Advent

After several exciting, fun-filled days with my family in South Jersey for Thanksgiving, I'm back home in Worcester, eagerly entering the season of Advent.

Amidst my awareness of the new liturgical year, the revised liturgy translations being introduced at Mass, and the intensity of work that awaits students, professors, and administrators returning to campus for the final few weeks of the semester, it was a phrase from the closing prayer at Mass this evening that particularly caught my attention: "May these mysteries, O Lord, in which we have participated, profit us, we pray, for even now, as we walk amid passing things, you teach us by them to love the things of heaven and hold fast to what endures."


Ordinary "passing things" abound in my life, yet I'm not always good at letting them turn my gaze to God's presence in that same life. Even with my habits of prayer and reflection– themselves always a work in progress– I can still rush through life and hurry past signs with smug assurance, as readily as I traveled the familiar route between my family home in South Jersey and my home with the Jesuit community in Worcester, scarcely bothering to notice the familiar scenery along the highway. I need the encouragement to slow down, discerning and relishing the blessings to be seen in a conversation with a visiting classmate, the fact of my safe arrival after a 5-hour drive, or the way that an empty chalice sitting on the altar reminds me of my own desire to be filled with God's life-giving grace. I need the darkness at this time of year to draw my eyes toward the feeble yet swelling light of this season– an extra candle flame in the Advent wreath each week, the nearing time of Christ's arrival, the slow lengthening of days and shortening of nights that will begin in several weeks at the winter solstice. I need to do my share of the disciplined, diligent devotion that builds up a solid life of prayer and faith, while also inviting and accepting the graces that will sustain me in my efforts to be a faithful disciple, companion, and colleague.

Some Comforts of Home

I don't often return to my parents' house and the neighborhood where I grew up; my schedule of work, Jesuit gatherings, summer programs, and the like generally limits such trips to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a week or so in June or August. Thought I no longer reside here, and my old room has been converted into a guest room frequently offered to relatives visiting from afar, whenever I am "home," however briefly and rarely, there are some simple things that I never fail to appreciate. Whether it's a chat with Mom while walking around the neighborhood (where the majestic trees never fail to inspire me), reading on the couch in the den with a view of the backyard, or spending some quality time with Molly, our 15-year-old beagle, I'm grateful for many pleasant blessings to enjoy.

Hitting the Road

I'm heading to South Jersey today to be with my family for Thanksgiving. Yesterday afternoon, having wrapped up my work in the office, I went for a prayerful stroll around the increasingly quiet Holy Cross campus, slowly emptying as students begin their own homeward journeys. Several minutes into my walk, I noticed myself feeling a sense of anticipation, preparation, even gathering momentum– like a bird that tentatively stretches its wings and quickens its gait before taking off, or the way that a flag lifts and flutters before fully unfurling in a freshening breeze. I recalled feeling this way on numerous occasions when, as a student at Dartmouth, I readied myself logistically, mentally, even spiritually for the long drive home from the Upper Valley to the Delaware Valley. While I'm hoping that my travels tomorrow will be relatively smooth and free of delays, I'm well aware of the potential obstacles that I'll encounter– bad weather, construction, accidents, and the glorious jungle of creatively engineered highways that encircles New York City, entangling traffic as readily as a spider's web immobilizes unsuspecting prey in its intricately woven threads.

George Washington Bridge, New York NY

Summer 2010

I also mused on various journeys described in the Scriptures– Noah sailing with his family and animals on a well-laden ark (how full can you pack your car?), Moses and the Israelites traveling in the desert (four hours can seem like forty years on the New Jersey Turnpike), and the number of Jesus' parables that either begin with someone taking a journey, or are narrated amidst his own travels between various towns. I'm certainly carrying more than a walking stick and a pair of sandals today, but I'm hardly taking two of everything. If all goes well, I'll not only stop briefly in Manhattan to visit some friends for dinner, but also arrive at home before my parents lock up the house for the night.

Being fond of maps and blessed with an innate navigational ability, I'm usually quite confident in my ability to travel from Point A to Point B along any path I might choose– be it a network of interstate highways or a collection of back roads. It's the spiritual journey, though, that has brought me more surprises in its deviations from the route I'm typically trying to design. When the path to be followed is not a physical road or trail but an all-encompassing relationship both tangible and mysterious, I'm not always certain about where the route will carry me, and who or what I'll encounter along the way.

Near Salisbury CT

May 2011

Whether or not I hit traffic this afternoon and evening, I expect to spend no small part of my journey praying. I'll have plenty on my mind, but also hope that I'll encounter once again the graced presence of Jesus as a companion along my life's journey– as a person of faith, a Jesuit being formed for priesthood, and today, as a member of the vast community of travelers bound for Thanksgiving celebrations with family and friends. May we all journey in safety, and reach our destinations happily.

The Heart of Autumn

The Heart of Autumn

The afternoon ends early,

the twilight is amassed,

as memories of summer

recede into the past.

The long nights gain momentum,

light slants more feebly still,

as indoors-driven viewers

take refuge from the chill.

Beyond Thanksgiving's gathering,

a breadth of bounty spread,

as winter's thinness nears us

an Advent lies ahead.

Year-end decay dispelling

seeking for darkness light

obscure amid the bustling

that overlooks delight.

In sweet good time arriving,

when blessings may seem few,

it comes, my faith rekindling,

ever ancient, ever new.

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Fading

This afternoon's fading light captivated me, drawing me out for a walk around campus on a calm, chilly afternoon. With sunset now well before 5pm, and Thanksgiving right around the corner, I can feel the year winding down. What I've taken to calling "the heart of autumn"– when frost-hardened leaves skitter down pavement before equally crisp breezes, when the cirrus swirls and creeping twilight seem to trace the vestiges of light being drawn into lengthening nights– brings into clarity the flickering of my own spirit as a challenging and sometimes turbulent year approaches its final month.

The liturgical season of Advent– the beginning of the Catholic Church's liturgical year– arrives next Sunday. For me, it's as important as a new calendar year, though my observance of it is much more subtle than the midnight celebrations that usher in the first of January. It's a time for me to hear and pray with readings that speak of peace and joy, imagery that radiates light, and warm gatherings of the faithful that counteract the cold gloom of isolation. As much as I'm looking forward to turkey and homemade stuffing, my aunt's sweet potato casserole, and the company of my extended family over Thanksgiving, I'm gently anticipating the nourishment offered by Advent, and a fresh acceptance of the call to live in faith, hope, and love.

Hearing Witnesses

On this day in 1989, six Jesuits working in El Salvador, along with their housekeeper and her daughter, were dragged from their residence and shot in the early morning hours by government soldiers. Their deaths came amidst a violent civil war that engulfed this Central American nation for many years, a conflict in which these Jesuits stood in solidarity with the working poor of the country, advocating an end to violence, a fair distribution of land and wealth, and the assurance of human rights and dignity for all people. Their witness to these values, and their concern for the well-being of not only the poor but also their entire nation, had drawn a long series of threats and attacks from the government and the military that culminated in their slaying.

Today, on the campuses of Jesuit schools around the country, these six priests and two women are honored as martyrs for their fellow Salvadorans, defenders of the poor and downtrodden, and figures whose voices have not been silenced by their deaths, but rather given far-reaching influence over the past twenty-two years. The memorial at Holy Cross, depicted here, was a modest arrangement of crosses and images of the deceased constructed along a well-traveled pathway connecting the student center, main library, and a key academic building. I spent some time there in the middle of the day, chatting with student organizers and observing the various ways in which members of the College community passed through the space. Some stopped to sign a petition and talk with the students overseeing the memorial, others paused briefly in silence, and some simply strode through, perhaps casting a passing glance at the crosses.

There's been much in the national news lately about police officers and city workers clearing out members of the Occupy movement and their encampments in downtown parks around the country. These individuals are also giving witness to a range of passionately held beliefs and opinions about the affairs of our country, the effects of various economic, social, and legislative policies, and the hardships being endured by my many Americans amidst various forms of inequality. In cities where the Occupy movement has a presence, I imagine that those passing by have a variety of responses– engaged interest or direct involvement, willful ignorance, or perhaps simply noticing their presence while moving along with their own affairs.

It's up to wiser minds to evaluate any relative linkages or disconnects between Jesuits in El Salvador standing with the poor in the midst of a violent civil war and Americans in the Occupy movement camping out and protesting against some significant economic woes and social ills in our country. In each instance, though, I'm drawn to the notion of giving witness– not only in speaking out, but also in whether or not anyone is listening. What forms of speech and action truly compel our attention and motivate our participation in efforts to build and maintain communities of justice and peace? What influences our choices to heed or ignore not only the high-profile and vocal witnesses but also the subtle expressions of truth and beauty that may gain our attention in any given moment? What attitudes and beliefs do we express, intentionally or otherwise, through our words and actions? When social media allows us to "comment" on anything, what is the content of the dialogue in which we are most genuinely engaged, and what is its practical outcome for the lives of our neighbors? These aren't easy or straightforward questions, yet lest we address them, I worry that the messages of the Jesuits in El Salvador, the Occupy protesters, and the people whom we daily meet may fall on ears that do not fully hear.

Present from the Archives

Recently I've been encouraged to write about my daily experiences in a way that's immediate and uncritical, as a complement to my style of prayer and reflection that's more analytical and intellectual. Although both avenues assist me in my desire to recognize God's presence, follow Christ's call, and heed the Spirit's guidance, I tend to privilege the latter, and often deny myself the liberty to engage the former. Rummaging through a (physical, not virtual) folder of poetry that I used actively during philosophy studies, yet have neglected on my shelf for much of my regency here in Worcester, I found many treasures that I'd forgotten, relics of a familiar yet now distant part of my identity. I'm praying for a renewal of this sort of vision and expression, for even a brief reading of several such poems– including the one below, written at the foot of the tree pictured with it– clearly affirmed that inspirational substance is never lacking.

"Fallen Leaves"

Draped in tranquil muted brilliance

obscuring grass withered by hardening soil

atrophied shards of life flung down

by ominous breezes

or chilling, slicking drops

their ephemeral beauty threatened

by those who would remove

the unkempt detritus

rather than slow and reap

a second autumn harvest

and live more deeply

their solidarity with the fallen.

I bared my feet in humility

sunk against the hardness of dormant life

letting its crackles rekindle my vital flames

sent to gather the fallen

into the smudged liberation that

(I) found (me)

at the foot of deeply rooted

redeeming wood.

Tower Grove Park

St. Louis MO