Divine Appeal to All: Jesus’ Love and Mercy

Divine Appeal Reflection  - 88

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 88: "My appeal is addressed to all those living in the world: the good, sinners and those consecrated to Me. To those who obey and to those in authority I say: ‘I AM  LOVE AND MERCY."

At the deepest level of the human heart—beneath roles, titles, wounds, and even virtues—Our Adorable Jesus speaks a word that is not first a command but a revelation: “I AM Love and Mercy.” This is the same divine “I AM” disclosed in the burning bush (cf. Ex 3:14), now unveiled in tenderness through the Incarnation (cf. Jn 1:14; CCC 456–460). What is striking is that this appeal is addressed to everyone without exception: the good, sinners, the consecrated, the obedient, and those in authority (cf. Rom 3:22–23). This removes every quiet excuse we carry—that we are either “too far” or “already close enough.” The good are reminded that their fidelity is sustained by grace, not self-mastery (cf. 1 Cor 4:7; CCC 2001); sinners are reassured that their story is not finished, that mercy seeks them before they seek it (cf. Lk 15:20; CCC 1847); the consecrated are called to remember that love, not routine,(cf. Rev 2:4–5) is the center . In ordinary life, this becomes very real: a person who prays daily yet struggles with judgment, someone who falls repeatedly but still desires God, a religious who serves faithfully yet feels interior dryness. All are equally addressed. Before the Eucharist (cf. CCC 1374), we are not “categories” but persons—loved, known, and invited. Jesus does not begin by telling us what to fix; He reveals who He is. And slowly, that changes everything, because when a person realizes they are loved like this, they begin to live differently—not out of pressure, but from encounter (cf. 1 Jn 4:10–11).

When Jesus explicitly speaks to those in authority, it feels almost unsettling—because authority often assumes distance from correction. Yet here, it is directly named (cf. Wis 6:1–6). This reveals something deeply human and deeply divine: the more influence one has, the more one’s heart must resemble God’s Heart. Authority in Christ is never about control; it is about responsibility for others’ dignity and growth . We see this clearly in Scripture—Saul, who loses everything by clinging to his own will , and David, (cf. 2 Sam 12; Ps 51) who falls gravely yet returns through repentance and becomes a vessel of mercy . In daily life, authority is not only about presidents or bishops—it is present in parents, teachers, older siblings, supervisors. A parent choosing patience instead of anger , a boss choosing fairness over exploitation, a teacher correcting without humiliating—these are deeply spiritual acts. They reflect whether authority is rooted in ego or in love. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1905–1907) reminds us that authority must serve the common good and respect persons , but Jesus goes further—He calls authority to heal. That means listening, forgiving, guiding, and sometimes sacrificing one’s own comfort for others. Mercy becomes demanding here: it does not allow harshness to hide behind “discipline.” It asks the powerful to become vulnerable in love. In this light, authority becomes something sacred—a place where God’s own way of loving can either be revealed or obscured.

The heart of this appeal becomes especially alive in the Eucharist, where Jesus remains quietly present as both Love given and Mercy receiving (cf. Lk 22:19–20; CCC 1324, 1374). This is not abstract—it is deeply human. The Incarnation itself reveals that God enters real human condition, not an idealized one . Instead of meeting us where we think we should be, grace meets us where we are. Jesus receives us as we are—distracted, tired, joyful, (cf. Mt 11:28; CCC 1385) burdened—and gently begins His work of transformation . His presence is medicine for the whole person, not a reward for the already whole. Thus, every approach to the altar becomes an act of trust rather than achievement. The soul learns that being received by Christ is the beginning of healing, (cf. Lk 5:31–32) not its conclusion . The Catechism (cf. CCC 1324) teaches that the Eucharist is the source and summit of the Christian life , because here Christ unites our lives to His own offering . Think of how this plays out daily: someone going to Mass after a difficult week, carrying stress or regret; a student offering their studies quietly; a worker uniting exhaustion to prayer. These are not small things—they are received by Christ. The Gospel shows this pattern again and again: the prodigal son embraced before he explains himself (cf. Lk 15:20), the woman healed by simply reaching out . Jesus receives first, then transforms. Even when prayer feels empty and distracted, something real is happening because He is truly present (cf. Mt 28:20; CCC 1374). The Eucharist assures us that grace works beyond our feelings, (cf. Is 55:10–11) quietly accomplishing what we cannot see . Saint Teresa of Calcutta reminds us that fidelity in small things is what allows love to grow. A distracted but persevering prayer, humbly offered, becomes a real gift in God’s sight (cf. CCC 2011; 2 Cor 8:12). In the Eucharist,(cf. Jn 6:51; CCC 1380) Jesus shows that love is not intensity but fidelity—remaining, receiving, and giving in silence . Over time, this hidden faithfulness transforms the heart, making it more patient, merciful, and like His .

At a deeper level, this appeal touches the question many people carry quietly: “Who am I, really?” In a world that pushes achievement, independence, and control, (cf. Gen 1:27; CCC 1700) Jesus reveals something very different—that our identity is rooted in being loved . Sin disrupts this, creating distance, shame, (cf. Rom 5:12; CCC 397–400) and confusion . Mercy, then, is not just about being forgiven—it is about being restored to who we are meant to be. We see this in Peter, who fails dramatically but is gently restored and entrusted with mission (cf. Jn 21:15–19), and in Paul, whose entire life changes after encountering Christ . These stories feel close to our own experiences: moments of failure, regret, or confusion that seem defining—yet are not final. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1999–2003) teaches that grace heals and elevates human nature . This means that even our weaknesses become places where God works most deeply,(cf. 2 Cor 12:9; CCC 2015) because His power is revealed through what is fragile . What we often try to hide becomes, in His hands, an opening for grace. In daily life, this takes simple but concrete forms: admitting a mistake instead of covering it, asking forgiveness rather than defending oneself, choosing humility when pride feels easier . These small acts allow truth to enter the heart. Through this, the soul is quietly transformed. Weakness, accepted and offered, becomes a meeting place with Mercy,(cf. Rom 5:20; CCC 1996) and ordinary moments become occasions of grace . These are small but powerful movements. Jesus’ words “I AM Love and Mercy” remind us that we are not self-made—we are received. And when we begin to accept that, we become freer. Not perfect, but real. Not controlled, but trusting. Slowly, we learn that depending on God is not weakness—it is where true strength begins .

Finally, this appeal is not meant to remain personal—it naturally flows outward into how we live with others. When someone truly experiences mercy, they begin to see people differently. The Church teaches that every baptized person shares in Christ’s mission (cf. CCC 897–900), and that mission is lived in ordinary situations. The Good Samaritan (cf. Lk 10:25–37) is a powerful example—not because he was extraordinary, but because he responded. In daily life, this might mean forgiving someone who hurt you, helping without expecting recognition,(cf. Col 3:23; 1 Cor 6:19–20) or choosing honesty when it costs something . Mercy becomes visible in these simple, often hidden actions. It also becomes present in suffering—when we unite our struggles to Christ,(cf. Col 1:24; CCC 618) they take on meaning and even become a source of grace for others . This is not easy, but it is real. The Gospel does not promise ease,(cf. Jn 16:33; CCC 2015) but transformation through grace . Christ's path is frequently obscure and characterised by constant surrender rather than outward achievement. The world frequently demands strength, achievement, or perfection, but these things are unable to mend the deepest emotional scars. What it truly needs is mercy lived concretely—patience, forgiveness, and humility embodied in ordinary life . In this way, the believer becomes a quiet witness. Not through dominance or achievement, but through a life that reflects the Heart of Christ,(cf. Lk 6:36) where mercy speaks more loudly than strength . A kind word, patience in difficulty, truth spoken gently—these reveal God more than we realize. “I AM Love and Mercy” is not only who Jesus is; it is what He desires to live through us. And so, the appeal becomes a quiet mission: to let our lives, in their simplicity and imperfection, become places where others encounter His Heart (cf. Mt 5:16; CCC 2044). Holiness is lived within ordinary existence, not outside it.This is shown in daily choices—speaking gently in tension, choosing honesty over convenience, (cf. Col 3:12–14) or patience over reaction . In such hidden acts, Christ quietly becomes visible. Saint Francis of Assisi’s life reminds us that the Gospel is preached most deeply through lived witness. Even imperfection, when surrendered, becomes a place where grace works, allowing Divine light to shine through human weakness .

Prayer

O Adorable Jesus, King of Love and Mercy, we place before You all our responsibilities, relationships, and influence. Purify our authority, correct our intentions, and make our leadership reflect Your Heart. May we serve others with justice clothed in mercy and truth filled with charity. Amen.

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