Recycling

A few days ago, on a foggy and chilly morning, I passed a man pushing a shopping cart down the street, pausing at each house to gather items from the recycling buckets placed at the curb. From a passing glance, I could tell that he had amassed a modest quantity of cans and bottles, yet clearly had room for more. My footsteps and the gentle clink of aluminum and glass– neither of us desired to wake the sleepy homes in this fashionable neighborhood– faded from each other's hearing as the distance between us stretched out into the misty darkness.

As Advent has progressed, I've been tempted to gloss over the readings that occur every year during this season. Isaiah's prophecy about swords being beaten into plowshares? I've heard that one before. The vision of the peaceable kingdom on God's holy mountain? I know it well. The long genealogy in the opening of Matthew's Gospel? So many names... and usually an opportunity to congratulate a new deacon for making it through the list!

Boston Public Library

My many neighbors in Boston have their routines– those who scour recycling buckets, those who commute to work, those who drive commuters on the T– just as I have my training schedule, my slate of theology classes, and my regular chores and duties around the community. The repetition there is a good thing: I maintain my health, contribute to the functioning of the house, and fulfill my mission to study. People work to make ends meet, to keep this fine city going, and so on. Repetition can be virtuous, but it can be vicious when it turns into monotony. I still don't know how people deal with stop-and-go traffic on I-93 or the Mass Pike every weekday, even with an array of beneficial distractions available. I try to notice something different on every run, a bit of a challenge when I've memorized almost every square foot of pavement along my regular routes.

I wish I could say that I've regularly done the same with my prayer over the Advent readings these past few weeks. My seminar on Isaiah this semester lent me some insights that fostered a fresh reading of those prophetic texts. Yet I'm still striving to see something new in the pre-Nativity stories from Luke's Gospel, an unanticipated meaning in Paul's writings, or a vivid metaphor in the language of the Psalms.

Amid these final days of Advent, and my imminent journey to South Jersey to spend Christmas week with my family, I'm praying for the grace to do more than mere recycling of past memories of liturgical readings, holiday celebrations, and running or walking around my old neighborhood. This time through the old routine, there's bound to be something new. And as the Church invites its community and the broader world to once again open itself to Christ through recollection of the Incarnation, there are countless lives yearning for something new.

Rejoice... Seriously.

Salvador de Bahía, Brasil

[This is a slightly adapted form of what I preached informally earlier this week as a final assignment in my preaching class this semester. I drew upon the readings for the Third Sunday of Advent this year: Isaiah 61:1-2a, 10-11; Luke 1:46-48, 49-50, 53-54; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24; John 1:6-8, 19-28. As my sidebar disclaimer indicates, the views below are entirely my own, with some influence from the signs of the times, the prodding of the Spirit, and a few helpful edits from good friends.]

Rejoice! Proclaim the good news! Prisoners are released, the hungry are fed, the Almighty has done great things! The Spirit of the Lord God is upon you! Rejoice always!

The rising tide of goodness and cheer abounds in the Scriptures, and in the cult of holiday marketing, as we draw ever closer to Christmas. We may find ourselves warmed by the anticipation of holiday parties, family visits, reunions with friends, the end of the semester’s work, and countless other blessings. It is a time to rejoice, in what we have, and in what we hope to receive.

But, wait… let’s be serious for a minute. Not all find cause to rejoice these days. The poor are still with us, as Jesus said they would be, and they’ve become more visible these past few weeks. The scourges of war, violence, and disease continue to plague far too many nations and peoples around the world, from Syria to Ukraine, from Liberia to Mexico, from South Sudan to the Holy Land. The evil of racism has welled to the surface of our national discourse, playing out in deliberations and demonstrations from Ferguson to New York City to Cleveland. How can we rejoice… when the brokenhearted cry out for justice, for peace, for healing, for a day of vindication? What are we to say to them? What are we to do? Is there any joy to be found here?

Do not quench the Spirit, Paul tells us. Test everything; hold on to what is good. Refrain from every kind of evil. This is not done easily, when light and darkness, privilege and prejudice, profit and exploitation twist together so tightly. We need guidance if we are to make straight the way of the Lord. We must look away from shallow joys, empty promises, and veneers of security to hear the voice of one crying out in the desert. Who is that voice? Where is that desert? Are two-thousand-year-old answers still relevant?

Among many signs we’ve seen in our streets these past few months, there are these: “I am Michael Brown.” “I am Eric Garner.” With all due respect, not quite. John tells us: “I am not the Christ.” Who is he? “I am the voice of one crying out in the desert.” Who am I? I am Chris Ryan. Who are you? You are Laura, you are Peter, you are Vanessa, you are Henry. You are the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, a wilderness that has traced a path from the periphery of our consciousness, from the overlooked neighborhoods of our cities, and now cries out to be heard in our communities, in our cities, in our nation, in our world.

In this we can rejoice. God anoints, empowers, and sends each of us to bring glad tidings, healing, and liberty. God does the same for others who might liberate us from the captivity of our ignorance, our distraction, our detachment. The Spirit of the Lord is upon us all, to make straight the way of the Lord. Our collect prayer invited us to celebrate the joys of the Lord’s Nativity “with solemn worship and glad rejoicing.” Far too many people have experienced 2014 as anything but a year of favor from the Lord. Their suffering and pain is grave. The call to genuinely notice and firmly acknowledge the evil visited upon them, and to take up a mantle of justice alongside them, is both a solemn undertaking and a great joy. You have been called to go out to those who cry out. Rejoice in this mission, and believe in the provision of the grace to fulfill it. Delight in the company of those who carry it out with you. Pray for guidance, testify with courage, give thanks with humble delight. Join in the difficult, anguishing, yet hopeful labor of making straight the paths that we have all allowed to become far too crooked. The one who calls you, who calls me, who calls us all, is faithful, and will accomplish it. Rejoice.

Sources of Light

These little machines appeared on the field that I pass daily on my walks between home and school. With the semester drawing to a close, and the late autumn weather bringing an end to the season of nighttime outdoor sporting events at Boston College, I figured that these mobile "night sun" lamps were being staged for storage until the spring. Sure enough, as I walked home yesterday after turning in two final papers, a pair of flatbed trucks were parked on the field, and a forklift was methodically loading these generator-fed lamps for their journey back to a rental company's warehouse.

Our human society has developed so many sources of illumination. But do they all shed light on our path? Street lights are one thing, but not all lights that glow forth from the façades of our cities and towns are above questioning. Holiday advertising campaigns stress all that could make us merry and bright, but do they invite us to consider where that materialistic glow might fade into shadow? A variety of voices competes to address the issues of violence, prejudice, injustice, and political tension that have filled so many days and nights these past few months, but how many of them truly shed light on our own complicated involvement in these vexing social ills?

The Advent season invites me to live more by the forms of natural light that, while I can neither purchase nor possess them, are most fully my own. At Boston's 42-degree northerly latitude, Advent coincides with the shortest days of the year... bottoming out at just over nine hours of daylight on the winter solstice. Not long past three in the afternoon (or in the early evening, if one is overly cynical), the sun is clearly diving toward the horizon, generously spilling its fiery glow throughout its steady descent. The deep blue sky that chases sunset or precedes sunrise somehow retains sufficient light for walking, running, or reading by a window. The calmness that it instills brings a hush to the disquiet and anxiety, inviting me to turn away from the immediacy of rented light, and instead to contemplate and welcome a subtler, holier glow that arises from within as well as from without.

Advent readings describe Jesus as the light of the world. In a period when the cosmological dance of light and dark gives the latter its deepest lunge, and at a time when our nation and many others seem more deeply caught in the murky swirl of sin and discord, perhaps we can consider anew the lights by which we live, and the source of the true light that is ever coming into the world.

Scar, Stump, Sprout, Shelf

Just under two weeks ago, I accidentally cut one of my fingers while chopping vegetables. Working at a quick pace with a great knife, the blade had sliced in and out of my flesh before I realized that it had missed the leek braced against my fingertips. Thankfully, I didn't need stitches, but I did take a few minutes to sit on the floor and let waves of adrenaline and shock roll through me, lest I pass out. New skin has now filled in the gash– a quarter-inch in both depth and width– in a wonderful testament to the body's capacity for healing. Yet my amateur bandaging caused the edges of the wound to line up imperfectly; the new growth preserves a sign of the knife's damage.

Today's first reading (Isaiah 11:1-10) opens with the image of a new sprout growing from a stump, the remnant of a mighty tree felled at some point in the past. In these last days of the semester, my brothers and I are metaphorically felling trees as we print out our final papers. We're devoting considerable energy to removing any obstacles that stand between us and winter break, knocking out the last round of assignments from our to-do lists. It's as if we're more invested in the work of cutting down than the process of building up.

Yet just as Isaiah praises a blossoming bud, personified with a range of spiritual gifts, we too can take stock of our own growth over the past months as this calendar year draws to a close. In what ways does the Spirit of the Lord rest upon me? What new wisdom and understanding have I received? What counsel have I offered, what strength have I extended, what knowledge and reverence of the Lord have I developed? What wounds and pains have given way to healing, perhaps with some slight reshaping of the contours of my life?

Although I'll soon return the library books that fueled my research throughout the semester, I've already acquired several more to read over the break. Volumes on the history of Catholic parishes, spirituality and secularism in urban settings, and pastoral efforts to address racism nestle against the latest novels by Marilynne Robinson and David Mitchell, and a collection of short stories by a young veteran of the war in Afghanistan. Not quite wolves and lambs laying down together, but certainly a study in contrasts, at least judging by appearance.

This stretch of time between Thanksgiving and Christmas can be so frenetic, it's hard to see the forest for the trees, or even the trees, if we're rushing, overworked, or too obsessed with clearing a path, let alone following one. Advent invites us to consider the jagged edges of our lives, and to explore the deeper truth of growth, integration, and grace at work even, and especially, there. I suspect that much of what's on my shelf will tell me this story in novel fashion. Scars indicate not only a cut, but also a seam. Stumps bear a legacy of past growth from which life sprouts anew. The Spirit of the Lord rests upon us.

A Month and A Season

After a long absence from the blogging realm, I sense that it's time to make a return. As each new month opens, and I take stock of the previous month's memories, journal entries, and other mementos of daily life, I attend to what I've done well, what I've neglected, and what calls me to grow. As this new month coincides with the opening of the Advent season, I'm sensing a synergy between my return to greater intentionality in prayer and contemplation on the one hand, and on the other, nudges toward creative writing I've experienced since the end of the summer. Both aspects of my life were sometimes diminished by the responsibilities, activities, and general pattern of another instructive, insightful, and life-giving semester of theology studies. Writing about joys and blessings, struggles and fears, and the people who helped me to live into them more fully seemed so weak and empty compared to the experiences themselves.

Advent, with all its powerful imagery, likewise pales in comparison to the mystery of the Incarnation toward which it points. These weeks offer countless reminders of that original experience of awaiting the moment of God taking on flesh and dwelling among us. The words of prophets and evangelists that are read at liturgies over the next four weeks tell us that Christ is coming; the mood of prayers and reflections upon these texts invite us to consider our own levels of readiness, desire, and openness with respect to this divine-human arrival. For a season, we are invited to trust in the future, and to recall the blessings of the past, while being rooted in the present.

It's my hope to gradually delve back into this blog by way of slowing down and carving out space for creative reflections on life, with the lens of Advent to sharpen my focus. Unlike the narrative in the lectionary, the ending of this newest stretch in my life's journey remains unwritten. Yet I enter it with hope, curiosity, and faith that it will, like each year's Advent journey, lead to a new beginning shaped by a timeless truth.

Watching the Sky

See anything?

Jesus said to his disciples:

"There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars,

and on earth nations will be in dismay,

perplexed by the roaring of the sea and the waves."

– Luke 21:25

The readings for the first Sunday of Advent include a passage from the end of Luke's Gospel that, at first glance, can seem a bit grim and foreboding. There's no talk of a prophecy involving a cuddly child, an improbable birth, and a new era of peace. Instead, the Church has selected a passage that foretells upheaval and calamity, events that seem more capable of shaking faith than strengthening it.

Thus I was surprised when the Jesuit who presided at a special Advent Mass for members of the Jesuit Connection, a group of young alums of Jesuit schools who reside in the Boston area, chose to focus his homily on the verse that appears above. While his preaching went on to address topics as diverse as the hectic pace that easily creeps into December, the pitfall of being too inwardly-focused in one's contemplative habits, and the place of "end of the world" passages in the context of cultures both ancient and contemporary, he kept returning to this notion of seeking signs in the sky.

As I stare out my office window at the end of a reasonably busy workday, I see a mostly clear sky fading gently into darkness. Aside from a few stray clouds tinged slightly reddish-yellow by the light that casts lengthening shadows everywhere else, a subtle shift from a darker to a lighter shade of blue is what catches my eye, drawing my gaze from the heights to the horizon. The view reminds me that I beheld the same process, occurring in reverse, earlier this morning as I ran 7 miles just before daybreak. Thankfully, the weather was calm, the streets were free of snow and ice (thanks to oddly mild temperatures), and there was no dismay or perplexity in sight. But were there any signs?

Perhaps so: in this act of observation and recollection, it occurs to me that the spiritual growth that I desire, the changes that I wish to achieve, and the "goals" that I have for this Advent season are not to be attained in sudden or grandiose fashion. Instead, it seems that they may creep into my life at an infinitesimal pace, as subtle as the movement of light during dawn and dusk. Perhaps I should spend more time noticing the rising and setting of the sun (or the moon and stars, for that matter)... that I may become more acquainted with the graced timing of the sky, as well as the ongoing turns of my own spiritual cosmos.

Advent 2012

Last night, one of my Jesuit brothers and I attended a performance of Handel's Messiah at a lovely concert hall in Worcester. At brunch this morning, we remarked about several aspects of the concert. Reviewing our observations of the four principal vocalists, the choral ensemble, and the orchestra, we discovered that we had each noticed their reactions to the music they collaborated to create. When the audience customarily stood for the Hallelujah chorus, I was struck by the humble admiration that seemed to wash across the face of the soprano, who, along with her three companions, kept their seats. The same was true during a bass aria in the work's third part that features a complicated and jubilant trumpet solo... the performers were clearly swept into something more than the mere art of making great music.

A view from my room as Advent 2012 begins

As Advent begins, and with it, a new liturgical year, I'm again fining myself drawn to the foundations of my faith and spirituality. The "purple seasons" that precede Christmas and Easter are, for me, a time to distance myself from the distracting entanglements that I've allowed to creep into my prayer life, and a period for restoring some desired sharpness and discipline to practices and attitudes that I've allowed to waver and decay amid the busy pace of life. A student opinion essay that recently appeared in the campus newspaper gently argued for the restoration of passion in student lives, not by embracing a multitude of activities or constantly striving for perfection and excellence in all things, but by identifying and embracing the fundamental means by which one lives a genuine life, builds and sustains authentic relationships, and becomes more capable of living with true and deep devotion.

As the work and activities at the end of the semester build to a potentially stressful pace, restoring a firm foundation in the rhythm of prayer and reflection becomes timely and fulfilling. As consumer culture places an emphasis on commodified buying and giving, I feel that my desires in preparing for Christmas are oriented toward creating and offering gifts from the blessings that I've already received. And as days darken and conflicts around the world can dim one's global outlook, I'm increasingly grateful for the light that is best visible through the eyes of the heart, in a gaze that takes in the entire person.

I'm excited to undertake another Advent journey, and eager to see where it leads, for while I've walked this route before, each transit towards Christmas follows a novel and grace-filled path.

Have a blessed Advent.

We Need a Little Christmas

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

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.

Encountering the Unexpected

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

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

I’ve been thinking a great deal about the new liturgical translations– their sources, their impact, their reception by the clergy and the laity, and the theological worldview that they express. Some of the more contentious issues– the process that produced the new translation, the heightened sense of human imperfection in relationship to divine grace, and a shift away from colloquial to more formal language– I’ll set aside for the moment. What strikes me at the moment is that potentially stark encounter between a new ritual language and a group of individuals whom it may surprise and shock. But wasn’t Jesus’ birth– God made human, a poor and unmarried woman bearing the world’s savior– no less surprising and unexpected, whether to those familiar with prophecies or those who simply 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)

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!

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 so quickly, whether approaching the end of 2011 or advancing from the start of the liturgical year.

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

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

In the readings for the Second Sunday of Advent, people filled with hope and longing, people who are encouraged to wait confidently for God’s triumph of peace and justice for all humanity, go out into the desert to encounter a prophet announcing these same tidings, and preaching a way of life that fosters their full reception. I already know well the landscape of my own inner desert, but I’ve not yet fully allowed it to be a place of encounter with fellow 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 already progressed this far, and I’m not yet where I wish to be. I’ve got my own work and preparation to do, and while it’s not yet finished, I gratefully recognize that it’s already underway.

Atacama Desert, Chile

Waiting Together

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

Advent

After several exciting, fun-filled days with my family in South Jersey for Thanksgiving, I'm back home in Worcester, eagerly entering the season of Advent.

Amidst my awareness of the new liturgical year, the revised liturgy translations being introduced at Mass, and the intensity of work that awaits students, professors, and administrators returning to campus for the final few weeks of the semester, it was a phrase from the closing prayer at Mass this evening that particularly caught my attention: "May these mysteries, O Lord, in which we have participated, profit us, we pray, for even now, as we walk amid passing things, you teach us by them to love the things of heaven and hold fast to what endures."


Ordinary "passing things" abound in my life, yet I'm not always good at letting them turn my gaze to God's presence in that same life. Even with my habits of prayer and reflection– themselves always a work in progress– I can still rush through life and hurry past signs with smug assurance, as readily as I traveled the familiar route between my family home in South Jersey and my home with the Jesuit community in Worcester, scarcely bothering to notice the familiar scenery along the highway. I need the encouragement to slow down, discerning and relishing the blessings to be seen in a conversation with a visiting classmate, the fact of my safe arrival after a 5-hour drive, or the way that an empty chalice sitting on the altar reminds me of my own desire to be filled with God's life-giving grace. I need the darkness at this time of year to draw my eyes toward the feeble yet swelling light of this season– an extra candle flame in the Advent wreath each week, the nearing time of Christ's arrival, the slow lengthening of days and shortening of nights that will begin in several weeks at the winter solstice. I need to do my share of the disciplined, diligent devotion that builds up a solid life of prayer and faith, while also inviting and accepting the graces that will sustain me in my efforts to be a faithful disciple, companion, and colleague.