Passages

Copley Square

Boston MA

For the past two Sundays, I've had the opportunity to fill in for a Jesuit in my community who serves as a hospital chaplain, leading a pair of communion services while he was away on vacation. Over the past week or so, with many members of the community traveling for retreats, family visits, conferences, and vacations, we've had some smaller numbers at the afternoon liturgy in the house. Consequently, I've stepped into the role of lector with greater than usual frequency. Apart from the experience of these liturgical ministries, I've been struck by the depth and relevance of the Scriptures that have been the focus of my reading and preaching this month.

The parables from chapter 13 of Matthew's Gospel– the sower and the seed (Matthew 13:1-23), the weeds and the wheat (Matthew 13:24-43)– that have appeared the past two Sundays, along with the successive episodes from Exodus in the weekday readings, have together presented a helpful framework for meditating on the state of my spirit and the progression of my journey as I near the completion of my seventh year as a Jesuit. I'm the kind of person who struggles with perfectionist tendencies, and I've long held myself to high standards that sometimes exceed my reach more than they motivate me to stretch and grow. I can appreciate the wonders, graces, and quaint surprises to be found on a leisurely drive through the countryside, yet I do not always have the same patience and acceptance of delays, detours, or obstacles in the path that I've envisioned for myself. Although it's easy to say, along with the owner of the field where weeds are scattered amidst the wheat, "An enemy has done this" (Matthew 13:28), I know that I'm quite responsible for my own reactions to the personal imperfections, blemishes, and shortcomings that I all to easily see in myself. Moreover, I do not always respond with the wisdom of the landowner, who notes, "if you pull up the weeds you might uproot the wheat along with them. Let them grow together until harvest..." (Matthew 13:29-30).

As I renew my efforts to see God's care and wisdom in the coexistence of weeds and wheat in my life, I've been inspired by the comparatively arid imagery of Israel in the desert. Fleeing from the Egyptians, passing through the Red Sea, gathering manna, complaining about harsh conditions, I can easily see myself among this crowd. The hot and hazy July weather, the long arc of priestly formation, the ongoing transition into work at Holy Cross, the various summer projects still unfinished– these all push me to wonder not only what lies beyond the next bend in the road, but also when I'll get there. When I've wondered where God is amid this sometimes trackless expanse, in the imagery of Exodus an answer emerges: all around me. In the passage through the Red Sea, the physical and symbolic chaos of the ocean surrounds, but does not overwhelm, the Israelites. When manna is provided from heaven to nourish the Israelites in the desert, it blankets their entire camp and remains for them to gather, rather than simply appearing in their tents. God's gentle and powerful omnipresence becomes humble, personal, on a human scale– with a little bit of work on our part to gather in or walk among such signs.

I believe that each of us is on a journey, and that our paths, though unique, are never completely separate. Whether intersecting briefly, aligning for a time, or regularly and repeatedly crossing over one another, the routes we travel are surrounded by God, laid through landscapes that are rarely uniform, yet ultimately destined for good and fruitful harvests, and often marked by early hints of such abundance. Be assured of my prayers for your journeys, and kindly remember mine in yours.