I know this much. The willingness to take chances, to be bold, to step into the unknown, that didn’t just show up one day. I trace it back to Rockhurst. Jesuit college prep. Midwest expectations. Real formation—whether we knew it or not.
They told us we were going to be something. Doctors.
Lawyers. Leaders. US Senators.
Take chances. Don’t settle for mediocrity.
Esto Vir. Be a man.
For a while, I thought that meant one thing: push
harder, go further, stand closer to the edge than anyone else.
Arms stretched wide like Jack Dawson on the bow of the RMS
Titanic, believing you’re untouchable. Believing you’re the King of the World.
But life has a way of interrupting that illusion. Because then came a stretch I’ll never forget— funeral after funeral. Young men. Men who heard the same message. They took the risks. They met the challenge. They leaned into that sense of invincibility.
And they never made it back.
That’s when the question started to linger: Was there
something wrong with what we were taught? Or did we never fully understand what
was being asked of us?
The Jesuits weren’t just forming ambition. They were forming
discernment. The kind The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius speaks to the
slow, honest work of learning the difference between voices.
The voice that rushes you, and the voice that steadies you.
The one that says, prove it, and the one that quietly
asks, is this of God?
St. Ignatius would call it the discernment of spirits.
If I’m honest, I don’t think we were very good at that
part. Not every surge of adrenaline is courage. Not every urge to leap is
freedom.
Some of it is noise. Some of them are ego. Some of it is
what Ignatius would call desolation—that restless pull toward things
that look alive on the surface… but leave you empty, or worse.
And then there’s the other voice. Quieter.
Steadier.
The one that doesn’t dare you but draws you. The one that brings a sense of clarity, even
if the path is hard. A groundedness. A
rightness.
Ignatius would call that consolation. Here’s what I
wish we had understood back then: real courage isn’t found in how fast you move,
but in how well you discern.
Because “Esto Vir” was never meant to be about reckless boldness. It was about integrated strength. The strength to pause. To listen. To question the impulse.
To ask not just “Can I do this?” but “Where is God
in this?”
That’s harder than any risk we thought we were taking. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do… is not step forward. Sometimes it’s to stand still long enough to recognize the difference between a voice that excites you and a voice that calls you.
Be bold, yes. But be rooted. Be courageous, yes. But be
discerning.
Be a man— not by how close you get to the edge… but by how
faithfully you learn to recognize the Spirit that is guiding your steps.
Even when it’s subtle. Even when it’s quiet. Even when it
leads you away from the very thing the world is daring you to chase. In the end, the goal was never to prove you
were fearless. It was to become someone who can tell the difference between
what pulls you, and what truly leads you.
To live, to choose, to step forward, not for the rush, not
for the recognition, not to prove anything at all, but for something greater.
Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam.
For the greater glory of God.
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