A land of gift

Harry Scherer
Class of 2022

(12/2021) Snuggled on the eastern slope of the Catoctin Mountain sits a small university. For anyone who has stepped foot on the Mount’s campus, it is clear that there is something different about this place. But what makes the place distinct for the university, and what makes the university distinct for the place?

From my perspective, the notion that this difference is "clear" is often shrouded in the realm of an imprecise but sustained feeling. This feeling is sustained because my presence at this place is sustained. If the feeling were but transitory, I could be charged with not being present with and for and in my place, and therefore not really being present with myself. If there is anything that I have learned and have become so surely convinced of through my years in university, it is that there are few stations so miserable as not being present in one’s place. There is a sure interrelation between a disconnection with one’s place, a disconnection with oneself, and a disconnection with others; hopefully the inverse is the case as well.

Of all places to be with oneself and to be with others, the mountain campus is surely a delightful one. As Jack suggests so eloquently in his piece this month, the mountain bears a spiritual, geographical, and eschatological significance. The act of rising up onto, against, and with the mountain is one of fortitude and determination. There is a perpetual struggle in a mountainous place between reality as perceived and reality as such.

This year’s flood, as Emmy mentions, is one such example. Through that event, our community was simultaneously reminded of the privilege of typicality and the demands of responding to and engaging with the natural world. While these irregular occurrences burden the university with certain constraints of time and finances, there is a certain blessing imbedded in their manifestations. Our daily routines are ripped of their relative sterility and are thrown into the domain of uncertainty. The technological age in which we find ourselves assures us that our lives are in our control, that we can customize, amplify, and regulate to our exact specifications; the suggestion of specifications implies that we know what we want in the first place, which shouldn’t necessarily be taken for granted.

A mountainous place allows for this sort of engagement with reality that is not necessarily allowed for in a different kind of place. This is not to say that this engagement with reality is demanded on those who live on a mountain; some can choose to avoid it, to pretend that it does not exist for the sake of some convenience. To cover both those who choose to engage and those who choose to evade, the mountain provides a sort of physical protection from the elements. The university is hidden from the west, and from some angles, the north and the south. As a concession for this protection, it is completely exposed when viewed from the east. In this way, we are pleasantly hidden from most of the world, but are put under the spotlight for that sliver of the world that is graced with a view toward our land.

One practical ramification of this orientation is that those who live on campus can view a sunrise every morning, but never a sunset. We are repeatedly gifted with a view of the rising sun, with the opportunity to greet new days. These frequent opportunities are yet further reasons to appreciate the gift of living on a mountain, especially during college. While college students are frequently tempted by the lure of "new and exciting opportunities," it is good to be able to regularly welcome the most natural opportunity, namely, the gift of a new day.

As a response to these regular gifts, the historical placement of this university institution must have contributed something to its land over the centuries. Thousands of students, faculty, administration, and staff have invested their bodies and souls into work at this mountain campus since 1808. Surely, the land over the centuries has been abused by our people in ways that we cannot imagine. This abuse might have manifested itself in an obvious waste of our natural resources, or in some of the institutional sins like slavery. Is it possible that this work and presence altered the character of the mountain itself? If so, did they alter it for the good or ill?

I would argue that the mountain is better from our being on it. Imagine no architecture on this part of the Catoctin Mountain. Imagine no people traveling from place to place at all hours of the day and night. It seems that our presence here on this mountain vivifies the land itself. If we were absent, would all of the aesthetic benefits of this place still be present?

Granted, the campus architecture varies in its respect for the land on which is sits. It would be foolish to suggest that the Chapel of the Immaculate Conception, or the Terrace, or Bradley Hall can be compared to the PAC, the pavilion behind Delaplaine, or the apartment towers. The former demand permanence and respect and suggest that thought and intentionality preceded the laying of each stone. By both a quick glance and thorough review, the latter do not demand the same permanence or respect.

This is all to say that the things that we put on this mountain, and the actions that we complete on and for it should serve as a response to all that the mountain has given its people. Architecture and action, in this way, can be thought of as evidence of gratitude. The IC Chapel, the statue of Our Lady at the Grotto, and the Grotto cave itself are all proper and eminently grateful responses to the land which has been given to us as a gift.

As this year draws to a close, I am overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude for the land that has welcomed me and hope to cherish the short time that I have left with it.

Read other articles by Harry Scherer