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.

Thanksgiving, At Last and Always

Unexpected Thanksgiving guests
Blessed Peter Faber Jesuit Community
Boston MA

I couldn't help marveling at the boldness of our local population of wild turkeys. After keeping a low profile all semester, they suddenly began making regular appearances the other day. Perhaps they heard that our communal celebration of Thanksgiving, held last Friday to give the seventy of us an opportunity to gather and celebrate before many traveled to visit families elsewhere, did not feature turkey as the main course. Perhaps they've seen me faithfully stocking our backyard bird feeder, and are tired of letting their smaller cousins have a monopoly on the bounty I provide. Whatever their motivations, they're lucky that no one here feels sufficiently inspired, or within their legal rights, to add these pilgrims to the abundance that we celebrate at this time of year. Lucky birds.

Given the arrangement of the semester, this is my first extended break since classes begin in August. It's astounding to suddenly slow down, look over my shoulder, and see three months stretched out behind me. Countless hours of class, a few thousand pages read, hundreds of miles logged (most before 6:30am), and a dozen delightful Monday visits to cafés and libraries in other neighborhoods. More importantly, in meditating on the great blessing of numerous friendships, as I often do at this time of year, I discern the humble rhythm of ordinary conversations before and after class, shared experiences of prayer, worship, and Thursday lunches, and recognition of distinct yet shared desires to grow in wisdom and knowledge through study and ministry. In a way, I've been giving thanks throughout the autumn, harvesting the produce that I had only a partial hand in planting and nurturing, and striving to keep those blessings active and circulating in the communities where I find a home.

Many have noticed the rare coincidence of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah this year, and although attention has been given to some creative fusions of these two holidays, I've been intrigued by their convergence in the liturgical calendar. For the Catholic Church, this is the final week of Ordinary Time, and as such the readings feature imagery of fierce struggles between good and evil, presaging the apocalyptic conflict that ancient believers would end this world and usher in a heavenly age. As it happens, this year's readings include the tale of the Maccabees and their revolt against Persian occupiers of Judah, the very event that Hanukkah celebrates. For the first time that I can recall, we are not only sharing a holiday, but simultaneously telling the exact same stories in an unmistakable way.

At Mass this morning, an elderly Jesuit preached a homily that reflected honestly about the imperfect state of our world, and the sad cases of social sin, inequality, suffering, and division that afflict so many people in this great country and around the world. Yet he encouraged us not only to let these shadows motivate us to generosity and charity as a fitting act for Thanksgiving and a counterpoint to the commercialization of the holiday season, but also to give thanks for the blessings we do have, no matter how subtle, small or simple they may seem. That is surely a task for us on this long-awaited Thanksgiving Day, but also on each day, as we are continuously called to be lights for the world, miraculously persisting even when resources are scarce and darkness seems to abound.

Father all-powerful, your gifts of love are countless and your goodness infinite; as we come before you on Thanksgiving Day with gratitude for your kindness, open our hearts to have concern for every man, woman, and child, so that we may share your gifts in loving service.

~from the Collect for Mass for Thanksgiving Day

And now, bless the God of all, who has done wondrous things on earth;

Who fosters people’s growth from their mother’s womb,
and fashions them according to his will!

May he grant you joy of heart and may peace abide among you;

May his goodness toward us endure in Israel to deliver us in our days.

~Sirach 50:22-24

Corrective Instruction

St. Mary's Church
Charlestown MA

Brothers and sisters, You have forgotten the exhortation addressed to you as children: “My son, do not disdain the discipline of the Lord or lose heart when reproved by him; for whom the Lord loves, he disciplines; he scourges every son he acknowledges.” Endure your trials as “discipline”; God treats you as sons. For what “son” is there whom his father does not discipline? At the time, all discipline seems a cause not for joy but for pain, yet later it brings the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who are trained by it. So strengthen your drooping hands and your weak knees. Make straight paths for your feet, that what is lame may not be disjointed but healed.

~ Hebrews 12:5-7, 11-13

This was my first Sunday in Boston with my new community, and in a custom of formation communities that I've always enjoyed, we were all encouraged to attend Mass at local parishes. I chose to venture just north of Boston to a Spanish-speaking Mass at a parish in a working-class neighborhood; the midday hour of the Mass allowed me to reflect on the readings ahead of time, sipping tea on the patio at home as a crisp morning warmed with the rising sun. While I found timely themes and helpful insights in each reading– Isaiah's prophetic language of people gathering from all nations to encounter the Lord, the challenging words from Luke's Gospel about whom Jesus will (and won't) recognize– it was this passage from Hebrews that rung quite true.

Coming off a great deal of professional and personal growth that was largely self-driven (with light but necessary and regular guidance from a wonderful mentor, and the subtle yet essential aid of divine grace) over the past several years, I'll soon be sitting in class to receive instruction, to engage in conversations driven as much by a syllabus as by issues of the day, and ultimately to write papers that provide space to explore important topics, yet respond to questions not entirely my own. For all of the knowledge and wisdom that the coming years will develop and impart, I anticipate that this stage of my formation my also have some periods that will feel more confined, regimented, and disciplined. Some of the freedom and autonomy that I relished– and endeavored to apply to good ends and worthy pursuits– during my years in Worcester will be redirected to activities that will sometimes, no doubt, be rather trying.

Yet this is exactly what I need. I could stand to be refreshed in my intentional and genuine devotion to participating in and shaping the bonds of community that will bring our diverse family of 70 Jesuits closer together as friends in the Lord. Even as creativity and adaptability in the timing and style of my prayer served me well during the varied schedules of my working days at Holy Cross, I know I'll benefit from a structure that allows (and, with gentle force, nudges) me to root myself anew in the fundamentals of Christian prayer, including daily visits to the chapel that lies at the foot of the stairwell just beyond my door. As I continue to navigate the spectrum between introversion and extroversion, I know that, in exercising the latter, I must give preference to my brothers here even at the occasional cost to friendships near and far, for it is these men with whom I am called to walk particularly closely along the final steps towards the priesthood that we all desire to receive and exercise in faith. I'm confident that each of these disciplines will make me a better Jesuit, and a better companion and servant to God's people. As the first day of classes draws closer, I'm ready for the challenges and instructions, and especially the blessings therein, that the months ahead will offer.

[Note: today's other readings are: Isaiah 66:18-21; Psalm 117; Luke 13:22-30]

Leaving the Mountaintop

Cristo Redentor
Corcovado, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

Jesus took Peter, John, and James and went up a mountain to pray. While he was praying his face changed in appearance and his clothing became dazzling white. And behold, two men were conversing with him, Moses and Elijah, who appeared in glory and spoke of his exodus that he was going to accomplish in Jerusalem. Peter and his companions had been overcome by sleep, but becoming fully awake, they saw his glory and the two men standing with him. As they were about to part from him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good that we are here; let us make three tents, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” But he did not know what he was saying.

While he was still speaking, a cloud came and cast a shadow over them, and they became frightened when they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my chosen Son; listen to him.” After the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. They fell silent and did not at that time tell anyone what they had seen.

~ Luke 9:28B-36

This account of the Transfiguration of Jesus, read at Mass on that feast this past Tuesday, naturally brought to mind my visit to the Cristo Redentor statue high above Rio de Janeiro. Perched atop a mountain in a vast park that protects Atlantic rainforest, the statue is often swathed in the rain, wind, and cloud that I and some fellow pilgrims encountered on our visit, during some scant free time amidst a wide array of World Youth Day programming. Amidst jubilant crowds– we were treated to the Paraguayan national anthem by a group of 50 people dressed in their national team's soccer jerseys– and occasional glimpses of the city below through fleeting breaks in the clouds, we literally soaked in the experience.

In the context of the silent prayer and meditation of my retreat this past week, this Gospel imagery and personal memory promoted further reflection not only upon this mountaintop experience, but also its aftermath. The disciples wanted to stay, but apparently "did not know what [they] were saying." They said nothing, whereas I and my companions at the clouded statue all exuberantly shared the account of braving the weather to see Cristo. In the days since we've each returned to our homes and communities, there have surely been numerous discussions about various vignettes, memories, and insights from our experiences in Brasil... that's certainly been the case as I've settled back in among my Jesuit brethren.

Santa Marta community, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

Just as Cristo looks over Rio while residents, tourists, and others come and go about journeys both daily and extraordinary, I newly feel Christ watching over me as one journey ends and another– three years of graduate studies in theology at Boston College– is about to begin. Three weeks with inspiring, energetic, and hope-filled youth from all over the world constituted a remarkable joy and blessing, yet we were called to that mountaintop in order to be sent back home with new ideas, new graces, new insights, and new companions. Even as we encountered serious needs in Brasil– troubling social and economic inequality, unsettling physical and emotional suffering– we became more aware of the needs that seek our attention in the cities and nations that we call home. I've long known Boston as a visitor, as a "local tourist," as a city graced with wonderful parks, splendid museums, and one of the best marathons in the world. Now I'll get to know it as a resident; I desire to explore its neighborhoods, truly meet its people, and even learn– the phrase comes straight from one of my retreat meditations– "how Boston prays."

I'll keep supplies for physical and metaphorical tent-pitching on hand– there will always be mountains to climb– but it's now time to ensure that I truly go forth from the great peaks that I and so many ascended in Brasil, and to follow Christ's urging to take up the work that lies ahead in other terrain.

Backup

Jesus summoned the Twelve and began to send them out two by two and gave them authority over unclean spirits. He instructed them to take nothing for the journey but a walking stick—no food, no sack, no money in their belts. They were, however, to wear sandals but not a second tunic.

~ Mark 6:7-9

Hiss. Whir. Three miles into a ride down a shaded trail along the Blackstone River, unexpected sounds suddenly emanated from my road bike's rear tire. I didn't recall braking, and I wondered what minute piece of floral flotsam I might have scooped into my wheel. A downward glance brought a troubling sight... the tire noticeably flattening, even as I deftly eased the bike to a halt. I saw no tear, but much air had clearly escaped. Suddenly resigned to giving up on my planned ride of 25 to 30 miles, I swung the bike around, and started back on a walk to the parking lot that I estimated would take roughly an hour.

Perhaps foolishly, I was traveling light, as I often do, trusting that nothing will go wrong. I carried only two hex wrenches and a valve adapter in the small pouch under my seat. Acknowledging the morning's heat with more than just an early start (awake by 5:30am, in the car by 6:00am, riding away from the Woonsocket RI parking lot by 6:45am with the temperature already in the low 70s), I had chosen to carry not only a bottle of Gatorade but also my Camelbak, giving it its first use since my last long run before the Boston Marathon. Wallet and cell phone, yes... any other supplies, no.

Perhaps more out of efficiency than piousness, I've often followed Jesus' advice to his disciples when I travel. I've been able to fit clothes (including running shoes) and other necessary items for a three-day business trip into two carry-ons (a real money saver). I plan to carry no more than 30 pounds of material in my trusty hiking pack when I travel to Brazil next month for Magis and World Youth Day... a journey of nearly 20 days. When I took the train from San Francisco to Boston over the course of 15 days in summer 2009, I carried only what that same hiking pack could hold. Travel can be demanding enough without being encumbered by too many possessions, and with less to worry about carrying (or losing), I find myself more free to devote my attention to the thrills of the journey.

Sadly, I had no power over whatever malevolent forces gave me that flat tire. Fortunately, within a minute of starting my slow and warm stroll, two cyclists happened along, stopped, and wound up giving me an extra tube, which they than helped me to install and inflate. This utterly disarming gesture of generosity took less than five minutes, and they were gone as quickly as they came. I felt somewhat guilty for depriving them of some significant backup supplies, even though they hinted that they'd easily obtain new ones at a bike shop further along their route. With a strong sense of gratitude, and a tempered confidence that kept me from going too fast, lest I suffer another incident, I continued with my planned ride. Past dams and waterfalls, through residential neighborhoods and barren industrial zones, I rode through five Rhode Island towns, returning safely to the parking lot and beginning the drive back to Worcester by 9:00am.

I'm still planning to travel light in my future expeditions, but I'll be giving some extra attention to carrying items that I could easily give away to another traveler in need. And although I'll likely continue to pack minimally for running and riding long distances, it seems that I should tweak Jesus' advice just a little, and ensure that my bicycle always carries a second tube.

Emptiness

Lafayette Cemetery #1
New Orleans LA

But at daybreak on the first day of the week they took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb; but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were puzzling over this, behold, two men in dazzling garments appeared to them. They were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground. They said to them, “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised. Remember what he said to you while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners and be crucified, and rise on the third day.” And they remembered his words.

–Luke 24:1-8

With all due respect to a certain member of the Koenig clan, this image has been persistently arising as I meditate upon the above Gospel passage during this first week of the Easter season. Encountering this empty tomb, and others like it, during a week in New Orleans last June was somewhat unnerving, yet also an unexpected exercise in resurrection faith. If I do believe in eternal life and something quite distinct from, yet somehow continuous with, the mysterious blend of body and spirit in this earthly life, then this scene shouldn't be entirely macabre. If anything, I should have identified with the puzzlement of the women referenced in Luke's account of Easter morning... they find something quite unexpected, yet recall that they had been told about this ahead of time.

My desk, sans laptop

The same sense of surprising emptiness struck me as my gaze paused upon my desk while I was back home for my lunch break, stopping in my room to brush my teeth before returning to work. Although I try to keep my desk at home relatively organized, it tends to get covered by a variety of articles– a sacramentary (for purposes of study and prayer), my running log, a few mementos, a picture of my goddaughter– in the long intervals between dusting its surface. The empty area typically occupied by my laptop– on my desk at work at the time– suddenly seemed as shockingly gaping as an empty tomb, a space from which something was missing, although in another (reasonably) expected place.

Our society doesn't seem to like emptiness. We fill our roads with vehicles (and expand them to accommodate more traffic), we fill communication devices with text and images, we fill time (often scheduling it accordingly) with activity in a way that seems to value busyness over rest. An empty shelf in the fridge or the pantry, an empty space on a desk, an empty wall in a room or an office– these all seem to suggest something not just missing, but lacking, a void to be filled. There's that old adage about nature abhoring a vacuum, and plenty of examples from the natural world to prove it true.

Flowering crabapple
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Yet everyone acquainted with Mr. and/or Mrs. Koenig, and with Jesus, would surely agree that filling the void of their respective tombs is not the ideal situation. Rather, it's the emptiness of these spaces that speak of the power, influence, and presence of those who no longer inhabit them. He is not here, the angels say to the women entering Jesus' tomb. What the emptiness yields is of unspeakable value, stirs joy that cannot be fully expressed in words and gestures alone, and accomplishes wondrous deeds. To a much smaller extent, the ideas that find expression in what I compose from that space on my desk– be those writings electronic or in the flow of ink– have some potential to enrich the lives of those who consider them. The emptiness need not be filled... for it has the paradoxical potential to fill those who find nothing there.

Backing Off

Nearly 400 miles into my training for the Boston Marathon, I've been blessed with the endurance to move through twelve weeks of running, the grittiness (and occasional folly) to stride through a chilly January and snowy February, and the company of a training partner who has now officially made it through a winter of outdoor running for the first time. I've managed to tweak my schedule around two trips to Washington DC, and just last Monday, I caught up (while striving fiercely to match pace) with a good friend during a seven-mile pre-sunrise loop through the city and the National Mall.

Yet a familiar danger in my annual marathon preparation is the risk of overtraining or injury, which tend to be related. The latter can occur on its own– I've had my share of near-wipeouts on slick wintry surfaces– but the former is a more complicated matter. Pushing hard in pursuit of a new threshold– clicking through my weekly 800-meter repeats in 2:45, getting under 7:15 pace for a grueling, hilly 18-mile long run– can lead to a breakthrough... or a breakdown. I'm prone to shove my way across some boundaries of time or distance, and often self-critical when I consider backing off and admitting to some sobering physical and mental limitations. Ambition is a great motivator, but rather needy in terms of attention.

So it is with mixed feelings, but also a subtle sense of prideful prudence, that I skipped a run this week, in hopes of bouncing back for a scheduled 20-miler on Saturday. One of my knees had been feeling weird for an entire day– not seriously affecting my walking stride, but clearly telling me that all was not well in this crucial and majestic joint of bones, muscles, and tendons. Another round of snow meant that the track would be unusable once again, a source of mounting frustration. And the marathon lies a mere 24 days away... no time to be courting the risk of a long-term injury.

Frosty greenhouse reflections
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

It's been a good exercise in patience, a virtue that seems appropriate for any number of contemporary situations that also seem to demand urgency. On the third day of spring, the Holy Cross campus remains blanketed with snow. Our nation's budgetary and political climate could certainly benefit from a change in season. Both Pope Francis and Justin Welby were installed this week as leaders of their respective global faith communities, each of which is characterized by great diversity and vibrancy, as well as voices clamoring for strong and positive solutions to troubling issues. I imagine that there are those people who would have wanted these and other changes to have been tackled swiftly and accomplished decisively. Yet there's a sense in which our responsibilities and motivations to labor towards worthy goals shouldn't be equated with the ability to achieve them entirely on our own.

Psalm 130 proclaims, "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits and I hope for his word. My soul looks for the Lord more than sentinels for daybreak. More than sentinels for daybreak, let Israel hope in the Lord." Though I haven't always embraced such waiting and searching eagerly, I have found that the faith it entails has played no less a role than my own determined efforts in getting to a desired point– a new season, a marathon's starting line, or the successful completion of a project. And I trust that the same applies to all situations in which Christ is laboring, inviting not only our participation, but also our patience.

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.

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.

The Feast of the Epiphany

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

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:

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.

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

Random Order

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]

Exaltation of the Holy Cross

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]

Passages

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.

Permeability

"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

Rhode Island Weekend

Cliff Walk, Newport RI

I spent much of this weekend in Rhode Island for an extended Dartmouth reunion of sorts– my classmate Monica is in a doctoral program in art history at Brown, and our friend Anna Mae (a longtime chaplain at the Dartmouth's Catholic Student Center) is director of campus ministry at Salve Regina University. Amid the first genuinely springlike Saturday and Sunday of the season, Monica, Anna Mae, and I attended Mass, enjoyed swapping years of stories (it's been seven years since we all gathered in the same place), and strolled Newport's famous Cliff Walk past impressive mansions, a few of which are on Salve's campus.

This post is also an opportunity to introduce a traveling companion of mine– a gargoyle whom I've named Claude (pronounced, of course, "Clawed"). During my years as a scholastic at Saint Louis University, a number of students and I frequented a particular spot on campus, and were likened to gargoyles by one of the campus ministers. Upon graduation in May 2009, members of our informal Gargoyle Club not only bestowed on me the honor of "superior gargoyle emeritus," but also gifted me with a gargoyle figurine. That summer, Claude accompanied me to San Francisco and back, and more recently, has come along for various expeditions around New England. Claude had a great time visiting Newport's Cliff Walk today.

Claude visits The Breakers, Newport RI

Claude on the Cliff Walk, Newport RI

The homily at Mass this morning– on Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead in Chapter 11 of John's Gospel– was striking to me in an unexpected way. It didn't specifically address some of the major themes in this powerful story– the fact that Lazarus dies while Jesus waits two days before going to visit him and his sisters; the contrast between the faith of Martha and Mary, and the confusion of the disciples; the growing tension between Jesus and the Pharisees that heightens in the aftermath of this event. Instead, the celebrant chose to preach on Jesus' internal reactions to the situation developing around him– the emotions of Lazarus' sisters, the reaction of the crowd, the nearness of death– in a way that led me to reflect on my own responses to challenging and difficult situations that appear on the horizon. As I've written earlier this Lent, my efforts to diminish my tendency to self-criticism have been hard-fought yet inconsistent, and every looming setback fills me more with foreboding than with boldness. Yet in following an praying with Jesus over the last three Sundays of Lent– meeting the woman at the well (John 4:5-42), healing the man born blind (John 9:1-41), and now raising Lazarus (John 11:1-45)– has urged me to recognize my own need for honesty with myself and with others (and rebuilding the relationships of trust and mutual acceptance that enable that honesty to develop), to see myself more authentically (and also through the eyes of those who know me well), and to recognize that Jesus is present not only in my progress and accomplishments, but also in times when I'm dismayed, for he too felt this on that fateful day in Bethany.

All things considered, it was a pretty fabulous weekend– great weather, some refreshing solitary rambling, the delight of sharing hours of warm company and rich conversation, the insights of quiet prayer, and the growing mildness that heralds, at last, the arrival of spring here in New England.

Daffodils, Providence RI

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