Widening the Circle, Walking Through the Gate
More Than Close, Transformed
These readings are tough.
Hebrews talks about discipline.
Jesus talks about a narrow gate, a locked door, people being left outside.
It all sounds a little harsh at first.
But maybe it’s not about exclusion.
Maybe it’s about growing up.
I once had a freshman who just couldn’t get up in the morning.
Missed class all the time.
I asked him, “Didn’t you ever have to wake up to an alarm?”
“No,” he said. “My mom always woke me up. I always overslept my alarm.
She didn’t want me to be late.”
She loved him—but he hadn’t learned how to take responsibility.
He was technically in college, but not quite an adult yet.
That’s the kind of love Hebrews is getting at.
Not the soft kind that shields us from everything hard,
but the kind that wants us to grow.
Tough love.
Love that strengthens our knees, steadies our feet, and says,
You can do this.
We see that kind of growth all the time.
Married couples who grow into their vows—
not just when things are good, but when they’re not.
Parents who learn as they go.
It’s not easy. Sometimes it’s painful.
But it’s how love deepens and matures.
I remember early in my priesthood,
sitting with so much emotional pain—grief, loss, fear, confusion—
not my own, but the pain of others.
People I was accompanying through deep sorrow and struggle.
And I remember thinking, Jesus, I didn’t think it would be this hard.
And what I heard back in prayer was,
It gets harder. Stay close to me.
That’s not a threat.
It’s an invitation.
To lean in. To grow. To be changed.
In the Gospel, the people outside the door say,
“But we ate and drank with you!”
And Jesus says,
“I don’t know where you’re from.”
That’s not about geography.
It’s about formation.
It’s not enough to be near holiness.
We’re called to be shaped by it.
Jesus isn’t locking us out.
He’s asking us to grow up.
To let him shape us.
To move from comfort to conversion.
The good news?
That door is still open.
And even the narrow gate has room—if we’re willing to be changed.
And that change—if it’s real—doesn’t stop with us.
It moves outward.
Because these readings aren’t just about personal growth.
They’re about a God who gathers from every nation and language.
Who welcomes outsiders and makes them insiders.
Who judges not by claims of closeness, but by hearts transformed.
So what do these readings say to us, as citizens, as voters,
as members of a wounded and divided nation?
They challenge us to ask:
Are we creating systems that heal or harm?
Policies that welcome or walls that exclude?
Are we protecting comfort—or choosing compassion?
It’s not enough to say, “We go to church. We know the language.”
The question is: have we let Jesus change us?
Have we made space for others at the table?
Music is an important part of my spirituality.
If you’d like to continue reflecting, I offer this song:
You Can Do This Hard Thing by Carrie Newcomer
It’s a reminder—gentle but steady—that we’re not alone in the struggle to grow.
And that grace meets us right in the middle of what feels too hard.
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.
