Divine Appeal Reflection - 26
Today, consider in Divine Appeal 26: "The souls I love so much do not understand that the tyrant has stolen their hearts, locked them up in the prison of scandal and all kinds of malicious corruption. Both hatred and emptiness have fettered them to evil. They do not think that they cause Me so much pain. My Gaze does not penetrate them. They do not want to humble themselves and repent and to beg forgiveness for the Blood which I shed for all of them."
There is a silent sorrow in the Heart of Our Adorable Jesus, deeper than emotion, born of love that sees and waits. He gazes upon humanity as a Father watching a child drift, not in rebellion, but in forgetfulness. The danger comes quietly, disguised as safety. Hearts are not seized by darkness; they are gently misplaced. Small compromises loosen their anchor, tolerated lies dim the inner light, unoffered fatigue creates distance. Grace is not expelled—it is crowded out. Jesus feels this drift within Himself, for every soul rests first in His Heart, and its quiet wandering wounds Love most. Scripture already knew this ache: a people hearing but not truly listening, seeing yet not perceiving (cf. Is 6:9–10). The Catechism (cf. CCC 1733, 1849) explains that when freedom is misused, it does not disappear—it collapses inward and becomes slavery . In daily life, this feels like waking up successful yet restless, surrounded yet lonely, busy yet hollow. Humanity does not feel captured; it feels distracted. Like Samson,(cf. Jgs 16:19–21) whose strength faded while he rested comfortably in deception , many discover loss only after it has already settled in. Saints recognized this pattern with painful clarity. Saint Augustine discerned that the heart fractures when it loves many things without returning to the One. Mystically, Jesus beholds this scattering as an inner exile. His sorrow is gentle yet piercing: souls drag unseen chains through life, mistaking weight for gravity, unaware that their weariness is the soul remembering the rest it once knew in Love.
Hatred and emptiness do not arrive shouting; they seep in quietly. Hatred often begins as disappointment, emptiness as boredom. Cain’s story shows this slow descent—his heart grew heavy before his hands grew violent (cf. Gn 4:6–8). The Catechism (cf. CCC 2284–2287) warns that when evil is normalized, it spreads silently, shaping consciences without resistance . Our adorable Jesus observes how modern life subtly steals hearts—not by coercion, but by subtle, seemingly harmless diversions: endless scrolling takes the place of the hallowed quiet where His voice lingers, anger simmers in place of introspection, and self-comparison dulls the straightforward joy of thankfulness. This stealthy theft was detected by saints such as John Chrysostom; while resentment may initially feel powerful, it eventually hollows the heart, leaving it tired and restless. This fatigue is intimate; it creeps into laughter that dies too soon, into nights that feel too long, into a ceaseless need to fill silence with noise. Mystically, the soul clings to what is familiar, even if it confines it: like Israel longing for Egypt when the desert demanded trust , the heart chooses small chains over the vulnerability of freedom. Jesus sees this exile in every human being as though it were His own; His broken heart is marked with the compromises, resentment, and silent surrender of trust. However, His eyes do not criticise; instead, they wait patiently and tenderly, reminding every soul that freedom is about communion rather than comfort. He challenges us to take a chance on letting go, to leave the comfortable prison and enter the freeing mystery of His love.Jesus watches in silence as hearts settle beneath their heritage, mistaking survival for the joy they were meant to have and numbness for serenity.
What pierces the Heart of Christ most is not rebellion, but unawareness. Humanity does not realize that love can be hurt. The prophets dared to speak of God’s pain so that people might understand the seriousness of indifference (cf. Hos 11:1–4). The Catechism (cf. CCC 598, 616) reminds us that Christ’s sacrifice is not distant history; it remains personally involved with every refusal of mercy . Saints who lived close to His Heart understood this well. Saint Margaret Mary spoke of a love that continues to give, even when unnoticed. In daily life, this wound in the Heart of Jesus shows itself quietly—when prayer is hurried without longing, when conscience is muted instead of listened to, when injustice is noticed yet passed by for the sake of comfort. Like David, the soul often feels no weight until truth, (cf. 2 Sm 12:7–13) spoken in love, finally awakens it . Likewise, Jesus does not accuse; He reveals. His pain is the pain of a friend left waiting, of a Savior whose gift is treated as ordinary.However, Love waits like a silent fire, ready to ignite at the slightest stir of the soul—a whispered sigh, a hesitant stride towards Him, a concealed turning inward—converting sorrow into grace with the gentleness only He can provide. This is why even this wound in His Heart turns into mercy.
The soul won't feel the heat of His gaze until it rises from the shadows it has cast—shadows formed by pride, doubt, and the minor comforts of familiarity that it mistakenly believed to be protection, but which actually only left it more estranged from the waiting Heart. There is a hidden reason the Gaze of Jesus sometimes does not penetrate the heart: fear—a trembling of the soul that shields itself from the intensity of Love, hesitant to surrender, yet longing secretly for the healing and freedom only His gaze can bring. Scripture (cf. Ps 139:1–4) tells us that God knows us completely—our thoughts, our hesitations, our contradictions . Yet the Catechism (cf. CCC 2002, 1742) insists that grace never forces itself; it knocks and waits . Saul was not overpowered on the road to Damascus; he was interrupted by truth . Saints teach that humility is simply letting oneself be seen. Saint Benedict described pride as self-protection, and humility as trust. In practical life, resistance looks like defending ourselves before listening, avoiding confession because it feels too exposing, filling every quiet moment with sound. Parents fear admitting mistakes, leaders fear appearing weak, believers fear discovering how much they need mercy. Jesus’ gaze heals only what is uncovered. He does not shame what He sees; He restores it. When the spirit bravely remains in silence under the look of Jesus, it finds a peculiar liberation—similar to coming out into the sunlight after having spent many years in darkness, where each inhalation is filled with the taste of unmerited grace.
Each person is invited into a place where grace meets vulnerability and love bends low to meet even the tiniest act of surrender by the very personal invitation to humility and repentance, which touches the soul like a whispered secret from the Heart of Jesus. Scripture reminds us that forgiveness is costly— (cf. Heb 9:22; 12:24) that blood was poured out so consciences could be cleansed . The Catechism (cf. CCC 1427–1431) teaches that conversion is not a single moment but a daily turning, again and again, toward mercy . Saints never grew tired of repeating this truth: the world changes when hearts soften. Saint Catherine of Siena insisted that renewal begins in honest self-knowledge held in God’s love. In daily life, this repentance becomes simple and concrete—saying “I was wrong,” choosing integrity when no one is watching, seeking reconciliation before sleep. To ask forgiveness for the Blood is to admit both our poverty and our worth. It is to say, “What You gave was precious, and I do not want to live as if it were cheap.” Humanity is not asked to be flawless, only truthful. When it kneels, it discovers that mercy has been waiting longer than its pride. The prison door opens from the inside.
Prayer
Our Adorable Jesus, have mercy on us and all souls bound by hatred, emptiness, and scandal. Open our hearts to Your Gaze. Teach us humility and repentance. May Your Blood wash away corruption, restore love where there is coldness, and set all humanity free to rejoice in Your mercy and grace. Amen.
Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.
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