Holy Week in New York

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

Central Park, New York NY

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

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

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

Lunch on Holy Thursday

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

Gramercy Park, New York NY

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

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

Scheduled Searching

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

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

National Cathedral, Washington DC

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

– Mark 14: 37-38

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

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

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

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