Suffering Unto Death for Many

Divine Appeal Reflection - 261

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 261: "Countless number of souls are on the brink of the pit. This situation will get worse, many will suffer to die."

When our Adorable Jesus reveals that many will suffer and die, it is not the cold voice of fate but the pierced cry of a Heart still hoping souls will awaken before it is too late. We see glimpses of this unfolding already: hospital wards where the poor gasp unseen, hidden corners where despair quietly claims young lives, and lands where violence becomes routine news rather than shared sorrow. The Catechism reminds us that sin, though deeply personal, wounds society itself—its structures, its culture, and its weakest members (cf. CCC 1869). Christ’s lament holds both divine foresight and human tenderness; He sees beyond statistics to each face, each story, each soul teetering on the edge. Spiritually, His words call us not to passive fear, but to heartfelt intercession: to pray and live as if every act of charity, every quiet sacrifice, might rescue a soul from falling forever. This is not a distant call for saints alone; it is an invitation for every believer to become part of love’s last barrier before the abyss.

In the face of Christ’s sorrowful warning that suffering will deepen and many souls stand at the brink, the Church’s vocation shines in a new and urgent light. For priests and consecrated souls, this call goes far beyond safeguarding rites or preserving outward forms; it is to become living bridges between divine mercy and a world torn by fear, injustice, and indifference. The Gospel and the Catechism (cf. Mt 25:40; CCC 2447) remind us that faith is never meant to be a private refuge but a summons to speak truth to power, stand beside the oppressed, and console the forgotten. Practically, this means priests who step beyond the sacristy to bless the dying in crowded wards, to anoint those abandoned even by family, and to preach not for applause but for genuine conversion — even when truth offends. It means becoming voices that protest brutality in places like Palestine and wherever war, hatred, and oppression crush the innocent. For consecrated men and women, it means shaping communities into shelters of mercy: welcoming the broken not as burdens but as Christ Himself, offering food, counsel, and prayer, and letting silence become intercession rather than resignation. It is a vocation to transform convents, monasteries, and parishes into signs of God’s solidarity with the suffering — places where pain is neither ignored nor romanticized, but carried in love to the pierced Heart of Christ. When the Church dares to live this mission openly and humbly, she ceases to be a fortress hidden behind walls and becomes, in the words of Pope Francis, a true “field hospital” (cf. Evangelii Gaudium 47): a living sanctuary where wounds are named, injustice is challenged, and hearts learn once more to hope.

Though many of the lay faithful, suffering and death seemingly no longer stand remote threats and unfold instead in quite violent ways on a daily basis: children swallowed in oblivion into abduction, mothers weeping for sons who have been perpetrated against by extrajudicial killings, families being uprooted by wars that were not theirs to choose, and communities filled with hatred converted into violence. These wounds often present themselves quietly behind closed doors or censored news, yet each one screams to heaven. Blessed Virgin Mary standing silently beneath the Cross (cf. Jn 19:25) shows us the way that does neither deny anguish nor succumb to despair: it connects unspeakable grief with a love that stands alone to redeem. The lay faithful are called into a world wounded by the same spirit: they are called to pray for victims and perpetrators when anger levels tempt the heart; to stand up publicly and call for justice but never surrender to hatred; to stand firm alongside the grieving families; and to choose mercy whenever bitterness stands justified. These are very small and painful fidelities—a whispered prayer in the night, a quiet act of solidarity, or forgiveness when vengeance seems the norm—they sprout invisible seeds of hope. Within God's inscrutable plan, these gestures begin to heal the wounded.

Though the shadows around us may thicken — marked by brutality, hatred, and unspeakable violence — hope is never finally quenched, for the pierced Heart of Christ remains forever open, silently pleading until the world’s last breath (cf. Jn 19:34). Salvation is not born of human brilliance or power, but from hearts that, even in trembling, dare to love when fear would silence them. Every secret sacrifice, every whispered prayer, or maybe even some quietly endured agony suddenly becomes, by virtue of grace, a living stone placed in the invisible bridge back to God. Thus many can stumble and fall into darkness; yet many others will be, not by force but because somewhere, someone chose mercy over vengeance, hope over despair, and trust over cynicism. This is the stubborn and quiet triumph of grace: a victory that cannot be undone by brutality through time and whose soft power continues onward, unconquered and unseen, until the dawn of time ceases to be.

Prayer:

Our Adorable Jesus, wounded by love yet ever merciful, grant us courage to stand in prayer where hope grows dim, to embrace suffering without bitterness, and to offer hidden sacrifices for souls unknown. Draw the lost back to Your Heart, and let our quiet fidelity console the sorrow that love alone knows.

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