New Spaces

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

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

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

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

Labor Day

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

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

Summer construction

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Back to School

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

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

"A Prayer for Spiritual Freedom"

O Spirit of God, we ask you to help orient

all our actions by your inspirations,

carry them on by your gracious assistance,

that every prayer and work of ours

may always begin from you

and through you be happily ended.

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

Retreat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A little video reflection on my retreat...

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

Music: "Amazing Grace"

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

Feast of St. Louis

Statue of St. Louis

Art Hill, St. Louis MO

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

New Memories

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

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

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

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

Down the Shore

"Devotion"

The heart can think of no devotion

Greater than being shore to the ocean–

Holding the curve of one position,

Counting an endless repetition.

– Robert Frost

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

Thunderstorm over Avalon NJ

Bayside marshes in Sea Isle City, NJ

Seagulls on 7 Mile Beach, Avalon NJ

Sunrise over Townsend's Inlet, Avalon NJ