Prayer Ledge

This week I decided that it was time to do some "fall cleaning" in my room. That meant washing windows, dusting shelves and ledges, and a thorough sweep with the vacuum cleaner. This decision afforded me the opportunity to rearrange one of my favorite parts of my room– the so-called "prayer ledge." Running the length of the three windows that look out upon a quiet dead-end street, the objects and images that I keep here anchor me in the friendships, inspiring figures, and memories expressing divine grace and instilling personal gratitude when I quiet myself enough to truly notice them. Just as gently as these windows draw my attention from interior concerns to the exterior world in which I dwell, the array of items on my ledge– from prayer cards to photographs, from decorative tiles to Boston Marathon medals– enables me to step more fluidly into prayer and meditation. It's a cozy space, one I'm pleased to appreciate anew after sprucing it up.

Comeback Cardinals

It’s been a few days since the St. Louis Cardinals won the World Series, and despite the intervening excitement and challenges of experiencing the beauty and dealing with the damage bestowed upon the landscape by and October snowstorm, I’m still musing on the significance and meaning of their thrilling ride through the playoffs.

Facing elimination in Game 6, the Cardinals were down to their last strike on two separate occasions. As had been the case since late August, when their improbable run to the playoffs began, when they found themselves with their backs to the wall, the wall became more than 45,000 cheering fans, and the collective enthusiasm of an entire city, pushing them forward, holding them up. Even beyond the remarkable athleticism and skill of individual players that produced not one, not two, but three decisive hits (a tying two-run triple, a decisive RBI single, and a walk-off home run) in the 9th through 11th innings, the cohesion of the team and the devotion of its fervent followers created a memorable spectacle that is the essence of outstanding baseball.

Having lived for three years in St. Louis, and now in my third year living in Worcester, I’m familiar with cities and regions where a baseball team is more than just a group of players for whom to cheer– it’s a family that inspires an even broader community of devotion, support, and strong emotional involvement. During the offseason, one sees plenty of Cardinals or Red Sox apparel in everyday situations around those respective cities, worn by the full spectrum of the local population. There are jokes– not entirely without the ring of truth– that baseball is something of a religion for its most fervent followers, myself increasingly included. The greatest players, whether they’ve established long, successful careers or emerged at a crucial juncture to contribute some timely heroics, are honored, revered, and admired. These teams’ victory parades in celebration of World Series titles drew nearly a million people to the streets over the past several years.

I’m a firm believer in the value of community, on scales ranging from the local to the global. True community living does bring challenges alongside clear benefits of support, happiness, and good company, as I’ve learned in seven years of life as a Jesuit. The hundreds of thousands who united to cheer on the Cardinals likely have their share of differences about the neuralgic issues provoking heated rhetoric and creating affliction and tension throughout our nation. While those concerns hardly disappear during a game of baseball, I can’t help but hope in the possibility of transferring that energy to the realm of our nation’s key social issues, rallying around something greater than our differences, deeper than our worries, and more lasting than the thrill of a decisive win or a festive victory parade. Game 6 of the World Series taught me a powerful lesson– community makes it really hard to simply give up in the face of adversity, despair, or a situation that many could justifiably consider hopeless. The Cardinals, in standing tall with true determination each time they were pushed to the brink of defeat, not only achieved a remarkable and unprecedented triumph, but also affirmed the confidence of an entire city, and offered the entire nation a sterling example of teamwork. I hope that they can inspire some similar comebacks in our neighborhoods, our cities, and our nation. Otherwise, it’s going to be a very long offseason.

October Snow

The Class of 2015 at Holy Cross is probably wondering about the weather. They moved in during Hurricane Irene, and their first experience of Family Weekend occurred in the midst of a nor-easter that brought 6 to 8 inches of snow to campus. Although the heavy, wet snow caused some widespread tree damage and power outages around the greater Worcester region, spirits at the College generally remained high, bolstered by the influx of family and friends, as well as the beauty that emerged in the wake of the storm. It's fair to say that we've been both tricked and treated by this pre-Halloween snow.

Gained in Translation

Every year, the latter days of October bring me startling reminders of time’s rapid movement. Fall break is two weeks in the past, Thanksgiving is four weeks from today, and Advent begins in a month. Days are growing shorter, nights are lengthening, and the World Series will be concluded by the weekend. This rapid pace brings plenty of activity on a daily basis, even as it carries towards some significant events and changes in the near future.

One such change getting a fair amount of attention in the Catholic Church here in the United States is the new translation of the Roman Missal, which comprises the ritual language used by priests, deacons, and the laity for worship. The product of many years of effort, it will be introduced on the first Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the Catholic Church’s liturgical year, which falls this year on the Sunday following Thanksgiving. These changes will likely seem sudden; I know that I’ll need some time to adjust to them, even though I’ve been looking over the new texts for several weeks. Yet in worshipping with a Spanish-speaking congregation in St. Louis for three years, I found that adopting their liturgical translations drew me into the spirit of their community, and forged a connection that went deeper than simply speaking Spanish. The words I and my fellow parishioners used to describe our belief in God, the Eucharist, our sinful yet redeemed nature, and our relationships with one another carried meanings crafted to shape the reality that they expressed.

I believe that the new English translation being introduced in one month’s time strives to do the same, and holds the potential to bring us into closer connection with other linguistic translations based on the same original document. Already I’m noticing echoes of my years with Spanish-speaking Latino Catholics when I study and pray with the new prayers and responses. To be sure, this time of transition for the language of Catholic worship may have its fair share of clumsiness, and these changes will have various effects, from reassurance to discomfort, on members of each parish community.

Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish Shrine

St. Louis MO

I, for one, see this as an opportunity to (re)create community amid a time of change that goes beyond a weekly gathering in church. A quick glance around our cities, our nation, and the world easily reveals no small amount of struggle, upheaval, and uncertainty– protests over social inequality, natural disasters and climate change (after several warm weeks, it's snowing in Worcester tonight), precarious financial situations at home and abroad. There’s measurable anxiety about how and where all this will end, especially for those who feel that they face such issues and challenges alone.

A key theme of Thanksgiving celebrations is the bond of gratitude and mutual support that families and communities strive to honor at harvest time. The Church’s season of Advent is a period to reflect upon God’s promise to not only sustain our world and our lives, but also to be deeply present within them. The language of our worship and the actions of our faith community hopefully reflects our belief in this truth, and grounds our ability to enact it in our lives. Ideally, all this and more will be found and appreciated in this new translation, and in the communities who gather to use it.

Casting It Out

For the second time in the past month, I've been briefly sidelined by a cold. The first time, a mild variant of the flu swept through my community days after we all received our flu shots. This past week, I suspect somebody stashed a few pathogens in their hand luggage on the flight back from St. Louis. In any event, it's been an affliction that I've been wary of passing on– a few octogenarians in my community might not appreciate this form of generosity– and all too eager to cast out.

These interludes of illness, whose debilitating effects caused me no small amount of frustration and discomfort, reminded me of a key teaching that St. Ignatius puts at the beginning of his Spiritual Exercises. In a statement called "The Principle and Foundation," he writes that "Human beings are created to praise, reverence, and serve God our Lord, and by means of doing this to save their souls." He goes on to assert that everything in creation is provided to us by God to help us toward this goal, though what's helpful for one person might be a hindrance for another. So Ignatius preaches a deliberate and intentional indifference: "We ought not to seek health rather than sickness, wealth rather than poverty, honor rather than dishonor, a long life rather than a short one, and so on... we ought to desire and choose only that which is more conducive to the end for which we are created."

Elm Park, Worcester MA

In praying with these passages today, the first and last sentences caught and held my attention. How do I praise, reverence, and serve God? What is the end for which I am created? Obsessing over sickness, worrying about whether my job performance is adequate, and doubting the value and impact of my work and ministry is clearly not what Ignatius had in mind. Yet that's where I've been stuck for the past few days. It struck me as not only wildly radical, but also compellingly attractive, to possibly believe that my very existence is an expression of praise to God. No small part of my calling in life– even beyond my vocation to the Society of Jesus and the priesthood– seems rooted in fostering someone's recognition and appreciation of the divine beauty inextricably manifest in her or his being, and offering encouragement to pursue lives that share this treasure with their neighbors and the world. So I'm grateful for those fellow Jesuits, those friends, those people whom I meet, who allow me into their lives in order to experience and reflect their own light. And I'm challenged once again to accept and savor grace's presence, and potential for expression, in my own life.

It's no fun being sick, but it's hardly the end of the world. Being blind to the end for which I'm created, or deaf to the praise that can well up from within me, is something more serious. I know that this is a recurring weakness of mine, tied to my preoccupation with being productive, making a difference, and other action-oriented self-judgments. To a certain extent, such drivenness can be helpful, but taken to an unhealthy extreme, it becomes a spiritual affliction, a malady I wish I could cast out as readily as my immune system dispenses with a cold. To be "indifferent" with respect to my own drivenness is both a daunting challenge and an intriguing invitation... and I sense that working towards that goal will help me to better express my created purpose, and achieve the end for which I've been created.

Old Home, New Memories

Lafayette Park

St. Louis MO

It was an odd feeling, but one that I welcomed and appreciated. Landing at Lambert St. Louis Airport last Thursday on an overcast morning, coming back to the place where I lived as a Jesuit scholastic, I knew that I was not at home. Yet I felt deeply that the city, the Jesuit community, and the university that I called home for three years of wonderful friendships, fruitful ministry, challenging academic studies, personal challenges, and overall growth had been exactly what I needed for that period of my life.

Overlook Farm

Clarksville MO

My four-day visit was packed– numerous lunches and conversations with friends, refreshing prayer and lively evenings with the Jesuit scholastics in my former community, a friend's wedding, and a visit to the Latino parish where I worshipped and ministered. Throughout all this activity and travel, I continually recognized and savored the gifts and blessings manifest in my Jesuit brothers, my friends, the autumnal landscape of the Mississippi River valley, and a beautiful marriage ceremony. Although these experiences, and the people with whom I shared them, are intrinsically tied to the time we shared in St. Louis, the underlying graces transcend geographical and temporal constraints even as they occur in the context of a specific place and time.

St. Louis (King of France)

St. Joseph's Church

Louisiana MO

The quieter moments of the long weekend– a moonlit morning run in Forest Park, a quarter-hour of prayer before Mass in the house chapel, waiting to meet a friend on campus, silently admiring the scenery of the wedding reception venue– offered me a growing awareness of various manifestations of love. God's love and majesty unmistakably visible in creation. The mutual love of my friend and her husband expressed in their marriage vows. The love and trust extended to me by my brethren and my friends, and gently compelled from me through my admiration for and trust in them. As someone who tends to be very task-oriented, more comfortable with his intellect than his emotions, and somewhat reticent to lean on the support of others, this was a significant insight for me to receive. It's a grace I'm still learning how to internalize; I'd much rather analyze and scrutinize it. Yet it's still clear to me, as it was when I boarded my Monday morning flight, that this visit, like the three years when I called St. Louis home, was an occasion to be taught once more that I am loved, that I am loving, and that this is at the foundation of my relationship with God and my Jesuit vocation.

Along Missouri Route 79

Clarksville MO

So often I'm preoccupied with the tasks I've undertaken, the loads I've been entrusted to carry... I should also remember to marvel at the driving force that keeps me on track. (Couldn't help reaching for a metaphor to justify one last picture!)

Drifting Graces

Campion Renewal Center

Weston MA 

One afternoon during last week's silent retreat, this image caught my attention, the nudging of a gentle wind suddenly made visible. This simple moment, recently recalled, has been an apt metaphor for the action of grace in my life in the time since the retreat. I've been busy– a trip to St. Louis that I'll detail in a subsequent post; resuming work on a complicated grant project that's due in early November– and while I've been aware of various spiritual movements within me, I've had trouble finding (or making) the time to slow down and pray more intentionally. Yet I've felt God's blessings drifting gently through my hours and days, their understated subtlety no less forceful than a strong wind. Perhaps it's also a sign that the softer and more delicate aspects of my life are the ones most receptive to God's grace right now. In any event, as I continue to hurry myself along, whether setting my own pace or striving to keep up with that of work and life, I value those opportunities– intentionally claimed or spontaneously accepted– to instead drift on the slow, deep currents of grace.