Beyond What We Remember: Encountering Grace Here and Now
We know this story.
Or at least, we think we do.
So often, when the Emmaus story is proclaimed, we don’t really listen. We go instead to the version we already carry in our memory—the ending we expect, the meaning we have already settled. And in doing so, we may miss what is being spoken now.
Along the road, the disciples speak of all that has happened. They tell their story. They have already heard from others—the women told us…—and still, they could not believe it. The truth was not absent. It had already been spoken, already shared, already alive among them. But they could not yet receive it.
How often is it the same for us?
We do not listen because we think we already know. We do not listen because we assume we bring the truth. We do not listen because we struggle to trust the voices speaking to us.
And still, Jesus draws near. Not to replace what is there, but to open it, to reveal it, to let it be seen.
Only later do they recognize what had been happening all along:
Were not our hearts burning within us while he spoke to us on the way?
Perhaps the question for us is not whether God is speaking.
But where—already—has something stirred, something warmed, something quietly begun?
And have we been listening?
Below is a poem by Sr. Joyce Rupp as a gentle companion for your prayerful reflection
Rev. Jim Caime, SJ
My email link is now correct.
I have lived and worked in thirteen states, as well as in Europe, Latin America, and East Asia, traveling around the world for work. I tend to approach life with a global perspective—yet always with a keen awareness of the local and the individual.
One of the most powerful meditations for me in the Spiritual Exercises is the meditation on the Incarnation, where the Trinity looks upon the world and sees the need to “be made flesh” in our lives. This deeply shapes my understanding of faith and presence.
Math, science, and hard data help us understand our lives and circumstances, but without the arts—poetry, music, and beauty—we would lack the language to express the inexpressible. I am drawn to Ignatian spirituality because it affirms that God is present in all things, always seeking to communicate with us, personally and profoundly.
I am a dreamer, deeply desiring to see the world as God does—with all its possibilities—while never turning away from its pain. And, thankfully, I also have a wicked sense of humor, which helps me (and hopefully others) navigate the world’s darkness with a bit more light.
At the same time, I hold close the wisdom of the prayer attributed to St. Oscar Romero, which reminds us that “we are merely laborers and not the Master Builder.” We are never the be-all and end-all—that is God’s place. This truth keeps me both humble and hopeful. Also, I am a sinner, always in need of God’s love, mercy and grace.
It is a privilege to contribute to this ministry. God’s Word is alive and active, and I hope my reflections offer you meaningful thoughts for your own prayer.
