The Flower of Holy Silence

Divine Appeal Reflection - 168

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 168:  "For the sake of souls, keep silent, as though you are picking a flower for Me. I love you to the point of doing good for the souls of mankind. I want you to be full of indulgence and compassion for lost souls. Take care of them through your prayers."

There is a silence that is merely the absence of words, but there is another silence that becomes an act of love offered to God for another soul. This Appeal reveals the second kind. To keep silent “as though picking a flower” suggests that a sacrifice which appears small, unnoticed, and almost insignificant can become precious when consciously offered to Christ. A flower does not resist or retaliate; it simply gives what it has received. Likewise, when we feel the impulse to defend ourselves, expose another’s fault, answer an insult, repeat gossip, or prove ourselves right, love may invite us to become silent—not because truth is unimportant or injustice should be ignored, but because charity sometimes asks us to surrender the satisfaction of having the final word . In such silence, the soul does not become weak; it allows Christ to possess its response and transform wounded pride into an offering of love (cf. Rom 12:19–21; Col 3:12–14). Scripture gives us the unusual figure of Abigail,(cf. 1 Sam 25:14–35) who entered a dangerous conflict with wisdom and restrained the violence that was ready to erupt . Her intervention shows that a soul can prevent spiritual destruction by refusing to add more fire to an already burning situation. Likewise, David, when cursed by Shimei, refused to allow immediate retaliation to control him (cf. 2 Sam 16:5–14). His silence became an opening through which he surrendered judgment to God. This is deeply practical. A husband receives an unfair accusation from his wife after a difficult day and feels the exact words that would wound her deeply. He knows her weakness and could easily use it. Instead, he becomes silent, prays, and waits until anger passes. That silence may become a flower for Christ. A woman discovers that a colleague has been speaking badly about her, yet instead of retaliating,(cf. Ps 55:22; 1 Pet 2:23) she carries the hurt to prayer and entrusts the matter to God . She wants to expose the person publicly but first brings the pain before God. A priest hears criticism about his ministry and resists the temptation to retaliate from the pulpit. A religious sister is misunderstood by her community and chooses not to recruit supporters for her own side. Such silence is not weakness. It is strength placed under the government of charity (cf. Jas 1:19–20; CCC 1804, 1808). The mystical soul begins asking, before speaking, “Jesus, can this word save? Can it heal? Can it lead someone closer to You?” Sometimes Christ asks for speech. Sometimes He asks for courageous correction. But sometimes the most apostolic word is the one that remains unspoken and is transformed into prayer for the person who caused the wound .

The phrase about doing good for souls reveals an extraordinary mystical economy: Christ allows love to become intercessory. A hidden sacrifice can become a prayer. A surrendered reaction can become an offering. A painful silence can become a mysterious participation in Christ's concern for someone who may never know that another person suffered and prayed for him. This does not mean that human beings “save” souls by their own power. Salvation belongs to God alone through Christ . Yet the Church teaches that believers can cooperate with grace and participate in Christ's mission through prayer, charity, sacrifice, and witness . The mystery is breathtaking: a hidden act of love may become part of God's providential work in another person's journey. Consider Moses, who stood between a rebellious people and disaster through intercession (cf. Ex 32:9–14, 30–32). Consider Samuel,(cf. 1 Sam 12:19–23) who regarded intercession for God's people as part of his responsibility . Yet Amos, the shepherd whom God called into prophecy, offers another striking image: when shown visions of coming destruction, he stood before God and pleaded for mercy for a people who had gone astray (cf Amos 7:1–6). His response reveals the heart of contemplation: we do not merely look at another person’s brokenness from a distance; we quietly carry that brokenness into God’s presence. Moses did something similar when he interceded for Israel after its grave failure (cf Ex 32:30–32), while Samuel continued praying for a people who had repeatedly disappointed God (cf 1 Sam 12:19–23). This spirit can enter the most ordinary places. A teacher may have a disruptive student whom everyone has labelled difficult, yet she quietly prays each morning for the wounded story she cannot see (cf 1 Sam 16:7; Col 3:12–14). A shopkeeper cheated by a young person may take necessary action while still praying that the young man will not ruin his future (cf Lk 6:27–28; Rom 12:20–21). A prison officer may encounter hardened offenders and silently ask Christ to reach the place within them that human conversation has never touched (cf Ezek 36:26; Lk 23:39–43). An elderly person confined to one room may discover that physical limitation does not imprison love; each offered day can become an unseen apostolate for souls scattered throughout the world (cf Col 1:24; 2 Cor 4:16–18).

St. Lidwina of Schiedam shows how prolonged suffering can become hidden fruitfulness when united to Christ (cf Rom 8:17–18). Blessed Pauline Jaricot transformed concern for the missions into prayerful and practical missionary cooperation (cf Mt 28:19–20). St. Claude La Colombière witnessed to the power of fidelity when success remained hidden from human eyes (cf Jn 15:4–5). Their lives remind us that spiritual fruit is not always measurable. The person who forgives silently may never see what that forgiveness accomplishes; the one who intercedes may never know which soul was strengthened; the one who remains silent rather than retaliating may prevent a wound that could have spread through an entire family or community (cf Prov 15:1; Jas 3:5–6). This is why the contemplative soul gradually stops asking, “Did anyone notice?” and begins asking, “Did I love?” A hidden sacrifice offered to Christ is never wasted (cf Heb 6:10). A prayer whispered for someone who may never know about it can become an unseen bridge between suffering and grace (cf 1 Tim 2:1–4). The world measures influence through visibility, numbers, recognition, and results; heaven measures differently (cf Mt 6:1–6). What appears insignificant—a restrained word, a concealed sacrifice, a patient prayer, a decision not to retaliate—may possess an eternal reach known only to God (cf Mt 10:42; 1 Cor 15:58). The mystical soul therefore learns to love without needing to witness the harvest, trusting that Christ can take the smallest offering and mysteriously multiply its fruit (cf Jn 6:9–13).

Yet Christ's invitation to be full of indulgence and compassion for lost souls brings us into an even deeper mystery: we must learn to look at sinners without becoming fascinated by their sins. The world often gives people an identity based upon their worst action. “The addict.” “The criminal.” “The corrupt person.” “The immoral woman.” “The failed priest.” “The difficult child.” But the gaze of Christ penetrates further. This does not minimise evil or deny the need for repentance. Rather, it remembers that no human person can be reduced entirely to the ruins he has created. Consider the strange and powerful story of Gomer, whose broken marital life became part of Hosea's prophetic experience of divine faithfulness (cf. Hos 1–3). The story reveals the painful mystery of love pursuing what has wandered. Consider Manasseh, whose life was marked by grave wrongdoing and idolatry,(cf. 2 Chr 33:1–13) yet who humbled himself and turned toward God in affliction . His story is a warning against despairing of anyone's conversion. The soul who loves Christ must therefore guard against a subtle spiritual pride: enjoying the thought that another person is worse. A Catholic may pray for “sinners” while secretly thinking only of people whose sins are visible. Yet compassion begins when we recognise that every human being is capable of becoming lost in some way without grace (cf. Rom 3:22–24). A priest may meet someone deeply entangled in sin and feel impatience, yet he must speak truth while remembering that he too approaches the altar as one who lives by mercy (cf Heb 4:15–16; CCC 1846–1848). A parent may watch an adult child struggle with addiction and feel humiliation before others, but Christ invites that parent to look beyond the bondage and continue carrying the person in prayer (cf Lk 15:20–24; Jas 5:16). A parishioner may pass the same homeless man outside the church each day until his presence becomes invisible; compassion begins when we stop seeing a problem and begin wondering about the wounded story of a human being (cf Mt 25:35–40; 1 Jn 3:17–18). A woman whose husband falls into serious sin may need truth, protection, wise counsel, and appropriate help; Christian compassion never asks her to tolerate abuse or pretend that evil has not wounded her (cf Ps 82:3–4; CCC 2265). Yet she can refuse to let hatred become the final authority over her heart . St. Maria Goretti witnesses to the astonishing possibility of forgiveness without minimizing the horror of violence, while St. Moses the Black reveals how radically grace can transform a life once marked by grave wrongdoing . Compassion is therefore not blindness toward sin;(cf Rom 5:20–21) it is the courage to see sin clearly without believing it is stronger than mercy . The mystical apostle learns to ask Christ for His eyes: eyes that recognize the wound beneath rebellion, fear beneath anger, loneliness beneath addiction, and the beloved person beneath the sinner (cf 1 Sam 16:7; Jn 8:10–11). Truth remains necessary,(cf Eph 4:15; 1 Cor 13:4–7) but truth severed from charity can become another weapon . To look with Christ is to hold together justice and mercy, firmness and tenderness, protection and forgiveness. It is to believe that no person should be reduced to the worst thing he or she has done, because grace can still call the sinner home (cf Lk 19:1–10; 1 Tim 1:15–16).

The Appeal's command to take care of lost souls through prayer introduces a magnificent apostolic vocation available to every person: the hidden ministry of carrying souls whom we cannot control into the Heart of God. This is especially important because there are many people we desperately want to change but cannot. A mother cannot force her adult son to return to the Church. A priest cannot force a parishioner to repent. A wife cannot force her husband to abandon destructive habits. A teacher cannot force a student to choose virtue. A friend cannot force another friend to seek healing. Here prayer becomes an act of humility. Intercession acknowledges that the soul belongs finally to God, not to us. Consider Hannah, (cf. 1 Sam 1:9–20) who carried her deepest sorrow before God rather than allowing disappointment to become resentment . Consider Job, who continued praying even for friends whose words had wounded him (cf. Job 42:7–10). Consider Stephen,(cf. Acts 7:54–60) whose final concern included those participating in his death . These biblical personalities reveal an astonishing development of love: the mature Christian eventually learns to pray not only for those who love him but also for those whose lives have wounded him. Imagine praying for the relative who destroyed a family relationship. Imagine praying for the former friend who betrayed you. Imagine praying for the person whose corruption caused you financial loss. Imagine praying for the priest whose weakness scandalised you. Imagine praying for the politician whose decisions you believe have harmed society. This prayer does not necessarily mean immediate reconciliation, trust, or removal of necessary boundaries. Christian charity is not naïve. Some relationships require distance, accountability, justice, or protection. But even when the door of ordinary relationship must remain closed, the door of intercession can remain open (cf. Mt 5:43–48; CCC 2262, 2302–2303).St Elizabeth Ann Seton carried suffering, widowhood, and uncertainty into a life that eventually became spiritually fruitful for many others. The soul who intercedes enters into the patience of God . Perhaps the one you have almost given up on is still living a story whose ending God has not yet written.

The image of picking a flower for Christ reveals the highest mystical secret of the Appeal: love transforms little renunciations into offerings that belong to eternity. The world teaches us to express every feeling immediately. Speak when angry. Respond instantly. Defend your image. Correct every misunderstanding. Reveal every offence. But the Gospel introduces another freedom: the freedom not to obey every interior impulse. This freedom becomes a profound act of love when the soul no longer feels compelled to explain, defend, or justify everything. Mary carried mysteries she did not immediately understand or disclose,(cf Lk 2:19, 51) pondering them quietly before God . Joseph likewise received realities beyond his understanding and answered not with argument but with obedient action (cf Mt 1:18–25; 2:13–15). Their hidden lives reveal that God often works most deeply when we surrender the demand to understand everything immediately (cf Is 55:8–9; Prov 3:5–6). Thus, the “flower” may be very small: remaining silent when you could embarrass someone; refusing to repeat a piece of gossip; allowing another person to receive recognition; accepting a minor inconvenience without complaint; not responding immediately to a provocative message; praying before replying to an insult; surrendering the desire to know what others think of you. But the soul must be wise. Silence must never excuse abuse, conceal serious wrongdoing, or leave the vulnerable unprotected; charity also requires courage to defend truth and safeguard those entrusted to us . There are times when love demands speaking, reporting, correcting, and seeking justice . Holy silence is not cowardice. It is the deliberate surrender of unnecessary self-defence for the sake of love. Sometimes Christ asks us to speak for the voiceless. Sometimes He asks us to remain silent about ourselves. The discernment is found in charity. Before speaking, the contemplative soul asks: “Is this my wound to defend, or is this a truth that another person needs to hear for their salvation?” The soul becomes spiritually free when it learns this distinction: love does not deny injustice; it simply refuses to let another’s wrongdoing govern the condition of its own heart.

Prayer

O Adorable Jesus, teach us to offer You silence, patience, compassion, and hidden sacrifice. Save us from harsh judgment and give us hearts that pray for lost souls. Transform our wounds into intercession and our sacrifices into channels of Your mercy . Amen.

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