Hatred as a Shadow over the Soul

Divine Appeal Reflection - 40

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 40: “There is too much hatred in today’s society."

There are moments when the heart tightens without warning—through a careless word, a remembered injustice, a familiar face that reopens old pain. In those fragile instants, Our Adorable Jesus stands very near, not as an accuser but as a gentle witness, His gaze steady with compassion. He knows how swiftly the heart can retreat into self-defense, and He waits there, offering the grace to choose mercy over memory, surrender over resentment. He knows how easily the human heart bruises. Hatred rarely begins as violence; it begins as self-protection. Scripture reveals this quiet descent when Cain’s face falls before his hand rises (cf. Gen 4:5–8). Jesus names this interior movement with unsettling honesty: anger harbored within already fractures communion (cf. Mt 5:21–22). The Catechism (CCC 2302) confirms that such interior hostility contradicts charity and wounds the soul itself . Mystically, hatred is the soul curling inward to avoid pain; pastorally, it appears as sarcasm, withdrawal, or the refusal to listen. In families, it can look like silence at the dinner table. In society, it wears the mask of being “right.” St. Augustine observed that the heart becomes restless and harsh when it seeks security outside God. Our Adorable Jesus does not rush us past this truth. He waits, wounded yet patient, inviting us to stay present to what hurts instead of hardening around it. From His pierced side (cf. Jn 19:34) flows mercy gentle enough for fragile hearts . Healing begins when we let Him see us exactly as we are—defensive, tired, and still loved.

Most hatred is not loud; it is tired. It grows when disappointment has nowhere to go and fear remains unnamed. Saul’s story feels painfully familiar: once secure, he slowly becomes threatened, measuring himself against another until jealousy consumes his peace (cf. 1 Sam 18:8–12). The Catechism (CCC 1866) warns that unresolved anger becomes fertile ground for grave sin and social injustice . Mystically, hatred is grief that has lost its voice; pastorally, it shows up as comparison, suspicion, and chronic irritation. Our Adorable Jesus approaches this interior chaos as a healer, not a prosecutor. In prayer, He asks gentle questions: “Where did you feel unseen?” “When did you stop trusting?” St. Teresa of Ávila knew that interior freedom is lost not through great sins, but through unattended wounds. A misunderstood intention, a correction that felt unfair, a prayer unanswered—these lodge quietly in the heart. Over time, they shape how we see others and even how we pray. Teresa urges honesty before God: to speak plainly, without polishing our pain. When the soul stops pretending and allows Christ to enter its raw places, resentment softens. The heart, once guarded, becomes spacious again—capable of joy, patience, and unforced love.In religious life, it appears too: the curate silently bristles at criticism he can’t voice, the novice struggles with the weight of endless rules, the seminarian feels the sting of comparison and self-doubt. Each is human, each is real, and each reveals how tightly we clutch our hurt instead of letting God hold it for us.A spouse who forgets to say “thank you,” a neighbor who thoughtlessly hurts, a superior whose words sting without meaning to.  Scripture (cf. Rom 12:14–19) invites the believer to bless rather than curse, releasing judgment back to God . This release is not denial; it is surrender. When the soul dares to place its anger into Christ’s wounded hands, something softens. Hatred loses its sharpness. The heart, once guarded, begins to breathe again.

Jesus never asks the human heart to walk a path He Himself has not already traced in flesh and blood. The Beatitudes (cf. Mt 5:1–12) are not abstract ideals; they unveil the interior contours of His own Heart—poor in spirit, meek, merciful, and surrendered to the Father’s will .  Mercy is not forgetfulness; it is memory healed by grace . Meekness here isn’t about sitting back or pretending nothing happened; it’s the quiet courage to hold your anger, take a deep breath, and choose not to hit back—even when every instinct says you should. It’s strength shaped by love, patient enough to let grace guide your response.Peacemaking is love mature enough to carry tension without transmitting it to others. The Catechism teaches that authentic peace is born and sustained where forgiveness is chosen repeatedly, often against the heart’s natural resistance (cf. CCC 2304). Joseph’s tears before the brothers who betrayed him reveal how costly mercy can be, yet how deeply it restores both the wounded and the offender (cf. Gen 45:1–5). Mystically, such choices draw the soul into conformity with the Crucified Christ; pastorally, they transfigure the most ordinary relationships. A parent pauses before reacting in anger. A priest listens without self-defense. A worker refuses to humiliate even when publicly wronged. Our Adorable Jesus commands love of enemies not because it feels reasonable, but because it makes visible the Father’s own Heart in the world (cf. Mt 5:44–45). In prayer, Christ patiently lends us His endurance. What once provoked us begins to purify us. 

Hatred endures not because love is impossible, but because it is endlessly delayed. Our Adorable Jesus teaches that charity must be lived in the present moment, where grace quietly alters the climate of the soul and, through it, the world. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1825) insists that authentic love is proven not in intention but in costly action, especially when it asks us to die to self . The Good Samaritan does not debate injustice or reform structures; (cf. Lk 10:33–37) he interrupts his journey and allows another’s suffering to inconvenience him . St. Thérèse of Lisieux grasped this Eucharistic logic, choosing hidden acts of kindness precisely where her temperament recoiled, transforming irritation into offering. Mystically, such small choices are absorbed into Christ’s own self-gift; pastorally, they rebuild communion slowly, almost imperceptibly, trust upon trust. In family life, charity appears as the courage to apologize first. In community, it takes the form of silence that refuses gossip. In public life, it speaks truth without contempt, firmness without humiliation (cf. Eph 4:15). Our Adorable Jesus sanctified ordinary days, revealing that redemption often advances without recognition or praise. Hatred thrives on erasure and neglect; (cf. Mt 25:40) charity restores the dignity of being seen and remembered before God . Every vocation thus becomes a daily crossroads between bitterness and blessing. When blessing is chosen—even hesitantly—grace travels farther than the heart can measure.

In the Eucharist, Our Adorable Jesus entrusts His own way of loving to fragile and divided hearts, gathering what is scattered into one Body not by persuasion or force, but by sacrificial gift (cf. 1 Cor 10:16–17). Here, communion is revealed as a moral and mystical commitment: to receive Christ is to accept responsibility for reconciliation, solidarity, and concrete love of the other (cf. CCC 1396–1397). Mystically, the Eucharist reforms desire itself, teaching the heart to move from self-protection to self-offering, from resentment to mercy (cf. Ez 36:26). Pastorally, it sends us back into wounded families, strained communities, hostile workplaces, and fractured societies with the Heart of Christ beating within us (cf. Jn 13:34–35). St. Stephen’s forgiveness under the falling stones is the fruit of Eucharistic vision—eyes fixed on the glory of Christ, a heart free to bless even while bleeding (cf. Acts 7:55–60). Our Adorable Jesus invites us to place upon the altar the unnoticed wounds of ordinary life—harsh words spoken or withheld, old resentments quietly rehearsed, failures carried in silence—so that, united to His sacrifice, they may participate in His redemptive love (cf. Col 1:24). Practically, this Eucharistic life is revealed in restrained speech (cf. Jas 1:19), patient listening (cf. Prov 18:13), intercession for enemies (cf. Mt 5:44), (cf. 1 Cor 13:4–7) and perseverance in charity when emotions fail . The world is not healed by louder anger or sharper divisions, but by hearts continually transformed into offering. Where hatred grows heavy, Eucharistic souls become quiet light—hidden, faithful, enduring—bearing witness that love, crucified and given again, still has the final word (cf. Rom 8:37).

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus, Bread broken for us, we place our broken patience upon Your altar. Consume what is sharp within us. Feed us with Your humility until our hearts learn again the rhythm of mercy, and our lives become quiet communion for others. Remain with us. Amen. Amen.

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