Divine Appeal Reflection - 98
Today, consider in Divine Appeal 98: "Bring Me souls. I suffer and thirst for souls. I am like the hunter who would let himself be wounded to death in order to lure his coveted prey... I tell him to go with My living words continually and find sinners for Me."
There is a cry here that does not remain in heaven—it enters the very depth of human experience, touching the heart with a tenderness that is at once unsettling and healing. In this mystery, Jesus is not presented as distant Redeemer alone, but as One personally invested in each soul, freely entering vulnerability out of love (cf. Phil 2:6–8; CCC 478). His Passion is not only endured; it is willed as self-gift.The prophetic depth of this is revealed in the image of the Suffering Servant, wounded not by necessity but by love that chooses to remain exposed for the sake of healing others (cf. Is 53:3–5). Even the piercing of His side, from which blood and water flow (cf. Jn 19:34), becomes a sign that His love does not withdraw from human violence and indifference but transforms it from within. Nothing in His Passion is wasted;(cf. Col 1:20) everything is directed toward reconciliation . What is most striking is the personal dimension: this love is not directed toward an abstract humanity,(cf. Gal 2:20) but toward each person individually known and desired . The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine for the one, not as metaphorical excess, but as revelation of divine attentiveness (cf. Lk 15:4–7; CCC 605). Every life matters in a way that is not general but intimate.This overturns the way we see daily life. The colleague ignored, the child misunderstood, the stranger dismissed—none are neutral presences. Each is a soul held within this same redeeming love. Indifference, therefore, is not simply emotional distance; it becomes a blindness to how deeply Christ is already engaged with the person before us. The Catechism (cf. CCC 2560, 2567) situates this within the mystery of a God who never ceases to seek a response from the human heart . To enter this awareness is to undergo interior conversion: not merely to believe that God loves, but to begin perceiving where that love is actively at work. The human heart is gradually reshaped—learning to recognize where Christ still “aches,” to see where He is already present, and to respond by acting with His own merciful attentiveness in ordinary life.
The phrase “I thirst” echoes across time, not ending at Calvary but continuing mystically in the life of the Church (cf. Jn 19:28; CCC 2560). It reveals not lack in Christ, but the intensity of divine love—an unceasing desire that souls enter life with God (cf. Jn 7:37–38). Yet this love is experienced, from within human history, as a kind of suffering: not because God is diminished, but because love freely given can remain unreceived. In human terms, this is familiar—real love always carries the risk of rejection, silence, or indifference. Christ freely enters this vulnerability. The saints did not only contemplate this “thirst,” but in prayer and sacrifice allowed their own hearts to be shaped by it. The Catechism describes prayer as the mysterious encounter between God’s thirst for us and our thirst for Him (cf. CCC 2560–2561). Prayer is therefore not escape, but communion of desire. This also gives weight to ordinary life. Every moment where grace is ignored, conscience resisted, or mercy refused is not impersonal in the mystery of love. Scripture uses the language of divine sorrow to express how seriously God engages human freedom (cf. Eph 4:30). Not weakness, but the cost of love freely offered. Practically, this reshapes how we meet others. Patience with a difficult person, forgiveness after injury, or quiet endurance in relationships becomes participation in Christ’s own self-giving. Like Joseph forgiving his brothers (cf. Gen 45:4–8), or Stephen praying for those who harmed him (cf. Acts 7:60), the disciple enters into a love that continues even when it is not returned. In this way, the “thirst” of Christ becomes a school of the heart. It forms within us a capacity not only to act rightly, but to remain loving when love is not answered. This is where the human heart is gradually made like His—able to endure love for the salvation of others.
“I tell him to go with My living words continually” reveals a deeply apostolic reality: the disciple never goes alone, but carries Christ Himself present in His Word (cf. Mt 28:20; CCC 905). Evangelization is therefore not self-expression, but participation in a living presence that precedes and accompanies every mission. The Word is “living” because it is active—penetrating the heart, revealing truth, healing hidden wounds, and creating new life within the listener (cf. Heb 4:12; Is 55:11). It is not static information, but divine action communicated through human language and witness. This transforms ordinary existence into mission. A gentle correction spoken in truth, a testimony offered with humility, or silent integrity lived under pressure all become channels through which Christ Himself continues to speak. The effectiveness lies not in human eloquence, but in fidelity and openness. The Catechism (cf. CCC 904–905) teaches that the baptized share in Christ’s prophetic mission . This is seen in Scripture: Jeremiah speaks despite fear (cf. Jer 1:7–9), Peter proclaims after failure (cf. Acts 2:14–41), (cf. Lk 1:39–45)and Mary bears the Word quietly yet powerfully into the world . The word “continually” is decisive. It removes the illusion that mission depends on mood, confidence, or circumstance, and restores it to its true source:(cf. 2 Cor 12:9; CCC 849) grace that precedes and sustains the disciple . The Christian life is not activated by inner readiness, but by faithful availability to God in every moment. The disciple, therefore, remains open in every setting—family life, work,(cf. Col 3:17) and ordinary encounters—allowing faith to permeate reality rather than remain compartmentalized . Nothing is “outside” the reach of God’s word when the heart is surrendered. In this light, withholding truth or witness out of fear or comfort is not spiritually neutral. It risks narrowing the flow of grace intended for others, who may be silently waiting for a word, gesture,(cf. Mt 5:14–16) or presence through which God can reach them . Thus, the appeal gently forms an interior readiness: not a forced activism, but a stable availability. The soul becomes a living space where Christ’s Word continues to speak—not only through speech, but through a life quietly aligned with Him (cf. Gal 2:20).
The “wounded hunter” reveals a sobering truth of discipleship: seeking souls is never costless. Christ does not conceal this;(cf. Jn 15:20; CCC 618) He unites it to love itself . To love as He loves is to enter a struggle that is both external and interior. This struggle is not only against visible sin, but also against resistance, misunderstanding, (cf. Eph 6:12) and the quiet fatigue within oneself . Yet Scripture consistently shows that spiritual conflict is not a sign of failure, but of participation in a real mission of grace. What is striking is that these wounds are not wasted. In Christ, suffering is not absorbed into meaninglessness, but becomes participatory—joined to His redemptive act. As Paul writes,(cf. Col 1:24; CCC 1521) even affliction can serve the growth of the Church when united to Christ .This gives concrete shape to daily life. Hidden exhaustion, quiet perseverance, being misunderstood for choosing what is right—these are not spiritually neutral moments. Offered in love, they become part of a larger fruitfulness that is not immediately visible. The Eucharist stands at the center of this mystery . There, Christ’s one sacrifice is made present, and the disciple learns to place personal struggle within His offering. Life becomes an altar where both gift and cost are united. Thus, the mission is never superficial when it is truly Christian. Love always carries cost, but in Christ, nothing offered in love is lost—it becomes seed for life, even when unseen in the moment.
At its deepest level, the appeal unveils a startling trust: (cf. 1 Cor 3:9; CCC 307) Jesus freely chooses to involve human hearts in His saving work . This is not because He needs us, but because love desires communion. He does not act alone when He can act with. This mirrors His relationship with the apostles—fragile, imperfect, yet sent (cf. Mt 28:19–20). Peter’s restoration shows that mission flows not from strength, but from forgiven love that has encountered mercy (cf. Jn 21:15–17). God works through what is human,(cf. 2 Cor 4:7; CCC 307) not what is flawless . Grace does not wait for perfection; it enters weakness and transforms it from within. What matters is not having everything together, but being willing—offering what is real, however limited,(cf. 1 Cor 1:27) and allowing God to act through it . One begins simply: praying for another, choosing patience in tension, (cf. CCC 953)speaking truth with charity . Small acts, when united to Christ, carry real weight in the life of the Church. There remains an urgency—souls are eternal and deeply desired by God . Yet the method is not impersonal strategy, but relationship: presence, love, and fidelity in concrete situations. Here the mystical dimension emerges. The soul becomes a living extension of Christ’s Heart, carrying His desires into the world. Not activism, but communion in action—until Christ lives and works within, seeking and loving through the person for the salvation of many (cf. Gal 2:20).
Prayer
Our Adorable Jesus, wounded Lover of souls, let us feel Your thirst within our own hearts. Break our indifference, purify our love, and send us with Your living Word. May our daily sacrifices draw souls to You. Teach us to love even when it wounds, and never to refuse Your burning desire to save. Amen
Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.
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