“Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida!”
There’s no mistaking it—Jesus is upset. But this isn’t detached judgment. The Greek word for “woe” οὐαί (ouai) holds both sorrow and lament. Jesus is speaking out of grief. These were places where he showed up—where he healed, taught, loved—and still, people didn’t respond. That kind of rejection hurts.
It’s hard not to feel the sting of that. I find myself wondering: where has Christ already been present in my own life, and I’ve failed to respond? Maybe in someone I overlooked, or a moment of grace I was too busy to notice?
And then there’s St. Bonaventure. He did notice. He let the presence of Christ shape everything—his mind, his heart, his leadership. Bonaventure was a brilliant scholar, but his intellect didn’t distance him from God; it deepened his love. He was a mystic and a practical leader who helped guide the Franciscan Order through real struggles—not by taking sides, but by drawing everyone back to Jesus.
He responded with his life.
The contrast between this Gospel and Bonaventure’s witness is striking. Jesus laments the people who saw miracles and stayed the same. Bonaventure encountered Christ and let it change everything.
This Gospel isn’t just about judgment—it’s an invitation. Jesus still shows up—in our work, our conversations, our moments of stillness. The question is: will we notice? Will we respond?
Bonaventure did.
May we, too.
Rev. Jim Caime, SJ
I have lived and worked in thirteen states, as well as in Europe, Latin America, and East Asia, traveling around the world for work. At 63 years of age, 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.
