“Pierced Hearts and Broken Cycles”
Reflection for the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus
In the HBO series, The Last of Us, the world is bleak. Grief, loss, and survival shape everything. People make unthinkable choices—but they make them for love. Or at least, something that looks like love after it’s been warped by pain.
Joel can’t bear to lose Ellie, so he kills to keep her. Abby loses her father and hunts Joel. Kathleen’s brother is killed, and though he was a man of forgiveness, she chooses vengeance. And by the end of Season 2, we’re left with a moment where Ellie’s hands are up, and we hear a single gunshot. Fade to black. The cycle completes itself. Or maybe it just repeats.
None of it feels like evil for its own sake. It feels like grief that can’t find another outlet. Love turned in on itself. Hurt people hurting people.
And watching it, I found myself thinking: thank God we don’t live in a world like that.
Except we do.
We don’t have the clickers or the quarantine zones, but we do have the wars. Russia and Ukraine. Israel and Hamas. Iran and Israel. Innocent civilians, whether Ukrainians, Russians, Israelis, Palestinians, Iranians—families, children, elders—caught in the middle of relentless cycles of violence and fear. And here at home, policies that harm the most vulnerable are justified in the name of order and safety. Every side claims justice, but all too often, it’s just vengeance dressed up in better language.
We live in a world that keeps swinging, keeps hardening, keeps retaliating. And in that world, today we’re given an image of… a heart.
Not a sword. Not a flag. Not a throne. A heart.
The Sacred Heart of Jesus is pierced. Burning. Wounded, but open. It doesn’t flinch from suffering—but it also doesn’t inflict it. It absorbs the worst the world can give and answers not with revenge, but with mercy. It’s not naïve. It’s not weak. It’s defiant in the most holy way.
And I’ll be honest: I don’t have that kind of love inside me. Not naturally. Not consistently. Not when I’m tired, grieving, angry, scared, or betrayed. And certainly not when the wound is deep and just surviving feels like all I can manage.
But maybe that’s exactly where the Sacred Heart meets us—not in our strength, but in our poverty. This feast isn’t a moral challenge to love perfectly. It’s an invitation to be loved first. To be met by the mercy of Christ right where we’re empty. To let ourselves be loved like that—in all our weakness, resentment, confusion, and pain. To be held by a heart that never hardens against us, no matter how long we wander.
And if we let that love in—just a crack—something begins to soften. Maybe our hearts ache in the same direction—bruised by grief, cracked open by compassion, stretched by the longing for peace. Maybe just a single moment when we don’t lash out. When we choose silence over spite. When we weep instead of retaliate. Maybe the cycle breaks. Even just once.
So don’t try to have that kind of love.
Let it have you.
And maybe that is enough.
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.
