The Apostle Of the Last Days

Divine Appeal Reflection - 244

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 244: "Speak to My Apostle of  the last days. On his hands he should not wonder but revere My Passion. I tell him truly he will never feel so much as I felt. When he feels the movement and pain it is less than a little drop of the bitter chalice I drunk."

The Apostle of the last days is more than an individual soul; he emerges as a living sign of the Church herself—wounded yet beloved, humbled yet consecrated, staggering beneath a burden that is not punishment, but participation. In this soul, chosen not for greatness but for union, the mystery of the Passion is not merely recalled—it is lived, not as spectacle but as sacrament. His visible pain reflects a deeper truth: the Church in our time is being drawn into the very experience of her Crucified Spouse, and through her wounds, the hidden glory of Calvary returns to the world (cf. CCC 1116, 618).

The Apostle of the last days bears the hidden movements and aches of Christ’s Passion not as mere mimicry of pain, but as a profound embodiment of divine intimacy. What he suffers, the Lord reveals, is only a drop from the chalice once drained in Gethsemane—a chalice filled with infinite love and redemptive sorrow. This is not to diminish his suffering but to situate it within the immeasurable context of divine compassion, where even a drop carries the power to transfigure a soul that receives it with reverence. This reverence is not passive; it is a sanctified posture that elevates pain from senselessness to sacramentality. In this, the Apostle mirrors the Church herself, who in these last days suffers visibly and mystically—from betrayal within, from the erosion of reverence, and from the deep wounds inflicted by scandal. Yet she is not forsaken. Her suffering is not a contradiction of her holiness but its refinement; it is a mystical union with the Lamb who was slain. 

The trembling hands of the Apostle, marked by unseen passion, are not signs of failure but channels of hidden grace—hands through which Christ’s own suffering flows anew, not in blood alone, but through intercession, silence, and steadfast fidelity. These marks are Eucharistic, echoing the pierced hands of the Savior who now offers eternal life. In this vision, the Church is not merely the dispenser of grace but becomes the chalice of suffering, the living vessel in which heaven touches earth. Her sacraments, especially the Eucharist, bridge the eternal and the temporal, bringing heaven to earth in a divine exchange. Her liturgy, rich in both light and sorrow, reflects her dual role—bearing the joy of motherhood and the pain of martyrdom. In this sacred tension, the Church manifests her deepest calling: to give life through suffering, to nurture with love, and to sanctify through sacrifice. She walks with the wounded, bears the weight of the forgotten, and labors through the shadows of the night—not because she is abandoned, but because something new is being born (cf. Rom 8:22). Like the Apostle of the last days, the Church must not flinch at her wounds but venerate them, for in embracing them, she is drawn more intimately into the mystery of the Crucified. And within that painful embrace, the first quiet tremors of Resurrection begin to stir beneath the surface of her suffering.

The saints understood that the path to union with Christ is shaped by the Cross. St. Catherine of Siena taught that the Church would shine most when she bore the wounds of her Bridegroom in love and humility.  St. Francis of Assisi, marked with the stigmata, became a sign of this truth—that holiness comes not from strength but from sharing in Christ’s suffering. The Apostle of the last days, as a living symbol of the Church, points to a deeper mystery: that as the Bride nears her Bridegroom, she must follow Him into Gethsemane and Calvary. Her wounds, born of scandal, betrayal, and trial, are not signs of failure but of purification. Like St. Paul, she participates in the sufferings of Christ (cf. Col 1:24); like St. John of the Cross, she passes through darkness to deeper union. The Church today is not simply enduring—she is being transfigured. Her wounds become the very place where divine grace pours forth. Every soul who suffers with fidelity, in silence and love, becomes part of this mystical Apostle, bearing the Cross in hope of the Resurrection.

Thus, this Apostle-Shepherd of the last days becomes a symbol of the Church herself—and by extension, of every Christian soul called not merely to observe Christ’s Passion but to embody it through fidelity, reverence, and surrender. His silent suffering speaks to the universal vocation of all baptized: to become living chalices in whom the mystery of the Cross is not only remembered but lived. We are not spectators in this drama of redemption; we are participants, invited into a love that does not shield us from pain but transforms it into communion. In a world tempted to avoid sorrow through noise, distraction, or denial, the Christian is summoned to a deeper stillness—a silence where faith is no longer theoretical, but cruciform. The Apostle of the last days, then, mirrors what every soul is called to become: a vessel of divine love, stretched in suffering yet steadied by hope. In embracing this path, we are not overcome—we are transfigured.

Prayer

O Adorable Jesus, who still thirsts from the depths of the chalice once drained, draw us into the silence where love learns to suffer. Teach us not to escape the pain You allow, but to revere it as a path to Your Heart. In every drop we are given, awaken in us the courage to console You. May our hidden fidelity mirror Yours, and may Your wounded Church be renewed through the stillness of those who love You unto the end. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.