Spiritual Bends

When I was a Jesuit novice, my novice master cautioned us against a phenomenon that he called "the spiritual bends." Akin to the condition suffered when one surfaces too quickly from a deep dive, or perhaps similar to the experience of breathlessness upon suddenly traveling to high altitude, this phrase was intended to encourage us to move in slow, measured progress from times and spaces of spiritual depth (such as a retreat) to a more ordinary rhythm of life– working in local placements, grocery shopping for the house, weekend chores, communal prayer, and so on.

Grounds of St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

His phrase has always stuck with me, and I most often remember it when coming off a retreat. That's where I find myself now, having spent the past five days with about 30 students from Holy Cross on a silent retreat based on the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. For the majority of these students, this was their first experience of such prolonged silence. For all of them, their presence on the retreat represented an intentional devotion of time and effort, giving up half of their fall break. Throughout the retreat– whether in my individual conversations with the three students to whom I offered spiritual direction, communal experiences of Mass or Taizé prayer, or gently noticing the community they built in the silence– I was constantly edified, inspired, and encouraged by the devotion that they showed to their prayer, their meditation, and their quiet care and support of one another.

I don't think of myself as being too cynical, but I do wonder sometimes about the erosion of spirituality and faith among various segments of the population. I've been part of discussions– sometimes contentious– about the effectiveness of programs and offerings on Jesuit campuses that strive to integrate faith, intellect, and action in a way that transforms all students, not just those who would more naturally or intentionally engage this aspect of Jesuit education. Granted, the Holy Cross students on this particular retreat represent less than 2% of the student body, and a number of them have long been involved in liturgical activities, leadership roles, and service programs. Yet each and every one of them made visible to me the desire for a relationship with God that, I hope and pray, exists in many of their peers. And at the same time, I find I'm intensely grateful for the witness provided by this particular group of men and women, and I look forward to encountering them on campus in the weeks and months to come.

Back to those spiritual bends. The retreat ended at noon, I arrived back in Worcester by 1:15pm after a delightful chatty ride with four of the students, and was on a commuter train at 2:05pm, arriving in Boston by 3:45pm. I soon found my way to a small Jesuit community where I'll spend the night before rising early and catching one of the first flights to St. Louis for a long weekend that includes visiting with fellow Jesuits, conversations over tea or lunch with friends, and a wedding. From five days of silence and deliberately slow movement to three hours of travel that spanned nearly half the width of Massachusetts. In settling into my simple guest room (but not unpacking), sharing a simple meal with two of the men who live here, and letting another guest into the house, I'm finding (with no small measure of gratitude and appreciation) gentle contentment and a sense of rest amid the comings and goings of this community. My brothers are enabling me to find my depth again, to (re)collect a few things that I discovered over the past few days before proceeding to the next stop on my journey.

Tower Grove Park

St. Louis MO

A few students mentioned at lunch that it felt "weird to talk again" after five days of silence. I hope they too have the opportunity to savor the rich insights and restorative tranquility that they encountered amid the deep spiritual waters of the retreat, and that the experience soaks in and remains with them as they return to the more heated pace of the semester on Monday.

Fall joy

October 2010 in Petersham MA

I've been blessed with an unexpected degree and duration of joy over the past several days... arriving virtually in tandem with the turning of the calendar and the shifting of the seasons. A visit from my goddaughter provided the occasion to visit a local park and monastery; the completion of a big grant-writing project I've been involved with since June brought a feeling of lightness and satisfaction to my colleagues; some thrilling games in the baseball playoffs have sharpened my excitement and delight in a dramatic time of year for one of my favorite sports.

Yesterday, the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, saw me spend a fair amount of time on the road, which afforded plenty of time to pray and meditate upon not only this saint's story, but also on this current experience of joy in my life. I've been drawn lately to the image of shepherding... sometimes I feel like a companion and colleague of the shepherd, other times I feel like one of the sheep. Either way, I find that I'm happy to feel integrated into a community, following a call, walking a path that is reasonably clear but certainly not concrete (literally nor figuratively).

Holy Cross adjourns for fall break beginning on Friday; no classes will be held throughout the following week. A number of students will participate in a five-day silent retreat based on the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola, with a number of chaplains guiding them in prayer and accompanying them in periods of spiritual conversation. Though I've made many retreats, whether as a retreatant or as a member of the team, it's my first experience doing so since I've arrived at Holy Cross, and my first invitation to engage in some spiritual direction. Prayers for all of us would be appreciated in the days ahead.

May these October days continue to bring many blessings to each of us, a renewed sense of joy in our lives, and an appreciation for the guides and companions along our journeys.

October 2011

Grounds of St. Joseph's Abbey

Spencer MA

October

One of my favorite Robert Frost poems, and one of the few that I've memorized, always comes to mind at this time of year. His vivid writing and gentle rhythm seems not to capture the array of changes and shifts in the landscape in early autumn, but rather to liberate the physical and spiritual senses to attend to the sublime transformation in both the external and the internal environments.

"October"

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes' sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost–

For the grapes' sake along the wall.

– Robert Frost

The Berkshires

Near North Adams MA

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]

Beckoning Changes

"A Time to Talk"

When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

I don't stand still and look around

On all the hills I haven't hoed,

And shout from where I am, "What is it?"

No, not as there is a time to talk.

I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,

Blade-end up and five feet tall,

And plod: I go up to the stone wall

For a friendly visit.

– Robert Frost

It's been a long week filled with much activity– various labors on the different aspects of the grant proposal with which I'm involved, attending a number of campus events, receiving and meditating upon several letters from friends, a series of conversations that have been both challenging and rewarding, and trying to avail myself of opportunities for rest and prayer amidst it all.

A strong cold front passed through New England late Thursday night, ushering in the first taste of autumn after a warm summer and a spell of flooding tropical rains as the academic year opened a few weeks ago. Beyond the initial sense of refreshment and excitement that I feel with the arrival of cooler temperatures, crisper air, and the first hints of changing foliage, I notice God's invitation to the sort of friendly visit that Frost describes in this poem. After a week of writing and meetings related to the grant project, I feel the call to relate some of my story. After some sessions of intense listening, I feel as if God may be willing to listen to me. Reflecting on my growing participation in campus life, I sense an opening to deepen my participation in God's designs for my life.

Though the weather is growing cooler, I still feel the draw to come outside– both in a physical sense and a spiritual sense. Though my spirit is willing, my mind can be weak or resistant... and so I go slowly to the edge of the wall that I have built, and hope to more freely meet the one who patiently awaits me there. 

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]

Hospitality

Several times each year, the trustees of the College of the Holy Cross gather on campus for several days of meetings. It's become a tradition during their September visit to host them for dinner at the Jesuit community– an event that transforms our modest and comfortable home into an especially attractive and inviting venue. Years ago, as a Jesuit novice, my brothers and I took turns doing all the domestic tasks of the community– cleaning (bathrooms included), shopping, yard work, keeping the cars serviced, minor household repairs, and cooking. Even for our larger annual functions– a Christmas party for the men and women who welcomed us to join in their work with the needy in Syracuse, a vocations event for men considering life as a Jesuit, a weekend for our families to visit, and the annual celebration of vows– we did all the preparation, cooking, and cleaning, though we did rent a bunch of tables and chairs when necessary. One of my brothers joked that we ran the best catering service in upstate New York, and another said that the most important item in the house was our commercial dishwasher. There was no such work for my community in Worcester to do last night– we simply opened our doors, appreciated the hard work of a wonderful staff from dining services as they prepared and served a fine meal, and welcomed a group of devoted and generous trustees and administrators into our home.

Trustee Dinner @ Ciampi Hall

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

There's a spot on the community bulletin board where the guest list is posted, indicating who's coming to stay with us for one or more days. At the top of the list is the phrase "Hospes venit, Christus venit"– "A guest comes, Christ comes." While it's a custom for Jesuit houses to welcome traveling Jesuits, and occasionally relatives and friends, whether they're arriving from across the state or across the sea, I've found this hospitality to be particularly pronounced, and refreshingly expansive, in the community where I now live. Hosting a dinner for 75 is a big deal, given that there are usually 20 of us around for dinner on a given night. Yet whenever I've been called upon to share in the community's mission of making space for guests, I've always found myself filled by the energy, newness, and presence that they bring when they come under our roof.

When I traveled across the country by train in July and August of 2009, I depended heavily on the hospitality of Jesuits, friends, and family along my journey from San Francisco to Worcester. I was often touched by the kindness of the hospitality that I received, as I know that it necessitated some work: setting up an extra room or a couch, making sure I was well nourished, showing me around their neighborhoods, driving me to and from train stations at times and locations that weren't entirely convenient (the Phoenix stop is in the middle of the desert 30+ miles away from the city; the Sunset Limited pulled into Houston just before sunrise). And just a few weeks ago, while in Syracuse for vow weekend (novitiate catering was at its finest, by the way), I stopped by to visit a family from the parish where I worshipped during my first two years as a Jesuit. They gladly welcomed me in, and within ten minutes there was freshly sliced cheese, a nice spread of crackers and hummus, and some lemonade at the table where we sat, gleefully catching up on one another's lives and adventures from the past year.

Such hospitality is nothing new– it's deeply embedded in many cultures around the world, it's a key characteristic in strong bonds among families and friends, and it's a relatively straightforward way to extend and share happiness, peace, and nourishment for body and soul. Yet I occasionally need to be reminded– as I was last night amid good company– that the effort involved in being hospitable returns to me with those whom I may welcome, and allows me to better glimpse Christ, who welcomes us all.

[A slightly related postscript: NPR recently featured a story on Baghdad College, a school established in the Iraqi capital and staffed by New England Jesuits from the 1930s until the late 1960s. I know several of the Jesuits who were interviewed for this story, though they aren't mentioned by name, and several members of my community lived and taught in Baghdad when they were my age. As of this posting, the story can be found here.]