Journeys Home

This past summer was absolutely incredible and it allowed me to grow in a lot of ways. It was a bit of a spiritual journey for me-- marking the 12 month point of being away from home: family, friends, parishioners... Baltimore. It was a summer that culminated in not being able to return for a best friend's wedding. But more importantly, it was a summer that expressed and in some sense captured the spiritual journey that I am on-- plunging deeper in love with God towards a life lived entirely for him and for others.

This summer I was able to meet, work with, and learn from soldiers and their families. I was able to get to know, learn from, and laugh with the poor and rejected of Dublin, Ireland. I was able to welcome 56 New Men to our seminary community and introduce them to the great spiritual journey of the next 4-5 years, one that they have been making their entire lives. I was also able to travel and bond with other seminarians-- friends who have become spiritual brothers and co-journeyers.

All of us human beings are on a journey home. We are all on a pilgrimage of trust that will hopefully bring every one of us to an eternal union with God our loving creator who desires more than anything to be at the core of our lives as our Lord, Savior, and dearest friend. And this summer I was able to accompany two of my brother seminarians on a bit of a journey home.

Mark is Irish. Both of his parents are of Irish descent and he excels in embracing his Irish heritage. This summer three of us accompanied Mark on his first ever trip to Ireland. We landed in Dublin... by the way, this picture records Mark's first contact with his native land. From Dublin we drove to the great town of Galway, which was our home for a few days as we made day trips out to the Cliffs of Moher, St. Bridget's Well, Croagh Patrick Mountain, and the Our Lady of Knock Shrine.

During the trip Mark was our tour guide and expert in all things Irish. It was awesome to be able to share in the excitement of his first trip to Ireland, the home of his ancestors. There was a certain rightness, a sense that this fit—it made sense. It was cool.

Jon is Italian. Towards the end of the summer I was able to travel with Jon and two other seminarian brothers to Jon’s homeland—to Siracusa, Sicilia. Jon loves his Italian heritage and embraces it well as a creatively traditional Italian chef and a selflessly generous spirit. We landed in Catania and drove to Siracusa—where Jon’s ancestors are from. In Siracusa we were able to eat cheap, awesome, and traditional Sicilian seafood, visit ancient Greek ruins, experience open-air markets, see a church where St. Paul preached, and visit the original cathedral of Siracusa. Inside the cathedral was a baptismal font that dated back to the 3rd century. It was awesome to stand and pray next to this font of life—a font that brought countless people over 1500 years into Christianity. No small or insignificant basin of water.

Like Mark in Ireland, Jon was on cloud-nine in Siracusa. It fit. In a way he was home. And, like in Ireland, those of us who were able to join him in this journey were incredibly thrilled and grateful to be able to be there and experience the joy.

In both Ireland and Sicily there were great moments of silence. There were several times where we just stood in awe of everything that was around us—in awe of the epic green landscapes of Ireland. In awe of the generous hospitality of the Irish people. In awe of the rugged climb up Croagh Patrick. In awe of the breath-takingly sacred beauty of the view at the Cliffs of Moher and at Croagh Patrick. In awe of the calm blue sea of Siracusa. In awe of the fresh fish and life in abundance. In awe of the rugged character of Siracusa. In awe of the longevity and grounded holiness of the Church in Southern Italy.

In both of these places we were moved to silence as we stood in awe of beauty and rightness. We stood in silence, in awe of God who had and continues to intentionally create these beauties—just as intentionally as he continues to create each one of us. We stood in awe of the process of returning home… the progression of this spiritual journey. What an opportunity. What a gift.

Last night I returned to my weekly apostolate—the Dono di Maria, a house run by the Missionaries of Charity that houses disadvantaged women and runs a supper program for homeless men. Each week I go with a good friend and brother seminarian to the Dono to help prepare and serve supper to these men of God. The best part of the apostolate undoubtedly is the men themselves and the many conversations, jokes, and relationships that are formed around the simple meal. Last night I was reminded that a consistent relationship with the poor is an absolutely essential part of my journey. By that I do not mean an abstract or romantic ideal of service—but rather a realization that the poor, known by name and countless stories, are some of the closest in my ecclesiastical family. And just to be clear, I mean the materially poor who suffer daily because they do not have what we take for granted.

Many of the men who frequent the Dono are homeless and unemployed because of mistakes that they have made. In most definitions of justice they deserve what they experience. But in my journey so far I have encountered a God who refuses to accept such a simple justice. A God who refuses to remain silent and inactive in our patterns of mistakes and self-destruction. I have encountered a God who pours himself out into our lives to bring us home. He freely empties himself to bring us home—a process that takes a lifetime of growing in trust and intimacy that gives way to make a home for Faith, Hope, and Love within us.

And so as I grow in awareness and recognition of what it means to be a Christian and what it means to be a priest, I have come to realize that at some level it means standing with those who are furthest from home and helping them to see, through word and witness, the God who is also standing with them—a God who has been there the whole time—waiting eagerly to begin the journey home. The journey to fulfillment. The journey to real justice. The journey to peace. The journey to love which is union with God.

On my way to school today I ran into a friend. Giovanni is a native of Rome who is addicted to alcohol and is homeless. For about a year now Giovanni and I have been exchanging greetings and carrying on full conversations in the form of bird noises. It’s a long story of how this got started, but the short of it is that we have shared our fair share of laughs every weekday morning and afternoon. Well, today Giovanni asked me if I wanted a coffee. After getting our two cappuccini I reached for my wallet only to be yelled at by Giovanni who insisted on paying. He would not let me pay. This was a huge gesture on his part that I will never forget. In this gesture Giovanni, a homeless alcoholic, helped me to see God on my journey to the Gregorian. Giovanni helped me to more freely and lovingly continue and commit myself to my journey with God today. What a gift.

Today is the Feast of St. Luke, an evangelist who has told the world that Jesus Christ is the incarnate God who came to save all people—breaking restrictions on invitation and love to include all, especially the poor and rejected. Our Lord Jesus calls us to love God above all things with our entire being and to love our brothers and sisters. While we are on the course of our own journeys home, why would we not choose to walk with others? How could we choose to not stand with those most rejected?

What a gift it is to be on our journey home. What a gift it is to be able to accompany others on their journey home. What a gift it is to have a home that is far beyond our comprehension and far more beautiful that anything we could ever imagine.

Diligence in Dublin

This afternoon I went to the one of the art museums in Dublin hoping to find some inspiration to help process the past two weeks. The painting to the left is called The Diligence in the Snow, by Gustave Courbet. An abbreviated title of this work, on the plaque below it, is The Snow. I think that it captures the Dublin that I saw and experienced quite well. The diligent, those trying to make their way, are surrounded by what seems to be turbulent waves crashing down all around them. And yet they are diligent. What's more is that the diligent make up less than a quarter of the entire frame. In other words, at a look they are pretty small and a busy glance at the beauties of the nature scene could easily miss the diligence of the travelers. A romantic depiction of the many beauties of Ireland's amazing landscapes, cultural treasures, perfections of Stout, traditional prominence in sport, etc. could miss the daily pains and struggles of the many diligent who carry their scars with them as they travel on into another day. The snow boughs are massive in this painting, but we would be at a complete loss if we did not see the diligence of the diligent. The same is true of any city and country. The lives of the poor and the marginalized are essential to the identity of the culture. We do not know Dublin unless we know the poor of Dublin-- their names, their stories, and have shared a laugh with them. We do not know Baltimore unless we know the poor of Baltimore.

I have been here in Dublin, Ireland working with an organization called De Paul International. De Paul is a Catholic organization named after St. Vincent De Paul that seeks to minister to the most marginalized of society. In Dublin there are several homes run by De Paul: one for women who are just finishing jail sentences, one for active drug users, one simply for the homeless, and two for men and women who are addicted to alcohol. For the past two weeks I worked at Sundial House. Sundial is unlike any other service provider that I have seen before. It is a community of men and women who are addicted to alcohol. The mission of Sundial is to provide a house, medical treatment, community, opportunity for recovery, and harm reduction to its residents. And like all of the sites of De Paul, Sundial houses the marginalized-- men and women who are addicted to alcohol, many of whom have been kicked out of hospitals and other service agencies. As I heard many times over the past two weeks from a variety of different people, Sundial takes in the people that everyone else kicks out. Oh, and Sundial is a wet house-- meaning that the residents are not forced to stop drinking. They are given a home and accepted as they are. It is one way of ministry to the addicted.

This ministry is risky and it is raw. The majority of conversations are filled with explatives and yet are sincere and authentic. The residents have the disease alcoholism and the effects of years of abusing alcohol are vividly apparent. In the two weeks I got to know many of them well. As they said yesterday, we had us some good chats and boy did we have some laughs. I'd like to tell you about a couple of them.

John (also known as Ben Ten, Barger, and Santa Clause) is quite a character. He wears a tie just about every day and sports a white beard over his beaming smile. Several months ago John had a stroke and continues to be restricted in his speech and posture as a result. That does not, however, keep John from giving everyone around him a hard time. He is the first to alert the staff or other residents when they are not doing what he thinks they should be doing. But in getting to know John I got to know a man of great integrity and great joy in making others laugh. John shared a few of his stories with me and I got to know what made him tick-- what would get him to laugh almost beyond control. But I never saw John more proud or more excited as when a woman on the street came up to him and asked, "John, how are you today?" He was delighted because this woman knew his name. And he stopped walking to bask in the joy of being recognized. If the moment itself didn't make a big enough impression on me, John reminded me of it more than a couple of times as the day went on.

Phillip (also known as HOOCH) is a delightful character who sees it as his duty to keep everyone at Sundial cool and laughing. You can tell when Phillip is coming around the corner when you hear his walker scraping along the floor and hear him yelling out, "Hooch!" Phillip goes to Mass every week and eagerly shares with everyone that the priest at church lets him light the candles on the altar. In conversation Phillip is the first to share a good joke or ask someone a question that is sure to stir up some excitement and laughs. Phillip has the ability to energize the group and can turn a tense situation into an opportunity to laugh and not take things too seriously.

These are two of the thirty residents at Sundial. There is a similar house around the corner, Orchid House. And as I said before, these ministries are risky and they are raw. The residents are diligent scrappers who are well acquanted with fighting to survive and have surprising resiliency. There is a rare occasion of recovery in which a resident succeeds in giving up alcohol and gets his/her own housing. But the majority of the residents will never see recovery or lasting sobriety. In the house there are harsh words. There are fights. There are falls. There are trips to the hospital. There is also diligence. In Sundial there is the diligence to love. The residents and the staff are diligent and persistent in how they interact with one another. The staff are amazingly diligent in loving these men and women and providing an opportunity for community with them. I have learned a lot from these men and women, both the residents and the staff.


My big picture goal for this summer was to gain some experiences that would add to my formation-- especially experiences that would give me resources to engage the many realities in Baltimore City. Over the four weeks working with soldiers and their families in the US Army I learned a bit about families and the many struggles that military families and really all families encounter. I also learned a bit about violence. I learned about the effects of violence on human beings. And in these two weeks with De Paul in Dublin I learned about a new and daring way to minister to people who have addictions.

Additionally, through daily prayer, Mass and the example of others, I have been able to see the role of the Church in all of this. I have seen the Church as an unwaivering community of believers who hold firm to the Standard of Christ and live their lives giving witness to the faith, hope, and love which they profess. The Church is huge with many many different ways of worship and ways of celebrating and ways of proceeding. We are one Church, one community, professing one faith in one Lord. And we are charged with the call to live our faith-- part of which is to love and to bring the knowledge of the love of God to all people, withholding it from no one. As Christians we cannot afford to not serve the poor and engage the marginalized of society with love.

Baltimore has its fair share of margins and marginalized. Baltimore is seeing its fourth generation of heroin addiction. Boarded homes and prisons are common sights. The city section of the Sun paper is filled with reports of violence, addiction, gang activity, etc. As Christians in Baltimore we cannot afford to do nothing. Get involved. Get to know the poor. Visit Gift of Hope, any of the sites run by Catholic Charities, any of the sites run by the Saint Vincent De Paul Society. Get involved in your parish. Get involved in your community. Pray.

Be diligent in loving others.

Going to the Frontiers

I have been in Catholic schools my entire life, and the majority of those schools have been Jesuit institutions. I, like many of my friends, am incredibly blessed and grateful to have been taught and formed by the Company founded by St. Ignatius of Loyola.

This evening I was able to attend the celebration of St. Ignatius' feast day in the Jesuit mother church, the Gesu in Rome. It was pretty cool. In his homily, the Superior General of the Jesuits, Adolfo Nicolas, spoke about the Holy Father's vision for the New Evangelization and how this is so incredibly necessary in the world today-- especially for the young.

Not too long ago in an official meeting with the Jesuits, Pope Benedict charged the order with the mission to go to the frontiers-- to take the Gospel to the borders of society today. To engage the ever changing world with an evolving theology and a spiritually grounded way of proceeding.

In his homily this evening, Fr. Adolfo talked about how necessary this is in our world today. He talked about how empty and meaningless our lives can be today. How it seems to be ever harder to find beauty in the world-- in society, in art, in music, in thought, etc. And he talked about young people today, who lack above all else patience. He says that they lack patience because they are tired of hearing empty words. Empty promises. Empty lyrics in repeating songs. And he said that we as the teachers, we as the priests, we as the parents, we as the adults must be patient with them! We must be patient with the young. He said that their conversion happens in conversation. In the New Evangelization we must listen and engage people at the level of conversation.

Fr. Adolfo used the example of the spiritual director, the guide during the Spiritual Exercises, written by St. Ignatius. The director searches for and identifies the workings of the Holy Spirit in a person's prayer and then guides that person to accepting the invitation and following the will of God. This process happens in conversation. So too must our evangelization.

It was a good homily. And it was inspiring to hear these words alongside hundreds and hundreds of people who were packed into the Gesu-- teachers, parents, people from the streets, religious sisters, students, priests, tourists, etc.

After the homily we professed our faith in the form of the Creed used at Baptism and Confirmation liturgies... giving our full consent and proclaiming our belief by saying, "I Believe." And I realized as I prayed this Creed, that I can believe more fully because of the great teachers that I have had. I realized that there have been many men and women who have in a very real way collaborated in the process of forming me in the faith. And during the rest of the Mass I thanked God for those people. I thanked God for my parents, role models, and friends that I have had around me my whole life. I thanked God for the teachers and coaches who have helped form me. And I thanked God for the many Jesuits who have done the same as teachers, spiritual directors, and friends-- who have taught me to search for God in all things, in all people, in all situations; and to truly celebrate that. To celebrate every occasion of finding God in the ordinaries of everyday life.

The Jesuits and their partners in mission have a saying for after you've been a student in a Jesuit school or had a Jesuit spiritual director, ruined for life. I guess its true.

Tomorrow I head out to Dublin, Ireland for a couple of weeks. I will be working in a homeless shelter run by the St. Vincent DePaul Society, getting involved with a program that ministers to men who are addicted to alcohol and do not have a home. Through volunteering in this program I hope to get some ideas and resources to, like everything else that I learn and experience over here, bring back to Baltimore. Should be awesome. And like most experiences with reality, it might even ruin me a little bit.

A Memorable Celebration

This 4th of July was definitely one to remember. There were burgers and ribs. There was a party of over a thousand. There were plenty of American flags and red-white-and blue everywhere. And of course, there were fireworks.

But this celebration was different. It was sobering. As the last song of the celebration, Proud to be an American by Lee Greenwood, blared in the German night sky I looked around and the mood of the party had shifted from light-hearted celebration to a rather serious and sober presence. All of these people, soldiers and families of soldiers, stood together. They stood together, some singing softly, some just standing silently. But they all knew something. They know, both from their own personal experiences and from their shared life in the military, that freedom is not free and it certainly is not cheap. They know that being in the military requires a counter-culturally sacrificial way of life.

Some of these Americans have family members-- husbands, wives, fathers, and mothers-- who are "down range." Some are preparing to be deployed. And some, many, are coping with the experiences that they encountered while down range. The sacrifices that these men, women, and children make are real and they are costly. And for many the effects of these sacrifices last a life time.

But yet we all came together that night. We all stood together out on that field. We all took part in the ribs and the burgers and most, those who would not be "set-off" by the loud explosions of fireworks, stood under the colorfully lit sky looking up in awe at the different shapes and formations and colors and varieties of fireworks.

Though it was sobering, this was most definitely a celebration. It was a celebration of freedom, of our country, of the relationships and deep fraternal bonds that we share. It was a celebration of the values that this community lives by.

For four weeks this summer I am working with a US Army Chaplain. In the past two weeks, from meeting and listening to soldiers and their families, I have been absolutely floored time and time again. I have been floored by the depth of sacrifice that these men and women and children offer. In this short amount of time it is clear that two major issues for military families are Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and marriage. For some it seems like a constant struggle. Deployment means 365 days. That is 365 days that a husband and wife do not see each other, except through a computer screen. That is 365 days that a father/mother does not see his children. That is 365 days that a child does not see a parent. Additionally, it is 365 days of stress and fear and life-changing events.

My prayers for peace and an end to all violence as well as the safe return of all soldiers has increased in both volume and intensity.

What floors me even more, though, is the resiliency. The resiliency of these men and women who live bold lives. I met a woman who is married to a soldier. She and her husband have three sons-- one of whom was born while her husband was down range. Luckily he was able to come home for a short time after his son's birth to be with his family. But now he has returned and his wife is courageously raising their sons.

I also met a soldier who has been down range three times. He suffers from PTSD and fights many battles daily-- some days more successful than others. But in the midst of this struggle he is turning to God and recognizes an inner hunger for a deeper relationship with God.

I have also met many young people on post-- childern of soldiers-- who are some of the most un-assuming teenagers that I know. They go through the same struggles that most adolescents do, but gradually with an advantage, I think, because of their knowledge that true commitment costs. Not only are they well acquainted with the costs of commitment, but they are eager to give. They look forward to the future as an opportunity to see what the world has to offer and in the same spirit to see where they can contribute. Some of them have aspirations to be professional athletes, some to work in business, and many hope to follow in the proud tradition of their parents and become soldiers themselves, enrolling in various ROTC programs.

As has been the case since entering the seminary, I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to have met and gotten to know these bold men, women, and children who stand together for our country and for freedom. Although they do not decide exactly where they go and what they are to do, these people give of themselves and seek the best possible outcome of every situation.

They are heroes and deserve prayer and support.

So let us stand together and pray for them as we continue to pray and to work for an end to all war and violence.

Holy Spirit

Every Wednesday I go to the Dono di Maria (Gift of Mary). It is a refuge for many of the poor in Rome, run by the Missionaries of Charity and located directly next to St. Peter's Basilica. Here they offer housing for women of all different backgrounds and a dinner every night for men who are in need of good eats. It has really been a highlight of this past year for me-- especially because of the people that I have met there, both guests and hosts.


Two weeks ago I had a conversation with one of our frequent guests, a Polish Catholic who has been homeless in Rome for quite some time now, that still occupies much of my thoughts and prayers. I had talked with him many times before, both in the Dono and on the streets, but this conversation was different. While he was eating his meal I went over to him, put my hand on his shoulder and asked, "How are you today?" He looked up at me and shrugged. I asked, "How is today so far?" He put down his fork and as he slowly looked up he began to cry. He then started sobbing as he told me, "This life is not for me. This life on the streets is not for me. I love books. I read. I have read many books: big books, small books, fiction, non-fiction. I have read the Bible. But now. I live on the streets and have nothing. I read nothing. I don't know the words."


I stood there, with my arm around him. I thought that I didn't have anything that I could to offer that could help. I had no money, not that he would take it. I had no books, not that they were the solution. And most humbling for me, I had no words. So I stood there with my hand on his shoulder. After a while of sharing in this somewhat awkward and humbling moment, I told him that I will pray for him and assured him that no matter where he is-- he is never alone. Then I walked away to continue passing out the bread.

What keeps drawing me back to that moment, I think, is the vulnerability that was shared. This man had nothing. He was reduced to tears with the realization of his current situation. And I too, who was there precisely for him and the other guests, had nothing. I had nothing to offer him other than myself in listening to him and in praying with him. I guess it's tough to articulate, but in that moment I was reminded of how little we have. I was reminded of how imperfect we are. Of how, when things seem to get most real, we have no words to formulate.

There is a famous church here in Rome called the Pantheon. It used to be a pagan temple and, like many other things in Rome, was "baptized" as Christianity spread throughout the ancient world and converted into a Catholic church. As you can see above, the ceiling of the Pantheon is a dome and at the apex of the dome is an opening. As an analogy to human nature, the Pantheon is open to the sky. It, at its apex, has no barrier, no protective roof, no cover. And we too, at our apex, when we are most aware of the truth of ourselves, our brokenness, our various experiences of incompetence, we are also aware of the openness-- the lack of barrier. And it is through this opening that the light of the sun shines in on the Pantheon, illuminating it. So too with us, it is so many times through our brokenness that true light shines, the light of a God who entered into, embraced, and totally liberated every fiber of our brokenness, our emptiness-- making of us a new creation. This continues today. Every day.

Today is Pentecost. It is the day that we remember, cherish, and celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit. It is the birthday of the Church. It is the day that we are reminded that our vocation, our faith, is one that necessarily takes us to the brink. It necessarily takes us to new challenges, to meet others where they are and dare to love them. Today we remember that being a person of faith is courageous. To be a person of faith means to embark on the life long process of identifying and engaging your own brokenness, inviting God in to fill that space. And even more, to do this in community with others-- generously and without reserve-- giving of your surplus and of your poverty so that all might know, through your words and deeds, the reality of God and the reality of God's infinite love.

Today thousands of rose pedals poured into the Pantheon. A beautiful sight, I'm sure. But beautiful too is the sight and the experience of a person inviting God to fill the brokenness and emptiness of their entire being. While I wonder if my friend from the Dono di Maria has ever seen the rose pedals pouring into the Pantheon, I hope and pray that he sees and experiences the unjustly generous gift of the Holy Spirit filling his brokenness and lighting his heart on fire with love and joy.

Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blest, and in our hearts take up Thy rest; come with Thy grace and heav'nly aid, To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.

O Comforter, to Thee we cry, Thou heav'nly gift of God most high, Thou Fount of life, and Fire of love, and sweet anointing from above.

O Finger of the hand divine, the sevenfold gifts of grace are thine; true promise of the Father thou, who dost the tongue with power endow.

Thy light to every sense impart,and shed thy love in every heart;thine own unfailing might supply to strengthen our infirmity.

Drive far away our ghostly foe,and thine abiding peace bestow; if thou be our preventing Guide, no evil can our steps betide.

Praise we the Father and the Son and Holy Spirit with them One; and may the Son on us bestow the gifts that from the Spirit flow.

V. Send forth Thy Spirit, and they shall be created.

R. And Thou shalt renew the face of the earth.

Solitude to Communal Celebration

My Easter celebration has been absolutely incredible this year, and I am truly grateful for the ways and the people in which God manifested God's own self this past week. I spent Holy Week with a couple of brother seminarians from the NAC on a pilgrimage through France that took us from the solitude of a hermitage in Southern France to the town of Chartreuse which is just at the foot of one of the oldest Christian monasteries in the world to the bustling city of Lyon to Cluny to an ecumenical community of contemplative brothers in a town called Taize. Throughout this pilgrimage we met literally thousands of people who witnessed through their joy, their simplicity, their love, their beauty, their hospitality, their love for the Lord, their faith... their lives. Here are a few:

1. The community of sisters and the priests of the Community of St. John who greeted us with warm and jovial hospitality and invited us to join them, though for a brief time, in their lives of solitude and simplicity. The lives that these saints live are incredibly simple and yet radically profound. They are hermits. They live in small huts, like the one above, on the side of a mountain in Southern France. They gather daily for Mass and then continue the celebration through their daily work of survival and praising God in the wilderness in silence. They have literally next to nothing and forego plumbing, electricity for some, warm water. Each hermitage is heated by a cylindrical wood-burner and the only available running water comes from a small spicket outside of the hermitage. These hermits truly live in the wilderness, and yet they find, follow, and embrace the Living God without ceasing. One of the priests of the Community of St. John described his vocation as "being a friend of Jesus." And for him, being a friend of Jesus has taken him to Rwanda in the 90's... the same time as the Rwandan Genocide, and to Romania where he devoted himself to building bridges and trust between the Roman Catholic Church and the Easter Orthodox Churches.

2. Silence. Very few things are able to capture the mysteries of Holy Week as adequately, poetically, and harmoniously as silence. And fittingly, silence was a major element and refrain for our pilgrimage. We found silence in the chapels of the hermitages, in the mountains and streams of the wilderness, and in the exclamatory pauses between chants and prayers shared by over 5,000 people at Taize. The communities that we encountered were contemplative, and so they live their lives more or less in silence. Their liturgies are slow, peace-filled, simple, and incredible. I was especially impressed by the silence embraced by the young people at Taize, who paused for 10-15 minute periods of silence at communal prayer (Morning, Mid-Day, and Evening). A church filled with over 5,000 people, the vast majority of whom were under the age of 30, entered into silence intentionally, communally, and unanimously. This silence was incredibly refreshing and incredibly profound. It fit our celebration of Holy Week well-- allowing us to enter into the mystery that is God, inviting us to stand without words at the foot of the Cross, beckoning our participation in the silence of the reality of Holy Saturday, and then finally over-filling us with peace as we sang the universal triumphant word of the Church which far transcends our own thoughts and words. Alleluia.

3. Other pilgrims from all over the world. In Taize we encountered and got to know Christian pilgrims from all over the world. These people came on pilgrimage to seek God in a profound way, and many of them did so amidst profound decisions in their lives. I met a Slovakian couple who have been living in London for several years now. The girl is a nurse in London, but is discerning whether or not God is calling her to return home to Slovakia. The uncertainty of this decision and of its effects were tangible as her and her boyfriend shared their discernment with others and brought who they are to a community of Christians who were previously strangers; to chants of Latin, German, Italian, Slovakian, English; to God in prayer; to the Cross; and to the triumphantly loud singing of praise at Mass on Easter Sunday. I also met a group of pilgrims from Lafia who spent more time on their voyage to Taize than they spent actually in Taize. Over three days they drove across Poland and Germany, over the Alpes, going through quite the adventure as their headlights and brakes went out while they were coming down from the Alpes. And yet, although they had gone through a great deal of stress and sacrifice to make it to Taize, said, "This place (Taize) is paradise."

Pilgrims come to Taize from all over the world. And they, like the brothers of Taize, embraced simplicity and contemplation. They took prayer seriously and invested themselves to God through prayer... prayer that lasted anywhere from 1 to 5 hours at a time. They chose to sit on a hard floor for hours in prayer that included spiritual conversations, the Sacrament of Reconciliation, ancient and contemporary chants, and silence.

4. Relationality. Just as the priest of the CSJ confessed, "My vocation is to be a friend of Jesus," so too, each one of us shares in that very same vocation. And as we deepen our friendship with Jesus we also, at the same time, deepen our friendships with the friends of Jesus... every human being. I experienced this through prayer this Holy Week, especially as I venerated the Cross on Good Friday.

At Taize they venerate the Cross every Friday. They first carry the Cross through the congregation in a solemn procession. Then they lay the Cross down on the ground and the brothers venerate the Cross, mostly by placing their foreheads to the wood of the cross. They then invite the congregation, about 5,000 strong, to venerate the Cross in similar fashion. As pilgrims file into line to venerate the Cross they kneel or sit in the center aisle and slowly move forward as the line progresses towards the Cross. For the two hours that I knelt in line I honestly had no idea what I was going to do when it was my turn to venerate the Cross. I didn't know the words to say or the gesture to make or the thought to share or the image to embrace.

But as I gently rested my forehead on the Cross someone came to mind. She is a homeless heroine addict that I met during my first parish assignment, at St. Gregory the Great in Baltimore City. And I felt, probably because it was the reality, that I was bringing this woman, a woman who I remember in prayer often, to the Cross of Jesus, her friend who is there with her in her own struggle. Then a close friend of mine who is struggling with a similar addiction emerged, and I brought him to the Cross, to Jesus who is with him and with his wife, son, and daughter. And then tons of people, from my family, from the seminary, from parish assignments, brother Baltimore seminarians approaching ordination, from school, from work, from all facets of my life processed, one by one, in prayer to the Cross where they were and are united with Christ.

This reality of holding one another in prayer and how it relates to our faith was made accutely apparent during the intercessions as we prayed for the victims of the recent earthquakes in Japan and then, immediately after prayed as a community of 5,000 the chant, "Nothing can ever come between us and the love of God." I find this to be such a mystery and such a challenge at times, but saw somehow that even in times of great suffering we are so incredibly united with God. And in that same reality, I gained some insight into what it means to be a seminarian and a priest-- as one who lives for others-- in deed, in word, and in prayer-- just basically loving people and trying to serve as a bridge in any way possible between others and God.

5. My brothers. Seeing the sisters and the priests of the CSJ at the hermitage and then seeing the brothers at Taize was truly inspiring and to be honest attractive. Their sense of community and of apostolic zeal was impressive and it was apparent that they, in both communities, live the Gospel. Their intentionality of community and their sharing of prayer and service together for others was impressive to say the least. That being said, my experience of these communities would have been less if it had not been for my brothers with whom I shared this pilgrimage. The laughs, sharing of graces, prayer, and everything else brought so much to the experience. Just another example of how awesome it is to be pursuing a vocation to the priesthood.

For the record, this was my first Holy Week away from Baltimore-- away from St. Stephen's and away from my brother Baltimore seminarians, and away from serving at the Cathedral. But I definitely did not feel as though I was celebrating these great mysteries without those communities and honestly very much felt connected with them and with the whole Church in prayer and in great celebration. And I look forward in great hope and expectation to the unfolding of this Easter as the Octave continues.

Come Together Right Now Over Me

Philosophers and theologians have been saying for thousands of years that we, as human beings are wired for community-- we are wired to get to know and enter into relationships with one another. And the architecture and city plan of every Italian town that I have seen reflects this innate wiring that we all have in the piazza-- the central spectacle and focal point of the town where people come together. To the left is a picture of the main piazza in Siena, where they hold a horse race called the Palio every year. Just about every town in Italy has a central piazza where people gather. The Piazza Commune in Assisi hosts concerts, lectures, marches, wedding receptions, etc. Piazza Navona in central Rome is the gathering place for street entertainers, venders, rowdy ragazzi (Italian teens), couples enjoying a free night, and countless tourists and pilgrims. And certainly the world famous Piazza San Pietro in front of St. Peter's Basilica which welcomes thousands upon thousands of pilgrims for daily Mass, prayers, pilgrim tours, beatifications, major feasts, canonizations, papal audiences, etc. These central gathering spaces are arenas where people come together-- they are the locations in which community manifests itself. And they facilitate a genuine need in bringing people together. In Baltimore we're pretty lucky to have the Harbor and places like Fells Point, Canton, Federal Hill, and Belvedere Square where people can gather for a free afternoon, an outdoor concert, etc. One of my favorite places in Baltimore, and one that I am missing a lot this time of year, is the stretch that runs between Camden Yards and M&T Stadium-- that unforgetable walk on Eutaw Street that has come to be coined "Bird Land." I can remember walking to Ravens' games, seeing friends from high school and taking in the atmosphere of burgers and brats on the grill, footballs in the air, and friends and families everywhere. I can remember being late to Orioles' games and singing the National Anthem with friends on the way into the Park.

One of the ways that we build community here at the seminary is rallying around and supporting our soccer team. Every year in Rome there is a tournament between all of the seminaries in the city called the Clericus Cup. Competition in this tournament is intense as seminarians from all over the world try to win the Cup for their seminary and for their country. At the NAC our tradition as fans is to dress up as super heroes and other ridiculous characters to support our team and bring unrivaled sports cheer to the city of Rome. We walk together to the matches and then engage the game as the 12th man through songs and cheers. Here at the seminary we also gather to build fraternity and community through softball, frisbee, football, and basketball games. We come together for BBQs, lectures, and regional celebrations. But above all, we come together multiple times each day in prayer with one another-- looking to God; a God for whom each of us desires to live. We gather for Morning Prayer, for Mass, for the Rosary, for special devotions. We gather for Evening Prayer, for Adoration, and for Praise and Worship. And the communal prayer that we share lays the foundation for our community. It deepens the significance and the depth of sharing that takes place on the sports field and in the classroom and on the patio. And to be perfectly honest, I'd argue that we gather in prayer when we gather on the sports field and in the piazza. We look to the same God whom we love in the communal arenas of recreation as we do in the communal temples of adoration. And when we gather together, as Christians, we always gather together over and with Christ. Whether we be gathering to offer service to one another, support one another, or to enjoy one another-- we do so with Christ in our midst and in our hearts and in our line of sight. My Lenten observance this year has been to spend some time each day contemplating heaven. And whether it has involved the communion of saints, the sheer inability to comprehend or describe in words, the relationship shared between the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, the relationship shared between the people in heaven and God, etc. it has always involved community and communion-- a sense in which we are so drawn out of ourselves as to be totally conscious of and united with God. And although these experiences of community and of communion that we share here in this life are a mere taste of the eternal experience of heaven... they're pretty good.