Not too long ago, I watched the video of the doors being closed and the Swiss Guards standing down at Castel Gandolfo, as Pope Benedict XVI's resignation officially took effect. Remembering where I was– in a training session at a palliative care hospital in the Bronx– when Benedict's election was announced in spring 2005, I found myself somewhat emotional and certainly grateful over all that has occurred during the past eight years in the life of the Catholic Church, and the life of the world. As has been reported in the news, until the cardinals elect a new pope in a few weeks, a situation known as "sede vacante"– literally, an empty seat– will occur.
In a much different and far less pious way, I feel like I've taken a sede vacante approach to this blog lately. I've had ideas and inspirations for posts, but not necessarily the time and inclination to translate them into text. I've made choices and embraced priorities that carry my attention and energy in different directions, often with happy and fruitful results. And in this season of Lent, one of the practices I've adopted is an exclusion of "screen time" from my evenings... in order to focus on prayer, conversations with my brother Jesuits, and penning letters to friends near and far. The blogosphere as a whole, and my little corner of it, likely don't mind the hiatus.
I imagine that the media will be turning their attention back to the Vatican when news of Benedict's successor is announced, and perhaps occasionally in the meantime with related stories about papal history and some of the figures and issues involved in this time of transition in the Catholic Church. Just as my life goes on– with all of its excitement, challenge, opportunity– during my absences from blogging, the life of the Church– its ministry, its work, its community and worship– goes on, often in ways far less newsworthy yet no less wondrous than the emotion and ritual of Benedict's farewell. Even without a duly elected person in the position, I deeply feel the presence of a firm and gentle hand at the helm, guiding the people of God through the affairs of our time.
I'm not sure whether or not I'll post again during the sede vacante interval, but I'll certainly be deeply engaged in the activities to which I'm called, and in which I'm grateful to participate, throughout the coming weeks.
Inspired by the final line of Mary Oliver's poem "A Dream of Trees," I intend this blog to be a forum for sharing musings on life as perceived through various physical and spiritual senses, and expressed through words and images.
Picture

Chestnut Hill Reservoir, Boston MA
28 February 2013
31 January 2013
Hold On Tight!
Ferry Mast Martha's Vineyard MA |
On some level, I count such crazy variation in this winter's climate as an opportunity to build up swagger and credibility to bring to the 20-mile mid-February race that I've run on Martha's Vineyard every year since 2010. I'll be eager to swap stories with other runners to see how we each dealt with "Freeze Week," when Worcester didn't crack 20 degrees for four or five days. In another way, halfway through a winter that's not been much snowier than last year's abnormally dry and mild season, and not nearly as consistently wintry as 2011's (admittedly above average) juggernaut of snow and cold, I can't help but see connections to the discourse on global climate change, both in the popular press and in the scientific literature. These aren't the kind of winters that caused me to fall in love with New England in particular, and the cycle of four distinct and sequentially integrated seasons in general.
Personally, I'm quite willing to believe in a credible connection between human activity and shifting patterns in the global climate. Yet I recognize my inability to easily liberate myself from many of the habits of resource usage, and relating to the environment more as a source of commodified resources than as a living community in which humans participate in a countless number of interlinked processes, that characterizes modern technological society. I would happily admit to dreams of an age, in the not too distant future, when humanity is able to utilize ever-advancing technical skill and a (hopefully) ever-deepening sense of responsibility to multiple future generations to mitigate, if not reverse, the deleterious effects that our activities have on the world. In the meantime, though, I feel limited to adapting to the conditions that are occurring, and their increasingly broad and unpredictable variability. Basically, I'm just hanging on and trying to enjoy the ride. Yet I have a sense that it's not a road that we're supposed to be traveling, and it seems that our collective wisdom has fallen asleep at the wheel.
09 January 2013
The Old Neighborhood
For the first time since returning to Holy Cross a week ago, I managed to rise early enough for a stroll around campus before breakfast and a full day's work. Bundled up against the pre-dawn chill, yet immaterially warmed by the radiant glow of dawn on the southeastern horizon, I devoted much of my thirty-minute tour of the College's grounds to simple prayer– meditating upon blessings of the new day, seeking guidance for issues that I anticipated facing, begging advice as I prepare for an upcoming 5-day silent retreat for students.
This morning's exercise also reminded me of some walks I took around "the old neighborhood" while I was visiting my parents in South Jersey over Christmas. I'm not sure precisely when, but I know that my habit of meditative walking has its roots in the paths that I found through the tree-lined blocks surrounding my home. Whether treading these paths alone, or doing so in the company of my mother, my father, and/or our beloved Beagle (recently deceased after 16+ years), there was something about tracing a loop for 30 to 60 minutes. I've used my walks to catch up on family news, to take a break from family news, to give the dog some exercise, to clear (or fill) my head, to meditate upon the lives occurring within the houses in my neighborhood, many of which look very much like my own.
Even though I no longer call South Jersey home, as I strolled its most familiar blocks during the last week of December, I did feel quite welcome and at ease, "at home on the road," to paraphrase quite liberally a Jesuit principle about finding one's home and community not merely (or only) in the place where one's mail is delivered. By the same token, Holy Cross will not always be my apostolate or place of residence, and in the future it too will feel like another "old neighborhood," where I can associate a memory, an insight, and a story with every bend in the road well-worn by my strolling feet.
May your walks be exercises for body and soul, and your homes be blessed.
"The old neighborhood" Haddon Township NJ |
This morning's exercise also reminded me of some walks I took around "the old neighborhood" while I was visiting my parents in South Jersey over Christmas. I'm not sure precisely when, but I know that my habit of meditative walking has its roots in the paths that I found through the tree-lined blocks surrounding my home. Whether treading these paths alone, or doing so in the company of my mother, my father, and/or our beloved Beagle (recently deceased after 16+ years), there was something about tracing a loop for 30 to 60 minutes. I've used my walks to catch up on family news, to take a break from family news, to give the dog some exercise, to clear (or fill) my head, to meditate upon the lives occurring within the houses in my neighborhood, many of which look very much like my own.
A typical Victorian home Cape May NJ |
Even though I no longer call South Jersey home, as I strolled its most familiar blocks during the last week of December, I did feel quite welcome and at ease, "at home on the road," to paraphrase quite liberally a Jesuit principle about finding one's home and community not merely (or only) in the place where one's mail is delivered. By the same token, Holy Cross will not always be my apostolate or place of residence, and in the future it too will feel like another "old neighborhood," where I can associate a memory, an insight, and a story with every bend in the road well-worn by my strolling feet.
May your walks be exercises for body and soul, and your homes be blessed.
06 January 2013
Snowshine
31 December 2012
A Year of Gifts
"The artist appeals to that part of our being...
which is a gift and not an acquisition–
and, therefore, more permanently enduring."
–Joseph Conrad
Beach sandscape, Cape May NJ |
So begins the introduction to Lewis Hyde's The Gift, a book that I'll be reading and discussing with roughly a dozen Holy Cross faculty over the course of the coming semester. Hyde devotes the opening pages of this work to presenting the broad themes of art, creativity, gift, commodification, and economy that he'll take ip in subsequent chapters. Without quoting him at length, I'll say that his notion of the artist's craft as a gift in its own expression, as well as in whatever works may be created and bestowed upon someone, has already intrigued me. For one thing, I've been given a renewed perspective that sees the events, experiences, and insights of 2012 for what they are– gifts that I've been fortunate enough to receive and humble enough to accept, rather than a list of accomplishments made and items (material or immaterial) acquired.
Pittsburgh PA December 2012 |
And so, here's a sampling of the gifts of 2012:
- Travel: Between work and pleasure, I visited Washington DC, New York City, northwestern Vermont, New Orleans, Pittsburgh, and South Jersey, among other places. While I sometimes traveled alone, none of these trips were solely for myself... rather, they brought me into delightful contact with family, fellow Jesuits, friends, and colleagues. Some trips, or detours along the way from Point A to Point B, were specifically undertaken with someone special in mind.
- Visits: From elderly Jesuits to youthful friends, from times of sadness to occasions of joy, the people whom I journeyed to see, and the circumstances in which we met and shared time, gently deepened my gratitude for the virtue of hospitality. The countless visits that I made– or welcomed– throughout the course of 2012 gradually invited me more deeply into the graced mystery of human relationships. Often through the apparent simplicity of sharing food, drink, and conversation, I was blessed to be caught up in the complexity and humble trust of being invited (and, eventually, inviting others) into opportunities to contribute powerfully to one another's journeys through life.
- Work: I'll confess that I once gave the word "networking" a vaguely sleazy connotation in my youthful and naïve mind... it was something that I believed rich and accomplished people did to concretize and entrench their privilege. And I never thought that an office job would be a good fit for me. Yet after this year's variety of projects, proposals, and conferences that I've participated in as a "grants associate" (perhaps my first real workplace title), I've been pleasantly surprised by how happy I've been in this line of work. Networking with faculty and administrators at Holy Cross, and colleagues from grants offices in liberal arts colleges around the country, has been a gift that I embraced slowly and timidly at first, yet I owe much of the success and confidence that I've felt this year to the people whom I've gotten to know in this job. And while I regularly take short breaks throughout the day to leave my office and stroll the hallways to clear my mind, I'm gradually making my office into a space that's welcoming to those who visit, whether to transact business or to simply shoot the breeze.
- Connections: I've been blessed with some new relationships that, whatever happens to them in the future, are the kinds of connections that I'd like to cultivate in my next placement. As one-quarter of a "Thinking Club" with two professors and the spouse of one of them, I've been treated to lively monthly discussions about everything from the jurisprudence of neurological evidence to the nature of divine love. As a cast member of the theater department's production of Sophie Treadwell's Machinal this past semester, I gained a new set of linkages with a wonderful group of faculty and students who are fine artists and exceptional human beings. As a creature of habit, I've found myself sharing and receiving the gifts of my routines– greeting some of the same students on my way to the office every morning, counting on some faculty members' open-door policy as an invitation to weekly late afternoon chats, calling a friend on Sunday evenings during Lent, having a running partner who motivates me to be the first one to the track on chilly and dark Tuesday mornings.
My office windowsill October 2012 |
To me, the Conrad quote above, and Hyde's use of it to open his musings on "Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World" (the subtitle of his book), point me towards an appreciation of these gifts not as static objects or discrete items, but as fluid components in a pattern of life that I strive to live as a gift. As a Jesuit ever seeking to be a faithful companion of Jesus, who is both gift and giver, I draw upon his example and our relationship to constantly animate and refine my humble efforts. Looking toward 2013, I feel myself moved towards deeper creativity and connection in the areas I've described above, as well as other realms of my life that I haven't explored so well in recent months. It's my hope that such efforts will themselves be fruitful– in the contributions they'll make to the lives of others, and the courage that they'll give me to continue creating and sharing good gifts.
03 December 2012
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.
02 December 2012
Advent 2012
Last night, one of my Jesuit brothers and I attended a performance of Handel's Messiah at a lovely concert hall in Worcester. At brunch this morning, we remarked about several aspects of the concert. Reviewing our observations of the four principal vocalists, the choral ensemble, and the orchestra, we discovered that we had each noticed their reactions to the music they collaborated to create. When the audience customarily stood for the Hallelujah chorus, I was struck by the humble admiration that seemed to wash across the face of the soprano, who, along with her three companions, kept their seats. The same was true during a bass aria in the work's third part that features a complicated and jubilant trumpet solo... the performers were clearly swept into something more than the mere art of making great music.
As Advent begins, and with it, a new liturgical year, I'm again fining myself drawn to the foundations of my faith and spirituality. The "purple seasons" that precede Christmas and Easter are, for me, a time to distance myself from the distracting entanglements that I've allowed to creep into my prayer life, and a period for restoring some desired sharpness and discipline to practices and attitudes that I've allowed to waver and decay amid the busy pace of life. A student opinion essay that recently appeared in the campus newspaper gently argued for the restoration of passion in student lives, not by embracing a multitude of activities or constantly striving for perfection and excellence in all things, but by identifying and embracing the fundamental means by which one lives a genuine life, builds and sustains authentic relationships, and becomes more capable of living with true and deep devotion.
As the work and activities at the end of the semester build to a potentially stressful pace, restoring a firm foundation in the rhythm of prayer and reflection becomes timely and fulfilling. As consumer culture places an emphasis on commodified buying and giving, I feel that my desires in preparing for Christmas are oriented toward creating and offering gifts from the blessings that I've already received. And as days darken and conflicts around the world can dim one's global outlook, I'm increasingly grateful for the light that is best visible through the eyes of the heart, in a gaze that takes in the entire person.
I'm excited to undertake another Advent journey, and eager to see where it leads, for while I've walked this route before, each transit towards Christmas follows a novel and grace-filled path.
Have a blessed Advent.
A view from my room as Advent 2012 begins |
As Advent begins, and with it, a new liturgical year, I'm again fining myself drawn to the foundations of my faith and spirituality. The "purple seasons" that precede Christmas and Easter are, for me, a time to distance myself from the distracting entanglements that I've allowed to creep into my prayer life, and a period for restoring some desired sharpness and discipline to practices and attitudes that I've allowed to waver and decay amid the busy pace of life. A student opinion essay that recently appeared in the campus newspaper gently argued for the restoration of passion in student lives, not by embracing a multitude of activities or constantly striving for perfection and excellence in all things, but by identifying and embracing the fundamental means by which one lives a genuine life, builds and sustains authentic relationships, and becomes more capable of living with true and deep devotion.
As the work and activities at the end of the semester build to a potentially stressful pace, restoring a firm foundation in the rhythm of prayer and reflection becomes timely and fulfilling. As consumer culture places an emphasis on commodified buying and giving, I feel that my desires in preparing for Christmas are oriented toward creating and offering gifts from the blessings that I've already received. And as days darken and conflicts around the world can dim one's global outlook, I'm increasingly grateful for the light that is best visible through the eyes of the heart, in a gaze that takes in the entire person.
I'm excited to undertake another Advent journey, and eager to see where it leads, for while I've walked this route before, each transit towards Christmas follows a novel and grace-filled path.
Have a blessed Advent.
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