From the Rector,
There’s a memorable Quidditch scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets in which a rogue Bludger has been enchanted to target Harry. Once his teammates realize the danger, they abandon the game and focus entirely on protecting him. Fred and George fly in circles around Harry, shielding him as best they can—while Marcus Flint of Slytherin takes full advantage of the distraction and scores goal after goal. The Gryffindors call for a timeout but ultimately decide not to report the incident, knowing that doing so would mean forfeiting the match. Harry, determined to end the chaos, tells his teammates not to worry about him. The only way to stop the Bludger, he says, is to win the game quickly. Play resumes, Harry catches the Snitch, and Gryffindor wins.
I keep coming back to this scene as I try to make sense of our current social and political climate.
Like Harry’s team, we’ve become so distracted by the Bludger—by immediate threats and disruptions—that we’ve lost sight of the game itself. We’re reacting, not strategizing. And just like in the book, this Bludger isn’t rogue; it’s bewitched. Someone—or something—is controlling it. But that influence is often hidden, subtle, and goes largely unnoticed.
In Chamber of Secrets, it’s Dobby the house-elf who has enchanted the Bludger—not to kill Harry, but to injure him just enough to force him to leave Hogwarts. Dobby’s motivations, though misguided, come from a place of deep love and concern. He believes he’s protecting Harry, even as his actions put Harry in danger. In other words, the threat is real, but it’s powered by a distorted form of care.
I wonder if the same might be said of some of the forces shaping our world today. Are we being hit over and over by crises—social, political, cultural—that are actually being driven by a kind of misshapen love? A love of country, perhaps, or of tradition, safety, or identity—distorted into something harmful? When we fixate only on the Bludger—on the threats flying at us—we lose sight of who or what might be behind them. And we risk mistaking destruction for defense.
The truth is, the Bludger only has power if we let it. If we can pause to ask not only what is threatening us but why—and who—we may start to see a fuller picture. And in doing so, we might come to realize that neither Harry nor Dobby has the whole truth. Perhaps each of us holds a piece. If we could begin to talk to one another—really talk, across differences, across fears—we might discover a path toward mutual understanding.
The Gospel tells us that truth often comes not in shouting but in listening. Not in fighting distractions, but in focusing on the real mission. The good news is we still have a chance to catch the snitch. We can still win the game but only if we stop fighting the Bludgers and play with courage and clarity of purpose.