The notion that the spiritual life is a journey is so common that it’s a platitude. I worked for years in Catholic publishing. I’ve seen dozens of book covers depicting paths: rugged paths in the forest, manicured paths in lovely parks, paths over bridges, paths up mountains, paths across the desert. But the cliche isn’t wrong; life is a journey. I feel like I’m substantially the same guy that I was decades ago, but I’m really not. Sometimes I’m astonished at the difference between what I believed then and what I believe now.
The word believe is an example. I don’t think that what I believe is nearly as important as who I am and what I’m part of. I used to think of my woes and troubles as problems to be fixed. Now I think that I am the one who needs fixing. I used to measure progress by looking at the things I had done. Now I look more closely at where I am on—well, yes, the journey.
St. Ignatius is the exemplar of the journeying Christian. Hardly anything turned out the way he thought it would when he undertook it. He thought he should live a life of
