Reversal

In my own experience, and that of many friends, March was a long month. The swelling minutes of dusky evening glow often meant little more than some more daylight by which to work before turning on the lamp beside my desk. Freedom from classes during a week of spring break– which featured nothing but winter weather– meant long, interrupted stretches of time that I eagerly exploited to achieve serious progress on researching and writing a 20-page term paper. Once again, the stretch of my Boston Marathon training schedule with the highest mileage– including a grueling 22-miler on a chilly Saturday with some patches of black ice to dodge– fell squarely in the middle of March, and as most of the country knows all too well, a winter that just wouldn't quit. A friend in Michigan told me that March had its metaphorical lamblike departure there today; here in Boston, it managed to rain, snow, sleet, and even hail within a two-hour period. Having seen occasional glimpses of, and halting progress towards, the long-awaited spring on the horizon, it seemed we were instead sliding back down a slippery slope into late January.

On the other hand, this morning I experienced a reversal that, in contrast to the dread and anxiety with which I'd been anticipating it, turned out to be insightful and refreshing. One of my weekday running routes typically carries me westbound through the Newton Hills, then north through a residential neighborhood, and finally back east to my house along a route that features one sharp climb and two long, gently sloping downhills. On good mornings, with gravity as my aid and the fiery predawn glow beckoning on the horizon, I can roll down those hills with delusional thrill. But today, with Patriots' Day three weeks away, I finally worked up the courage to run this route the other way around, thus facing the Newton Hills in the same arrangement that I'll face on race day. I'll admit that I was also nervous about what those long drag-racing downhills would feel like in the other direction. Would it be like a slow trip up the chairlift instead of a quick run down a pristine slope?

I found some surprises in seeing this course from the other direction. For one thing, the 50-minute difference in daylight highlighted differences in streetlight coverage that I'd somehow overlooked during the long months of total darkness. Even with few cars on the roads, I felt slightly more nervous about hugging the curbs for left turns instead of right turns; even in a town with so many runners, most motorists seem genuinely surprised– or not sufficiently caffeinated– when they come across someone like me staking a claim to the shoulder and putting in some early miles before a day of work. And Heartbreak Hill proved even more mystical with a rosy hue at the top that silently heralded a glorious new day.

In this time of Lent, there's an encouragement to turn back to God. I've certainly found the past few weeks to be a welcome– and often uncomfortably prodding– motivation to discern the ways in which my prayer, habits, and relationships might have gone astray. Some of those wanderings have led rather narrowly to dead ends; the logical solution is thus to reverse course and return to the place where I abandoned the proper route for my ongoing spiritual journey. What if I reversed my prayer schedule and made sure that I did this first thing after breakfast... or even my post-run stretching? What if I rearranged my evening work schedule so that after-dinner leisure became a meaningful session of reflection and journaling at the end of the night, and I instead got to work right away instead of closing the books mere minutes before closing my eyes? In what other ways would a turnaround– however daunting and contrary to routine it may seem– be just the thing that this stretch of my lifelong training plan needs?

I can't say that I know any of these answers... only that I'm grateful to have discovered some new angles from which to seek them. And even if I wind up retracing steps I've previously taken, I'll surely see some of the surrounding terrain as if for the first time.

Screened Out

Three weeks into Lent, I'm grateful for the grace of remaining faithful to a practice I'm trying for the first time. As I spend my work days using my delightful laptop to create budgets, tweak narratives, and correspond with colleagues to accomplish the tasks of the grants office– with only occasional breaks to check Spring Training box scores– I'd noticed myself getting tired out by all that screen time. I found that, in the evenings, I maintained a decent discipline of replying to personal emails from friends in a timely manner, but also a tendency to fritter away time in a range of generally worthy endeavors– daily news trivia on NPR, the nuances of the weather forecast for the next morning's run, or the BBC's latest take on world news. So I made a bold declaration to myself for Lent, and shared it with a few friends to keep myself honest: no screen time after I leave work each day.

After three weeks of screenless evenings, I'm increasingly grateful for the wealth of refreshing activity I've been able to enjoy while my laptop sits closed and unpowered on my desk. I've found greater focus and intentionality in my prayer and my journaling. I've written and sent a number of letters of varying lengths. I've made my way with greater swiftness and closer attention through my two latest books– Bernd Heinrich's Winter World and Jared Diamond's Collapse. I've enjoyed countless cups of tea while indulging in these activities. Most of all, I've enjoyed a different experience of connectivity– be it with the written word, the divine voice, or the gentle tranquility that seems to attend my deep engagement with both.

With days lengthening, and the end of Standard Time about to bestow an extra hour of light upon expanding evenings, I can anticipate sustaining my "screened out" evenings into the spring, when I might even be able to haul a chair outside to read, write, or pray by the radiance of a good sunset.

Sede Vacante

Not too long ago, I watched the video of the doors being closed and the Swiss Guards standing down at Castel Gandolfo, as Pope Benedict XVI's resignation officially took effect. Remembering where I was– in a training session at a palliative care hospital in the Bronx– when Benedict's election was announced in spring 2005, I found myself somewhat emotional and certainly grateful over all that has occurred during the past eight years in the life of the Catholic Church, and the life of the world. As has been reported in the news, until the cardinals elect a new pope in a few weeks, a situation known as "sede vacante"– literally, an empty seat– will occur.

In a much different and far less pious way, I feel like I've taken a sede vacante approach to this blog lately. I've had ideas and inspirations for posts, but not necessarily the time and inclination to translate them into text. I've made choices and embraced priorities that carry my attention and energy in different directions, often with happy and fruitful results. And in this season of Lent, one of the practices I've adopted is an exclusion of "screen time" from my evenings... in order to focus on prayer, conversations with my brother Jesuits, and penning letters to friends near and far. The blogosphere as a whole, and my little corner of it, likely don't mind the hiatus.

I imagine that the media will be turning their attention back to the Vatican when news of Benedict's successor is announced, and perhaps occasionally in the meantime with related stories about papal history and some of the figures and issues involved in this time of transition in the Catholic Church. Just as my life goes on– with all of its excitement, challenge, opportunity– during my absences from blogging, the life of the Church– its ministry, its work, its community and worship– goes on, often in ways far less newsworthy yet no less wondrous than the emotion and ritual of Benedict's farewell. Even without a duly elected person in the position, I deeply feel the presence of a firm and gentle hand at the helm, guiding the people of God through the affairs of our time.

I'm not sure whether or not I'll post again during the sede vacante interval, but I'll certainly be deeply engaged in the activities to which I'm called, and in which I'm grateful to participate, throughout the coming weeks.

Fitting Prayers

The prayers at Mass today were exactly what I needed to hear. In addition to the linguistic imagery itself, the syntax– challenging and elegant, yielding its subtle eloquence after patient meditation– nicely mirrors the difficulty I've found in expressing the nuances of my Lenten pilgrimage (both in prayer and in conversation), as well as the joy and assurance I've found in occasional moments of genuine connection with God, Jesuit brothers, and friends in the course of this particular stage of my journey.

Enlighten, O God of compassion,

The hearts of your children, sanctified by penance,

And in your kindness

Grant those you stir to a sense of devotion

A gracious hearing when they cry out to you.

Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,

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

One God, for ever and ever.

–Collect, Wednesday of the Fifth Week of Lent

Green Hill Park, Worcester MA
April 2011

Attend, almighty God,

To the prayers of your people,

And, as you endow them

With confident hope in your compassion.

Let them feel as ever the effects of your mercy.

Through Christ our Lord.

– Prayer over the People, Wednesday of the Fifth Week of Lent

Mid-Lent Musings

As the third week of Lent draws to a close, I'm taking stock of what I've learned thus far in my efforts to restore my relationships with God, others, and self through the discipline of prayer and the rhythm of daily interactions. I've been troubled by some recurring frustrations: prayer has often felt more like a task to be accomplished than an activity to be enjoyed, my reticence in speaking with Jesus about my weaknesses and faults is competing with (rather than yielding to) his desire and willingness to accept them, and my intentions to prioritize periods for prayer and journaling often give way to an unhealthy laziness that leads to whittling away leisure time in a far less nourishing fashion. So much for a dramatic conversion of heart and blatantly obvious spiritual progress, it would seem.

Yet this honest assessment, despite the disillusionment it threatens to deepen in me, points the way to some concrete steps I can freely choose to pursue or abandon on any given day. Moreover, I'm increasingly aware of the following insights, which can guide me through the next three weeks of Lent:

• Be fiercely draconian in defending time for prayer and journaling. If I can spend roughly two hours a week winding down my late evenings with somewhat aimless browsing of online news sources, I can certainly find 15 to 20 minutes a night to sit in my recliner, gaze upon my prayer ledge, and settle into a prayerful period of reflection and journaling. I'd certainly feel better if I did.
• What little I'm hearing from Jesus in prayer is directly related to how little I'm saying to him. For one who's used to listening, it's an uncomfortable (yet necessary) challenge to allow myself to experience that same gift.
• My mind and my heart are two very different creations. I'm rather familiar with the skills and dexterity of the former, yet much less acquainted with the deeper mysteries and strengths of the latter. While they're not at odds with one another, they also don't spend much time together. It seems (and feels) that this situation ought to change, yet I'm not sure how to proceed.
• I could stand to learn and know much more about most of my fellow Jesuits and good friends, and I'm confident that they would say the same about me. A few wonderful relationships– fraternal or otherwise– are rich examples in this regard, yet I've been slow to engage the rewarding work of building deeper connections with those who wish to know me better, and those with whom I wish to be more fully acquainted.

God willing, with time and grace, the coming weeks of Lent will be fruitful and formative.

Third Sunday of Lent

Atacama Desert, Chile

When I prove my holiness among you,

I will gather you from all the foreign lands

and I will pour clean water upon you

and cleanse you from all your impurities,

and I will give you a new spirit, says the Lord.

– Entrance Antiphon, Third Sunday of Lent (for the First Scrutiny)

Running Lessons

Yesterday's 22-miler wiped me out for much of the afternoon; laundry, reading this month's National Geographic, and listening to NPR's Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me! were the only activities that I could handle until my strength rebounded during and after supper. My mind felt no less sluggish than my legs, as if it too had muscled up and down rolling hills and forged through stretches of cold headwinds along a sprawling figure-eight course spanning several rural towns. The run– from both a physical and mental perspective– was a mixed bag; the strength and ease of my pacing oscillated in response to the terrain and weather, while my endurance and resolve were increasingly tested as the miles wore on.

From a spiritual standpoint, and in the context of Lent, those two and a half hours on my own– I didn't keep track, but I believe that fewer than twenty cars passed me, and I passed fewer than ten people on the roads or in their yards– reiterated some lessons on solitude, loneliness, and companionship that have been recurring for the past few weeks.

I've long experienced solitude as a blessing, though I've perhaps failed to fully appreciate its power or utilize its potential. Consequently, I run the risk of taking it for granted, or being insensitive to those for whom such a state is difficult, if not impossible, to attain. Not everyone is able to enjoy a balance of responsibilities or develop a level of fitness akin to the circumstances that allow me to relish the gentle glow of dawning sunshine reaching across meadows tangled with last season's withered grass. Nor is my pursuit of solitude through endurance athleticism, or simply closing my door, a perennially effective means, let alone the only one, leading to such a state of body, mind, and soul.  

I've increasingly experienced periods of loneliness as genuine hardships, and struggled with how to escape or counteract their deleterious effects on my frame of mind. Having grown in my ability to distinguish such loneliness from solitude, I'm learning not to take the former as lightly as I once did. Furthermore, praying through the texts encountered at Mass during Lent is reminding me that loneliness is imposed on some people by dint of age, social class, family situation, or other circumstance, whereas I (not without unease) have typically resigned myself to it as the cost of certain choices, like training alone for a marathon.

I continue to struggle with companionship; despite being a firm believer in the life-giving power and graces of genuine friendship, I've not always lived up to the very ideals that I desire for myself and encourage others to pursue. I strive diligently to be trustworthy and reliable, yet put less effort into relying upon the trustworthiness of my closest Jesuit brothers and long-time friends. I prefer– likely with some hidden or carefully overlooked pride– to imitate Jesus in my actions and ministry rather than to accompany him in the lives of those with whom I work and live. I easily make training plans to prepare my mind and body for athletic and adventurous pursuits of my own, yet experience far more difficulty in shaping my heart and soul for the far superior sustenance of keeping myself in good company in a truly deep and mutual way. Thankfully, God's abundant mercy and life's ever-changing circumstances offer countless opportunities to undertake courses of growth, both in the refreshing peace of genuine solitude, and in the vivifying exchanges of true companionship. God willing, I'll use them well, wherever (and with whomever) my training leads.

Deserting Friendships

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

– Sirach 6:14-17

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

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

Atacama Desert, Chile

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

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

Answer me, Lord, in your generous love;

in your great mercy turn to me.

Do not hide your face from your servant;

hasten to answer me, for I am in distress.

– Psalm 69:17-18

Ash Wednesday 2012

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

Atacama Desert, Chile

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

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

First Sunday of Lent

Atacama Desert, Chile

For the past few months, I've been attending Mass in Spanish at St. Peter's, a parish in the diverse and dynamic Main South neighborhood of Worcester. Today I was particularly struck by the lyrics in the entrance hymn, "La Alegria del Perdon" (The Joy of Forgiveness):

La alegría más hermosa es la alegría del perdón
Que en el cielo hay mucha fiesta, cuando vuelve un pecador.
Si la oveja se ha perdido a buscarla va el pastor
En el cielo hay mucha fiesta cuando vuelve un pecador.

The most beautiful joy is the joy of forgiveness

There is much celebration in heaven, when a sinner returns.

If the sheep has been lost, the shepherd goes to seek it

There is much joy in heaven, when a sinner returns.

As I've written recently, one of my main Lenten efforts is rooted in return and renewal– whether it's my prayer life, my relationships in the community and the workplace, or my own sense of confidence and faith. In reflecting on today's readings, I'm struck by the subtle treachery of temptation– inviting me to satisfy, by my own imperfect and misguided efforts, the desires that God will fulfill in a far more graced, authentic, and beneficial way. In the Gospel account of Christ in the desert, Satan's temptations appeal to physical hunger, prideful daring, and worldly authority. Instead, Christ asserts that it is God who satisfies all hunger, instills confidence for holy boldness, and grants the power that each of us needs to take our place in the broader community as servant leaders. I am all too familiar with my own needs, yet my vision of how to meet them is far narrower than that of God. Resisting temptations, great and small, thus becomes more than just an internal struggle to overcome vice with virtue, but an act of faith in divine grace and providence, and a willingness to be found and tended anew by the shepherd of souls.

Atacama Desert, Chile

Throughout These Forty Days...

New Melleray Abbey, Peosta IA

(Special thanks to a fellow Jesuit for this picture)

This year, the 40 days of Lent line up with the final 40 days of my Boston Marathon training; the race is the day after Palm Sunday. In a sense, my approach to this period of time is guided by both physical and spiritual goals, the attainment of which will be influenced by a blend of my own actions and the realities over which I have no control.

With respect to Lent, some clear points of emphasis emerged as I prayed about how I wanted to spend this season of repentance and renewal. First of all, I wish to pray– not necessarily about my joys and my concerns, or those of others, or where God calls me to be at this point in my Jesuit life– but simply to create time and space in which I can pray, encountering God on our terms. Undoubtedly, other forms of prayer– personal discernment, intentional concern for others, contemplation on events great and small in the world– will emerge, but is my attentiveness and devotion to the foundation of my prayer that I wish to renew. Second, after months of doubting the effectiveness of my teaching and the potential for more meaningful connections with my colleagues, I wish to distance myself from the false, illusory thoughts that constrict my creativity, my happiness, and my ability to take prudent risks in the classroom and in the office. A third point of emphasis relates to the second; renewed in confidence by better collaboration and interaction with those around me, particularly in my position as a teacher, I wish to be more generous, selfless, and intentional in sharing my time, talents, and presence with members of the communities in which I participate.

As for Boston training, as I come to terms with symptoms of an injury, the five weeks remaining until Patriots' Day are now looking to be a time of more uncertainty than I had anticipated. My smooth progress through a methodical training schedule over the past ten weeks is now giving way to a need to listen carefully and honestly to my body, to humbly seek some more qualified advice, and to gingerly negotiate the boundary between rest and activity that could keep me on course to the starting line.

The steps I'll take this Lent, both physically and spiritually, will undoubtedly be a journey of faith, and an exercise in hope and trust.

Cohasset (MA) Harbor