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

Es Brasil!

Salvador de Bahía, Brasil

Well, friends, I'm back from three wonderful, intense, memorable, and grace-filled weeks in Brasil. Participating in the Magis program and the events of World Youth Day brought me into contact with inspiring youth from all over the world, the vibrant culture and humbling hospitality of South America's largest country, and a remarkable experience of the Catholic Church on both a global and a local scale. The trip was not without its challenges– most media outlets noticed some of the disorganization that arose as Rio de Janeiro struggled to transport and accommodate an influx of pilgrims that numbered half its population– but what I'll remember most (and post about in more detail soon) are the countless instances of ordinary people encountering one another in peace, joy, faith, and friendship.

Santa Marta, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

For now, though, a few notable "It's Brasil" moments:

• Streamers and flags make everything better. During an afternoon when 2,000 students of Jesuit universities in 30 countries wandered through the streets of Salvador de Bahía, our melting pot of languages and cultures was stirred into joyful fervor by simple decorations strung above the alleys in the oldest part of the city, home to a Jesuit church and some charming religious and residential architecture.
• The favelas are places of bizarre paradoxes and unsettling graces. The largest, Rocinha, constitutes a full 10% of Rio's population. Another, Santa Marta, is just down the street from the Jesuit high school, and scales at a dizzying pitch the side of the same rocky massif crowned by the city's iconic Cristo Redentor statue. Narrow alleys, cramped living quarters, and tremendously improvised electrical, water, and sewage systems are blunt signs of physical and economic poverty, yet there's a radiant spirit in these communities that feel so close-knit and have some of the best vistas of the city's diverse social and physical landscape.
• On the first afternoon of World Youth Day, the city's transportation system effectively collapsed. A power outage closed the subway, and tens (if not hundreds) of thousands of pilgrims soon overwhelmed the buses as they all tried to reach Copacabana Beach for the opening Mass. Rather than delve into the crowds, a few Jesuits and I decided to walk the two miles from the English-language catechesis center to the high school where we were staying. Ten minutes into our walk, as we stood at a street corner getting our bearings on a map, a Rio resident offered to help, and then accompanied us for the next hour, as she was heading home to the same neighborhood, unable to get a bus home from work. While we exchanged some justified frustration at the transit failure, we spent far more time sharing our life stories, our impressions of Pope Francis, and a sense of companionship that quickly bridged cultural and linguistic differences.
• For the close of World Youth Day, 3 million people (many of them camping out the previous night) gathered on the beach and sidewalk for Mass with Pope Francis on a splendid Sunday morning. Although my fellow pilgrims and I stood roughly 2 miles from the altar, we felt a clear sense of connection to the community– the largest assembly for a single event in Rio's history– that participated in a liturgy unlike any I've ever seen. Even the street vendors and the military helicopters patrolling the scene (with obviously different purposes) pulled back and quieted down during Mass. Our little patch of sidewalk was as much a part of the Church as any other for a mile in either direction.

Crowds gathered for Mass with Pope Francis
Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

These and other insights and memories from my time in Brasil deserve further elaboration, which I'll compose and share in the coming days. I'm already missing the "cidade maravilhosa," but keenly aware that its spirit is now rooted within me, poised for growth and fruitfulness that I can't yet imagine.

Brazil!

For the rest of July, I'll be in Brazil for Magis and World Youth Day, guiding students from Jesuit schools in Europe, South America, and the United States from Salvador de Bahía to Rio de Janeiro before meeting up with pilgrims from around the world. I'll do my best to condense and share some reflections on my experiences– social and cultural immersion, juggling at least three languages, living out of a hiking pack with only 25 pounds of gear, Mass with Pope Francis on a giant airfield– over the course of August; in the meantime, feel free to consult the sites below for more timely information from Brazil.

Please pray for us, and know that we'll be praying for you.

Magis & World Youth Day (US Jesuits' site)
Magis 2013 (Brazil Jesuits' site)
The Jesuit Post (blog maintained by US Jesuit scholastics)

Gentle Currents

Horseshoe crab (and hitchhiking snail)
Avalon NJ

Thanks to happy circumstance (and some subtle conniving), I was able to follow my last day of work at Holy Cross with a full week of family vacation at the Jersey Shore. For the first time in over ten years, I joined my family for Fourth of July week at my grandparents' summer house, reviving a tradition that I fondly recall from my youth. Some things have changed (we can now take different beverages to the beach for the fireworks display) while some have remained the same (the house still has much of the 1970s decor that seemed weird to me as a kid). Most importantly, my parents, sister, and I were able to relax in one another's company, enjoy our favorite activities on the beach (reading for hours, taking the sun, swimming in the ocean), and enjoy some respite from the routines and responsibilities of life on the mainland.

Dune path at sunrise
Avalon NJ

The week also served to begin my gradual turn from administrative work at Holy Cross to graduate studies in theology at Boston College, a new three-year assignment that I'll begin at summer's end. Between chapters of novels and short dips in the unusually cold (56 to 60 degrees!) Atlantic surf, I stared out at the rolling waves and felt myself being pulled along in a new direction, ebbing away from the shores that I've happily called home for the past four years. I certainly feel sadness and loss in leaving behind many fabulous colleagues who became friends, and an atmosphere where I was blessed with so many opportunities and resources that facilitated tremendous personal and professional growth. At the same time, I sense an undeniable goodness to the movement that's carrying me into a new stage in my Jesuit formation, a new community of brothers from around the country and the world, and a milieu that will foster intellectual, pastoral, and social engagement with a variety of issues, rooted in the context of a vibrant city that I've long known well, yet never called home. Though I won't arrive there for good until mid-August, now that I've turned in my office keys at work and dropped off some winter clothing in my new digs, I know that I've been caught in the first tugs of a tidal shift, and I'm grateful to be riding such a glorious current.

Tidal pool, Seven Mile Beach
Avalon NJ

The Old Neighborhood

For the first time since returning to Holy Cross a week ago, I managed to rise early enough for a stroll around campus before breakfast and a full day's work. Bundled up against the pre-dawn chill, yet immaterially warmed by the radiant glow of dawn on the southeastern horizon, I devoted much of my thirty-minute tour of the College's grounds to simple prayer– meditating upon blessings of the new day, seeking guidance for issues that I anticipated facing, begging advice as I prepare for an upcoming 5-day silent retreat for students.

"The old neighborhood"
Haddon Township NJ

This morning's exercise also reminded me of some walks I took around "the old neighborhood" while I was visiting my parents in South Jersey over Christmas. I'm not sure precisely when, but I know that my habit of meditative walking has its roots in the paths that I found through the tree-lined blocks surrounding my home. Whether treading these paths alone, or doing so in the company of my mother, my father, and/or our beloved Beagle (recently deceased after 16+ years), there was something about tracing a loop for 30 to 60 minutes. I've used my walks to catch up on family news, to take a break from family news, to give the dog some exercise, to clear (or fill) my head, to meditate upon the lives occurring within the houses in my neighborhood, many of which look very much like my own.

A typical Victorian home
Cape May NJ

Even though I no longer call South Jersey home, as I strolled its most familiar blocks during the last week of December, I did feel quite welcome and at ease, "at home on the road," to paraphrase quite liberally a Jesuit principle about finding one's home and community not merely (or only) in the place where one's mail is delivered. By the same token, Holy Cross will not always be my apostolate or place of residence, and in the future it too will feel like another "old neighborhood," where I can associate a memory, an insight, and a story with every bend in the road well-worn by my strolling feet.

May your walks be exercises for body and soul, and your homes be blessed.

Bolivia

Last week, during the Holy Cross fall break, I accompanied a fellow Jesuit and the ten students in his "Teología Anína" seminar to La Paz for several days of lectures, panel presentations, discussions, and excursions that built on the material covered in the course. Though only in Bolivia for five full days, bookended by frustrating caprices of international travel spread out over as much as 22 hours, I found myself blessed by a variety of experiences, encounters, and insights that I continue to treasure in my memory and reflect upon in mind and heart alike.

Descending into La Paz

I read in a guidebook that "the first sight of La Paz will (literally) take your breath away." I knew that the elevation (~12,000 feet) would be an issue, and I certainly felt a great deal of shock (especially as a seasoned athlete) when I gasped for air on the third step up a flight of stairs at the theology institute where we were staying. Yet I felt that more existential sense of breathlessness, signifying wonder and awe, as our charmingly clunky minibus descended the twisting road down from the airport, emerging from a cloud bank into a city that creeps in dizzying style up the slopes of sharp valleys.

Tocolí and Lago Titicaca

I spent two weeks in rural areas of Chile during a trip to that country during summer 2007, so I'd had prior experience of the stark contrast between the stunning beauty of "el campo" and the hardship, poverty, and isolation experienced by those who strive to make their living there. Bolivia was no different; I felt myself balancing the temptation to romanticize the splendor of an Aymara village on the shores of Lake Titicaca with the frank awareness that the villagers lead a hard life of farming, raising livestock, and depending on a climate whose patterns are becoming increasingly less predictable. Nevertheless, I couldn't help wondering if there is more contentment to be found in a hard life that includes deep ties to a beautiful place, and a comfortable life that is relatively detached from the natural terrain in which it is lived.

Outskirts of El Alto

There's so much in the United States that allows us to have significant control of our destiny simply because it reliably functions properly. We take our infrastructure and resources for granted so routinely that something like a flat tire or a power outage comes as a huge shock. Well, we had at least one power outage while at staying at the theology institute in La Paz, and our minibus blew a tire on two separate occasions as we trundled along dusty and rocky roadbeds in the altiplano. While I'm sure that many (if not all) of us experienced some frustrations with these delays, obstacles, and perturbations, I was impressed by how well the group took these surprises in relative stride, even if that meant taking some time to doze while the driver and I worked to change a tire (a feat I've now accomplished on two continents), or using an unexpected stop at a mechanic's roadside stall to explore a small town through which we had passed earlier in the day. 

Questioning the Medium

I've been away from blogging for the past few weeks, owing to a combination of circumstance and circumspection. Extensive travel during the month of June for a variety of events– a Jesuit gathering and priestly ordinations in New York, a management workshop in New Orleans, an Ignatian spirituality conference in Baltimore– brought a rich array of experiences to savor, information to absorb and interpret, and conversations and company to share with Jesuits and laypeople alike. These weeks blessed me with an abundance of material for my prayer, my reflection, my journaling, and some letters that I've not yet written. They also occupied my time with pursuits far more fulfilling, delightful, and stress-free than the shorter intervals that I occasionally snagged for the purpose of keeping up with work e-mails, most of which have dealt with a conference that my office is hosting next week.

Jackson Square and Cathedral of St. Louis
New Orleans LA

While in New Orleans three weeks ago, I took an evening stroll through Jackson Square, one of many picturesque locales in this fine city that blends a sense of history, a contemporary funkiness, and a vibrant cultural flair that escapes description while being undeniably tangible. Nightfall brings an odd paradox to this popular space: fortune-tellers setting up shop directly in front of the Catholic cathedral. While I neither engaged them in conversation nor consulted their services, I took their presence as a reminder that people seek meaning (and advice that they can consider trustworthy) from a variety of sources. The same can be said for the interpretation of signs and events; some read the news, some read palms, some read the Bible, and so on. Under a quiet sky of patchy clouds eerily lit by the Crescent City's urban glow, in the slightly uneasy embrace of the Gulf Coast's humid warmth, I not only sought the continuation of my life's dialogue with God's presence and will, but also mused anew upon the manners in which I communicate my thoughts, discern my choices, pursue my ideas, and convey the gifts and graces that I've been given to give in turn.

Audubon Park
New Orleans LA

Consequently, I've been debating the merits of this particular blog as one of many methods I use to carry out the practices I've listed above. Moreover, especially in the context of rich fraternal, intellectual, and spiritual relationships renewed or kindled through personal interactions and face-to-face conversations during my June travels, I've been questioning the ability of this blog to provide an adequate approximation thereof. A good friend of mine– from whom I received a four-page, handwritten letter earlier this week– recently announced her blog's finale after a few years of wonderful, thought-provoking, richly rendered posts. Such a decision is by no means imminent with respect to this blog of mine, though I am considering that possibility (among other options with respect to adapting and/or altering my pattern of posting and range of content) with some seriousness.

Garden District shops
New Orleans LA

I doubt that the fortune-tellers in Jackson Square would have had much to say about such deliberation. There are certainly far weightier matters to address in my prayer. Yet discerning the unfolding steps along my path, and ensuring that I appropriately and fruitfully share the experiences and gifts lived and shared along the way, remains an important concern. In lieu of easy answers, I only ask good company and wise insight to guide my questioning, and to share in my expression of whatever conclusions I reach.

48-3-6

It's not a padlock combination, nor a mathematics puzzler, nor a stat line from any sport I know. Rather, these three numbers each anchor a set of memories, insights, and pursuits that comprised an adventurous Memorial Day weekend in good company.

48: The Appalachian Mountain Club recognizes four dozen peaks in New Hampshire's White Mountains that exceed 4,000 feet in elevation, and in 1957 established a club comprised of those who have successfully summited each of these peaks. Some incredibly ambitious, experienced, and mildly fanatical hikers have done them all in the course of a single season (even winter). Others take their time. As summer unofficially opened last Saturday, I joined a group assembled by one of my friends to celebrate her completion of this effort, which began in her youth when she accompanied her father for his last round of peaks on the list. On a splendid day– mild, sunny, with gentle breezes and a few passing clouds– father, daughter, and friends not only climbed two peaks, but celebrated and shared the successful pursuit of a goal situated in the context of family and a love of the natural world. Inspired by the event whose significance we honored with our presence, a number of us spoke of setting the same goal for ourselves, though without a firm deadline.

Guess who bagged her 47th and 48th peaks?

Claude makes it official: the USGS marker at Osceola (4,340').

Footloose, blister free, and beyond content.

3: By my reckoning, I can credit myself with three of the 48 peaks on the 4,000-footer list: Oscoela and East Osceola (above) and Washington (last summer). Over the course of the three-day weekend, I roamed through three states, reached three peaks, and spent about three hours on each ascent and descent. Along with a good Jesuit friend and hiking buddy (who gladly allowed me to bring him on a mountainous expedition for the third consecutive year), in strolling around Burlington for roughly three hours, I've decided that it's my favorite little city in New England... a small yet vibrant downtown, fabulous views of Lake Champlain, a charming state university campus, and a good feel that transcends words. If it weren't more than 200 miles from Worcester, I'd probably go there more often.

Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks from Burlington VT

Church Street Marketplace, Burlington VT

6: On Memorial Day itself, I completed a hiking goal of my own– reaching all six state high points in New England during my regency assignment in Worcester. Reaching back to a May Day summiting of Massachusetts' Mount Greylock with a dear friend in 2010, and attaining the three highest (and two most challenging) peaks in the company of the same Jesuit companion, it's been a good two-year journey. This quest has taken me to some lovely and isolated corners of New England, and also provoked no small degree of concerned inquiry from elder Jesuits in my community in the weeks before each trip. "What sort of equipment will you need?" (Just hiking boots, comfortable clothing, adequate food and water, modest first aid gear, and a good sense of humor.) "What about wild animals?" (Toads are common but hard to spot; bears lurked unseen; a juvenile bull moose was more than happy to make our acquaintance.) "What if you slip and fall?" (Depends on where you are. You might land on the very rock you're trying to traverse, or you could skitter down the steep pitches of a knife-edge summit ridge and plummet all the way to the hereafter.)

Mount Mansfield VT: Summit Ridge view

Mount Mansfield VT summit (4,393')

Impending doom: rain above treeline.
Advice to hikers: If you can tell that the rain is coming,
it's time to head downstairs!

In any case, checking off my 6th high point– Vermont's Mount Mansfield– occurred without the fanfare and triumph of a grueling ascent like Katahdin or Washington, but far exceeded the simplicity of tree-bounded strolls in Rhode Island and Connecticut. The mile-long summit ridge that we walked from treeline to summit, through fragile alpine vegetation vulnerable to footsteps yet nearly impervious to frigid temperatures and howling winds, induced a humbled, contemplative silence as I beheld a full circle of 50-mile visibility. The majestic progress of a rain shower– the only one I encountered all weekend– across the Adirondacks and Lake Champlain became a literally ridiculous and short-lived menace as its path carried it to the summit from which we beheld its approach for a little too long. "What happens when it rains up in the mountains?" I could hear my brothers asking back home. (Well, if you're above treeline, the rain doesn't quite fall... it hurtles freely.)

Greeley Pond Trail, White Mountain National Forest NH

There's plenty to tackle between now and Labor Day: a workshop in New Orleans, a conference in Baltimore, two conferences at Holy Cross (one I'm helping to organize, another for which I've submitted a session proposal), my annual 8-day retreat, sustenance of life-giving friendships and fraternal bonds, and no shortage of mountains in this lovely corner of the country. Having kicked a big item off my bucket list, I'm grateful for this strong and memorable start to the "academic summer," and eager to keep hiking the trails that lie before me.

Tools of the Trade

Still life with frame and chain.

Twenty-some years old, and still going strong.
The only thing she lacks is a granny gear.

As my post-marathon recovery enters its third week, the imminent conclusion of the academic year, the arrival of warmer weather, and the coming Memorial Day weekend have renewed my enthusiasm and ambition in the realms of fitness, recreation, and exploration. Two Fridays ago, after a slightly early finish at work, I claimed a section of the driveway for the joyful toil involved in disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling the road bike I was given by a family friend when I was in high school. Despite a lack of professional knowledge and a dearth of equipment pertient to bicycle maintenance, I still took great pride in getting reacquainted with the bicycle's components, as well as the elegant design and sound craftsmanship involved in this light yet powerful machine. Since then, I've put 35 miles on it, and I'm pretty sure that its gears are in better shape than my legs, at least for now. In any event, I've been enthralled by the synergy between the Trek's whirring wheels and my body's cycling heart– both creating something much more than the sum of their parts.

Ready for another season of New England summits.

Lest I spend too much time on the pavement between cycling and running this summer, I've made a list of mountains to climb and trails to explore. Wasting no time, this Memorial Day weekend is booked with plans for two separate trips. First, a two-summit day hike in New Hampshire with a group of friends that should see one of them successfully conclude an effort to climb each of that state's 4,000-foot peaks (all 48 of them). The next day, a long journey to northern Vermont with a good Jesuit friend to successfully complete a bucket list item of my own: reaching the highest point in each of the six New England states. [Stay tuned for a retrospective entry on this particular endeavor.] These boots (made for hiking) have seen many adventures, and I'm eager to stick my feet in them for many more miles of backcountry trails and rock scrambles above treeline during the months ahead.

Every good adventure deserves a break along the way.

One of the books that I read last year, Matthew Crawford's Shop Class as Soulcraft, explored the relationships between people and machines, and the effects of a technological age on the ability to understand and manipulate the workings of the tools that we use. Crawford expresses concerns about making items so "user-friendly" that the user no longer has direct control over them; he cites automatic faucets in public restrooms as a key example. While I happily leave skilled work on my community's vehicle fleet to the experts, I do find a measure of satisfaction in being adept at checking and replacing certain fluids, changing tires, and handling similar minor issues in order to keep a Prius like the one above running smoothly.

Crawford Notch, NH

My summer adventures into New England's splendid and varied natural scenery will certainly entail keeping myself in shape. Yet they'll also involve the use of some tools whose utility, craft, and intricacy impress me anew. From hybrid drivetrains to rugged bike chains, from boots to Birkenstocks (a delightfully soothing reward for my feet after a day of running, hiking, and/or cycling), fresh appreciation of the items that bear me into the wilderness is laying the groundwork for savoring the places to which I'll travel, and the people with whom I'll soon share those journeys.

Holy Week in New York

Although my attention has shifted to the Easter season, a grant proposal being submitted tomorrow, and Monday's Boston Marathon, I'd be remiss if I failed to offer some reflections upon the many graces, experiences, conversations, and images that filled my recent Holy Week visit to New York City.

Central Park, New York NY

Contrasts: A large, noisy, bustling city... an expansive, vibrant, hushed park. The shift in sound, in the clarity and smell of the air, and from clean architectural lines to lovely natural contours never failed to echo and inspire a transition into (or out of) a more prayerful and meditative state. I felt a certain resonance with the final days of Jesus as they were experienced by him, his disciples, and the people of Jerusalem. Crowds walked the teeming streets, and among them were two who threaded their way to a certain man in a certain building, following instructions that were both specific and vague, compelling both attentiveness and faith. My movements around New York– to meet friends for meals, to attend various liturgies, to walk or run in Central Park– were equally anonymous to the general populace, yet equally purposeful for me and those whom I met. The ordinary cares of Jerusalem's citizens ostensibly continued apace in distant sectors of the city removed from the action, just as I remained heedless of events in the other four boroughs even while covering sizable swaths of Manhattan.

Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, New York NY

Imagery: Art and architecture complemented nature and humanity in composing the scenery that framed my travels. The city's crowds became the people of God; the city's churches became places of prayer. In my wide-ranging conversations with dear friends– touching upon the struggles of faith and the debates of politics, the labors and projects of work and the adventures and mysteries of relationships– I approached with greater depth and deeper appreciation the graced complexity found in a single life, and the joy of sharing something of that treasure through time spent in close company. In walking the streets alone between these hours-long encounters, I strove to envision in a similar light, with an attitude of humble reverence, each person whom I passed. Whom does this person love? For whom does this man walk the six dogs scattered around him at the corner? What thoughts and feelings lie behind the searching eyes of the older gentleman on the subway platform? What vibrant bond unites the three women pushing strollers through the park, chattering away in a language I don't recognize?

Lunch on Holy Thursday

Nourishment: If it weren't for the Dartmouth classmate with whom I shared lunch and strolled the full length of Central Park on a glorious afternoon, I would never have taken this picture nor many others. Without some courage from each of us, this occasion might not have occurred, nor would we have rediscovered the elements of a strong friendship hidden in scattered conversations from our undergraduate days and occasional exchanges strewn through subsequent years of benevolent distance. These tacos were delicious, yet the conversations and company I shared with Dartmouth friends and Jesuit brothers over five days nourished me even more deeply. The gifts of time and presence that we bestowed upon one another proved far richer and more satisfying than the solitary intervals that filled certain stretches of New York sojourn. Even when happily settled in the peace of prayerful searching for God's words to me, of contemplating Christ's suffering and death, of asking for the Spirit's guidance and inspiration in becoming and sharing more fully the person whom I'm called to be, a subtle force gently pushed me back into these delightful encounters with trustworthy companions.

Gramercy Park, New York NY

Dwelling: Christ is found in many places during Holy Week– Jerusalem's bustling streets, a quiet upper room, a secluded valley, rough paths beyond the city walls. New York teems with constructed dwellings, occasionally in some strange juxtapositions, such as this multiple-species high-rent district. The various churches I visited for liturgies offered a spiritual home for the faithful who chose to worship there. I'm challenged and also heartened whenever my musings on the notion of God's dwelling place point me not only outward to great houses of worship or spectacular natural settings, but also inward to the heart and soul that attract others to shelter there, despite the weaknesses and imperfections that I all too readily perceive. Yet in the hospitality of a Jesuit community, the comfort of a decade-long friendship, the living stones of a storied and diverse congregation, and even the thousands of people whom I passed on the city's streets and subways, I felt the gentle reminder to notice and appreciate the dwelling place that Christ makes (and finds) therein, with(in) both them and me.

More reflections to come, perhaps; in the meantime, your feedback and commentary are welcome.

Ninety Seconds

Central Park South, New York NY

God seems to enjoy testing and shaping my faith by means of tight connections at Boston's South Station. Last winter, the last transfer along a return from Chicago to Worcester involved dashing into a three-minute window between the arrival of an airport shuttle and the departure of a commuter train. Yesterday, the bus I took from New York to Boston left Manhattan late, encountered some heavy traffic, and ultimately took a longer (but delay-free) route. Fortunately, at the end of my hustle from the bus station to the commuter rail platform, the train waiting there was indeed the 3:05 to Worcester, and I gladly hopped aboard with (it turned out) ninety seconds to spare. Though not quite an experience of getting caught up to heaven in a cloud– after all, I was heading to Worcester– I did experience a great deal of relief, knowing that I would arrive home in time for Mass, the community Easter dinner, and the celebration for those in the house with April birthdays.

This episode concluded, with dramatic flourish, a wonderful six-day visit to New York City for Holy Week, as well as a side trip to South Jersey to surprise my parents for Easter dinner. I'll share stories from that stretch of time soon. As those memories echoed in my thoughts and prayers during yesterday's homeward journey, I was struck by how much I enjoyed them– not only in themselves, but also as experiences that I could never have scripted. Which brings me to the major grace and insight of my latest quasi-maddening travel dash– it would have been far less fun, meaningful, and insightful an experience if I had known the outcome in advance. Think about it: would you willingly choose an itinerary that you knew would include an airport terminal steeplechase right out of a movie? Would the sense of relief that attends the successful accomplishment of a frighteningly tight connection be as strong if you knew that you would make it? And, more to the point of the trajectory of Holy Week and Easter for Jesus' disciples, would their experience of Jesus rising from the dead and appearing to them in subsequent days be as powerful, lasting, and faith-inspiring if they had known that his crucifixion and burial was not the end of the story? Paul and the other New Testament writers, in readings heard during the Easter season, speak often of God's set plan for Christ's salvific death and resurrection– a series of events suggested by prior prophecies, and also mentioned by Jesus himself both publicly and privately. Yet these same events– in all of their drama, pathos, violence, and anguish– were experienced first and most intimately by those who never read the script. Whatever they may have believed, whatever they may have felt, it seems abundantly clear that they did not know how the story would end, and that they doubted the potential for any continuation after events so stark and final as those of Good Friday.

As much as I try to schedule my days and bring order to my life's activities, I'm regularly gladdened by the surprises that God generously pens throughout the weaving plot of my spiritual journey. The varied, fluid, and sometimes messy vicissitudes with which God fills my days are far richer and more vital than their containers– the somewhat rigid structures of habit and routine that I strive to keep so neat and crisp. Thankfully, I'm the kind of person who can increasingly relish the excitement of adapting to wrinkles in my plan imposed by forces beyond my control. This Easter season, I also pray that I'll continue to become the kind of person who recognizes, with humble gratitude and cooperative acceptance, the providential influence of a wiser author whose flair for the dramatic rarely fails to instruct, entertain, and amaze me.

Holland Tunnel Entrance, New York NY

Scheduled Searching

I'm going to New York City for the remainder of Holy Week. Though I've planned a series of meals with Dartmouth friends and liturgies at many of the city's great churches– Catholic and Protestant alike– I'm also approaching the trip as a pilgrimage of sorts. God willing, some desirable and timely graces will visit me amidst my travels, conversations, and worship in the city.

Traveling Light

It's been a while since I've posted, mainly as a result of traveling for much of the past week. My first experience of "business travel"– also my first experience of attending an academic conference– took me to Washington DC for three days of participation in the annual national meeting of the American Association of Colleges and Universities (AAC&U). Along with approximately 2,000 people who have made higher education their life's work, I attended a variety of 75-minute sessions concerning everything from the inner lives of students to increasing higher education access in rural settings to the role played by general education and liberal arts in a holistic undergraduate experience that does more than simply increase a student's likelihood of employment. My boss and two colleagues from a prestigious architectural firm specializing in academic science buildings gave a presentation on collaborative space and its impact on the general campus community, as well as scientific disciplines in particular. [A fine series of videos produced by the firm– EYP– that highlights the science complex at Holy Cross can be found here.]

Given the relatively brief duration of the trip, and my desire to avoid baggage fees, I traveled extremely lightly... needing just a backpack and a well-traveled shoulder bag from Chile. The notes that I took over the course of the conference span only ten pages– light in the physical sense, but much denser in terms of the thought and reflection they continue to inspire. And the conversations I shared with friends– while running 8 miles around the National Mall and neighborhoods to the north, over late evening refreshments a few blocks from my hotel, or amidst a long dinner and a relaxing stroll through the quaint, historic, brick-paved scenery of Old Town Alexandria– provided some refreshing and light-hearted relaxation following some days of intense listening and thinking.

What do I take away from this new set of experiences and renewed conversations with friends whom I haven't seen in months, or even years? First, the importance of genuine dialogue, rich interpersonal connections, and the space in which to discuss and debate topics of intellectual, moral, ethical, spiritual, and personal significance. I'm still meditating on a rich series of conversations that I had with a professor from a satellite campus of a state university in a rural setting on the topic of campus dialogue about controversial social and religious issues, comparing and contrasting how they are handled at public, private, and religiously-affiliated institutions. Second, the events and exchanges of a few hours or a few days can lead to connections and projects that evolve over weeks and months. In light of those same conversations referenced above, as well as other sessions I attended, I'm suddenly much more invested in exploring ways to increase my engagement in dialogue and programming at Holy Cross around everything from the experience of minority and first-generation students to how engagement in social issues and spiritual reflection is fostered in the context of the College's Jesuit and Catholic identity and its religiously diverse community of students, faculty, and staff. Third, a strong belief– and an energetic curiosity– in the role that higher education can play in creating a more just, equitable, and participatory society that addresses the health and well-being of one and all... and a keen desire to participate more actively in that process as an aspect of my ongoing life and ministry in the Society of Jesus.

More to follow on these themes, I hope.

Remembering Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

In honor of today's national remembrance of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I offer two photos from the National Historic Site that honors and preserves his neighborhood in Atlanta– one of many highlights from my cross-country railroad pilgrimage in summer 2009.

Dr. King was born in the yellow house in the center.

One block west of his birthplace, he lies beside his wife, Coretta Scott King.