When Resurrection Waits.

I don't quite know how to describe the last few days. Suffice it to say, Easter hasn't quite hit me yet. For all the preparations that I've made and all the goodness I know I should be feeling, I am at a loss. Sunday morning came. The tomb was empty and I have yet to bear witness to the Resurrection.

The last few weeks have been crazy and so it is little wonder that Easter has not brought much change. Instead the turmoil of having traveled twelve hours to a funeral with a community mate, of a misguided trip to the Emergency Room with a client, of allowing life to come together after June, and of bruises from a bike wipe-out has left me much more in the waiting of Holy Saturday than the exaltation of Easter Sunday. And even though each day poses the opportunity for new life, still it feels as if Resurrection is off waiting in the wings somewhere.

Having mentioned all this to a friend yesterday, she glumly remarked "Maybe tomorrow will be Resurrection..."

And, for some reason, what should have been a harrowing statement made me smile.

"Maybe tomorrow." I thought to myself. "There is hope." Such a simple sentiment was resurrection enough for me.

Today as I moved through my day, Resurrection still waited but the turmoil didn't seem quite as tumultuous. The waiting isn't over but I found people to wait with.

Like the women outside the tomb, Joyce had done her share of weeping. The victim of domestic abuse and assault, she had left everything she knew and owned to the man that had emotionally held her captive for years. He burned her clothes. He took out debits in her name. He threatened to throw her out a third floor window. She finally left. Now she's trying to rebuild her life.

I don't exactly know how she got my number. Joyce is from an area that doesn't fall in our parish jurisdiction (far from it) but she wouldn't stop calling. After she hit it off with a volunteer I had call her to set up a home visit, I knew I had to go. Bruised and bandaged I showed up at the gate of the Colonial Gardens apartments, a three-story U-shaped brick building off of a busy thoroughfare. As she let me in the gate, the outside noise all but disappeared, the complex acting as its own sound buffer. First we toured Joyce's empty apartment and then we headed to her sister's place across the way. There we sat and as I filled out a voucher for furniture she told me her story.

She'd lost everything through bad choices and choices beyond her control. Lots of things that should have stood in her way did. In many ways, the road ahead of her is just as long as the one behind her. A cancer survivor, Joyce proudly told me how she'd beat the disease once, but now it seemed it was back in a different part of her body. She denied that this could be true and even though a biopsy at UPenn had found cancerous cells, she wanted a second opinion.

Really, she wanted hope.

She confided in me that she knew it would have to be taken care of but she wanted to make sure she had everything in order before she got any medical treatment. She wanted a house, her own place, to come back to after she was in the hospital. That's why I was there. I gave her a voucher and explained that as soon as she could find a van/truck she could pick up the furniture she needed to enable her to set up her own place. In a way, I was able to say "There is Hope."

That is the root of resurrection. Hope shattered brought tears at the tomb. Hope frightened sent friends to a hidden room. Hope that 'maybe tomorrow' is enough for me to open my eyes to what I'm dearly waiting for.

To Be Alone with You.

Lent has very much been a journey for me. I've found myself among the pages of Exodus, following the trials and tribulations of the Israelites; my own relationship with God and with those that I serve has developed into a journey, taken one step at a time; and from Connecticut to Indiana, I've physically traveled throughout the last forty days. Yet, as Lent comes to a close, I find that the journey has led me to the place where each one of us finds ourselves before the glory of Easter- at the cross.

Last year, I found myself standing before an instrument of murder, a stark structure clothed in a deep crimson cloth. This year it is not the cross itself but Christ's body, particularly his hands that strike me.

Reflecting on the paschal mystery this past Sunday, the pastor of the Jesuit parish, which I frequent here in Philadelphia, examined the nature of mystery. Boiled down, his point was that mystery is Truth. That is, mystery is Truth which can only be understood through means of divine intervention/explanation. Thus, in order to invest in mystery, you must buy into God and you must believe that there are some things that we either will never know or that we can only believe through the grace of God. Heavy enough for you?

Now you might think that'd be enough to keep my mind buzzing for the coming Holy Week, and it probably should have been, but what really struck me was an (almost) off-hand comment that the pastor made in the course of his homily. Speaking about how the mystery of Easter is bound up in our salvation and the salvific mission/role of Christ, he spoke to the image of Christ on the cross. "We must consider that when Jesus was crucified, his arms were stretched out like this," he declared stretching his hands out from the ambo, "this is a position of openness, of readiness for embrace."

Pause. Now if you're anything like me, at this point you may be ready to a) roll your eyes b) write the message off for being hackneyed c) just stop listening, because you've heard this sermon before. And that's what I was prepared to do (and probably why what he said next took me off my guard and stuck with me.)

"With arms open, Jesus waits for us on the cross this week," he continued, "but he can't embrace us. His arms may be open, but his hands are nailed in place, unable to move. In this moment, God, who we encounter so often showing us mercy, is at our mercy."

And like that, hands that I've held so often in prayer, hands that have held me, are bound. God stands open to me, Christ's arms are forced open but his Spirit is freely given. In such violence and vulnerability, love is so very prevalent. A life is given. If I embrace the broken body of God here, mercy is shown, mystery is uncovered, and Truth can be revealed.

What does it mean to give so much? To give everything? To be alone with you?

Here is salvation. Here are hands working for salvation. Here, I Am.

Almost 40 days of silence...

If you had guessed that I gave up blogging for Lent, then I must sadly inform you that you were wrong. If you guessed that my absence was due to laziness, you are also sadly misinformed. In fact, the last few weeks have been filled with lots of things, big and little, paid and unpaid, that have kept me away from my wanderings here on the blog... but have no fear! I've been doing plenty of wondering over the last few weeks and in due time, I'm sure that some of those big and little things will surface here, if not explicitly, definitely in the impact they've had on me. Now with that thoroughly ambiguous note out of the way on to the next post...

Before New Purpose: Nativity BVM

As the Winter came to a close this year, I was invited by the community development office at the community center to document a Catholic school here in Philadelphia that is being re-purposed in the coming months. Once a thriving Catholic educational institution, Nativity BVM school will soon be gutted and remodeled as senior housing for the aging population in the Port Richmond neighborhood of the city. It is an exciting new project and being allowed into the old, now empty building before it is re-form was an artist's dream. I hope you enjoy the sights and can find the beauty that I discovered in the impending rebirth of Nativity.

Grace at the Midpoint

Disclaimer: If you are looking forward to the SSJ Mission Corps Winter Newsletter, you probably shouldn't read the following entry, as it is my piece in the newsletter. Consider yourself warned. If you're not waiting on the newsletter (or just can't wait), dive on in!

It was midway through my conversation with Vladimir, the Bevilacqua Center’s new maintenance director, that I realized I was talking to Christ. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the first time I had discovered the Divine among our mops and brooms at the center. Dorian, our former maintenance man, and I had shared conversations of faith and conviction prior to his return to Mexico right before the New Year. I can’t say I’m surprised God came through to me in Vladimir but then again, I always find myself astonished when I realize the conversation I am having speaks volumes beyond just the two people present in the room.

Vladimir had started by asking a question of what had led me to Philadelphia and my family’s reaction to the move and all I was doing. Soon enough though we were uncovering what it means to follow your heart.

“After years of doing lots of things you realize that all that really matters comes from here,” he said pointing to his heart.

“Sometimes when I’m talking to God, I ask ‘Daddy, are you really sure?’” he continued as our sharing got deeper and my soul took note that the Divine was in the room, “and God says to me ‘What did I tell you? What did I put in your heart?’ He’s saying do that, silly.”

Midpoints are important places. From the middle you can both look forward and backward. There you are given hindsight enough to make changes as well as foresight enough to know that much more remains to be uncovered.

Six months into this year, I have reached such a midway point. The past six months have flown by and there is no doubt that the remaining months in our year here in the Mission Corps will soon come to pass. The question of what to do next year certainly looms large. I could apply to graduate schools like I intended when this experience started. I could apply for a second year in the Mission Corps. I could choose to stay in Philadelphia beyond this year or I could not. Such choice is the nature of the midpoint; from here I have the ability to set, alter, or maintain a specific course in my life.

It is also the middle of winter, a place of scattered darkness and slow restoration. Here, in this middle, signs of life flitter in fits and starts. Life in community is more familiar than it was in the fall. Winter in community means more time together indoors growing in relationship. That growth is a blessing and a challenge; it involves living with two wonderful women, who teach me something new about myself and what in means to live in relationship each day. This growth also requires us to learn to live in community under new circumstances, absent of the initial formalities and cordialities, which fell away months ago. At the same time, winter in community also means laying the groundwork for renewal and restoration. Examining our life together on retreat in January made clear our need for such renewal- a call to live more deeply and truly the values of the SSJ Mission we signed on to just a few short months ago.

Restoration and renewal also take hold of my being this winter. As the dusk light recovers itself and blue tones fill the five o’clock hour, new hope returns as well. I feel as the Spirit goes deeper and my soul once stripped bare, in the midst of winter doldrums, begins to bud and turn towards the light. Within me there is a distinct shift towards resting in God and being in relationship with those around me, opening myself to them so that all might benefit.

Midway in my ministry marks ever evolving new ground, made greener by an enjoyment and gratification in and of the work I do. Such satisfaction is marked by a growing comfort that comes simply from having been able to grow in my position at the community center everyday over the course of the last half year.

Part of that growth comes from those I work with and ultimately those I work for each day. The neighbors that I visit and assist are the people whose lives I am most often able to bear witness to, finding life in their stories and gaining perspective from them as we work together for something better. Yet, this is not the only place this occurs in my ministry. Each and every person I encounter has a window to the soul ready to be opened- that is, if I look hard enough and those I encounter are willing to share. And sometimes, like with Vladimir, I don’t even realize I am looking until I am already peering in, gently sharing in life with another. At this point, our lives have converged and a new midpoint is made, marked by the past when we didn’t know each other and a future where we cannot forget one another.

This is perhaps the most important midpoint. It is the convergence point and it is the place where hearts can be changed. Here is where I happened to realize God was there. I note as my heart jumps in my chest that there is something there to follow, something that I hope I have been following. Looking back on moments and months, I can see it at play in my heart, looking forward I await where it leads, and for now, I rest in it- saying every now and then ‘are you sure?’, only to be reassured that if God meant for something else I wouldn’t be here, silly.

Inaudible Hearing: a poem

Inaudible Hearing

A Poem for Sunshine

What does God's voice sound like?

It sounds like the sigh I let out right before I fall asleep.

A sigh full of exhaustion and contentment

that wakes me from time to time as I hear it

and it jars me from sleep.

It sounds like the breath that passes my lips.

It emits a light that warms, a light that spreads from the smallest spark.

I feel it on the back of my eyelids

It sits in the center of my chest.

That voice speaks clearly in the muffled fuzz of a discerning heart.

Among the swirling feeling, there it is.

From deep within and yet from deep without.

I recognize it and the most fitting response is a murmur,

almost indistinguishable except for its feeling.

Words unformed but known by you.

I cannot say them

for I know them but my lips cannot form them.

My heart speaks.

Your heart speaks.

Voice is there.

I feel my mother's thumb trace a cross on my forehead

The sound,

the grace of her fingerprint running over the tiny hairs on my brow.

I could be 2 or 10 or 20, no matter.

Peace & blessing arrive, the inaudible sound of flesh on flesh calls them-

God's voice in action.

What does God's voice sound like?

I don't know.

But I surely know when I hear it.

Discovering the Visible

February has come and gone. The shortest month of the year was not lacking in fullness for sure, as you can tell by the more than a week's post time on this post. But February was also a month that allowed me to get back outside to take pictures. Visits from friends and family enriched my lens and gave me perspective on what I do. By the end of the month I was in need of time to reflect, which would come in March as I face the choices of what to do next year/ after June. Philadelphia is a city of murals- commissioned and not. Around every corner there is an artistic vision waiting to be discovered... Below are those I've been blessed to find-may they give you new vision and reveal what your eyes are meant to see.