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.

A Month and A Season

After a long absence from the blogging realm, I sense that it's time to make a return. As each new month opens, and I take stock of the previous month's memories, journal entries, and other mementos of daily life, I attend to what I've done well, what I've neglected, and what calls me to grow. As this new month coincides with the opening of the Advent season, I'm sensing a synergy between my return to greater intentionality in prayer and contemplation on the one hand, and on the other, nudges toward creative writing I've experienced since the end of the summer. Both aspects of my life were sometimes diminished by the responsibilities, activities, and general pattern of another instructive, insightful, and life-giving semester of theology studies. Writing about joys and blessings, struggles and fears, and the people who helped me to live into them more fully seemed so weak and empty compared to the experiences themselves.

Advent, with all its powerful imagery, likewise pales in comparison to the mystery of the Incarnation toward which it points. These weeks offer countless reminders of that original experience of awaiting the moment of God taking on flesh and dwelling among us. The words of prophets and evangelists that are read at liturgies over the next four weeks tell us that Christ is coming; the mood of prayers and reflections upon these texts invite us to consider our own levels of readiness, desire, and openness with respect to this divine-human arrival. For a season, we are invited to trust in the future, and to recall the blessings of the past, while being rooted in the present.

It's my hope to gradually delve back into this blog by way of slowing down and carving out space for creative reflections on life, with the lens of Advent to sharpen my focus. Unlike the narrative in the lectionary, the ending of this newest stretch in my life's journey remains unwritten. Yet I enter it with hope, curiosity, and faith that it will, like each year's Advent journey, lead to a new beginning shaped by a timeless truth.

A Concert for One (Hundred)

It's not every day that one of the nation's best musical ensembles puts on a free lunchtime concert to celebrate the occasion of turning in your last papers to close out the semester. Then again, it's not every day that the same group offers the same gesture to the tourists who happened to notice the sign on the sidewalk in front of Boston's oldest churches, or a job candidate who just had a tough interview, or the elderly gentleman who looks like he knows his way around the sanctuary. In reality, the Handel and Haydn Society's splendid performance of works by Corelli, Handel, Pisendel, and Vivaldi wasn't prepared for us specifically, yet for 45 minutes on a finicky spring day, the hundred of us gathered in King's Chapel relished this intimate gift.

Handel and Haydn Society musicians
King's Chapel, Boston MA

As the stone walls and relatively unadorned interior of this 18th-century house of worship hushed the myriad stimuli of Boston's Financial District, the musicians filled not only the space, but also our ears, hearts, and souls, with truly delightful music. In my developing career as a practically experienced but rather unschooled connoisseur of the classical genre, I regularly encounter moving wonders in both new and familiar compositions. I can still recall the first time I noticed the swelling progression in one of my favorite sections of Beethoven's repertoire– the second movement of the seventh symphony– as it made its way through the orchestra, section by section. With only four musicians at today's concert, it was easy to see– and no less remarkable to behold– the gestures of eyes, hands, chins, even bows, that communicated the various elements of each piece. Surely there was much more that I missed.

Boston Public Garden

While having a quick lunch in the Boston Public Garden before the concert, I thought I'd have time afterwards to return and enjoy its glowing splendor of budding trees blooming tulips, and a nesting swan. But a thick bank of clouds and a cascade of tightly confined showers swept in just as the music ended, urging me to pedal my bicycle back to Boston College at a fierce clip. Apparently I had taken for granted the gift of celebrating the fruits of sacrificial discipline throughout the semester that allowed me to finish my work before the first day of finals week. The cost of procrastination suddenly struck just as I stood poised to profit from months of its opposite.

These hours reminded me that God offers me gifts such as these every day, regardless of my workload, the weather, or my knowledge of who's performing where. (Thanks, H&H, for last night's email about today's concert!) Now that the semester's academic tasks are behind me, I have fewer excuses for putting off the choices that would focus my gaze and my actions upon recognizing, receiving, and sharing the blessings that can seem sent specifically to me, but are meant to touch many lives.

Boston Marathon 2014

It's been eight days since this year's Boston Marathon, my fourth time in five years to make the adventurous trip from Hopkinton to Copley Square on the third Monday in April. Coming in the midst of a hectic semester, and just after the intense and deeply moving liturgies of the Easter Triduum, the activity of Patriots' Day seamlessly blended into the pace and emotion of the adjoining days. Yet it also stood on its own as a day of culmination, renewal, celebration, and transition.

Boston Fire Department, Boylston Street, Boston MA
Memorial banner for Boston Marathon 2013 bombing victims

After logging nearly 600 miles in fifteen weeks, I haven't run at all since I crossed the finish line eight days ago; my transition from training to recovery is almost immediate. Whether or not people were conscious of it being Easter Monday, they were well aware of the invitation to breathe new life into the marathon after recalling the anniversary of the 2013 bombings the week before. The crowds along the route were larger, more vocal, and more engaged than I can recall from any of my previous marathons here. Even the noticeable, but not overbearing, security presence suggested a sense of collective stewardship for a tradition that embraces more than the run itself, but unites volunteers, families, students, and citizens from a few medium-sized towns to the largest city in New England.

On the bus out to Hopkinton, I sat next to a pediatric medicine resident from Pittsburgh who was running his first Boston; we bumped into each other again three hours in the portajohn line just before hopping into the corrals. The athletes' village was noticeably busier and fuller with an extra 9,000 runners, but everyone was friendly and made room for one another. By the time we were lined up, there were no clouds in sight and the temperature was edging toward 50 degrees. I tried to roll a relaxed pace through the early miles, but I couldn't get myself any slower than 6:55 after I passed mile 5. My pace stayed between 6:44 and 6:49 through Wellesley (where the Scream Tunnel was longer, louder, and lovelier than ever), passing the halfway mark in 1:29. Then, just after mile 15, I felt something turn within me, and I could tell it was the heat of the sun sinking in. Later I learned that the temperature went up five degrees in about 30 minutes right around that time. By the time I hit the firehouse turn and scaled the first of the Newton Hills, my pace was a few seconds over 7:00, and I was concentrating on making it to the finish, rather than regaining negative splits. I eventually prepared myself to take 10 to 15-second brisk walking breaks each mile, which I started when I hit Beacon Street. But before that, I stopped and hugged one my old training partners (all the way from Maine, where she and others got me to run my first marathon in 2006) at the top of Heartbreak Hill, caught high fives with my parents and a bunch of friends from school on the way into Cleveland Circle, and shared two more hugs with school friends who were right where they said they would be at mile 24. My pace crept a little higher, and when I passed the mile-to-go mark in Kenmore Square at 2:57, I half-shouted "Uh Oh!" and threw all the energy I had left into the Mass Ave underpass and the final stretch down Boylston, finishing in 3:04:26, just good enough to qualify for next year.

Boston Marathon Expo, Boston MA
Can't help noticing Cristo Redentor and the Rio de Janeiro landscape

This was the year that taught me how to run a marathon for the distance and the crowds, and not for the speed. Had it been five to ten degrees cooler, or cloudier, I might have broken three hours again, or at least gotten pretty darn close. But I might not have had some surprisingly tender moments when I stopped to hug and thank people whose support got me through this marathon, as well as much of this year. And I might not have noticed how much my running meant to them, and to their grasp of what the marathon meant to this city this year. The greater size and more intense emotion of the spectators this year was palpable. And I can't imagine how wild it was when Meb turned onto Boylston Street with a twenty-yard lead... he's one fast dude, but I'm sure the crowd practically hauled him in to the finish line.

I'm grateful to everyone who took part in this year's Boston Marathon, and helped me to feel a closer connection between my running, my community of family and friends, and this fine city that I've had the privilege of calling home for the past eight months.

Reversal

In my own experience, and that of many friends, March was a long month. The swelling minutes of dusky evening glow often meant little more than some more daylight by which to work before turning on the lamp beside my desk. Freedom from classes during a week of spring break– which featured nothing but winter weather– meant long, interrupted stretches of time that I eagerly exploited to achieve serious progress on researching and writing a 20-page term paper. Once again, the stretch of my Boston Marathon training schedule with the highest mileage– including a grueling 22-miler on a chilly Saturday with some patches of black ice to dodge– fell squarely in the middle of March, and as most of the country knows all too well, a winter that just wouldn't quit. A friend in Michigan told me that March had its metaphorical lamblike departure there today; here in Boston, it managed to rain, snow, sleet, and even hail within a two-hour period. Having seen occasional glimpses of, and halting progress towards, the long-awaited spring on the horizon, it seemed we were instead sliding back down a slippery slope into late January.

On the other hand, this morning I experienced a reversal that, in contrast to the dread and anxiety with which I'd been anticipating it, turned out to be insightful and refreshing. One of my weekday running routes typically carries me westbound through the Newton Hills, then north through a residential neighborhood, and finally back east to my house along a route that features one sharp climb and two long, gently sloping downhills. On good mornings, with gravity as my aid and the fiery predawn glow beckoning on the horizon, I can roll down those hills with delusional thrill. But today, with Patriots' Day three weeks away, I finally worked up the courage to run this route the other way around, thus facing the Newton Hills in the same arrangement that I'll face on race day. I'll admit that I was also nervous about what those long drag-racing downhills would feel like in the other direction. Would it be like a slow trip up the chairlift instead of a quick run down a pristine slope?

I found some surprises in seeing this course from the other direction. For one thing, the 50-minute difference in daylight highlighted differences in streetlight coverage that I'd somehow overlooked during the long months of total darkness. Even with few cars on the roads, I felt slightly more nervous about hugging the curbs for left turns instead of right turns; even in a town with so many runners, most motorists seem genuinely surprised– or not sufficiently caffeinated– when they come across someone like me staking a claim to the shoulder and putting in some early miles before a day of work. And Heartbreak Hill proved even more mystical with a rosy hue at the top that silently heralded a glorious new day.

In this time of Lent, there's an encouragement to turn back to God. I've certainly found the past few weeks to be a welcome– and often uncomfortably prodding– motivation to discern the ways in which my prayer, habits, and relationships might have gone astray. Some of those wanderings have led rather narrowly to dead ends; the logical solution is thus to reverse course and return to the place where I abandoned the proper route for my ongoing spiritual journey. What if I reversed my prayer schedule and made sure that I did this first thing after breakfast... or even my post-run stretching? What if I rearranged my evening work schedule so that after-dinner leisure became a meaningful session of reflection and journaling at the end of the night, and I instead got to work right away instead of closing the books mere minutes before closing my eyes? In what other ways would a turnaround– however daunting and contrary to routine it may seem– be just the thing that this stretch of my lifelong training plan needs?

I can't say that I know any of these answers... only that I'm grateful to have discovered some new angles from which to seek them. And even if I wind up retracing steps I've previously taken, I'll surely see some of the surrounding terrain as if for the first time.

Snowpack

As February draws to a close, so too does the first half of the semester. After seven weeks of sustaining the demands of five courses, I'm grateful for a week free of class meetings, even though much of that freedom will be directed toward researching and drafting at least one final paper. As of my latest run to the library, I've got 18 items checked out, and I'm nearly out of space on the shelf devoted to the semester's books. I take some geeky pride in all this, but having nearly three linear feet of theological writings staring at me is a sobering reminder of how much information I'm being asked to process.

Faber Jesuit Community
Brighton MA

Fortunately, the other view staring at me is one of consoling wintry beauty. I'm well aware that many in New England are growing tired of the snow and unusual cold that have characterized the past two and a half months. I, for one, will certainly welcome days when the temperature for my morning runs isn't uncannily close to the number of miles I'm running. And there are already signs of spring's slow onset– the horizon brims with brilliant predawn light ever earlier, I hear more birds in that same tranquil time of the morning, and the steadily climbing sun is slowly picking away at the snowpack.

As I turn to my heavier writing projects, steeped in hundreds of pages of articles on everything from migration to the body, from ethics to treatises on faith and culture, I'm hoping to see the insights buried in nearly two months of reading and thinking slowly trickle out. Just as the northern forests sing with streaming snowmelt in March, the papers I'll write have the potential to stir my spirit and inspire my mind with new learning about the connections between theology, social teachings, and the concrete experiences and practical challenges faced by my neighbors near and far. Any meaningful contributions of mine may be as far off as the spring blooms that so many of us await, but the expectation of the latter is a powerful hope whose vigor, at least for me, grows with every passing day.

Centerline Freedom

On most weekdays, there's very little traffic in my neighborhood at 5:30am. Still, a few early birds making their way from Point A to Point B require us to the road. The other morning, I caught a lucky break– I encountered only parked cars for a full mile on a straight stretch of one of my regular loops through Brighton and Newton– and shamelessly indulged it by running on the yellow centerline. It was a rare treat that represented a brief reprieve from the subtle biomechanical stress of running on crowned roads (imagine walking on a sideways-tilted surface for an hour, and you get the idea), a throwback to cross-country courses marked by a single line of chalk or paint meandering over hill and dale for five kilometers, and a deeper sense of having the pre-dawn darkness all to myself.

As I rolled through that swift and quiet mile, it felt strange to be away from my usual space on the side of the road. Though perhaps only an inch or two higher than the curbs, I imagined myself tracing a sharp ridgeline with an expansive view of the valleys on either side. The two lanes, despite their breadth of asphalt, seemed narrower than the thin space between them that my feet smoothly paced. Until a car appeared, I had no obligation– or desire– to choose a side, even while following that centerline as rigidly as any trail weaving through the woods where I raced in high school.

One of the things I've enjoyed about my theology studies thus far is the breadth of positions, perspectives, and approaches that my classmates have brought to our conversations, both in and out of the classroom. Particularly in a course on pastoral care and a seminar on ministry in congregations characterized by cultural and racial diversity, there could be a wealth of well-argued positions about everything from liturgical style to approaches to grief, from the role of a minister to the influence of family dynamics on a given individual's development. I regularly experienced the blessing of dialogues with students and professors in which we debated firm positions without taking sides; we could each maintain a clear direction while also acknowledging the signs and directions that we exchanged to keep one another on course.

As a new semester begins on Monday, and my early morning training runs continue– the Boston Marathon is 100 days away– I'll continue to enjoy as much centerline freedom as I can. The goals are clear, there's still much of that youthful cross-country runner in me to sustain and motivate a few months of hard work, and there are plenty of views to enjoy and appreciate as I press on towards the next finish line.

Narrative Encounters

"Revelation"

We make ourselves a place apart

Behind light words that tease and flout,

But oh, the agitated heart

Till someone really find us out.

'Tis pity if the case require

(Or so we say) that in the end

We speak the literal to inspire

The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play

At hide-and-seek to Fod afar,

So all who hide too well away

Must speak and tell us where they are.

–Robert Frost

[in "The Poetry of Robert Frost," edited by Edward Connery Lathem]

Over the past few weeks– amidst Christmas travels, a Jesuit gathering, some vacation, and a return to my community in Boston– I've found the notion of narrative joining my prayer, my pleasure reading, and my encounters with those whom I haven't seen for the past few weeks or months. The liturgies of the Advent and Christmas seasons tell a remarkable story: God becomes human, the heavenly and the earthly meet, glory and humility mingle. Or, to put it more bluntly, a baby is born to young parents during a long and arduous journey, at a time when they're lucky enough to find crude shelter at the edge of a modest town surrounded by desert.

Some of the books I've read (and would recommend) over winter break have narrated events whose stark reality can't be ignored: Joan Didion writes about her husband's sudden death and daughter's near-fatal illness in The Year of Magical Thinking; Jeffrey Eugenides presents everything from a transatlantic refugee voyage to the heyday and decline of Detroit to the title character's painful self-discovery in Middlesex. Their stories are not always easy to hear or comfortable to ponder, yet I found something profoundly consoling in my sudden glimpses of the authentic person and life underlying each narrative. These books bestowed a fresh energy on my imaginations of the Gospel accounts proclaimed over the past few weeks; both named and unnamed characters appeared with faces not unlike those I saw on the bus from Boston to Philadelphia, in the airport after Christmas, or in the supermarket on the Southern Shore before a recent snowstorm.

Liberty Bell pavilion
Philadelphia PA

I noticed these ideas affecting how I swapped stories with my relatives about my community and studies in Boston while at home for Christmas, and how I've been telling my community about Christmas with my family now that I'm back home in Boston. Recounting the events, I've found it difficult to portray the full character of the people involved. Yet in the conversations, I've noticed more of my character being revealed, and a greater attentiveness to (and gratitude for) the formation that my relatives and my Jesuit brethren contribute to the daily pages and longer chapters of my life. At the same time, I've been making prayerful efforts to look beyond the social anonymity easily read in a crowd at a bus station, in line at a grocery store, or at a museum like the Liberty Bell pavilion in Philadelphia. Even the effort to imagine– however erroneously– the lives of those whom I merely pass in such settings has gently enriched my sense of the shared humanity that can be seen there.

With today's feast of the Epiphany, the Church's proclamation of the great stories of Jesus' birth will soon be completed, until the liturgical cycle begins anew at the end of November. But the call to embrace and participate in narratives of encounter, at least in my hearing, continues to build. Next week, I'll be in courses and seminars with classmates whom I'm still getting to know. By the end of the month, I'll be sharing Bible study discussions once again with Salvadorans at the parish where I serve. As I begin my training for the Boston Marathon in April, mine is one among hundreds of thousands of narratives that will converge– if only conceptually– on Patriots' Day. It's my hope that we can all welcome and encounter one another, and ourselves, more fully in the coming days, weeks, and months... one story at a time.

A Year of Change

As the world welcomes a new year, I find myself doing little more than changing the calendar. The most notable changes that I experience tend to come not at the turning of the year, but in its midst, spread across days and weeks that don't attract widespread attention on their own merits. That being said, I did participate in two events that made global news this semester, though the role they played in my life was far more significant than what my presence contributed... a humbling counterpoint to my general desire to give more than I receive. In the main, I approach 2014 with the goal of maintaining and deepening the good things that have gotten underway at various points along the course of 2013.

Boston Strong display
Copley Square

Running: Eight months later, I still have a hard time talking about the Boston Marathon bombings. Even though I finished an hour beforehand, and all of my friends and family escaped harm, I'm reminded of that day every time I walk, cycle, or run through Copley Square. But it's not just the tragedy that I recall; it's the way that the city and its people displayed newfound solidarity in subsequent days and weeks. Now that I'm a proud resident of Boston, I feel part of the effort– even responsibility– to sustain that sense of community in my travels around the city.

MAGIS pilgrims
Rio de Janeiro
July 2013

Pilgrimage: It's been an interesting ten months in the Catholic Church, and for those whose attention has been captured by the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI and the words and actions of Pope Francis. I had the privilege of spending three weeks in Brasil with thousands of pilgrims from Jesuit colleges worldwide, and sharing in an experience of not only global Catholicism, but also the global human family. I'm happy to be maintaining contact with a few of those friends, scattered from Philadelphia to Montevideo, as we go about our lives of study, prayer, recreation, and work in the company of family and friends. Even though my hiking pack has spent much of the last five months in my closet, my ordinary walks in Brighton often remind me of the extraordinary steps I took in Brasil.

Conservation land
Weston MA

Happily, this year is ending as last year did... in the company of good Jesuit friends, sitting by a fireplace, waiting to salute the stroke of midnight. I hope to undertake the new year with renewed devotion to prayer, to community, to family and friends... building on the best moments of 2013. After a year of change– moving from Worcester to Boston, shifting from full-time work to full-time study, meeting new friends and taking on new projects– it's the fundamental and unchanging things that give me life and joy, and help me to confidently welcome everything new and unexpected that comes my way. Happy New Year, and many blessings to you in 2014!

Thanksgiving, At Last and Always

Unexpected Thanksgiving guests
Blessed Peter Faber Jesuit Community
Boston MA

I couldn't help marveling at the boldness of our local population of wild turkeys. After keeping a low profile all semester, they suddenly began making regular appearances the other day. Perhaps they heard that our communal celebration of Thanksgiving, held last Friday to give the seventy of us an opportunity to gather and celebrate before many traveled to visit families elsewhere, did not feature turkey as the main course. Perhaps they've seen me faithfully stocking our backyard bird feeder, and are tired of letting their smaller cousins have a monopoly on the bounty I provide. Whatever their motivations, they're lucky that no one here feels sufficiently inspired, or within their legal rights, to add these pilgrims to the abundance that we celebrate at this time of year. Lucky birds.

Given the arrangement of the semester, this is my first extended break since classes begin in August. It's astounding to suddenly slow down, look over my shoulder, and see three months stretched out behind me. Countless hours of class, a few thousand pages read, hundreds of miles logged (most before 6:30am), and a dozen delightful Monday visits to cafés and libraries in other neighborhoods. More importantly, in meditating on the great blessing of numerous friendships, as I often do at this time of year, I discern the humble rhythm of ordinary conversations before and after class, shared experiences of prayer, worship, and Thursday lunches, and recognition of distinct yet shared desires to grow in wisdom and knowledge through study and ministry. In a way, I've been giving thanks throughout the autumn, harvesting the produce that I had only a partial hand in planting and nurturing, and striving to keep those blessings active and circulating in the communities where I find a home.

Many have noticed the rare coincidence of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah this year, and although attention has been given to some creative fusions of these two holidays, I've been intrigued by their convergence in the liturgical calendar. For the Catholic Church, this is the final week of Ordinary Time, and as such the readings feature imagery of fierce struggles between good and evil, presaging the apocalyptic conflict that ancient believers would end this world and usher in a heavenly age. As it happens, this year's readings include the tale of the Maccabees and their revolt against Persian occupiers of Judah, the very event that Hanukkah celebrates. For the first time that I can recall, we are not only sharing a holiday, but simultaneously telling the exact same stories in an unmistakable way.

At Mass this morning, an elderly Jesuit preached a homily that reflected honestly about the imperfect state of our world, and the sad cases of social sin, inequality, suffering, and division that afflict so many people in this great country and around the world. Yet he encouraged us not only to let these shadows motivate us to generosity and charity as a fitting act for Thanksgiving and a counterpoint to the commercialization of the holiday season, but also to give thanks for the blessings we do have, no matter how subtle, small or simple they may seem. That is surely a task for us on this long-awaited Thanksgiving Day, but also on each day, as we are continuously called to be lights for the world, miraculously persisting even when resources are scarce and darkness seems to abound.

Father all-powerful, your gifts of love are countless and your goodness infinite; as we come before you on Thanksgiving Day with gratitude for your kindness, open our hearts to have concern for every man, woman, and child, so that we may share your gifts in loving service.

~from the Collect for Mass for Thanksgiving Day

And now, bless the God of all, who has done wondrous things on earth;

Who fosters people’s growth from their mother’s womb,
and fashions them according to his will!

May he grant you joy of heart and may peace abide among you;

May his goodness toward us endure in Israel to deliver us in our days.

~Sirach 50:22-24

Whew!

Boston College School of Theology and Ministry
Chestnut Hill, MA

A month and a half into the semester, and fully into the season of short papers and midterms, I've been going at a brisk and sustained pace for several weeks. The school was closed for Columbus Day, but my schedule has no Monday classes anyway, so my workflow was relatively unaffected. Nevertheless, gorgeous weather beckoned me outside throughout the weekend, both in Brighton and in other neighborhoods of Boston, whether to read or to get some fresh air amidst hours inside with my laptop. I'm still refining the art of balance necessary to keep five classes, responsibilities and activities in my community and my parish, training for a half marathon, and socialization with classmates in creative tension... all of this grounded by sufficient rest and commitment to daily prayer and reflection.

This is indeed what I sought and desired as I looked forward to theology studies last spring and summer, and though the pace and burden of the semester engender both swiftness and fatigue, the deep and slow breaths that I experience at the end of the day are sighs not of relief, but of gratitude.

Now, once again, it's time to begin another week of class... in a fine building that houses an even finer community.

Rabbits

In running parlance, a "rabbit" is a fellow runner who's just a little faster than you– he or she may push you to a speedier pace during a workout, or perhaps needle your sense of pride to inspire your strong finish in a race. They may bound along with you, or give you a much-needed kick in the... ego. Rabbits may be long-time friends and regular training partners; they might also be circumstantial companions on a given day, never to be seen again. As I've been making my way through the busy rhythm of the semester over the past few weeks, whether I've felt myself striding smoothly or struggling to keep up, the presence of rabbits has never failed to be helpful, instructive, and memorable.

Public art installation
Boston Ahts Festival

This morning, for the second time in three days, I found myself suddenly in the company of another runner, matching pace at a brisk clip for one to two miles. On Saturday morning along the Charles River, it was an engineering student training for his first marathon (Chicago); this morning, in the predawn glow along Commonwealth Avenue, it was a cross-country athlete taking the season off after (and rapidly recovering from) an injury in early summer. Though my unexpected buddies and I traded little more information than our names and our schools, and kept our conversations to staccato sentence fragments while running near our aerobic thresholds, I felt a firm solidarity that reminded me of the teammates and training partners who have nurtured and accompanied my love of running for over 15 years.

As I keep pace with the nearly continuous stream of readings, class meetings, short writing projects, and other responsibilities inherent in my five courses this semester, I find that a key source of motivation is the community of scholarship and ministry at the school. The rich backgrounds, enthusiastic engagement, and honesty about the competing demands of life, work, and studies that my classmates– religious and laypersons alike– bring to our discussions keep me rooted in both the material at hand, and the realities in which we interpret and use it. The friendships developing in classrooms and hallways, facilitated by the fact that many of us live in the same neighborhood, are thus far making this experience of graduate school far more fulfilling than my previous stint, and pushing me to bring my best intellectual and experiential learnings to the table.

Berklee School of Music student
Boston Common

Finally, there are my Mondays, when I have no classes, but plenty of schoolwork to complete. I'm striving to ensure that I utilize each Monday's freer schedule to get out of Brighton, explore other parts of town, and discover nooks conducive to study that also enrich me with the break from my routine that they represent. So far, those adventures have included a wonderful conversation over tea with a Jesuit housemate from Rwanda, a long lunch and discussion of ministerial vocations with a good friend, and being treated to an outdoor piano concert simply by virtue of choosing a particular plaza as a location to work on a few short papers. These moments renewed me in soul-soothing ways, breathing new life into the busy days that followed. Alongside swift morning runners, the wonderful men in my new community, and the lively students in my degree program, I'm called to relish the company of all who participate in my life's journey, no matter the timing, duration, and circumstances of the steps we share.

Corrective Instruction

St. Mary's Church
Charlestown MA

Brothers and sisters, You have forgotten the exhortation addressed to you as children: “My son, do not disdain the discipline of the Lord or lose heart when reproved by him; for whom the Lord loves, he disciplines; he scourges every son he acknowledges.” Endure your trials as “discipline”; God treats you as sons. For what “son” is there whom his father does not discipline? At the time, all discipline seems a cause not for joy but for pain, yet later it brings the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who are trained by it. So strengthen your drooping hands and your weak knees. Make straight paths for your feet, that what is lame may not be disjointed but healed.

~ Hebrews 12:5-7, 11-13

This was my first Sunday in Boston with my new community, and in a custom of formation communities that I've always enjoyed, we were all encouraged to attend Mass at local parishes. I chose to venture just north of Boston to a Spanish-speaking Mass at a parish in a working-class neighborhood; the midday hour of the Mass allowed me to reflect on the readings ahead of time, sipping tea on the patio at home as a crisp morning warmed with the rising sun. While I found timely themes and helpful insights in each reading– Isaiah's prophetic language of people gathering from all nations to encounter the Lord, the challenging words from Luke's Gospel about whom Jesus will (and won't) recognize– it was this passage from Hebrews that rung quite true.

Coming off a great deal of professional and personal growth that was largely self-driven (with light but necessary and regular guidance from a wonderful mentor, and the subtle yet essential aid of divine grace) over the past several years, I'll soon be sitting in class to receive instruction, to engage in conversations driven as much by a syllabus as by issues of the day, and ultimately to write papers that provide space to explore important topics, yet respond to questions not entirely my own. For all of the knowledge and wisdom that the coming years will develop and impart, I anticipate that this stage of my formation my also have some periods that will feel more confined, regimented, and disciplined. Some of the freedom and autonomy that I relished– and endeavored to apply to good ends and worthy pursuits– during my years in Worcester will be redirected to activities that will sometimes, no doubt, be rather trying.

Yet this is exactly what I need. I could stand to be refreshed in my intentional and genuine devotion to participating in and shaping the bonds of community that will bring our diverse family of 70 Jesuits closer together as friends in the Lord. Even as creativity and adaptability in the timing and style of my prayer served me well during the varied schedules of my working days at Holy Cross, I know I'll benefit from a structure that allows (and, with gentle force, nudges) me to root myself anew in the fundamentals of Christian prayer, including daily visits to the chapel that lies at the foot of the stairwell just beyond my door. As I continue to navigate the spectrum between introversion and extroversion, I know that, in exercising the latter, I must give preference to my brothers here even at the occasional cost to friendships near and far, for it is these men with whom I am called to walk particularly closely along the final steps towards the priesthood that we all desire to receive and exercise in faith. I'm confident that each of these disciplines will make me a better Jesuit, and a better companion and servant to God's people. As the first day of classes draws closer, I'm ready for the challenges and instructions, and especially the blessings therein, that the months ahead will offer.

[Note: today's other readings are: Isaiah 66:18-21; Psalm 117; Luke 13:22-30]

Settling In

This past Tuesday, along with another scholastic who joined the Jesuit community at Holy Cross for the summer while studying English, I moved to Boston to begin three years of theology studies. Our new home is a community of nearly 70 Jesuits from more than 20 countries, all of whom engage primarily in theological study and reflection, while also serving in a variety of religious and social ministries in Boston and its surrounding communities. Having visited New England's largest city frequently over the past four years while living just down the road in Worcester, I'm quite familiar with the layout, culture, and feel of Boston. Yet I'm also feeling the excitement and anxiety that accompany the move to a new home, the tasks of getting settled, and the uncertainty about how new friendships and activities will unfold.

Chapel of the Holy Name of Jesus
Blessed Peter Faber Jesuit Community
Boston MA

After traveling rather lightly in Brasil (25 pounds of gear in my pack) for three weeks, I felt quite weighed down by possessions that half-filled a Honda Element, despite my efforts to thin out my stuff last spring. Once I arrived in my room, I quickly went about lightening and scattering that perceived load– unpacking my boxes, arranging my bookshelves, and hanging various items on the walls. Making a space my own– even if I change rooms in the house during my stay, I'll be in this room for at least a year– is a process that I tend to complete quite rapidly in a physical sense, but pursue more gradually in a relational and spiritual sense. Knowing that I'll have three years here, and being already in touch with a strong desire to put down roots and become involved in the life of the city, allows me to be patient with myself in these first days and weeks as a Boston resident.

Wonderful bookshelves!

I'm conscious of so much that the city and school have to offer, but I'm even more intent on embracing the friendships that will develop with my brothers, my fellow students, and the people with whom I'll do ministry. While I look forward to hanging out in the cozy neighborhood library branch a short walk from my house, cycling to various cafés when I need a break from studying on campus, and experiencing some great music and art, I'm even more eager to get to know the people with whom I'll share these places and activities. My prayers about Boston– in the days before moving and the days since my arrival– continually call me to see the city as a vibrant community that is itself "settling in," as a new wave of students arrives at various universities, as state and national issues play out on a local scale, and as longtime residents continually adapt to the changing faces of their neighborhoods. Even though studies, ministry, and recreation will surely keep me busy, I hope to find time regularly to share my experiences and reflections over the coming years. I also extend my prayers and best wishes to all who, like me, are settling into a new environment as the summer draws to a close.