Happiness That Dies No More

Divine Appeal Reflection - 171

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 171: "I want you to know that happiness  is not only an object of care, for since I am risen to a life of glory, I die no more."

The deepest mistake concerning happiness is to imagine that it is something the soul can successfully protect. We guard our health, relationships, reputation, income, plans, and possessions because we fear that if these disappear, happiness will disappear with them. Yet the risen life of Christ introduces a mysterious truth: what is truly alive in God cannot be preserved by anxiety, because its source is beyond the reach of human control. Christian happiness is therefore not the successful defence of a pleasant life. It is participation in a Life that has already passed through death and remains unconquered. The Catechism teaches that the desire for happiness is placed by God in the human heart and finds its ultimate fulfilment in God Himself (cf. CCC 1718–1719, 1720–1724). Consider the widow of Nain,(cf. Lk 7:11–17) whose entire future seemed to be carried away before her eyes as her only son was taken toward burial . Her happiness was not merely diminished; from a human perspective, her world was closing. Yet Christ approached her precisely where life appeared to be moving irreversibly toward loss. This image is profoundly mystical. Jesus does not always meet us at the beginning of a funeral procession; He often approaches while we are carrying what we have already declared finished. A man may watch the profession he spent twenty years building slowly collapse, convinced that a chapter of his life has reached its end . A woman realizes that a friendship she deeply trusted cannot be restored. Yet when earthly securities fail, Christ can reveal a deeper belonging that circumstances cannot destroy . A priest discovers that his strength is no longer sufficient for the work he once performed effortlessly. A religious watches her community become smaller and fears that everything she served is disappearing. The soul naturally says, “My happiness is dying.” But the risen mystery asks another question: What if Christ is allowing you to discover that your happiness was never identical with the thing you are losing? This does not make loss painless. Christianity does not ask the widow to pretend that death is beautiful. It reveals that Christ can enter even the procession of what we cannot stop. St Julian of Norwich, writing from profound contemplation of Christ's love, perceived that divine providence remains deeper than the confusion through which human beings pass. St Marguerite Bourgeoys lived a life of missionary uncertainty and continual dependence upon providence, yet her joy did not depend upon guaranteed results. Their witness teaches that spiritual happiness is not possessing a life without funerals. It is discovering that no funeral procession travels beyond the reach of Christ. Sometimes what dies is not the vocation, marriage, ministry, or future itself. Sometimes what must die is the false idea that we can possess happiness without surrender. The soul begins to become free when it no longer asks, “How can I make sure nothing changes?” but whispers, “Risen Jesus, when everything changes, show me what in You remains.”

A more hidden mystery appears in the encounter of the Risen Jesus with Thomas. Thomas represents the soul that cannot easily celebrate because it has been wounded by disappointment (cf. Jn 20:24–29). He had once hoped, followed, and believed, but the Cross had shattered the form in which he expected salvation to appear. His difficulty was not simply intellectual. It was existential. He had seen what happened when hope was crucified. Many souls today live in this hidden condition. They still attend Mass, perform duties, and perhaps even pray, but inwardly they have said, “I will never allow myself to hope too much again.” They protect themselves from disappointment by lowering their expectations of God. The mystical tragedy is that the soul may confuse emotional self-protection with wisdom. Yet the Risen Jesus does not return to Thomas with contempt. He returns with His wounds. This is astonishing. The scars of love's agony are not removed by resurrection. The wounds are carried by glory, but they no longer have the ability to cause death. Here lies an immense secret concerning happiness. The Christian is not promised that every wound will disappear from memory. Rather, grace can transform the meaning of wounds. The betrayal remains part of the story, but it does not become the author's final sentence. The failure remains real, yet it need not become our identity. Sickness may weaken the body while opening the soul more deeply to God . A woman who has been deceived may struggle to trust again, but Christ can gently heal her wounded heart, teaching her to forgive without abandoning wisdom and to love without fear . Her suffering may tempt her to construct a life where nobody can wound her again. Yet such a life can become a prison. Or consider a priest criticised unjustly who gradually stops loving his people because affection now feels dangerous. Christ invites both to touch—not endlessly analyse—the mystery of their wounds in His Presence. The Catechism presents the Resurrection as the crowning truth of faith and inseparable from the Paschal Mystery (cf. CCC 638–655). The deepest happiness is therefore not, “Nothing has wounded me.” It is: “What wounded me has not succeeded in separating me from the Life of Christ.”

There is an even more unusual New Testament revelation in the healing of the man born blind. His encounter with Jesus does not immediately produce a comfortable life. Paradoxically, after receiving sight, he enters interrogation, misunderstanding, conflict, and exclusion (cf. Jn 9:1–41). This is a striking mystery: sometimes receiving light initially makes life more difficult. Before encountering Christ deeply, a person may live comfortably within illusions. Conversion can disturb relationships. Truth can expose compromises. A decision to live chastely can end a relationship. Refusing to engage in corruption may put one's job at risk. A priest who devotes more time to prayer may find that some goals become less appealing. A businessperson may momentarily lose out on cash prospects if they choose to act honestly.  Thus, the soul can mistakenly conclude, “I was happier before.” But was it happiness—or simply unconsciousness? The man born blind gradually moves from receiving physical sight to recognising the deeper identity of Christ. His greatest gift is therefore not merely the restoration of his eyes. His deepest sight is spiritual. This is the mystical danger of ordinary happiness: we can become attached to circumstances that keep us comfortable precisely because they prevent us from seeing God clearly.  St. Martin de Porres embraced humble service without allowing humiliation to define him. His live reveal that freedom grows when the soul stops asking whether life is pleasant and begins asking whether it is becoming more truthful, loving, and available to God . The Beatitudes reveal this paradoxical path: true blessedness is found not in comfort or applause, but in belonging to God amid the trials of earthly life . Consider a young professional who receives a promotion but slowly discovers that success has made him dishonest and spiritually empty. Losing that position may feel like disaster, yet it may become the beginning of sight. Consider a consecrated soul transferred from a prestigious ministry into obscurity. At first, happiness seems to disappear. But perhaps Christ is removing the mirrors in which the soul has been admiring itself. There are losses that are secretly the recovery of sight. The risen life of Christ teaches us that happiness is not always found by preserving what feels good. Sometimes Christ lovingly removes what has become too small for eternity.

The Resurrection reaches another extraordinary depth in the story of Peter and John at the empty tomb. They both run,(cf. Jn 20:1–10) but they do not arrive in the same way, see in the same way, or understand at the same speed . This reveals something profoundly consoling: the risen life does not unfold identically in every soul. Modern unhappiness often comes from comparison. We see another person's marriage, ministry, income, children, health, beauty, spiritual gifts, or success and conclude that our own life has arrived too late. But the Resurrection does not produce identical witnesses. Peter becomes Peter. John remains John. Mary Magdalene receives a different encounter. Thomas receives another. The Christian mystery is not uniformity but communion. Your happiness may be hidden inside the particular way Christ is meeting you. Consider a woman who watches her friends marry while she remains single. She may begin believing that happiness has forgotten her. Yet God may be forming an apostolic fruitfulness she cannot yet see. A married couple without children may discover a spiritual parenthood that transforms many lives. An elderly priest whose active ministry has ended may become a hidden father through intercession. A person with chronic limitations may develop a compassion that a physically strong person never needed to learn. St Lidwina of Schiedam, through prolonged suffering, entered a profound spiritual life that could not have been measured by worldly productivity.  St Hermann of Reichenau, living with severe physical limitations, became a remarkable witness of intellectual and spiritual fruitfulness. Their lives challenge the world's narrow definition of a happy life. God does not create souls on an assembly line. Therefore, comparison is often a refusal to receive one's own mystery. The Catechism describes heaven as the fulfilment of the deepest human longings and as communion with God in Christ (cf. CCC 1023–1029). This eternal fulfilment begins mysteriously now whenever the soul stops demanding another person's path. Consider two religious sisters: one is well-known for her talks, while the other silently looks after an old sister for years.  Which possesses greater happiness? Heaven’s measure is not applause but love; the hidden fidelity of the second may shine more brightly before God (cf. Mt 6:4–6; 1 Cor 13:3). Imagine two brothers: one becomes wealthy; the other lives quietly but faithfully serves his family. The world measures visible outcomes. The Risen Christ measures communion. Your life becomes unhappy when you demand that God explain why another person received a different road. Your life becomes luminous when you ask, “Jesus, what form of Your risen life are You trying to reveal through mine?” Perhaps your greatest joy is hidden precisely inside the life you have been trying to exchange for someone else's.

The highest mystical meaning of this Appeal is found in the Ascension and the hidden presence of Christ. After rising, Jesus does not remain physically visible in the same manner forever. The disciples must learn a more mysterious communion: they are not abandoned, yet they can no longer possess Him according to their previous experience (cf. Acts 1:6–11). This is the spiritual journey of every Christian. At certain moments, God gives sensible consolation, clarity, success, companionship, and spiritual sweetness. Then a different season comes. Prayer becomes dry. The future becomes unclear. People leave. The body weakens. The old consolations disappear. The soul may believe that happiness has departed because it can no longer feel God as before. Yet the Ascension teaches a terrifyingly beautiful lesson: Christ can be more truly present even when He is less visibly possessed. This is where mystical maturity begins. St Angela of Foligno passed through profound spiritual transformations in which suffering and purification led her toward deeper dependence on God. St Claude de la Colombière discovered fidelity through trials and interior surrender.  Their lives reveal that the Christian must eventually learn to love God beyond spiritual enjoyment. This does not destroy happiness. It purifies happiness from possession. The soul no longer says, “I am happy because God makes me feel good.” It begins to say, “I am happy because God is God, even when I am walking through darkness.” This is a happiness the world cannot understand. The Catechism teaches that ultimate beatitude surpasses human powers and is a supernatural participation in divine life (cf. CCC 1720–1724). The Risen Christ lives in glory, where death has no final claim. Therefore, we receive earthly joys with gratitude, yet hold them lightly—not despising them, but knowing they are signs pointing beyond themselves to the everlasting joy found in God (cf. Jn 16:22; 1 Cor 7:29–31). Enjoy the child who laughs. Thank God for a successful day. Receive friendship with tenderness. Rest when you can. Celebrate beauty. But do not build your eternity upon anything that can disappear overnight. Love created things without asking them to become God. When they remain, give thanks. When they leave, weep honestly. But remain within Christ. The Christian possesses a secret that transforms every vocation: true happiness cannot be taken away because its source is the Risen Christ . Whether a mother fears for her children, a priest feels forgotten, a young person faces an uncertain future, or an elderly person approaches death, Christ reveals the same mystery: our joy rests not in preventing life from passing away, but in belonging to the One whose Life conquers death forever .

Prayer

O Adorable Risen Jesus, teach us the secret happiness that cannot be buried with passing things. Heal our fears of loss, comparison, failure, and hiddenness. Let Your glorious Life enter our wounds and uncertainties. When we cannot feel joy, keep us united to You, until eternity reveals the happiness You were quietly forming within us. Amen.

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