Souls in Perdition Amid Day-and-Night Call

Divine Appeal Reflection - 189

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 189:  "I cannot stand day and night calling and every minute seeing souls running and falling into perdition. My precious Life and Blood is now in vain for these particular souls."

“I cannot stand day and night calling.” These words unveil something almost unbearable to contemplate: beneath the noise of human history, Christ is continually seeking the human heart. The world hears elections, machines, traffic, conversations, music and countless human voices; yet beneath them all there is another Voice, quiet but relentless, (cf. Jn 10:27–28; Heb 3:7–8) summoning the soul toward its eternal destiny . The wonder is that Divine Love continues calling even when the human response has become delayed, distracted or deliberately resistant. Samuel slept while the lamp of God was still burning,(cf. 1 Sam 3:1–10) and the divine summons entered his ordinary night before he understood whose voice was calling him . Elijah,(cf. 1 Kgs 19:4–18) exhausted beneath the broom tree, imagined that his journey had reached its end, yet God was already preparing another encounter through silence, tenderness and renewed mission . Even Balaam,(cf. Num 22:21–35) whose spiritual perception had become distorted, was stopped through the astonishing intervention of an animal when he could not perceive the danger before him . Divine Providence can therefore hide a summons inside what appears to be an interruption: an uneasy conscience, an unexpected conversation, a Scripture passage that suddenly exposes the heart, a failure that destroys self-reliance, a child's innocent question, a priest's gentle challenge, or even the forgiveness of someone whom we expected to hate . The surgeon who discovers that professional success has replaced prayer, the farmer whose resentment toward a neighbour has entered his evening prayers, the lecturer who realises that intellectual authority has become humiliation of weaker minds, or the religious who discovers that apostolic activity has displaced intimacy with Christ may all be standing before the same hidden invitation:(cf. Rev 3:19–20) “Come back to Me.” . The tragedy is therefore not that God stops calling. It is that the soul can become so accustomed to being called that it eventually hears the Voice without allowing the Voice to disturb its chosen direction.

“Day and night” opens another chamber of the Appeal. Jesus reveals that no part of our existence lies beyond His call to conversion (cf. Mt 4:17; Acts 17:30). “Day” represents what others can see—our work, family life, ministry, friendships, decisions, public conduct and daily responsibilities, all of which He desires to transform from within (cf. Mt 5:16; Col 3:17). Night represents the hidden territory:(cf. Ps 139:1–12) memories, temptations, loneliness, imagination, wounds, secret habits, private conversations and decisions made when no human witness is present . Christ calls in both places because holiness cannot be divided into a public Christianity and a private life where another master governs. Nicodemus came to Jesus at night, carrying questions that daylight religion had not answered within him (cf. Jn 3:1–21). Jacob entered a mysterious night of struggle and emerged carrying both a wound and a blessing,(cf. Gen 32:22–31) as though his encounter with God had altered his identity . Ruth's decisive fidelity unfolded in the darkness of the threshing floor, where her future was being quietly determined (cf. Ruth 3:1–14). The shepherds encountered the glory of God during the night watch while ordinary humanity slept (cf. Lk 2:8–20). Most astonishingly, the Resurrection begins its revelation in darkness, before dawn, when Mary Magdalene approaches the tomb carrying grief and discovers that death has not spoken the final word (cf. Jn 20:1–18). The student awake with a glowing screen, the businessman disturbed by figures he knows are untrue, the mother praying beside a suffering child, the priest returning home beneath the weight of ministry, the elderly soul revisiting an old family sorrow, and the young person wondering silently why life matters—all are still encountered by the gaze of Christ (cf. Ps 139:1–12; Heb 4:13). There are no abandoned moments for the soul that belongs to Jesus. Fatigue, solitude, uncertainty, and even the darkness of night can become hidden meeting places with grace (cf. Rom 8:38–39). A delayed plan may become an occasion for surrender; an interruption may become a summons to charity; an unexpected burden may become an offering; and a restless conscience may become the first movement of repentance. What disturbs the soul is not always an enemy of peace; sometimes it is mercy refusing to allow the heart to settle comfortably in what can destroy it . Thus, an uncomfortable awakening within may be the quiet approach of Christ, turning the soul from self-deception toward truth, conversion, and the freedom of becoming what God created it to be .

Then comes the astonishing phrase: “every minute seeing souls running.” The mystical examination must descend beneath the visible surface of religious life, beyond prayers recited, Masses attended, devotions practised and ministries performed, until it reaches the secret movement of the heart. The decisive questions are not only, “What am I doing?” but, “Where is my heart travelling while I am doing these things? What is being formed in me by the choices I repeat? What desire is quietly acquiring authority over my freedom? What do I secretly love enough to protect even when Christ asks me to surrender it?” (cf. Mt 6:21; Rom 6:16; Jas 1:14–15). He sees the direction before the destination, the inclination before the collapse, the first consent before the established habit . He saw the seed of betrayal forming in Judas before the kiss in Gethsemane;(cf. Jn 13:21–30; Lk 22:31–34) He saw Peter's approaching denial before Peter himself understood the weakness of his confidence . Yet this divine seeing is not merely surveillance—it is mercy. Christ calls while there is still time to turn. The warning itself becomes an act of compassion because God reveals the road not to condemn the traveller but to invite him to change direction . Every disturbance of conscience, every holy discomfort, every moment when Scripture(cf. Heb 12:5–11) suddenly exposes us, every unexpected correction, every failure that reveals our pride, may be a mercy standing at the crossroads of the soul . The deepest mystical question, therefore, is not simply whether I have fallen, but “In what direction am I walking?” Zacchaeus' change of direction became visible when grace reached his relationship with possessions and injustice (cf. Lk 19:1–10). Mary Magdalene's encounter with the risen Christ transformed not merely an emotion but the entire orientation of her life toward announcing Him (cf. Jn 20:16–18). Thus the soul should ask each evening before God: “Jesus, if my repeated choices continue in their present direction, where will they eventually lead me?” (cf. Gal 6:7–8).And perhaps the most consoling mystery is this: the fact that Christ is showing us our direction means that He is still calling us to turn.  Grace often comes as an interruption to our direction.  A painful truth can become a turning. Forgiving someone can become a turning. Returning to prayer can become a turning. Heaven may begin quietly at the moment the heart changes direction. The soul does not have to understand the entire road; it must simply stop walking away from Love and turn again toward the One who has never stopped calling .

“Running and falling” reveals something even more serious: movement away from God can eventually become a collapse of spiritual freedom. Samson did not lose everything in one isolated moment. His story unfolds through repeated approaches to danger, repeated compromises and an increasing blindness to the seriousness of what he was surrendering (cf. Judg 14:1–3; 16:4–21). His physical blindness becomes a powerful biblical image of what habitual sin can do to interior perception: what the soul repeatedly tolerates can eventually become what it no longer clearly recognises as dangerous (cf. CCC 1863–1865). A conscience ignored repeatedly becomes less sensitive. A lie defended repeatedly becomes easier to speak. An impure attachment protected repeatedly begins to appear like love. Resentment fed repeatedly begins to feel like justice. Dishonesty practised repeatedly becomes “how business works.” Yet Scripture also refuses to tell us that failure necessarily has the final word. Manasseh's extraordinary conversion(cf. 2 Chr 33:1–16) demonstrates that even after catastrophic sin, humiliation can become the doorway through which grace enters again . Peter's restoration after denial reveals the same mystery in another form: Christ does not pretend that betrayal never happened, but He can transform a fallen disciple into a shepherd through repentance and renewed love . This radically changes apostolic charity. A family dealing with addiction must combine prayer with truth, boundaries and appropriate professional help. A teacher correcting a student must distinguish the student's wrongdoing from the student's dignity as a person created for God . A priest hearing a repeated confession must neither trivialise sin nor treat the penitent as hopeless . A prison chaplain may continue to accompany someone society has discarded while still insisting upon responsibility and conversion.  Mercy does not deny the fall; mercy stands beside the fallen person and points toward the possibility of rising again .

The deepest meaning of “falling into perdition” is not merely fear of punishment; it is the tragedy of a creature progressively refusing the communion for which God created it. The Church teaches that God wills the salvation of all and that no person is predestined to condemnation, while also teaching the terrible reality that definitive separation from God can arise from a free and deliberate rejection of Him . Therefore, this Appeal should never make us presume that any particular soul is damned. Instead, it should place within us the urgency of eternity while conversion is still possible. Consider Abishai, who saw Saul as an enemy who could be eliminated, while David refused to make vengeance his authority and entrusted judgment to God (cf. 1 Sam 26:7–12). This gives the apostolic soul a completely different vision of those who are spiritually endangered. The addict is not merely an addict. The corrupt colleague is not merely a corrupt colleague. The difficult parishioner is not merely a nuisance. The immoral young person is not merely a scandal. The imprisoned person is not merely a criminal. The estranged relative is not merely an enemy. Each is a soul standing before eternity. Onesimus, whose relationship with Philemon had been deeply damaged, becomes an extraordinary example of how the Gospel can transform a relationship that once seemed irreparably fractured (cf. Phlm 8–21). A magistrate may therefore refuse a bribe when accepting it would injure the vulnerable (cf. Ex 23:8). A nurse may preserve the dignity of an unconscious patient whom nobody else visits . An engineer may reject a lucrative project because its unsafe design would endanger workers. A young Catholic may accompany a friend trapped in pornography without participating in the behaviour or treating the person with contempt .  St Monica's persevering prayer for Augustine remains a luminous example of love refusing to surrender hope when conversion appears painfully distant (cf. CCC 2687). This is where the Appeal becomes apostolic: Christ's anguish over souls must become our intercession for souls.

“My precious Life and Blood is now in vain for these particular souls.” This final sentence enters the deepest Eucharistic chamber of the Appeal. Christ's sacrifice is never deficient; His Blood possesses infinite saving value (cf. Heb 9:11–14; CCC 613–614). Therefore, the phrase must be understood as the tragic fruitlessness of grace when a person freely refuses to receive and cooperate with it, not as a defect in the power of Christ's Redemption. The Crucified and Risen Lord has opened the fountain of mercy,(cf. Jn 1:11–12; Rev 3:20) but He does not abolish human freedom . Here lies an almost unbearable paradox: Infinite Love can offer itself without limit while a finite creature can refuse that Love. Judas was near the Eucharistic mystery and still permitted betrayal to mature within him (cf. Jn 13:1–30). The rich young man (cf. Mk 10:17–22) stood before Christ Himself and went away sorrowful because another attachment held his freedom more strongly .   The priest must ask whether he offers Christ not merely through his hands but through his heart. The consecrated soul must ask whether Eucharistic intimacy has produced obedience and charity. The married couple must ask whether Communion is entering their forgiveness, finances, speech, sexuality and family life . The parent must ask whether the child encounters Christ through the parent's patience. The young person must ask what he does with Christ when nobody is watching. The professional must ask whether the Eucharist governs Monday's ethical decisions. The elderly person confined to bed may unite weakness with Christ's sacrifice and become a hidden intercessor for souls (cf. Col 1:24). Before the tabernacle, therefore, the question becomes terrifyingly personal: “Jesus, where is Your grace still knocking at the door of my freedom?” (cf. Rev 3:20). The greatest response to the Appeal is not merely to feel sorrow because souls are falling. It is to become available to the grace by which Christ seeks to reach them. Maybe one discussion will keep a hopeless person from giving up. Maybe one confession will make someone feel better. Maybe one Rosary will help a dying sinner find forgiveness. Maybe a single act of forgiveness will stop hatred from being passed down to future generations.  Perhaps one Eucharistic Holy Hour offered in silence will become part of a grace whose earthly history we will never know. The mystery is that Jesus continues calling through human hearts that have learned to hear Him. He calls through prayer, sacrifice, fidelity, truth, forgiveness, Eucharistic adoration, priestly ministry, consecrated love, parental patience, hidden suffering and ordinary holiness (cf. Mt 5:13–16; CCC 863). Thus the final question of the Appeal is not merely, “Why are souls falling?” It is more piercing: “Because Jesus is still calling, will I allow Him to call through me?”

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, awaken us to Your unceasing call. Let Your sorrow for souls become our compassion, prayer and sacrifice. Keep us faithful when others fall, courageous when consciences resist, and tender toward those who wander. May no grace You entrust to us remain fruitless, but become through our lives a path by which souls return to You. Amen.

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