Clear Sight

Go before us with heavenly light, O Lord, always and everywhere, that we may perceive with clear sight and revere with true affection the mystery in which you have willed us to participate.

– Prayer after Communion, Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord

Like Christmas, the feast of the Epiphany comes at a time when New England's seasonal darkness and the activity of various holidays can enhance one's desire for light and peace. For my community, it comes at the end of our winter vacation; tonight we begin a three-day retreat to renew our devotion to religious life and its particular Jesuit expression before starting a new round of classes with our fellow Boston College students on January 12.

The foreign visitors who came to Jerusalem, led by the unexpected appearance of a brilliant star, were perhaps shocked at their hosts' confusion and alarm. Did they not recognize the wondrous sign in their midst? The wise men, undoubtedly content with their riches, their wisdom, and their prominent standing in their own country, abandoned these sources of security to follow a celestial portent. Upon reaching their unknown destination, they humbled themselves before a greater wealth, a deeper truth, and a more enduring power. After encountering God before them in a most humbling and unexpected way, they eventually returned home, not only by a different route, but also as changed people.

As I was greeting families after Mass this morning, one of the many young children in attendance made a break for the altar. Within a few moments, he was crawling toward the manger scene, pointing at the infant Jesus nestled in the company of Mary and Joseph, shepherds, the three wise men (recently arrived from their earlier position in the back of the church), and an assortment of animals and angels. His mother and aunt followed closely, but gave him plenty of freedom to wander around, point excitedly, and gaze at the scene before him. We couldn't tell what he was saying– or whether it was in English or in Spanish, for that matter– but we could tell that he was captivated by something, and wanted us to share in his wonder and amazement.

As our community gathers anew after our Christmas travels, I'm delighted to recognize us renewing the tangible mystery of our fraternal bonds. Jesuits from distant countries who moved into my small community of ten back in August have transformed my experience of belonging to a religious order that is global in scope but profoundly local in practice. Living here in Boston, with these nine brothers within a larger community of eighty, has drawn me to devote an increasing share of my gifts, my time, and my devotion to the life that we share as we study, cook, pray, laugh, and relax together, day in and day out. They are the ones who remind me of my commitment, encourage me to go out to friends and neighbors with enthusiastic friendship and service, and share my joys and struggles as I accompany them in theirs. My dear brothers may have come from the other side of the world, and will surely return there in the future, just as I expect to journey onward from Boston after completing my studies. Yet none of us will leave here as the men who arrived, and I can already envision myself feeling very much at home with them in their countries should I ever be fortunate to journey there.

The heavenly light of God is sorely needed in our world, where darknesses both profound and subtle filter into the radiance of human lives, the natural environment, and various societies and cultures. Fortunately, it's already present in all of those places and people. The Epiphany message depicts that light as a guide to our journeys, a promise of encounter with God, and an assurance of our truest hopes and dreams. We've been invited into the mystery; let's be sure to take (and share) a good look.

No Transition, Plenty of Change

"Make Way for Ducklings" sculpture
Boston Public Garden, Boston MA

In my first true waking hours of 2015 (after a good night's sleep that began not long after midnight), it occurred to me that I'm poised to spend this entire year as I spent the past one: assigned to graduate studies at Boston College. My ten years as a Jesuit have featured plenty of transitions: between various assignments, from one city to another, and through distinct phases of formation. Although I traveled extensively throughout the United States this past summer during a 50-day odyssey that brought me to a dozen towns and cities for at least 24 hours each, throughout the calendar year I received my mail in the Brighton neighborhood and legitimately carried and used a Boston College student ID. That couldn't be said of 2013; I left a wonderful grant-writing job at Holy Cross and moved 50 miles east to hit the books after a four-year stretch of full-time work. 2011 saw me switch jobs, and 2009 featured a graduation, a move from St. Louis to Worcester, and my first cross-country Amtrak pilgrimage. (My second one took up 15 of this summer's 50 days on the road.) For the first time since the stretch from January 2007 to December 2008, I can safely anticipate doing the same thing in the same place for two consecutive years; in reality, I expect my present period of theology studies to keep me in Boston through December 2016, if not May 2017.

Transitions have always offered me timely opportunities to learn and to grow in the course of taking on a new job, moving to a new city, and getting settled in a new Jesuit community. They've also served as clear markers inviting reflection on the past, taking stock of successes and setbacks, while also drawing my attention toward the unknown future, encouraging me to develop goals, envision hopes, and welcome whatever blessings and challenges I might encounter in a new environment. Taking on my first "real job" at age 27 involved a significant learning curve, the shift from master's degree student to middle-school teacher being but one of many trails on that steep climb. Leaving that post to assume one in higher education at age 29, feeling as inexperienced in the latter as I felt inadequate in the former, turned out to inaugurate breakthroughs in self-knowledge, professional capability, and genuine happiness and fulfillment that sustain me to this day. Transitions have not always been easy or expected, but when they've come, they've come with a clear message: time for a change!

In this context, as I look back on 2014, one of its great lessons to me is that change doesn't depend upon transition. The year had an abundance of stability, a blessing for which my delight in routine makes me quite grateful, yet it was far from static. Recalling the state of my mind, heart, and soul in January 2014 in light of who I am as the first day of 2015 draws to a close, the changes I perceive are astounding. I became deeply committed to serious study of theology as a crucial labor for my formation and preparation for ordained ministry... not just as someone who's well versed in the teachings and traditions of the Church, but as someone who knows, firsthand, the importance of having that foundation from which to enter into genuine, inviting, and open-minded dialogue with the issues, controversies, and most importantly, the people of today's world. I beheld the vitality of this fine city and its people as I ran from Hopkinton to Copley Square on Patriots' Day, as one million people cheered the runners, family members, public safety personnel, volunteers, and fellow citizens who breathed new life into the Boston Marathon on a glorious Easter Monday. I felt that same spirit reveal its turmoil as it joined other cities and their people in protests and questions of racial justice and civic trust during the fall and early winter after the deaths of unarmed African-American men and the deaths of police officers on duty, all felled by bullets on city streets. I labored to grasp– in mind, heart, and soul– the meaning of divine love expressed in our humanity, from the mystery of Jesus' birth to the wondrous intricacy of deep friendships, whether long-standing or dazzlingly new.

Where to go from here? In truth, nowhere. Boston is my home, this Jesuit community is my family, my friends and relatives around the corner and across the country are a network of outstanding support, and a group of remarkable individuals. I will soon begin another semester that promises an abundance of articles and conversations from which to learn. The changes set in motion within me throughout 2014 bear a momentum whose exertions will surely continue in the days, weeks, and months to come. I don't need a transition... just the ability to keep a hand on the wheel, an eye on the road, and my whole being focused on the journey and those who accompany me in it. There's plenty of change, adventure, and progress waiting... and so much of it can be found right here. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.

Beacon Hill, Boston MA

2014 In Pictures

Having just returned from a week visiting my family, I'm still working on my annual year-end reflection. Yet scattered intervals of down time in South Jersey afforded me the opportunity to select my favorite photograph from each month of 2014. May your memory furnish you with some good images as you look back over the past year and ahead to the new one.

January 2014: Winter storm, Cohasset MA

February 2014: Anchored schooners, Vineyard Haven MA

March 2014: Boston College School of Theology and Ministry

April 2014: Rockport MA

May 2014: Walden Pond, Concord MA

June 2014: Dune grass, Avalon NJ

July 2014: Grace Cathedral, San Francisco CA

August 2014: A new semester at my desk

September 2014: Fall foliage, Framingham MA

October 2014: Franconia Ridge Trail, Franconia NH

November 2014: Crane Beach, Ipswich MA

December 2014: Trinity Church and John Hancock Tower, Boston MA

Recycling

A few days ago, on a foggy and chilly morning, I passed a man pushing a shopping cart down the street, pausing at each house to gather items from the recycling buckets placed at the curb. From a passing glance, I could tell that he had amassed a modest quantity of cans and bottles, yet clearly had room for more. My footsteps and the gentle clink of aluminum and glass– neither of us desired to wake the sleepy homes in this fashionable neighborhood– faded from each other's hearing as the distance between us stretched out into the misty darkness.

As Advent has progressed, I've been tempted to gloss over the readings that occur every year during this season. Isaiah's prophecy about swords being beaten into plowshares? I've heard that one before. The vision of the peaceable kingdom on God's holy mountain? I know it well. The long genealogy in the opening of Matthew's Gospel? So many names... and usually an opportunity to congratulate a new deacon for making it through the list!

Boston Public Library

My many neighbors in Boston have their routines– those who scour recycling buckets, those who commute to work, those who drive commuters on the T– just as I have my training schedule, my slate of theology classes, and my regular chores and duties around the community. The repetition there is a good thing: I maintain my health, contribute to the functioning of the house, and fulfill my mission to study. People work to make ends meet, to keep this fine city going, and so on. Repetition can be virtuous, but it can be vicious when it turns into monotony. I still don't know how people deal with stop-and-go traffic on I-93 or the Mass Pike every weekday, even with an array of beneficial distractions available. I try to notice something different on every run, a bit of a challenge when I've memorized almost every square foot of pavement along my regular routes.

I wish I could say that I've regularly done the same with my prayer over the Advent readings these past few weeks. My seminar on Isaiah this semester lent me some insights that fostered a fresh reading of those prophetic texts. Yet I'm still striving to see something new in the pre-Nativity stories from Luke's Gospel, an unanticipated meaning in Paul's writings, or a vivid metaphor in the language of the Psalms.

Amid these final days of Advent, and my imminent journey to South Jersey to spend Christmas week with my family, I'm praying for the grace to do more than mere recycling of past memories of liturgical readings, holiday celebrations, and running or walking around my old neighborhood. This time through the old routine, there's bound to be something new. And as the Church invites its community and the broader world to once again open itself to Christ through recollection of the Incarnation, there are countless lives yearning for something new.

Rejoice... Seriously.

Salvador de Bahía, Brasil

[This is a slightly adapted form of what I preached informally earlier this week as a final assignment in my preaching class this semester. I drew upon the readings for the Third Sunday of Advent this year: Isaiah 61:1-2a, 10-11; Luke 1:46-48, 49-50, 53-54; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24; John 1:6-8, 19-28. As my sidebar disclaimer indicates, the views below are entirely my own, with some influence from the signs of the times, the prodding of the Spirit, and a few helpful edits from good friends.]

Rejoice! Proclaim the good news! Prisoners are released, the hungry are fed, the Almighty has done great things! The Spirit of the Lord God is upon you! Rejoice always!

The rising tide of goodness and cheer abounds in the Scriptures, and in the cult of holiday marketing, as we draw ever closer to Christmas. We may find ourselves warmed by the anticipation of holiday parties, family visits, reunions with friends, the end of the semester’s work, and countless other blessings. It is a time to rejoice, in what we have, and in what we hope to receive.

But, wait… let’s be serious for a minute. Not all find cause to rejoice these days. The poor are still with us, as Jesus said they would be, and they’ve become more visible these past few weeks. The scourges of war, violence, and disease continue to plague far too many nations and peoples around the world, from Syria to Ukraine, from Liberia to Mexico, from South Sudan to the Holy Land. The evil of racism has welled to the surface of our national discourse, playing out in deliberations and demonstrations from Ferguson to New York City to Cleveland. How can we rejoice… when the brokenhearted cry out for justice, for peace, for healing, for a day of vindication? What are we to say to them? What are we to do? Is there any joy to be found here?

Do not quench the Spirit, Paul tells us. Test everything; hold on to what is good. Refrain from every kind of evil. This is not done easily, when light and darkness, privilege and prejudice, profit and exploitation twist together so tightly. We need guidance if we are to make straight the way of the Lord. We must look away from shallow joys, empty promises, and veneers of security to hear the voice of one crying out in the desert. Who is that voice? Where is that desert? Are two-thousand-year-old answers still relevant?

Among many signs we’ve seen in our streets these past few months, there are these: “I am Michael Brown.” “I am Eric Garner.” With all due respect, not quite. John tells us: “I am not the Christ.” Who is he? “I am the voice of one crying out in the desert.” Who am I? I am Chris Ryan. Who are you? You are Laura, you are Peter, you are Vanessa, you are Henry. You are the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, a wilderness that has traced a path from the periphery of our consciousness, from the overlooked neighborhoods of our cities, and now cries out to be heard in our communities, in our cities, in our nation, in our world.

In this we can rejoice. God anoints, empowers, and sends each of us to bring glad tidings, healing, and liberty. God does the same for others who might liberate us from the captivity of our ignorance, our distraction, our detachment. The Spirit of the Lord is upon us all, to make straight the way of the Lord. Our collect prayer invited us to celebrate the joys of the Lord’s Nativity “with solemn worship and glad rejoicing.” Far too many people have experienced 2014 as anything but a year of favor from the Lord. Their suffering and pain is grave. The call to genuinely notice and firmly acknowledge the evil visited upon them, and to take up a mantle of justice alongside them, is both a solemn undertaking and a great joy. You have been called to go out to those who cry out. Rejoice in this mission, and believe in the provision of the grace to fulfill it. Delight in the company of those who carry it out with you. Pray for guidance, testify with courage, give thanks with humble delight. Join in the difficult, anguishing, yet hopeful labor of making straight the paths that we have all allowed to become far too crooked. The one who calls you, who calls me, who calls us all, is faithful, and will accomplish it. Rejoice.

Sources of Light

These little machines appeared on the field that I pass daily on my walks between home and school. With the semester drawing to a close, and the late autumn weather bringing an end to the season of nighttime outdoor sporting events at Boston College, I figured that these mobile "night sun" lamps were being staged for storage until the spring. Sure enough, as I walked home yesterday after turning in two final papers, a pair of flatbed trucks were parked on the field, and a forklift was methodically loading these generator-fed lamps for their journey back to a rental company's warehouse.

Our human society has developed so many sources of illumination. But do they all shed light on our path? Street lights are one thing, but not all lights that glow forth from the façades of our cities and towns are above questioning. Holiday advertising campaigns stress all that could make us merry and bright, but do they invite us to consider where that materialistic glow might fade into shadow? A variety of voices competes to address the issues of violence, prejudice, injustice, and political tension that have filled so many days and nights these past few months, but how many of them truly shed light on our own complicated involvement in these vexing social ills?

The Advent season invites me to live more by the forms of natural light that, while I can neither purchase nor possess them, are most fully my own. At Boston's 42-degree northerly latitude, Advent coincides with the shortest days of the year... bottoming out at just over nine hours of daylight on the winter solstice. Not long past three in the afternoon (or in the early evening, if one is overly cynical), the sun is clearly diving toward the horizon, generously spilling its fiery glow throughout its steady descent. The deep blue sky that chases sunset or precedes sunrise somehow retains sufficient light for walking, running, or reading by a window. The calmness that it instills brings a hush to the disquiet and anxiety, inviting me to turn away from the immediacy of rented light, and instead to contemplate and welcome a subtler, holier glow that arises from within as well as from without.

Advent readings describe Jesus as the light of the world. In a period when the cosmological dance of light and dark gives the latter its deepest lunge, and at a time when our nation and many others seem more deeply caught in the murky swirl of sin and discord, perhaps we can consider anew the lights by which we live, and the source of the true light that is ever coming into the world.

Scar, Stump, Sprout, Shelf

Just under two weeks ago, I accidentally cut one of my fingers while chopping vegetables. Working at a quick pace with a great knife, the blade had sliced in and out of my flesh before I realized that it had missed the leek braced against my fingertips. Thankfully, I didn't need stitches, but I did take a few minutes to sit on the floor and let waves of adrenaline and shock roll through me, lest I pass out. New skin has now filled in the gash– a quarter-inch in both depth and width– in a wonderful testament to the body's capacity for healing. Yet my amateur bandaging caused the edges of the wound to line up imperfectly; the new growth preserves a sign of the knife's damage.

Today's first reading (Isaiah 11:1-10) opens with the image of a new sprout growing from a stump, the remnant of a mighty tree felled at some point in the past. In these last days of the semester, my brothers and I are metaphorically felling trees as we print out our final papers. We're devoting considerable energy to removing any obstacles that stand between us and winter break, knocking out the last round of assignments from our to-do lists. It's as if we're more invested in the work of cutting down than the process of building up.

Yet just as Isaiah praises a blossoming bud, personified with a range of spiritual gifts, we too can take stock of our own growth over the past months as this calendar year draws to a close. In what ways does the Spirit of the Lord rest upon me? What new wisdom and understanding have I received? What counsel have I offered, what strength have I extended, what knowledge and reverence of the Lord have I developed? What wounds and pains have given way to healing, perhaps with some slight reshaping of the contours of my life?

Although I'll soon return the library books that fueled my research throughout the semester, I've already acquired several more to read over the break. Volumes on the history of Catholic parishes, spirituality and secularism in urban settings, and pastoral efforts to address racism nestle against the latest novels by Marilynne Robinson and David Mitchell, and a collection of short stories by a young veteran of the war in Afghanistan. Not quite wolves and lambs laying down together, but certainly a study in contrasts, at least judging by appearance.

This stretch of time between Thanksgiving and Christmas can be so frenetic, it's hard to see the forest for the trees, or even the trees, if we're rushing, overworked, or too obsessed with clearing a path, let alone following one. Advent invites us to consider the jagged edges of our lives, and to explore the deeper truth of growth, integration, and grace at work even, and especially, there. I suspect that much of what's on my shelf will tell me this story in novel fashion. Scars indicate not only a cut, but also a seam. Stumps bear a legacy of past growth from which life sprouts anew. The Spirit of the Lord rests upon us.