting the breeze amid quickening winds and a bit of rain until the rest of the bank people arrived.

Also this week, I've shared some conversations with friends who are struggling to find love, peace, and acceptance in their lives. As a result of various circumstances, they each tend to see more darkness than light in themselves, and experience more anxiety and fear than confidence and hope. Looking back on the difficult periods in my previous assignment as a middle school teacher, I recall stretches of days or even weeks when I saw my failures and shortcomings all too easily, and despaired of ever being successful in my work or accepted among my colleagues. I feel that I too can relate, though perhaps not perfectly, to my friends' troubling and painful experiences of feeling isolated, rejected, and adversely judged. Although it comes naturally to me to listen, whether the words and stories are light or heavy, pleasant or painful, it does not come so naturally to freely and deeply share my own tales. Yet, despite my long-standing pattern of being terribly slow and reluctant to reveal my struggles, and the thoughts and feelings associated with them, I am increasingly aware that I have a strong and genuine desire to do so.

The readings from Isaiah in these opening days of Advent are filled with hopeful prophecies about God's presence, the restoration of God's people, and a new age of harmony and peace. Yet they were originally addressed to, and received by, a people still awaiting deliverance from war, exile, and even internal strife. Based on my own experiences of waiting, such a state is more comfortable and less fearful when shared. Did my conversation with the public safety officer dramatically improve his day or mine? I cannot say for sure, but I felt a little happier, a little more whole, for having passed some waiting time in his company, and shared the grace of getting to know one another rather than remaining strangers. Will the friends whom I've been accompanying in their struggles ever meet one another? I doubt it, yet I believe that in alluding to the fact that I'm in contact with others facing similar issues, I can offer them some assurance that they are not the only ones walking these challenging and arduous paths. No less importantly, I'm recognizing that I need not remain alone in my waiting, nor in my desires for a deeper foundation in community, confidence, and faith. God's desire and choice to dwell within and among us, sharing the full breadth of the human experience, is a gift offered to each of us individually, yet in receiving and nurturing this blessing, we share its impacts with the surrounding community. And in drawing together our individual flickerings of light and hope, however feeble they may be, we begin to glow together with anticipation for the arrival of Christ, the light of the world.

Rose window, National Cathedral, Washington DC

Still Giving Thanks

2011-12-01T10:00:00.000-05:00

The commercialism of Black Friday and Cyber Monday have clamored for attention. Holiday decorations have gone up in shopping centers, government buildings, and private homes. I'm listening to seasonal music as I write my first batch of Christmas cards. Yet, a week after Thanksgiving and almost 300 miles away from where I celebrated that feast, I'm still savoring some leftovers– not only sliced turkey and mince pie, but also memories and images from a wonderful series of gatherings with family. Though greeting December and moving closer to the heart of Advent, I'm still grateful for the blessings of Thanksgiving, and aware that they're too deep and lasting to be celebrated on just one day.

Molly enjoys a quiet moment

My sister and I at Thanksgiving dinner (she insisted that I post this)

The "cousins without children" table had the most fun

One of many charming images from hosting my cousin, his wife, and their 22-month-old son

Advent

2011-11-27T22:00:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-23T16:17:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-22T09:27:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-19T17:43:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-19T16:53:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-16T14:14:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-16T11:02:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-12T09:30:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-10T23:30:00.000-05:00

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?

2011-11-09T17:08:00.003-05:00

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

2011-11-07T20:23:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-06T22:21:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-04T17:08:00.001-04:00

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.

Comeback Cardinals

2011-10-31T11:19:00.001-04:00

It’s been a few days since the St. Louis Cardinals won theWorld Series, and despite the intervening excitement and challenges ofexperiencing the beauty and dealing with the damage bestowed upon the landscapeby and October snowstorm, I’m still musing on the significance and meaning oftheir thrilling ride through the playoffs.

Facing elimination in Game 6, the Cardinals were down totheir last strike on two separate occasions. As had been the case since lateAugust, when their improbable run to the playoffs began, when they foundthemselves with their backs to the wall, the wall became more than 45,000cheering fans, and the collective enthusiasm of an entire city, pushing themforward, holding them up. Even beyond the remarkable athleticism and skill ofindividual players that produced not one, not two, but three decisive hits (atying two-run triple, a decisive RBI single, and a walk-off home run) in the 9th through 11th innings, thecohesion of the team and the devotion of its fervent followers created amemorable spectacle that is the essence of outstanding baseball.

Having lived for three years in St. Louis, and now in mythird year living in Worcester, I’m familiar with cities and regions where abaseball team is more than just a group of players for whom to cheer– it’s a familythat inspires an even broader community of devotion, support, and strongemotional involvement. During the offseason, one sees plenty of Cardinals orRed Sox apparel in everyday situations around those respective cities, worn bythe full spectrum of the local population. There are jokes– not entirelywithout the ring of truth– that baseball is something of a religion for itsmost fervent followers, myself increasingly included. The greatest players,whether they’ve established long, successful careers or emerged at a crucialjuncture to contribute some timely heroics, are honored, revered, and admired.These teams’ victory parades in celebration of World Series titles drew nearly amillion people to the streets over the past several years.

I’m a firm believer in the value of community, on scalesranging from the local to the global. True community living does bringchallenges alongside clear benefits of support, happiness, and good company, asI’ve learned in seven years of life as a Jesuit. The hundreds of thousands whounited to cheer on the Cardinals likely have their share of differences aboutthe neuralgic issues provoking heated rhetoric and creating affliction andtension throughout our nation. While those concerns hardly disappear during agame of baseball, I can’t help but hope in the possibility of transferring thatenergy to the realm of our nation’s key social issues, rallying aroundsomething greater than our differences, deeper than our worries, and morelasting than the thrill of a decisive win or a festive victory parade. Game 6of the World Series taught me a powerful lesson– community makes it really hardto simply give up in the face of adversity, despair, or a situation that manycould justifiably consider hopeless. The Cardinals, in standing tall with truedetermination each time they were pushed to the brink of defeat, not onlyachieved a remarkable and unprecedented triumph, but also affirmed theconfidence of an entire city, and offered the entire nation a sterling exampleof teamwork. I hope that they can inspire some similar comebacks in ourneighborhoods, our cities, and our nation. Otherwise, it’s going to be a verylong offseason.

October Snow

2011-10-30T21:50:00.000-04:00

The Class of 2015 at Holy Cross is probably wondering about the weather. They moved in during Hurricane Irene, and their first experience of Family Weekend occurred in the midst of a nor-easter that brought 6 to 8 inches of snow to campus. Although the heavy, wet snow caused some widespread tree damage and power outages around the greater Worcester region, spirits at the College generally remained high, bolstered by the influx of family and friends, as well as the beauty that emerged in the wake of the storm. It's fair to say that we've been both tricked and treated by this pre-Halloween snow.

Gained in Translation

2011-10-27T20:56:00.001-04:00

Every year, the latter days of October bring me startlingreminders of time’s rapid movement. Fall break is two weeks in the past,Thanksgiving is four weeks from today, and Advent begins in a month. Days aregrowing shorter, nights are lengthening, and the World Series will be concludedby the weekend. This rapid pace brings plenty of activity on a daily basis,even as it carries towards some significant events and changes in the nearfuture.

One such change getting a fair amount of attention in theCatholic Church here in the United States is the new translation of the RomanMissal, which comprises the ritual language used by priests, deacons, and thelaity for worship. The product of many years of effort, it will be introducedon the first Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the Catholic Church’sliturgical year, which falls this year on the Sunday following Thanksgiving.These changes will likely seem sudden; I know that I’ll need some time toadjust to them, even though I’ve been looking over the new texts for severalweeks. Yet in worshipping with a Spanish-speaking congregation in St. Louis for three years,I found that adopting their liturgical translations drew me into the spirit oftheir community, and forged a connection that went deeper than simply speakingSpanish. The words I and my fellow parishioners used to describe our belief inGod, the Eucharist, our sinful yet redeemed nature, and our relationships withone another carried meanings crafted to shape the reality that they expressed.

I believe that the new English translation being introduced in one month’s time strives to do the same, and holds the potential to bring us into closer connection with other linguistic translations based on the same original document. Already I’m noticing echoes of my years with Spanish-speaking Latino Catholics when I study and pray with the new prayers and responses. To be sure, this time of transition for the language of Catholic worship may have its fair share of clumsiness, and these changes will have various effects, from reassurance to discomfort, on members of each parish community.

Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish Shrine

St. Louis MO

I, for one, see this as an opportunity to (re)createcommunity amid a time of change that goes beyond a weekly gathering in church.A quick glance around our cities, our nation, and the world easily reveals nosmall amount of struggle, upheaval, and uncertainty– protests over socialinequality, natural disasters and climate change (after several warm weeks, it's snowing in Worcester tonight), precarious financialsituations at home and abroad. There’s measurable anxiety about how and whereall this will end, especially for those who feel that they face such issues andchallenges alone.

A key theme of Thanksgiving celebrations is the bond ofgratitude and mutual support that families and communities strive to honor atharvest time. The Church’s season of Advent is a period to reflect upon God’spromise to not only sustain our world and our lives, but also to be deeplypresent within them. The language of our worship and the actions of our faithcommunity hopefully reflects our belief in this truth, and grounds our abilityto enact it in our lives. Ideally, all this and more will be found and appreciated in this new translation, and in the communities who gather to use it.

Casting It Out

2011-10-21T16:07:00.001-04:00

For the second time in the past month, I've been briefly sidelined by a cold. The first time, a mild variant of the flu swept through my community days after we all received our flu shots. This past week, I suspect somebody stashed a few pathogens in their hand luggage on the flight back from St. Louis. In any event, it's been an affliction that I've been wary of passing on– a few octogenarians in my community might not appreciate this form of generosity– and all too eager to cast out.

These interludes of illness, whose debilitating effects caused me no small amount of frustration and discomfort, reminded me of a key teaching that St. Ignatius puts at the beginning of his Spiritual Exercises. In a statement called "The Principle and Foundation," he writes that "Human beings are created to praise, reverence, and serve God our Lord, and by means of doing this to save their souls." He goes on to assert that everything in creation is provided to us by God to help us toward this goal, though what's helpful for one person might be a hindrance for another. So Ignatius preaches a deliberate and intentional indifference: "We ought not to seek health rather than sickness, wealth rather than poverty, honor rather than dishonor, a long life rather than a short one, and so on... we ought to desire and choose only that which is more conducive to the end for which we are created."

Elm Park, Worcester MA

In praying with these passages today, the first and last sentences caught and held my attention. How do I praise, reverence, and serve God? What is the end for which I am created? Obsessing over sickness, worrying about whether my job performance is adequate, and doubting the value and impact of my work and ministry is clearly not what Ignatius had in mind. Yet that's where I've been stuck for the past few days. It struck me as not only wildly radical, but also compellingly attractive, to possibly believe that my very existence is an expression of praise to God. No small part of my calling in life– even beyond my vocation to the Society of Jesus and the priesthood– seems rooted in fostering someone's recognition and appreciation of the divine beauty inextricably manifest in her or his being, and offering encouragement to pursue lives that share this treasure with their neighbors and the world. So I'm grateful for those fellow Jesuits, those friends, those people whom I meet, who allow me into their lives in order to experience and reflect their own light. And I'm challenged once again to accept and savor grace's presence, and potential for expression, in my own life.

It's no fun being sick, but it's hardly the end of the world. Being blind to the end for which I'm created, or deaf to the praise that can well up from within me, is something more serious. I know that this is a recurring weakness of mine, tied to my preoccupation with being productive, making a difference, and other action-oriented self-judgments. To a certain extent, such drivenness can be helpful, but taken to an unhealthy extreme, it becomes a spiritual affliction, a malady I wish I could cast out as readily as my immune system dispenses with a cold. To be "indifferent" with respect to my own drivenness is both a daunting challenge and an intriguing invitation... and I sense that working towards that goal will help me to better express my created purpose, and achieve the end for which I've been created.

Old Home, New Memories

2011-10-19T22:23:00.002-04:00

Lafayette Park

St. Louis MO

It was an odd feeling, but one that I welcomed and appreciated. Landing at Lambert St. Louis Airport last Thursday on an overcast morning, coming back to the place where I lived as a Jesuit scholastic, I knew that I was not at home. Yet I felt deeply that the city, the Jesuit community, and the university that I called home for three years of wonderful friendships, fruitful ministry, challenging academic studies, personal challenges, and overall growth had been exactly what I needed for that period of my life.

Overlook Farm

Clarksville MO

My four-day visit was packed– numerous lunches and conversations with friends, refreshing prayer and lively evenings with the Jesuit scholastics in my former community, a friend's wedding, and a visit to the Latino parish where I worshipped and ministered. Throughout all this activity and travel, I continually recognized and savored the gifts and blessings manifest in my Jesuit brothers, my friends, the autumnal landscape of the Mississippi River valley, and a beautiful marriage ceremony. Although these experiences, and the people with whom I shared them, are intrinsically tied to the time we shared in St. Louis, the underlying graces transcend geographical and temporal constraints even as they occur in the context of a specific place and time.

St. Louis (King of France)

St. Joseph's Church

Louisiana MO

The quieter moments of the long weekend– a moonlit morning run in Forest Park, a quarter-hour of prayer before Mass in the house chapel, waiting to meet a friend on campus, silently admiring the scenery of the wedding reception venue– offered me a growing awareness of various manifestations of love. God's love and majesty unmistakably visible in creation. The mutual love of my friend and her husband expressed in their marriage vows. The love and trust extended to me by my brethren and my friends, and gently compelled from me through my admiration for and trust in them. As someone who tends to be very task-oriented, more comfortable with his intellect than his emotions, and somewhat reticent to lean on the support of others, this was a significant insight for me to receive. It's a grace I'm still learning how to internalize; I'd much rather analyze and scrutinize it. Yet it's still clear to me, as it was when I boarded my Monday morning flight, that this visit, like the three years when I called St. Louis home, was an occasion to be taught once more that I am loved, that I am loving, and that this is at the foundation of my relationship with God and my Jesuit vocation.

Along Missouri Route 79

Clarksville MO

So often I'm preoccupied with the tasks I've undertaken, the loads I've been entrusted to carry... I should also remember to marvel at the driving force that keeps me on track. (Couldn't help reaching for a metaphor to justify one last picture!)

Drifting Graces

2011-10-19T21:12:00.000-04:00

Campion Renewal Center

Weston MA

One afternoon during last week's silent retreat, this image caught my attention, the nudging of a gentle wind suddenly made visible. This simple moment, recently recalled, has been an apt metaphor for the action of grace in my life in the time since the retreat. I've been busy– a trip to St. Louis that I'll detail in a subsequent post; resuming work on a complicated grant project that's due in early November– and while I've been aware of various spiritual movements within me, I've had trouble finding (or making) the time to slow down and pray more intentionally. Yet I've felt God's blessings drifting gently through my hours and days, their understated subtlety no less forceful than a strong wind. Perhaps it's also a sign that the softer and more delicate aspects of my life are the ones most receptive to God's grace right now. In any event, as I continue to hurry myself along, whether setting my own pace or striving to keep up with that of work and life, I value those opportunities– intentionally claimed or spontaneously accepted– to instead drift on the slow, deep currents of grace.

Spiritual Bends

2011-10-12T21:00:00.001-04:00

When I was a Jesuit novice, my novice master cautioned us against a phenomenon that he called "the spiritual bends." Akin to the condition suffered when one surfaces too quickly from a deep dive, or perhaps similar to the experience of breathlessness upon suddenly traveling to high altitude, this phrase was intended to encourage us to move in slow, measured progress from times and spaces of spiritual depth (such as a retreat) to a more ordinary rhythm of life– working in local placements, grocery shopping for the house, weekend chores, communal prayer, and so on.

Grounds of St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

His phrase has always stuck with me, and I most often remember it when coming off a retreat. That's where I find myself now, having spent the past five days with about 30 students from Holy Cross on a silent retreat based on the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. For the majority of these students, this was their first experience of such prolonged silence. For all of them, their presence on the retreat represented an intentional devotion of time and effort, giving up half of their fall break. Throughout the retreat– whether in my individual conversations with the three students to whom I offered spiritual direction, communal experiences of Mass or Taizé prayer, or gently noticing the community they built in the silence– I was constantly edified, inspired, and encouraged by the devotion that they showed to their prayer, their meditation, and their quiet care and support of one another.

I don't think of myself as being too cynical, but I do wonder sometimes about the erosion of spirituality and faith among various segments of the population. I've been part of discussions– sometimes contentious– about the effectiveness of programs and offerings on Jesuit campuses that strive to integrate faith, intellect, and action in a way that transforms all students, not just those who would more naturally or intentionally engage this aspect of Jesuit education. Granted, the Holy Cross students on this particular retreat represent less than 2% of the student body, and a number of them have long been involved in liturgical activities, leadership roles, and service programs. Yet each and every one of them made visible to me the desire for a relationship with God that, I hope and pray, exists in many of their peers. And at the same time, I find I'm intensely grateful for the witness provided by this particular group of men and women, and I look forward to encountering them on campus in the weeks and months to come.

Back to those spiritual bends. The retreat ended at noon, I arrived back in Worcester by 1:15pm after a delightful chatty ride with four of the students, and was on a commuter train at 2:05pm, arriving in Boston by 3:45pm. I soon found my way to a small Jesuit community where I'll spend the night before rising early and catching one of the first flights to St. Louis for a long weekend that includes visiting with fellow Jesuits, conversations over tea or lunch with friends, and a wedding. From five days of silence and deliberately slow movement to three hours of travel that spanned nearly half the width of Massachusetts. In settling into my simple guest room (but not unpacking), sharing a simple meal with two of the men who live here, and letting another guest into the house, I'm finding (with no small measure of gratitude and appreciation) gentle contentment and a sense of rest amid the comings and goings of this community. My brothers are enabling me to find my depth again, to (re)collect a few things that I discovered over the past few days before proceeding to the next stop on my journey.

Tower Grove Park

St. Louis MO

A few students mentioned at lunch that it felt "weird to talk again" after five days of silence. I hope they too have the opportunity to savor the rich insights and restorative tranquility that they encountered amid the deep spiritual waters of the retreat, and that the experience soaks in and remains with them as they return to the more heated pace of the semester on Monday.

Fall joy

2011-10-05T11:08:00.003-04:00

October 2010 in Petersham MA

I've been blessed with an unexpected degree and duration of joy over the past several days... arriving virtually in tandem with the turning of the calendar and the shifting of the seasons. A visit from my goddaughter provided the occasion to visit a local park and monastery; the completion of a big grant-writing project I've been involved with since June brought a feeling of lightness and satisfaction to my colleagues; some thrilling games in the baseball playoffs have sharpened my excitement and delight in a dramatic time of year for one of my favorite sports.

Yesterday, the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, saw me spend a fair amount of time on the road, which afforded plenty of time to pray and meditate upon not only this saint's story, but also on this current experience of joy in my life. I've been drawn lately to the image of shepherding... sometimes I feel like a companion and colleague of the shepherd, other times I feel like one of the sheep. Either way, I find that I'm happy to feel integrated into a community, following a call, walking a path that is reasonably clear but certainly not concrete (literally nor figuratively).

Holy Cross adjourns for fall break beginning on Friday; no classes will be held throughout the following week. A number of students will participate in a five-day silent retreat based on the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola, with a number of chaplains guiding them in prayer and accompanying them in periods of spiritual conversation. Though I've made many retreats, whether as a retreatant or as a member of the team, it's my first experience doing so since I've arrived at Holy Cross, and my first invitation to engage in some spiritual direction. Prayers for all of us would be appreciated in the days ahead.

May these October days continue to bring many blessings to each of us, a renewed sense of joy in our lives, and an appreciation for the guides and companions along our journeys.

October 2011

Grounds of St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

October

2011-10-01T11:27:00.001-04:00

One of my favorite Robert Frost poems, and one of the few that I've memorized, always comes to mind at this time of year. His vivid writing and gentle rhythm seems not to capture the array of changes and shifts in the landscape in early autumn, but rather to liberate the physical and spiritual senses to attend to the sublime transformation in both the external and the internal environments.

"October"

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes' sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost–

For the grapes' sake along the wall.

– Robert Frost

The Berkshires

Near North Adams MA

Random Order

2011-09-25T21:52:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

Beckoning Changes

2011-09-17T10:42:00.001-04:00

"A Time to Talk"

When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

I don't stand still and look around

On all the hills I haven't hoed,

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

No, not as there is a time to talk.

I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,

Blade-end up and five feet tall,

And plod: I go up to the stone wall

For a friendly visit.

– Robert Frost

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

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

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

Exaltation of the Holy Cross

2011-09-14T21:00:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

Hospitality

2011-09-10T10:54:00.000-04:00

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

Trustee Dinner @ Ciampi Hall

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

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

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

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

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

New Spaces

2011-09-05T15:39:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

Labor Day

2011-09-05T10:58:00.006-04:00

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

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

Summer construction

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Back to School

2011-08-31T08:52:00.003-04:00

Students returned to the Nativity School of Worcester yesterday, and classes begin today at the College of the Holy Cross, where the first-year students have been thoroughly welcomed, and returning students have finally moved in after delays caused by Hurricane Irene. Along with a vaguely autumnal clarity, there's a feeling of freshness and excitement in the air as a new semester gets underway.

In my strolls around the campus this week, meeting students and professors once again on my way to and from work, I've been reminded of a short Jesuit prayer that I've encountered many times– in the novitiate, in various schools and churches where I've worked, in community meetings. It seems fitting for this time of year, and I hope that it can help us to pay attention to God's presence in the various tasks, both new and ongoing, that we all undertake.

"A Prayer for Spiritual Freedom"

O Spirit of God, we ask you to help orient

all our actions by your inspirations,

carry them on by your gracious assistance,

that every prayer and work of ours

may always begin from you

and through you be happily ended.

[From "Hearts on Fire: Praying with Jesuits" edited by Michael Harter SJ]

Retreat

2011-08-28T21:23:00.005-04:00

Recently, I made my annual retreat, spending a week in silence and prayer at the Jesuit retreat house located in Gloucester, one of the northernmost towns on the Massachusetts coast. This wonderful place, situated on a spectacular property of lawns, woods, beaches and rocks overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, has been a place of spiritual retreat, and a house of prayer for men and women, religious and laypersons, young and old, within and beyond the Catholic tradition, for over fifty years. Among my retreat community of approximately forty people were several who were there for the first time, and others who have been making an annual retreat at Gloucester for more than thirty consecutive years. My only other retreat there was as a Jesuit novice, for a profound 30-day experience of the Spiritual Exercises. Upon arriving, exploring the grounds amid mild summer weather, taking in the lush lawns, wildflowers, and insect life, had the feel of seeing the place for the first time, so dramatically changed from a frigid landscape of snow and ice that I remember well from my five weeks there in January and February of 2005.

With respect to the atmosphere of the retreat, and prayer in general, I’ve long found it easy to settle into the silence, and to detach myself from not only auditory noise but also that of e-mail, television, the Internet, cell phones, even newspapers (it was tempting to check the baseball standings each day, but I held off). In fact, I believe that the only electrical implements that I directly used during the retreat were the lights in my room, my digital camera, and the coffeemaker in the kitchen– source of hot water for many cups of Earl Grey tea to awaken a meditative spirit. Yet the silence is only the beginning, and I came to the retreat looking for more than mere peace and tranquility, though I found those things in abundance. In the course of this calendar year, amid a difficult semester of middle school teaching, a transition from that work to a position at Holy Cross involving research and editing for a grant proposal, and the thoughts and feelings associated with some uncertainty in the near future, I’ve found it difficult to enter into conversation with God. It was as if, feeling helpless amid a swirl of change, I decided to merely enter into the silence of prayer on a given occasion, and to silence myself within that spiritual relationship, rather than engage in dialogue with God.

Thanks to the guidance of a wonderful spiritual director– a Jesuit blessed with a kind and attentive demeanor, keen knowledge of the Bible and Ignatian spirituality, and a gift for inspiring openness and honesty– I was helped to make my retreat more than just a seven-day listening session. With a great sense of relief, excitement, and some trepidation, I found my way, through his guidance and suggestions, into a more genuine and mutual conversation with Jesus, a grace I’d been desiring for quite some time.

These conversations, during several hour-long prayer periods each day, weren’t exactly wide-ranging in scope or earth-shattering in content. I received no life-changing revelations about my future ministries as a Jesuit, solved no mysteries about pain, suffering, and struggles, heard no astounding prophecies to communicate to the world with fiery or compelling speech. Yet what the Lord and I discussed opened up some honesty and trust in areas where I’d been secretive or aloof, and brought some stability and confidence to aspects of my life in which I’d felt doubts. Having spent much of this calendar year seeing myself and my work in a somewhat negative and disapproving light, the retreat allowed me to accept Jesus’ loving, comforting, and positive acceptance of me, a change that is still taking root amid my return to the ordinary course of daily life.

The retreat also gave me the freedom and motivation to integrate periods of prayer into the rhythm of my days in a more deliberate way, and to do so with no measure of guilt or apology. Simply returning to the practice of basic prayers from the traditions of the Catholic Church and the Society of Jesus helped me to see the signs of God’s presence abiding all around me, inspiring the photography included with this post, among other things. I’ve found it helpful and rewarding to maintain the practice of reciting the Liturgy of the Hours at least once a day, withdrawing from the activities of work and ministry to pray the Ignatian Examen for fifteen minutes at midday or mid-evening, and to notice the minutiae and grandeur of the natural and built environment in which I dwell. Insights and signs gleaned from these practices, I’ve found, build upon what I discover, hash out, and express in periods of prayer marked by longer duration and greater intensity.

Ultimately– and this is a notion I’ve only arrived at in the past day– the retreat was a time to finally, after too long an interruption, allow myself to be loved by God once more. Even though I only felt such a gift palpably for a few brief and fleeting moments during my week at Gloucester, in hindsight, I know that I was more open to receiving that gift, let alone affirming my need and desire for it, than has been the case for quite some time. Pondering the reasons for my past resistance, and sustaining the desire for a lasting change of heart that will lead to greater love of others and love of self as well, is a big project that will motivate much mental and spiritual effort in the coming months. Yet it’s a clear direction to orient my sometimes-confused gaze, and an inviting, compelling path in a personal landscape that’s still a little too trackless for my liking.

Many Jesuit retreats conclude with a feeling of being sent back into the world refreshed, restored, and with a sense of renewed mission and purpose. Some spiritual directors add explicit reminders to approach this transition not as the end of the retreat, but as its true beginning– graces, blessings, and insights received in an atmosphere of silent contemplative prayer are now to be shared through one’s actions and words. I can say, with a strong measure of gratitude and confidence, that the same is true for me. It’s my hope that this reflection moves in the direction of that goal, and it’s my prayer that you too may experience a renewed awareness of God’s loving, abiding, and enlivening presence in your life.

A little video reflection on my retreat...

Photography: Scenes from Gonzaga Eastern Point Retreat House and Gloucester MA

Music: "Amazing Grace"

Artist: Bagpipes and Drums of the 48th Highlanders of Canada

Feast of St. Louis

2011-08-25T14:45:00.004-04:00

Statue of St. Louis

Art Hill, St. Louis MO

Today the Catholic church honors Saint Louis, a king of France during the 13th century. The short biography provided in the Liturgy of the Hours described him as having "regard not only for peace among peoples and for the temporal good of his subjects, but also for their spiritual welfare." From my three years living in the fine city that bears his name, home to a fine Jesuit university likewise named for the saint, I know that there are many people there who continue to sustain Louis' legacy of caring leadership, generous service, and attention to the needs of all in society. There are also many, within and beyond the city of St. Louis, whose physical, educational, mental, and spiritual needs continue to call for such attention. We need not be kings and queens, presidents and emperors, to build a great city, nation, and world where all are cared for, welcomed, and appreciated. So we might pray not only for our leaders this day, but also for our own willingness and ability to look after the well-being of our neighbors.

New Memories

2011-08-15T14:57:00.006-04:00

I spent the past weekend in Syracuse, New York... I travel there each year to attend the celebration of first vows at the Jesuit novitiate where I began my own journey of formation for the priesthood. This year, five men professed vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience during a liturgy filled with beautiful music, inspiring preaching, and the company of family, friends, and fellow Jesuits. As a significant event in the life of a Jesuit, and the last major celebration of the summer, vow weekend is an occasion that draws together many Jesuits from the three provinces– New England, New York, and Maryland– that encompass the area from Maine to the Carolinas.

For me, in addition to savoring the beauty of rolling hills and farmland, lush after a rainy summer, along the otherwise maddeningly dull stretch of I-90 between Worcester and Syracuse, and seeing brother Jesuits who I don't usually meet while we're busy in our various assignments during the academic year, it was an opportunity to relive and reflect upon my two years as a novice before taking vows, and my five years as a scholastic and regent since that blessed August day in 2006. The vows, to me, are about more than just appropriate relationships, simple living, and carrying out my mission– they together shape a life of prayer and action centered on Jesus and shared in community. Yet the concrete, daily task of expressing that commitment, and staying faithful to it, is by no means easy nor straightforward. During the liturgy, I found myself longing for a renewal of the enthusiasm that I felt in my younger Jesuit brothers whose vocations and commitments we celebrated, for the same kind of freshness and wonder that I felt five years ago. My tendency to be a creature of habit has its advantages in certain aspects of my life, but I find my life of the vows duller when reduced to mere routines.

I found a desired spark when, along with one of my closest friends and brothers from my vow class, I attended Sunday Mass at the parish where he and I often worshipped while we were novices. Located in a poorer section of the city, it's a uniquely inclusive and welcoming family of faith. In a magnificent church built in the 1890s, the deaf community, the L'Arche community, the homeless, college students, and residents of more affluent neighborhoods some distance away all gather to pray, worship, and celebrate as brothers and sisters. It's a place where surprises and laughter, as well as thought-provoking preaching, are common, and in which the presence of God is a little more obvious, but no less mysterious. Put even more bluntly, it's a place where the love of Christ is palpable. In seeing members of the community whom I hadn't seen in five years, being recognized and welcomed anew, and feeling myself drawn into the unapologetic joy of our prayer, our song, our warm exchanges of peace, and our sharing in the Eucharist, I was reminded of why I proudly called this parish home for two years, and of a key element of my vocation. Having struggled with no small measure of self-doubt during two demanding and challenging years of middle-school teaching, my ability to confidently risk acts of generosity, charity, and kindness was sadly curtailed. Two hours at the parish seemed to undo, if only for a time, those patterns of hesitancy, replacing them with a clear resolve to extend myself to others, to pass on the welcome and acceptance that I myself received, and to strive to be newly devoted to a life of love, selflessness, and discipleship rooted in my vows and my relationship with Jesus.

I drove back to Worcester yesterday with a lighter feeling in my heart and soul, and a greater sense of hope that the seeds planted with these experiences will grow more fruitful as these new memories deepen and take hold. With my annual silent retreat beginning later this week, conditions should be favorable. Know that I'm grateful for your prayers, and that I'll be keeping you in mine.

Down the Shore

2011-08-06T22:46:00.004-04:00

"Devotion"

The heart can think of no devotion

Greater than being shore to the ocean–

Holding the curve of one position,

Counting an endless repetition.

– Robert Frost

This short little poem, one of several by Frost that I've memorized, came to mind often during my week "Down the Shore," as we say in South Jersey. I'm always captivated by the beauty here, whether in an ominous storm front, a marsh along my morning cycling route, or the meeting of smooth sandy beaches and rolling ocean waves on a sunny day. My love of the sea and the coast was born here, and is renewed each time I visit.

Thunderstorm over Avalon NJ

Bayside marshes in Sea Isle City, NJ

Seagulls on 7 Mile Beach, Avalon NJ

Sunrise over Townsend's Inlet, Avalon NJ

Beach Reading

2011-08-06T22:28:00.003-04:00

7 Mile Beach, Avalon NJ

While vacationing with my parents this past week, I managed to finish three books in the course of long days at the beach. Without any earlier notion that this would be the case, I found that each touched on the theme of family in a unique way:

"The Shack" by William Young tells the story of a grieving father's reconciliation with God, and later his family, after a tragic accident.
"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz chronicles the triumphs, tragedies, brokenness, tough love, and perseverance of members of a Dominican family through time spent in the Dominican Republic and in northern New Jersey.
"Tattoos on the Heart" by Greg Boyle SJ presents, in a series of flowing vignettes, a Jesuit's ministry with gang members and their families in Los Angeles.

A week (sometimes more) at the Shore with my family is an annual event that I've enjoyed for as long as I can remember, and I always get a little sad when we finish cleaning the house, pack up the car, and drive west across the bay and the marshes back to the mainland. In the past several months, I've found myself noticing my distance from my family– something I knew would be a part of Jesuit life, being sent far from home for various assignments– more palpably. Older cousins are having children, a long-widowed uncle remarried, gatherings of relatives living in South Jersey occur regularly while I carry out my mission and live with my community in New England. Barring any unforeseen plans, I won't be back "home" until Thanksgiving. Sitting on the beach, reading about families and situations quite different than my own, reminded me of the treasure I've been given in my own family, and invited me to strive to more deliberately and regularly give thanks to (and for) them.

Time Out

2011-07-29T15:56:00.005-04:00

St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

Early this morning, while most of Worcester County slept, one of my Jesuit brothers and I rose in the pre-dawn darkness, made our way to a nearby Trappist monastery, and settled into the hushed silence of the visitors' alcove in the main chapel. At 3:25am, the clear peals of the monastery's bells, swung by a middle-aged monk whose vigor seemed both beyond and at home in his slight frame, parted the night's stillness to summon the community, and the rare visitors like us, to prayer.

Having slept soundly for the previous six hours, and still not entirely awake, the bells remain my clearest memory of a 45-minute service of chants, hymns, readings, and prayers drawn from the Liturgy of the Hours, a form and structure of praying throughout the day. My prayer was surely not as vigorous or focused as that of the monks, and as I write this about twelve hours later, my recollection of its substance and content is equally vague. In fact, as my brother and I discussed our trip to Vigils– a rare effort for us requiring some advance planning and extra sleep, but an unchanging component of the monks' daily order– we both agreed that it seemed to be out of the normal flow of time, an isolated interval belonging neither to Thursday nor Friday.

Yet we were there, and speaking for myself, I wanted to pray as best as I could. I've been going through a tough patch with my spiritual life lately... falling into a regular temptation to make my prayer more intellectual than anything else, losing touch with feelings as I seek comfort and certainty in thoughts, having trouble listening to God no less than I talk about myself. I don't believe that I accomplished any of those goals in a time shrouded by drowsiness, but I do find myself continuing to meditate on that very experience of being, if only briefly, removed from my usual experience of the flow of time.

When does time stop, recede, or cease to matter for you? In the company of a beloved friend, significant other, or dear family member? In physical exercise or artistic activity? In prayer or worship? In sleep? While my vocation is not to the monastic life, in my various visits to cloistered communities of prayer and work in the Christian tradition, I have long admired how the order of their day prioritizes regular "time out" to pause, worship, and pray. In my pious imaginations, I envision that these intervals are full of brilliant enlightenment and graceful interaction with God. Perhaps their reality is, if only occasionally, closer to the dullness I currently feel, and includes a hunger and thirst for spiritual vibrancy. I know that making it to Vigils is something that I can only do once or twice a year– it takes so much effort, and feels almost alien to the rhythm of my life. But I can take deliberative measures to ensure that I regularly include this "time out" in my days, trusting that the eternal God is always there to meet me.

Visitor's chapel window

St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

Branching Out

2011-07-26T21:29:00.006-04:00

Rehm Library

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

I've been spending lots of time with my laptop lately, doing research and writing for a grant-writing project at Holy Cross. In seeking some music to keep me company during long hours in this lovely library, I've discovered some wonderful folk artists whose artful compositions and finely crafted lyrics have filled me with unexpected inspiration and admiration. Today, the song "Head Full of Doubt" by the Avett Brothers caught my attention– I listened to it several times– with its rich musical texture, several stark phrases (let alone the opening refrain), and some questions it poses to me about dreams, authenticity, and happiness. Feel free to look it up, have a listen, and let me know what you think.

Also, I'm trying out something new for the style of this blog; the large picture between the blog title and the most recent post will reflect the image I have on my desktop. As always, your comments are most welcome!

Passages

2011-07-20T22:00:00.001-04:00

Copley Square

Boston MA

For the past two Sundays, I've had the opportunity to fill in for a Jesuit in my community who serves as a hospital chaplain, leading a pair of communion services while he was away on vacation. Over the past week or so, with many members of the community traveling for retreats, family visits, conferences, and vacations, we've had some smaller numbers at the afternoon liturgy in the house. Consequently, I've stepped into the role of lector with greater than usual frequency. Apart from the experience of these liturgical ministries, I've been struck by the depth and relevance of the Scriptures that have been the focus of my reading and preaching this month.

The parables from chapter 13 of Matthew's Gospel– the sower and the seed (Matthew 13:1-23), the weeds and the wheat (Matthew 13:24-43)– that have appeared the past two Sundays, along with the successive episodes from Exodus in the weekday readings, have together presented a helpful framework for meditating on the state of my spirit and the progression of my journey as I near the completion of my seventh year as a Jesuit. I'm the kind of person who struggles with perfectionist tendencies, and I've long held myself to high standards that sometimes exceed my reach more than they motivate me to stretch and grow. I can appreciate the wonders, graces, and quaint surprises to be found on a leisurely drive through the countryside, yet I do not always have the same patience and acceptance of delays, detours, or obstacles in the path that I've envisioned for myself. Although it's easy to say, along with the owner of the field where weeds are scattered amidst the wheat, "An enemy has done this" (Matthew 13:28), I know that I'm quite responsible for my own reactions to the personal imperfections, blemishes, and shortcomings that I all to easily see in myself. Moreover, I do not always respond with the wisdom of the landowner, who notes, "if you pull up the weeds you might uproot the wheat along with them. Let them grow together until harvest..." (Matthew 13:29-30).

As I renew my efforts to see God's care and wisdom in the coexistence of weeds and wheat in my life, I've been inspired by the comparatively arid imagery of Israel in the desert. Fleeing from the Egyptians, passing through the Red Sea, gathering manna, complaining about harsh conditions, I can easily see myself among this crowd. The hot and hazy July weather, the long arc of priestly formation, the ongoing transition into work at Holy Cross, the various summer projects still unfinished– these all push me to wonder not only what lies beyond the next bend in the road, but also when I'll get there. When I've wondered where God is amid this sometimes trackless expanse, in the imagery of Exodus an answer emerges: all around me. In the passage through the Red Sea, the physical and symbolic chaos of the ocean surrounds, but does not overwhelm, the Israelites. When manna is provided from heaven to nourish the Israelites in the desert, it blankets their entire camp and remains for them to gather, rather than simply appearing in their tents. God's gentle and powerful omnipresence becomes humble, personal, on a human scale– with a little bit of work on our part to gather in or walk among such signs.

I believe that each of us is on a journey, and that our paths, though unique, are never completely separate. Whether intersecting briefly, aligning for a time, or regularly and repeatedly crossing over one another, the routes we travel are surrounded by God, laid through landscapes that are rarely uniform, yet ultimately destined for good and fruitful harvests, and often marked by early hints of such abundance. Be assured of my prayers for your journeys, and kindly remember mine in yours.

For Team and Country

2011-07-11T15:33:00.005-04:00

Although my primary athletic pursuits– distance running and hiking– do lend themselves to my more individualistic and contemplative side, in recent years I've become an avid fan of two team sports: baseball and soccer. I owe the renewal of my passion for our national pastime to my three years in St. Louis, and, I suppose, my current residence in territory solidly included in the Red Sox Nation. Living in a region where people of all ages, economic levels, backgrounds, and neighborhoods unite in support of their team, and where many players on the local team take an active (and interactive) interest in the lives of their fans and the situations in their cities, provides an image of community that regularly inspires me. I owe my enthusiasm for soccer– and tendency to shout in Spanish and jump around during especially tense moments in the game– to the Chilean Jesuits with whom I spent three months in the summer of 2007. The fact that their national team was playing in the Copa America tournament at the time, a situation which somewhat modified the house schedule according to the team's matches, certainly didn't hurt.

It's a great time of year for my two favorite sports. Major League Baseball is celebrating All-Star Week, with many of the game's most famous and most talented athletes setting aside team affiliations and engaging in contests that highlight not only their skills and cooperation, but also the way that the game can bring together fans from throughout the country. The Women's World Cup, currently being held in Germany, has reached its semifinal stage, with only four teams remaining from the sixteen who began the tournament at the beginning of the month. I spent much of the weekend watching the quarterfinal matches, which featured surprises, disappointments, some controversial officiating, and wild swings of momentum and emotion. Germany, the host nation, was eliminated after a scoreless tie went into extra time and was finally broken by a Japanese team that played with the skill, heart, and soul of not only their 11 players on the pitch, but also, it seemed, of their entire nation. The United States, as individuals and a team, battled their way back after giving up a lead, having a player sent off, surrendering a goal in overtime, and surviving nearly an hour of soccer, one player short, to triumph at the last moment by scoring a tying goal and winning a penalty shootout as time ran out– all against an incredibly talented, artistic, and often dazzling Brazilian team. In several postgame interviews, the American women regularly referred their gratitude, their amazement, and their speechless joy to the way their teammates competed, held together, and never gave up hope... and stated in various ways that such a display is emblematic of the best ideals of their country and its people. After watching these women play some of the most thrilling and memorable soccer I've seen for quite some time, I couldn't help but agree with them.

A week after celebrating the 4th of July, as the United States and its people move into the height of summer, and alongside the diversions of baseball and soccer, countless hopes, challenges, dreams, tensions, and thoughts animate the hearts and minds of the nation. How can we look up to and imitate not only those who swing bats to the accolades of millions, but also the millions who swing hammers in humbler arenas? Do we admire wearers of numbered jerseys as well as those who don suits and keep numbers and figures in order? A number of the women on the World Cup team are mothers; after the game, goalkeeper Hope Solo headed to the stands and was handed a small child, whom she held with a delicacy as profound as the fierceness with which she stopped a decisive penalty shot ten minutes earlier. Countless mothers among us are no less heroic, and perhaps far less widely noted. The gifts and contributions of individuals on our nation's great team– more than 300 million strong– represent a remarkable resource, with the potential to lift up homes, neighborhoods, cities, perhaps even the whole world. Let's make sure we do our best– for team and country.

And, in case anyone's wondering, although I live in Red Sox Nation, I'm an unapologetic Phillies fan, and will be rooting for the National League tomorrow night.

The Phillie Phanatic

Permeability

2011-07-08T16:00:00.003-04:00

"For just as from the heavens

the rain and snow come down

And do not return there

till they have watered the earth,

making it fertile and fruitful,

Giving seed to him who sows

and bread to him who eats,

So shall my word be

that goes forth from my mouth;

It shall not return to me void,

but shall do my will,

achieving the end for which I sent it."

– Isaiah 55:10-11

This passage, which is the first reading for this coming Sunday, has been on my mind recently, as I've been asked to lead a communion service at a local hospital where one of my brothers is a chaplain. I've always enjoyed its imagery for divine grace– especially as we in New England have seen a prodigious amount of snow and rain this winter and spring, producing some lovely seasonal scenery. Perhaps God has much to tell us!

I was blessed with an experience during my morning run today that hasn't happened in quite some time– I was caught in a rainstorm. After fifteen minutes of steady downpour, torrents of runoff flowed through the streets, creating small rivers that eventually, I was forced to stride through. Then it hit me– when I'm more resistant to God's presence in my life, or various blessings offered to me through daily events and interactions, perhaps the result is lots of stormy runoff. I've lately found it more challenging to be like grassy fields, verdant shrubs, or stately trees– patient with growth, depending on external influences, and "softer" than the hard, artificial surfaces on which I run. Yet it is these elements of creation that are highlighted by Isaiah, and these that I found myself admiring during my sodden spin around the neighborhood. Oddly enough, it was the act of getting soaked that encouraged me to be more open to God's word through the remainder of the day, and still motivates the journey of spiritual renewal that is one of my summer projects.

Outlet of South Pond

Salisbury CT

Freedom

2011-07-01T21:15:00.003-04:00

New senior apartments (opening August 2011)

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Earlier this evening, as I've done many times over the past several days, I went for a stroll around campus after dinner. Holy Cross is rather quiet at this time of year; other than a basketball camp for local youth, an array of construction projects, and a handful of administrators working on summer projects, there aren't many people around, and the place really empties out by 5pm. A long stretch of rainy days at the end of June has given way to a refreshing and pleasant pattern of bright, crisp mornings giving way to mild, sunny days that gently slide into clear, cool nights– perfect for lingering outdoors at any hour.

At this halfway point of the year, a long weekend encompassing national holidays in both Canada and the United States, I find myself musing on what I've learned during 2011 thus far, and wondering what the remainder of this year holds. Thanks to my friendship with a Canadian Jesuit who spent some time in our community, I feel a closer affinity to our neighbor to the north. Thanks to a transition from teaching at Nativity to working at the College, I'm experiencing the newness of a different schedule, a new line of work, and a welcome shift in the focus of my days. With a calmer and less stressful routine, I'm finding more time and energy to pray, a gift that is revealing the aspects of my relationship with Jesus that need renewal. Simply having the time and space to come to that realization is itself a gift, and it's my hope that the coming summer weeks will continue to offer an atmosphere in which to devote the effort and energy necessary to allow greater vibrancy and familiarity to return to a valued friendship whose strength and support I've been missing. Thanks to the witness of several close friends who, whether frankly revealing the pain of current struggles, excitedly sharing new opportunities that beckon, or calling out of me some tales of the joys and anxieties that I harbor quietly, I've got a partial map, and some inspiring examples, to follow along this length of my spiritual journey.

Freedom is striking me anew as the wonderful gift that it is, and the responsibility that it carries. It is by no means a liberation from work, but rather a key tool for doing, and being, my best as a Jesuit, friend, member of my family, and global citizen. It is indeed something to celebrate, whether with others or alone, ably honored with fireworks and jubilation, yet just as fruitfully savored during a tranquil stroll through a quiet place under a lovely sky.

Sunset over Fenwick Hall

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Rain

2011-06-22T21:09:00.002-04:00

It's been raining on and off all day here in Worcester, a marked change after a few days of lovely summer weather: mild sunshine, blue skies, cool breezes. The varying sounds– heavy drops sliding off the broad leaves of the shrubs outside my window, the percussion of the occasional fiercer downpour, the whisper of tapering drizzle– created a nice soundtrack for some work, reading, and prayer I enjoyed in my room this afternoon and evening. Amid the more laid-back schedule of the summer, I'm grateful for the gift of more time and energy to notice, meditate upon, and appreciate simple blessings like summer rain.

Excerpt from "Rain"

The rain is slow.

The little birds are alive in it.

Even the beetles.

The green leaves lap it up.

What shall I do, what shall I do?

– From New and Selected Poems: Volume One

By Mary Oliver

Much to Celebrate

2011-06-21T13:36:00.005-04:00

O'Kane Hall

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

After a long New England winter followed by a tardy and turbulent spring, it's the first day of summer here in Worcester. There's much to celebrate in addition to this turning of the seasons:

At this latitude, solstice brings more than 15 hours of daylight, and for at least the next few weeks, sunset will be after 8pm, perfect for enjoying mild evenings.
Today the Catholic Church, and particularly the Society of Jesus, honor St. Aloysius Gonzaga, who lived in Italy during the 16th century. As a young Jesuit, he tended to plague victims in Rome, and ultimately died of the same disease at the age of 23. His name has been taken up by a number of Jesuit schools, and he is one of the patrons of Jesuits in formation. I'm told that descendants of his relatives still gather at his shrine in Rome on this day each year.
The College of the Holy Cross, where I live and work, today celebrates the 168th anniversary of its founding by Benedict Joseph Fenwick, SJ, the first bishop of Boston. Fittingly, the campus is filled with activity– construction projects that are upgrading landscaping and other facilities, a symposium on faith and the intellectual life, and more than two hundred accepted students and their parents for a two-day program of orientation to the College.

On a slightly more personal note, now that the hockey playoffs are finished (Well done, Bruins!), baseball takes the spotlight with the season in full swing. I'll be celebrating the start of the game's long summer arc by joining a friend for tonight's contest between San Diego and Boston at Fenway Park.

Have a wonderful and blessed summer!

Fenway Park

Boston MA

Notches and Peaks

2011-06-18T10:08:00.006-04:00

As promised, here are some further vignettes and reflections from my recent hiking trip.

While northern New Hampshire may be best known for mountains and forests, it has some incredible valleys as well. The two most famous such "notches"– Franconia and Crawford– are characterized by spectacular ridgelines, sinuous floors, and flowing streams that are mere remnants of the massive glaciers that sculpted this wondrous terrain ages ago. I spent a fair amount of time thinking about both the speed of flowing water and the glacial pace (an inescapable pun) of the natural forces on display, and seeing this as a reminder to be patient with my own growth and formation as a Jesuit, especially when I find myself eager to be further along the course than I am.

Claude visits The Basin
Franconia Notch NH

Ledge on Mount Willard

Crawford Notch NH

With my love of exercise and exploration, I enjoy various forms of movement and mobility. Yet, amid these hikes, I found myself fascinated by images of stability– trees and flowers rooted in a range of landscapes, massive boulders haphazardly piled above the treeline, the neighboring mountains visible from the summit. I found something comforting about the reliability of tree roots as handholds, rocks as ledges, and ancient mountains as testaments to the longevity of subtly compelling beauty. Knowing that people return to these landscapes continuously, whether to climb mountains or marvel at them from below, urged me to identify the sources of stability in my own life, and to make sure that I maintain sure footing there.

Mount Willard Trail

Crawford Notch NH

Lion's Head

Mount Washington NH

Completely by accident, we managed to time our expedition to coincide with Laconia Bike Week, an annual event in which thousands of motorcyclists gather from near and far to ride around New Hampshire for a week. The day we climbed Mount Washington was the same day that the auto road was hosting a biker-only "Ride to the Sky." Thus our five-hour, four-thousand-foot vertical ascent ended in the company of hundreds of Harley-Davidsons and their riders. Many of them were quite friendly, especially the fierce-looking man from Quebec who graciously took our picture, marveled at our accomplishment, and admitted to being quite scared during the steep, twisting, windy 7-mile ride up the mountain that leaves little to the imagination. It wasn't quite an experience of culture shock; if anything, the other hikers we met on the trail all shared a similar opinion– hikers and bikers each have a relatively healthy degree of obsession with a particular pursuit that rounds out our lives. And all of us agreed that the folks who ski in Tuckerman's Ravine– hiking up a snow-covered bowl prone to avalanches, making their own trails down slopes that can be almost vertical– are truly crazy.

"Ride to the Top"– A popular Laconia Bike Week event

Mount Washington NH

Bill, Claude, and I at the summit (6,288 feet)

Mount Washington NH

Above Tuckerman's Ravine

Mount Washington NH

Although swarms of bloodthirsty black flies added a significant degree of pain to the trip– my ankles were mercilessly nibbled upon all day– and the fatigue growing in legs, ankles, and feet wearied by some steep and challenging terrain gradually overtook the exhilaration of navigating the highest terrain in New England, the trip is one that Bill and I both appreciated deeply, and one in which the bragging rights (though important) are duly outdone by the friendship, patience, and perseverance manifested and shared during a full day on the mountain. As I continue to recover– whether from some sunburn, muscle soreness, or blackfly bites– I look forward to more opportunities to go walking in the woods with friends, and to continue reaching new peaks along some remarkable trails.

Mount Washington

2011-06-17T21:47:00.004-04:00

Alpine Garden, Mount Washington NH

I'm still in the process of composing my reflection on a two-day hiking expedition in New Hampshire's White Mountains with a good Jesuit friend. There's plenty to talk about: boulder fields, undermined snowdrifts, hundreds of bikers, bloodthirsty flies, stunning scenery, wondrously favorable weather, and much more. Yet for now I'll post one of my favorite pictures from the ascent, an alpine garden that provided a tranquil and awe-inspiring respite before the final push to the summit, a climb that proved to be more arduous and much steeper than it appears here.

Katahdin Memories

2011-06-14T15:48:00.008-04:00

As a Jesuit friend and I pack up for a few days in New Hampshire, and an attempt to hike up Mount Washington, I'm recalling the fun (and sometimes harrowing danger) we shared on Mount Katahdin, the highest peak in Maine, a year ago. If our trip is successful, I'll be only one peak away from my goal of reaching the six state high points in New England during my regency. So far, Katahdin has been the most challenging, and most rewarding, summit expedition I've undertaken in the course of this project. Washington might eclipse it; a thousand feet higher, only slightly less remote, and prone to some ridiculous weather. Summit conditions on New Hampshire's highest peak as I post this entry: 34 degrees, 36 mph winds, and near-zero visibility. Good thing we're not hiking today. I'll undoubtedly have some stories to share by the weekend; in the meantime, some images from last year's Katahdin hike:

Mount Katahdin and Chimney Pond

Baxter State Park, ME

J.D. the moose visits our campground

The aptly-named Knife Edge

Looking waaaay down from the Knife Edge toward Chimney Pond

The highest point in Maine: 5,267 feet above sea level

~1500 Miles

2011-06-13T22:30:00.006-04:00

Destination: Washington DC

Since my last post a week ago, two separate trips have carried me nearly 1500 miles around the East Coast and upstate New York. All told, I was on the road for more than 24 hours in the span of 7 days, and spent as much time riding shotgun as I did at the helm. The first trip was a three-day odyssey involving school vans, fourteen 8th-grade boys, and the sweltering heat of our nation's capital in the midst of a heat wave. Notwithstanding some justifiable complaints about the climate, and one scary mechanical hiccup that briefly sidelined the lead van on the shoulder of I-95, this year's edition of a Nativity tradition was smooth, memorable, and a great opportunity for me to wrap up my time with a class whom I've taught throughout my time at the school. What most impressed me about the time we spent in Washington DC, from tours of monuments and museums to an afternoon at the zoo and an arcade, was the way in which each student had has own individual experiences and reflections regarding what we saw and did, while the boys as a whole really made this trip a class event, in both senses of the word. Despite the blazing heat, they took time to marvel at the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Though interested in a variety of animals, they toured the zoo as a pack and made sure that everyone could see what they wanted. The days in DC proved a fine prelude to last Friday's graduation ceremony, at which all were duly honored for their achievements at Nativity, and rightfully celebrated and encouraged as they prepare to begin high school in the fall. They've all enrolled in one of three local high schools that have accepted Nativity students for several years, so they'll be among friends and fellow graduated as they undertake the next stage of their scholarly and personal journeys. I'm proud of them, especially those whom I've had to push the hardest over the past two years.

Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

Arlington National Cemetery

The day after sending off Nativity's fourteen graduates, I departed for Rochester to celebrate the medical school graduation of a close friend from Dartmouth. My traveling companion, a close friend of the honoree, inspired and entertained me as we shared conversations about scholarly work, literary and cultural interests, and sarcastic remarks about the scenery– whether visually stunning or aesthetically disappointing– along I-90 through Massachusetts and upstate New York. The graduation party, attended by a small number of Dartmouth friends and a large complement of family, honored not only my friend's achievements as a medical students but also her devotion as a family member and friend, her tenacity as a helper and healer, and her often dramatic and always genuine enthusiasm for life. A long journey– we traveled there and back on consecutive days– was well worth it for the opportunity to participate in another brilliant testament to the extraordinary accomplishments and gifts of a truly special person.

Where's the van?

Surrounding the intensity of the events that occurred at the destinations of these voyages, the long hours on the road offered an opportunity to pray, meditate, and dwell on the graces of those days and the lessons of the past academic year, those I've taught and those I've learned. Friendship is a powerful gift, a remarkable motivational force, and a tremendous source of support in both sunshine and shadow. I'm blessed with some wonderful friends, some of whom have been in my life for nearly 11 years, and we're all grateful for our visibly quirky yet undeniably strong network of companionship. I'm aware of how much history can teach us about our society and ourselves, and I see the presence of that truth in my own life much more than I did two years ago. A few of my students recalled a bet I made with them in February when I covered the Civil War and recited the Gettysburg Address from memory; when we reached the Lincoln Memorial, I turned my back to the wall upon which those profound words are inscribed, and watched with subtle joy as their eyes followed the text of the speech that remains happily lodged in my memory. My students and colleagues have taught me that required schoolwork has its place, but the real pedagogical power lies in awakening wonder that becomes concretized in curiosity that leads to reading, writing, and discussions that pursue the objects of one's interests. Although the arc of this progress can be as long as any road I traveled this week, reaching a significant waypoint– like some of the moments I've described above– happily breaks up the journey, and helps to keep one moving forward.

The Gettysburg Address

Lincoln Memorial, Washington DC

Please pray for the journeys of all those with whom I've journeyed this year, and accept my prayers and best wishes for your voyages this summer.

Cleaning Out

2011-06-06T13:53:00.003-04:00

Today marked the last day of the school year; a half day, it was spent cleaning out the classrooms, conducting a group activity to reflect upon what the events and memories of the year, and heading outside for some pickup games of football, soccer, and frisbee. The pace of the day was somewhat chaotic, with students scurrying around the halls, books being gathered, and untold quantities of paper being pulled form desks, bulletin boards, and lockers to be recycled. Only out on a local field, under a mild June sun, did I have some time to settle after a hurried morning of reducing classrooms to empty shells, lockers to vacancy, and even my own desk to a barren expanse of smooth wood and empty steel drawers.

Watching the boys as they tossed footballs, worked on their soccer moves, tweaked their frisbee-throwing technique, or lounged beneath towering shade trees, I recognized again their amazing energy, their unbounded potential, and what they've accomplished with those gifts this year. It's something that, for all the efforts that I and others have made in the classroom throughout this year to channel and guide, is a force that must also be allowed to flow freely, though not randomly. The physical spaces that we've cleaned out look odd, wanting to be inhabited, aspiring to be more than the bare wood and metal of desks, the blankness of unadorned walls, the neatly framed rectangles of bulletin boards bereft of signs of inspiration and achievement. The school will not remain in this state for long; we'll fill the gym this evening and later this week with students and their families to celebrate a year-end potluck, awards, and the graduation of our 8th grade class– all of them bound for some fine high schools. But as it becomes cleaned out, I can only hope and pray that, after a long and intense year of activity, the vibrant students take with them all the energy and talent that they have carried through our building since last July, moving with pride and purpose into a summer of joy and peace.

Memorial Observance

2011-05-31T21:09:00.005-04:00

Nantucket MA

Comings and goings, arrivals and departures, whether for a short time or a long duration, are a common part of Jesuit life. As an apostolic community, Jesuits are often on the move– taking up new assignments, assisting in ministries that complement their primary work, or traveling for a variety of purposes. A Jesuit friend and I spent the weekend on Nantucket, not only to see this lovely island as summer makes its unofficial arrival in New England, but also to spend some time together before the end of the academic year carries each of us in different directions, both apostolically and geographically. In exploring the island– small beaches, quaint villages, wildlife refuges dwarfing small cottages– along the gently rolling filaments of bike paths and two-lane roads, our conversations touched on the lessons learned in our respective classrooms, our plans and hopes for the coming months, and the various figures in our lives whom we memorialize and honor for their inspiration, influence, and witness as we each strive to live our vocations to the fullest.

Dionis Beach, Nantucket MA

The Jesuit community in which I live is also hosting a few Jesuits making their annual retreat, and the silent presence of these men as they delve into eight days of prayer, recollection, and discernment is a gentle inspiration to my own prayer life as I wrap up the year at Nativity Worcester. I’ll soon make my eight-day retreat, and although I have yet to determine where and when I’ll undertake this yearly exercise, I’m eagerly looking forward to the peace and serenity that it will offer. After another year with as many challenges as rewards, as many tough lessons as joyful accomplishments, I need plenty of time to settle, examine those events and their impact upon me, and dialogue with God about where I’m being called, led, and invited in the months ahead.

Some bagpipes and drums on the ferry!

The band had marched in a parade on Nantucket, and had another on Cape Cod the next day.

Weekend Highs

2011-05-22T20:03:00.009-04:00

It's been a busy weekend for me– a celebration for Nativity graduates who are now graduating from high school, the wedding of two Dartmouth classmates, a day trip and hike in northwestern Connecticut with a friend who's also a teacher. And just as the dust settles from all of these festivities and travels, it's time for me to pack my lunch, set aside my sports clothes, and prepare for the start of the final five-day week of the school year. I'll treat the notable graces and blessings of these events in turn.

Imagine that, just before graduating from high school, your middle school invited you and your family to brunch, with a slideshow filled with laughter-inducing images of your younger days, and the gift of a book and a promise of support as you head off to college. For the second year in a row, members of the Nativity community– current and former teachers, administrators, and our alums and their families, gathered to honor and send off another group of young men to college, most of them the first in their families to embark on that journey. Though these students came and went long before I arrived, their presence reminded me of the latent importance of the work I'm doing with the 27 boys whom I formally instruct, and the 29 boys whom I hopefully teach in other ways. At the close of the school year, when the frenzied activity of eagerness for summer vacation can obscure the studies and tasks yet to be completed, signs of the future fruition of my efforts are as welcome and heartening as the spring blossoms I've been encountering over the past few weeks.

Following the event for the Nativity grads, and a quick stop at home to grab a snack and change into a nicer outfit, I drove to northern Massachusetts for my second Dartmouth wedding this academic year. The groom and I were acquainted through many games of cribbage with the chaplain at Aquinas House (the Catholic Student Center at Dartmouth), with whom we both remain good friends; the bride and I both majored in geography and can trace our ongoing friendship back to an early morning breakfast with secretaries, bankers, and fishermen at an iconic waterfront diner in Portland, Maine while taking a break from a fieldwork project during senior year. The wedding, conducted within an Episcopalian liturgy, was replete with the values of faith, commitment, love, and community– expressed in song, word, action, and fellowship. When she walked into the church on her father's arm to the delicately passionate piano and violin of Dvorak's "Songs my Mother Taught Me," I sensed every heart (including my own) suspended in admiration of the beauty we all beheld. When we as a congregation affirmed that we would "do all in our power to uphold these two persons in their marriage," I was reminded of the complimentary bonds of family and friendship that, in supporting and sustaining a marriage, uphold the exclusivity of that bond while also rendering it a gift that is inclusive of those who know and love its constituent persons. The reception– held in the church hall, had the feel of a church social, and everyone pitched in when it came time to clear plates and move tables and chairs for an exuberant hour of contradancing. Being in the fellowship of so many good, faith-filled people, discussing everything from Dartmouth memories to theological musings on the ministries which we study and carry out, was a truly delightful way to honor two wonderful friends who, in spending the rest of their lives together, will no doubt continue to inspire such wonderful gatherings long into the future. Congratulations and blessings to the happy couple!

My quest to reach the six high points in the New England states is now two-thirds complete, as a teacher friend and I meandered up a fogbound dirt road, then navigated some soggy trails and slick rocks en route to the highest point in Connecticut, located humbly on a slope leading from a wooded summit just barely in Massachusetts down to a level expanse of forest that contains a marker for the triple point where New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut meet. The entirety of our hike was fogbound, creating some ethereal vistas along our journey, made more haunting and powerful by the roar of streams fed by springs and seeping runoff after a week of rain. Pictures and the words of Henry David Thoreau are perhaps the best glimpses into the atmosphere of the day.

The next Toyota Prius ad?

"Other roads do some violence to Nature, and bring the traveler to stare at her, but the river steals into the scenery it traverses without intrusion..."

–Thoreau, A Week

"It is astonishing what a rush & tumult a slight inclination will produce in a swollen brook." –Thoreau, Journal, 12 February 1851

The highest point in Connecticut– south slope of Mt. Frissell

Take care and have a great week, everyone!

Imperfection

2011-05-18T21:24:00.003-04:00

I've made my peace with the pattern of damp, rainy, slightly chilly weather that's settled over much of the mid-Atlantic and New England this week. By my recollection, I haven't seen the sun since dusk on Friday evening, and the temperature has remained below 60 degrees in Worcester since Sunday. Yet the scene above, which beckoned from beyond my window as I awoke to the sound of light drizzle and hungry robin chicks– the eggs in the nest in the shrubbery by my other window hatched several days ago– kept returning to me throughout a busy day. Its tranquility, which lingers palpably within my room yet is unseen beyond my window now that night has fallen, is a comforting close to a day that included the following blessings:

My 8th graders were taking a while to settle down for social studies class today. Amidst the simmering disorder, one of the students raised his hand and asked, "Mr. Ryan, were you a perfect angel in 8th grade? Because lots of these teachers think we should be, and I think they forget that they weren't perfect when they were our age." I responded that I was hardly perfect at that age– and it was at this moment that I suddenly had my students' attention– but that I can tell the difference between the natural restlessness of 8th grade boys who are about three weeks away from graduation, and those who are just looking for a justifying excuse to clown around. After another minute of exhortation to maintain discipline and respect, the same student asked, "Mr. Ryan, can we begin class now?" I happily agreed.
A student was sent out of class today for a significant disciplinary issue that resulted in summoning one of his parents to school to discuss the matter with the principal. I happened to be passing through the foyer when the young man's mother arrived, and asked her how her day was going. Long before getting to the fact that she was summoned to school as a result of her son's behavior, she said, "Pretty good... I woke up this morning, I'm breathing, I've got a job..."
One of the topics of discussion at community social this evening was the question of who is in heaven. A number of us were taking this quite seriously, citing all sorts of Church documents, theological writings, philosophical notions, and so on. One of the wiser men finally settled the matter, proclaiming, "Your minds are finite!"– a humorous and humbling reminder that we appreciated.

Oddly enough, moments like these are giving me more happiness than I've found in a while, particularly in my teaching. Even though the end of the year is generally a stressful time at school, I'm finding that it's helping me to be more myself, imperfections and all. The students even seem to be responding to that. With ten instructional days remaining, perhaps this will become a good, if subtle, lesson for us all to share as the year draws to a close.

Daily Reflections

2011-05-16T20:51:00.005-04:00

Green Hill Park

Worcester MA

This picture, though taken a few weeks ago, seems to capture the odd confluence of seasonal attributes that's taken hold here in Worcester. Intermittent heavy rains nourishing lush green fields suggest spring, whereas subdued daylight and temperatures in the 40s and low 50s suggest the coming of autumn more than the intensification of spring.

As the school year winds down, and some more free time starts to emerge, I'm trying to renew my devotion to some habits of spiritual discipline and intellectual leisure. Whether meditating upon my day in the pattern of examination developed by St. Ignatius, or reading through a novel, article, or letter, I'm making an effort to spend some quality time each evening in activities that intrigue the mind and stir the soul, and hoping that some themes will emerge to guide me through the remainder of the month.

Given such reflection, here's a scattering of moments from the day:

My 7th grade religion class was quite creative in brainstorming various scenarios for the end of the world as we began our final unit for the year: the apocalypse. Many seem to think that a combination of natural disasters will do us in. But several also wondered if we'd have a chance to escape Earth and start over again on another planet.
I'm covering the final section of a chapter on 19th century westward migration and settlement with my 8th grade social studies class; today I had them work in pairs to compose dialogues about staking a claim in the Oklahoma land rush and farming on the Great Plains. One group went above and beyond: an Asian student and a Hispanic student took the respective parts of a railroad laborer and a cowboy who each left their previous jobs, met in a train station, and decided to share a plot of farmland, overcoming a language barrier in the process– their dialogue started in Vietnamese and Spanish, then transitioned to English.
There was a vigorous debate at my dinner table tonight about whether or not books will become obsolete as various aspects of the digital age become more entrenched. A former missionary, a philosopher, a retired English professor, and I debated everything from the semantics and concept of the word "book" to the ongoing history of the composition and transmission of the written word.

Not bad for a "standard" Monday at work and at home. I hope to have some more stories, thoughts, or ideas to share in the coming days.

Weekend Thoughts

2011-05-15T20:53:00.004-04:00

I made a quick trip home to Philadelphia this weekend to visit my parents and attend a friend's graduation. While at the graduation ceremonies, I happened to encounter a high school classmate; we recognized each other immediately and caught up on what we've been up to since the last time we randomly met, at a social justice convention in fall of 2008. I also shared a morning run with my dad, a shopping trip with my mom, and a visit to my sister's new place. The weather was cool and rainy, but time and conversation shared with family and friends far outshone the mild gloom of a stretch of May showers.

During the rainy drive back to Worcester this afternoon, I found myself not only grateful for the time at home, but also glad to be returning home to my Jesuit community (as usual) and my work at Nativity (a pleasant change). Somehow my involvement in both the exceptional– a graduate school commencement, a large baccalaureate Mass in a basketball arena, and dinner in a newly vibrant Philadelphia neighborhood– as well as the ordinary– a six-mile circuit around my neighborhood, the purchase of a few clothing items, a tour of my sister's townhouse– reminded me of the joys, connections, and inspirations to be found in the marvelous and the mundane here in central Massachusetts.

Though the school year is winding down, I think that some new and vital graces– hinted at in the events of this weekend– might finally be taking root and gaining some traction in the often-busy landscape of my life. I certainly hope so. At the very least, I have some new reminders, thanks to some leftovers from my mom's gardening, and the now-retired shoes that carried me through the 2010 Boston Marathon. It's supposed to be a cool and rainy week here in Worcester, so until better conditions for outdoor photography return, an indoor sign of spring will have to suffice.

New Life

2011-05-10T19:47:00.003-04:00

With wonder and amazement, I've been keeping an eye on the robins nesting in the shrubs just outside one of my windows. About two weeks ago, I first noticed three blue eggs nestled in their twiggy cradle. This afternoon, my arrival home from school coincided with the robin's return home from foraging, and as I silently watched, two of the chicks feebly raised their weak necks, squinting with delicate eyes, toward a lightly chewed worm dangled towards their well-defined beaks. As they haphazardly gulped their snack, I was struck by the fragile loveliness of this hidden spectacle. Signs such as these from the realms of flora and fauna have always fascinated and humbled me during spring, and this year is no different, again urging me to do my part to welcome and support refreshment and renewal in body, mind, and soul.

Intentional Wandering

2011-05-07T22:00:00.007-04:00

Clark Art Institute grounds

Williamstown MA

Today a Jesuit friend and I took a day trip to the Berkshires. It was his first excursion to the area; I hadn't visited in quite some time. The weather turned out better than we had expected; instead of clouds and showers, we were blessed with clouds and sun. Our journey included brief stops at Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and also Kripalu, a yoga center housed in a former Jesuit novitiate. We enjoyed a longer stay in Williamstown, where we visited the Clark Art Institute, a remarkable institution which includes a room full of Renoirs, and sprawling grounds traversed by wooded trails. We encountered natural splendor in a state park established at an abandoned quarry, and also in the views from the famous hairpin turn on Route 2, both in North Adams. In the sunset hour, a gentle descent from the main road brought us to Shelburne Falls, home of a famous bridge of flowers: an abandoned trolley trestle that was reclaimed as a garden by local residents nearly 85 years ago.

Natural Bridge State Park, North Adams MA

I'd heard of each of these landmarks before, yet would not have visited them if my friend and brother hadn't raised the idea. He would not have seen them if it weren't for my familiarity with the Berkshires, gleaned from some earlier wanderings, whether accompanied or alone, in the northwestern corner of Massachusetts. Even our itinerary that day was somewhat haphazard: choosing activities in a given town based on not only what was there but also on the weather and our mood at the time. As much as I may strive to follow routines and strict plans in the course of my work– an approach to middle school teaching that it has its advantages and its drawbacks– it was a refreshing change to set out on the road with little more than a good companion, a sense of direction, and a notion of the hidden treasures to be sought once more, or discovered anew.

Bridge of Flowers

Shelburne Falls MA

Staying on Target

2011-05-02T21:46:00.002-04:00

At the urging of a friend, and with a reflection to offer 56 middle school boys and a dozen young teachers at morning assembly tomorrow, my thoughts on a recent piece of news. As a reminder, these thoughts are entirely my own, and should not be taken to reflect the broader views of any constituency to which I belong.

As a sophomore at Dartmouth, I was in Hanover, New Hampshire on September 11, 2011; I had just begun my orientation for my duties as an undergraduate advisor for a floor of first-year students. Some of my residents were late arriving because of the disruption to air travel caused by the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, and I later learned that one of my friends was flying at the time; her plane was grounded for days before she could complete her journey to New Hampshire. I distinctly recall the palpable shift in the mood on campus, not only as the Dartmouth community came together to begin that fall term in a way no one could have imagined, but also as we considered what the legacy of the terrorist attacks would mean for our country and our future role in it. In the following weeks and months, targets emerged: specific countries, groups, and individuals with ties, whether factually claimed or persuasively purported, to the unprecedented attacks of that terrible day. It seemed straightforward: target those who targeted us. Bring to justice those who caused such unjust violence and suffering.

Now, nearly ten years later, Osama bin Laden is dead. An initial, identifiable, and enduring target of the war on terror is checked off. But what noble aims have we missed in the past decade? Our country has seen two rather different presidential administrations and several election cycles marked by both inspiring rhetoric and frightfully venomous verbal sparring. Particularly in the South, citizens of our country have suffered natural and unnatural disasters that have highlighted troubling socioeconomic and racial divisions, as well as an indomitable sense of perseverance and solidarity that spans those chasms. Greed and fear compete with generosity and hope in our attitudes towards business, community, our neighbors, and those who wish to be our neighbors.

Our soldiers continue to generously offer staggering, sacrificial service to us and our country, whatever each of us may think about the wars and campaigns in which we're involved abroad. Good people continue to labor in schools, hospitals, fire stations, and churches to educate our young, tend to our sick, protect our lives and property, and nourish our souls. Yet so much work remains to be done. Vanquishing threats of terror from abroad ought to be matched by resisting and reducing violence in our cities. Investing in the defense of our nation should be mirrored by investing in the health and future prospects of all its people. We must not limit ourselves to finding and eliminating targets that threaten us; we must earnestly seek and accomplish goals that will enliven us. Then we can truly celebrate the accomplishment of some very worthy missions, undertaken by special forces within our communities, our homes, and our hearts.

Frost and Trees

2011-05-01T20:35:00.000-04:00

Hart Lawn

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

One of my favorite Robert Frost poems seems especially appropriate, given the long-awaited, exuberant display of spring blooms on campus.

"Tree at My Window"

Tree at my window, window tree,

My sash is lowered when night comes on;

But let there never be curtain drawn

Between you and me.

Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,

And thing next most diffuse to cloud,

Not all your light tongues talking aloud

Could be profound.

But, tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,

And if you have seen me when I slept,

You have seen me when I was taken and swept

And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,

Fate had her imagination about her,

Your head so much concerned with outer,

Mine with inner, weather.

–Robert Frost

Along Linden Lane

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Smith Hall

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Glimpses of a Liturgical Nomad

2011-04-25T21:41:00.004-04:00

For the first time in several years, I celebrated the various liturgies of the Easter Triduum in a number of different places. Far from being a disjointed experience of the holiest days of the Christian calendar, my travels as a liturgical nomad brought unexpected integration and harmony after a Lenten season that was rarely marked my such graces. Whether washing the feet of a fellow worshipper at Holy Cross on Thursday evening, kneeling with barefoot monks amidst a soulfully intoned proclamation of the Passion on Good Friday, or singing enthusiastically at the bilingual Easter Vigil as the Easter bonfire illuminated the towering vaults of the cathedral in downtown Worcester, I encountered the mystery, the power, and the deep reality of these communal recollections of Jesus' journey from life through death to new life.

Tomorrow, along with my colleagues and students, I return to the classroom. Six weeks remain until the school year closes, and the Nativity community celebrates the graduation of the fourteen 8th graders in the class named for Jesuit martyr Miguel Pro. I go back with some slight trepidation– a natural result of all my struggles there over the past several months– but also with some renewed confidence and hope that, finally, I can see in my scattered and uncertain efforts the same kind of progress, unity, and fruitfulness that I experienced in several very different liturgies over the past several days. The same holds true as I meditate upon my place in the school community; whereas I have often felt distant and isolated, perhaps that is merely an illusion. For in going to some of these services on my own, and despite not personally knowing my fellow worshippers, I felt that we were nonetheless joined in familiarity and faith, forming solidarity from a group of strangers, and creating inclusiveness among a gathering of individuals. I hope and pray that these lessons may be well learned– and perhaps even taught anew– in the Easter season.

Praying

2011-04-21T23:25:00.001-04:00

Tonight, after quiet visits to a number of local parishes for Eucharistic Adoration, I was reminded of a poem I composed for Holy Thursday three years ago. Though I don't quite feel the consolation and vitality I did in spring of 2008, these words still ring true to me.

We've washed, we've eaten.

Walking out into the darkness,

the Lord seeks our company

for a less gleeful sharing.

And so we seek him,

journeying from church to church,

faithful havens we often pass

in our hurried lives.

Each a modern Gethsemane

in a city honoring a saint

yet abounding in valleys

of gloom, despair, and tears.

No longer bread and wine,

now it is glorified flesh

and a cup of blood whose

fearfulness we can never know.

Spirits hover in darkened vaults

while cassocked seminarians,

and plainclothes religious,

and sacred laity pray together.

Lost in one way or another,

found here on their knees,

inclining toward a troubled light

still needed beyond the door.

Waiting

2011-04-21T15:03:00.007-04:00

East Brookfield, MA

A country drive this morning with two of my brothers, which included a visit to the nearby Trappist monastery as well as an apple orchard several hills away, occasioned some reflections on the slow return of life and vitality to the more rural landscapes surrounding Worcester. As I've noted, it's been a long winter, in terms of physical weather and my own spiritual climate. With the conclusion of Lent, I've been musing on what has been accomplished by my training in prayer and action. I wish I could be prouder of my accomplishments in this area than I am of my shared achievements on the Boston Marathon course; it seems that I was not entirely successful in attaining my goals. As the Easter Triduum begins this evening with the remembrance of the Last Supper, I feel an affinity with some of the landscapes and scenes I witnessed today– fields still littered with autumnal detritus yet ready for new growth; bright yet still feeble flowers assailed by a blustery wind; the robin's nest outside my window, built delicately with a haphazard tangle of material. What will that future growth look like, and when will it emerge? What wondrous moments along that course are occurring today?

"A Prayer in Spring"

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away

As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid-air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

The which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends He will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

– Robert Frost

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Settling

2011-04-19T19:22:00.004-04:00

Athletes' Village, Hopkinton MA

A number of times along the Boston Marathon course yesterday, Matt and I remarked to one another that the full sense of the experience– cheering crowds, different towns, challenging hills, long final miles– would slowly sink in after the fact. Speaking for myself, as I've relived and reflected upon the race over the past 24 hours, I'd have to agree.

I'm impressed by and grateful for the way that Matt and I worked together through each of the towns from Hopkinton to Boston. Whether I was telling him to slow down in the early downhill miles, helping him run the inside tangents, or sharing memories from last year, there was something wonderful about keeping pace with a friend who has helped and accompanied me through countless miles in St. Louis winters and a Washington DC summer. Entering the Newton Hills, I was led up them by his strong climbing as much as by all of my training on the wicked inclines scattered around my Saturday morning routes south of Worcester. In the final miles along Beacon Street, when he offered to let me go ahead and chase something– a faster time, a stronger finish, whatever– I declined, and did my best to balance a steady rhythm with a pace that wouldn't leave him behind. We finished together, tired yet fulfilled and jubilant.

I've been finding links between my running and my teaching through the course of my training, and today I discovered another one. At the end of the Haunted Mile, when Matt offered to cut me loose, I gave that idea more than passing consideration. At that point, with four miles to go, I still had a long shot of finishing just under three hours. It would have required significant speed, gritty perseverance, and a lonely surge through considerable pain and fatigue. It would also have meant leaving Matt to his own devices, and while I knew he could finish, I knew he was struggling no less than I was. And I realized that I had no personal goal that could offer as much fulfillment of staying with Matt until the (hopefully not too bitter) end of the course. There was also the distinct possibility that each of us could collapse if we chose to work individually after striving together for two and a half hours. Today it hit me: in my worst and most selfish moments, I've wanted to escape the confines and disappointments of a situation in which I feel I'm not doing my best or actualizing my full potential, and moving on to some other position that would be "easier," more "glamorous," or less messy. Why be a mediocre middle school teacher when I could be an outstanding campus minister? Why ease off the throttle and roll to three hours and some extra minutes when I could fire up the afterburners and chase down another sub-three hour performance? Amid the roar of the crowd, the gently searing pain of lactic acid seeping through my quadriceps, my friendship and company with Matt gave me my answer. Those things I dream of... there's no guarantee that they'd come to pass. The gifts in the present moment... I may not realize in the moment how precious they are, but I'd later regret giving them up if I did. Reaching the end of Boylston would have been a lesser celebration without Matt at my side; any "success" I might have had in a different ministry would have been lessened by the notion that I chose, as various social and economic structures have done with varying degrees of collective intentionality, to leave behind some wonderful boys in the humble city that I now call home.

God willing, plenty of other races and marathons remain in my future, just as my course of Jesuit formation offers many exciting opportunities for personal, professional, pastoral, and intellectual growth in the coming years. But I was blessed by a memorable reminder of the importance and joy of staying the course, of running the race set out for me– on the roads, in the classroom, wherever life asks and invites me to keep putting one foot in front of the other, helping others and myself to make progress.

Putting my feet up!

Marathon Monday

2011-04-18T21:40:00.001-04:00

2011 Boston Marathon finishers

Matt and I ran the whole course together, through ups and downs that were as physical and mental as they were topographical. After training together for three years, in two different cities, our third marathon together was the best. Thanks, Matt, for a great race, and the blessings of an ongoing journey of training and friendship.

Ready, Set...

2011-04-17T21:26:00.005-04:00

Hopkinton, MA

After fourteen weeks of training, nearly 450 miles (many of them run in temperatures below freezing), and a few recent days of exciting suspense, I'm turning in early for my pre-marathon sleep. Tomorrow's an early start: up before 5am, meeting Matt at the T by 5:30am, boarding a bus at 6am for the frighteningly long ride to Hopkinton, swapping stories for a few hours with some of the other 27,000 intrepid souls running the marathon tomorrow. After so much preparation, it all starts here. Ready, set...

Claude has his spot picked out...

An inspirational New Balance ad (Park Street Station)

Only 26. 2 miles away!