I watched two men cutting concrete the other day—just a culvert job, tucked into an ordinary driveway. No logo on the trucks. One man older, seasoned maybe. The other is younger, probably mid-thirties. The saw shrieked into the morning air, kicking up a thick cloud of dust. No wet cutting, no protective gear. Just bandannas covering their faces. No N95 masks. No health precautions. Just the shortcut.
And I thought: how often do we approach our faith like that?
We settle for something quick and familiar. We hope a little dust won’t do much harm. Maybe we’re tired. Maybe we think we know better. Maybe we’re too cheap to pay the cost of deeper trust, slower listening, intentional surrender.
But our walk with God isn’t meant to be hacked together with shortcuts. It’s a journey.
In the desert, the Israelites were weary. Tired of wandering, thirsty for relief. They contended with Moses, forgetting the miracles, forgetting the manna, forgetting that every step had been guided—even through confusion and scarcity. They wanted water now. Wanted comfort now. Wanted Egypt again.
And Moses, caught in their chaos, loses his footing. God says: speak to the rock. Moses strikes it—twice. Water flows, but trust fractures. The shortcut costs him entry into the land of promise. Not because God was cruel—but because obedience had become performance, and faith had lost its tenderness.
We strike when we’re meant to speak. We rush when we’re meant to listen. We take shortcuts when God is inviting us to walk—with Him.
Then we come to Peter. First, he nails it: “You are the Christ.” Divine revelation pouring through human lips. But just moments later, Peter recoils at the mention of suffering. “God forbid!” he says, as if love could outrun the cross. Jesus replies, not harshly, but truthfully: “You are thinking not as God does, but as humans do.”
That’s our tension. That’s our daily discernment.
The journey of faith is never just about direction. It’s about who we’re walking with. It’s about how we respond—not only in clarity, but in confusion. Not only when miracles come, but when dust covers the path.
Ignatian spirituality invites us to walk slower. To notice our attachments. To reflect on what shortcuts we might be taking: spiritual busyness without intimacy… obedience colored by resentment… routines hollowed by pride.
God’s way is not always efficient. It’s sacred. It asks not for speed, but for trust. Not for shortcuts, but for companionship.
We’re not just getting somewhere. We’re walking with Someone.
Prayer: For the Road That Leads to You
Lord,
You know how quickly I want to move—
past discomfort, past delays,
past the moments where faith feels more like fog than fire.
But You don’t rush. You walk.
When I strike instead of speak,
call me back to gentleness.
When I cling to control,
stretch out Your hand of mercy.
Teach me to walk Your way—
slow enough to listen,
true enough to trust,
open enough to let go of shortcuts.
And when dust settles on the road beneath me,
let me remember:
You are the Rock.
You are the Way.
You are already walking beside me.
Amen.
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