Divine Appeal Reflection - 35
Today, consider in Divine Appeal 35: "My Eternal Father will use the evil humanity to punish sinful mankind."
There are hours in history when evil no longer whispers but marches openly—through wars decided by men, through systems built on greed, through hearts hardened against mercy. Our Adorable Jesus allows us to see this not as chaos, but as a terrible clarity. Scripture shows that when humanity refuses the gentle knock of grace, God may allow humanity to feel the full gravity of its own hands (cf. Judges 2:11–15; Isaiah 1:4–7). Cities do not burn because God withdraws in anger, but because the weight of truth, once refused, collapses inward. Nations fracture not from divine absence, but from conscience silenced too long. Families unravel when love is detached from truth. St. John Paul II saw war as humanity striking itself after pushing God to the margins; Benedict XVI warned that when conscience is dimmed, violence no longer shocks. This is not abandonment but nearness—God loosening His hold just enough for us to feel the world as it becomes without Him, and to long again for His mercy. In daily life, this same pattern breathes quietly: a relationship collapses under unrepented pride; a workplace corrodes through dishonesty; a soul grows restless through habitual sin. Saints recognized this trembling moment. St. Augustine saw empires fall as mirrors held to disordered loves. This is the beginning of wisdom—not fear, but awakening—when the soul finally senses: this suffering is human-made, yet God is still speaking through it.
Scripture dares to reveal a frightening intimacy: God sometimes permits evil people to become instruments of correction for sinful humanity. Pharaoh’s cruelty was allowed to mature until it exposed itself before heaven and earth (cf. Exodus 7:3–5; 12:12). Nebuchadnezzar’s violence shattered Jerusalem not as blind fate, but as consequence long foretold (cf. 2 Kings 25:1–10). And at the summit of history, sinful hands lifted the Innocent One onto the Cross—an act permitted so that salvation could enter the world through wounds (cf. Acts 2:22–24). Mystically, Our Adorable Jesus reveals that human evil often punishes human sin because mercy has been ignored too long. Popes have reflected on this sober truth: Benedict XVI spoke of a “self-inflicted night” when humanity excludes God, while Pope Francis lamented global suffering born of indifference and moral numbness. In ordinary life, this pedagogy continues quietly: unjust authority exposes the hunger for truth; betrayal unmasks false security; corruption reveals moral poverty. Saints did not romanticize this—they endured it. St. John Chrysostom taught that God sometimes uses difficult seasons to cleanse what comfort quietly distorts. When life becomes hard or faith feels tested, it is not a sign that God has gone far away. He remains near, allowing us to experience the weight of our own paths so that our hearts—often lulled by ease—may gently awaken and turn back toward Him with renewed trust.
The saints learned to read God not only in light, but in permitted darkness. St. Teresa of Ávila suffered slander and obstruction from within the Church, recognizing that God allowed human hostility to purify intentions and correct hidden pride. St. Alphonsus Liguori wrote that when souls refuse interior reform, exterior trials may come through others’ sins as medicinal severity. The Catechism names this reality with precision: social sin grows from personal sin and then turns back to wound many . War, exploitation, and the crushing of the poor are not acts of God but revelations of a world drifting from its own created order. When truth is refused,(cf. Rom 1:24–28) disorder is not imposed from above; it emerges from within . God does not delight in this exposure, yet in His mercy He permits it, so that humanity might finally see what life becomes when conscience is muted and love is detached from truth. St. John Paul II’s tears before human cruelty were prophetic—echoing Christ weeping over Jerusalem (cf. Luke 19:41)—insisting that suffering must lead to conversion, not despair. The saints understood this logic of mercy. They did not escape history; they stood inside it as intercessors. St. Maximilian Kolbe entered the furnace of hatred and, by offering his life, revealed that love remains stronger than death . This same mystery unfolds quietly today: a spouse bearing betrayal, a priest carrying scandal not of his own making, a worker enduring injustice, a citizen watching corruption erode hope. In these crucified places, (cf. CCC 312; 618) God is not absent; He is closest—inviting souls to share in Christ’s redemptive standing-with, where suffering becomes prayer and fidelity becomes light . These are not meaningless punishments, but moments where the soul is asked: Will you harden, or will you become intercessory? Holiness begins where resentment ends and offering begins.
What unfolds on the world stage also unfolds in the human heart. Scripture shows that when nations abandon justice, they are handed over to the consequences of their own violence (cf. Isaiah 10:5–7; Jeremiah 5:25–29). Our Adorable Jesus allows wars, displacement, famine, and oppression to shake the false peace built without God. Popes have named this with prophetic sorrow: Francis spoke of a “piecemeal world war” born of hardened hearts and forgotten dignity. The same pattern repeats in small lives: when prayer is neglected, anxiety grows; when conscience is silenced, confusion spreads; when truth is compromised, trust collapses. Every vocation stands here: parents forming children amid moral chaos, students resisting cultural lies, leaders choosing justice over power, consecrated souls praying while the world burns. The Catechism affirms that God’s providence governs even history’s wounds toward ultimate good (cf. CCC 302–305). To live this spiritually is to refuse numbness. The faithful soul becomes a watcher—awake, praying, repairing—so that punishment does not have the final word. God allows humanity to feel its violence so that love might finally be chosen again.
At the deepest point of human cruelty, glory is already hidden. Our Adorable Jesus entered humanity’s self-inflicted punishment and transformed it from within. Betrayal did not defeat Him;(cf. Romans 8:28; Acts 2:23) violence did not silence Him; death did not claim the last word . St. Catherine of Siena believed that even when God allows humanity to wound itself, He is searching for souls willing to stand as bridges. This is the mystical vocation of our time. In wars, become peace-bearers; in corruption, remain truthful; in cruelty, love without applause. The Catechism (cf. CCC 618) teaches that suffering united to Christ becomes redemptive . Evil humanity may punish sinful mankind—but holiness transfigures punishment into mercy. This is where the soul rises. Not by denying suffering, but by offering it. Not by fleeing history, but by loving within it. When humanity exhausts its cruelty, God still waits. And when one soul trusts Him there, heaven touches earth again.
Prayer
Our Adorable Jesus, when humanity wounds itself through cruelty and sin, keep our hearts awake. Teach us to read Your mercy even in permitted suffering. Make us bridges in a broken world, intercessors in violence, and witnesses that love still reigns where darkness seems strongest. Amen.
Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.
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