Divine Appeal Reflection - 177
Today, consider in Divine Appeal 177: "Assure souls that the PERDITION OF MANKIND ARISES IN THE FIRST PLACE FROM HIMSELF."
There is a terrifying depth in this Appeal: Our Adorable Jesus directs the gaze of humanity not first toward the serpent, the world, other people, circumstances, or visible structures of evil, but toward the mysterious sanctuary of the human will—the hidden place where the soul freely receives, rejects, loves, clings, surrenders, or resists (cf. Mt 6:21; Prov 4:23; Rom 6:12–13). The deepest battlefield is therefore not always around us; it is within us, where freedom quietly decides whom it will obey and what it will permit to become its master (cf. Jas 1:14–16; CCC 1730–1734). Evil may surround the soul, wound it, tempt it, deceive it, and press heavily upon it, but temptation does not become consent merely because it is felt or experienced. The door of the will is opened when the heart freely gives itself to what stands against God (cf. Jas 1:14–15; CCC 2846–2849). Yet this mystery must never become an accusation against those who suffer. A person may be wounded by another’s sin without choosing that wound; humanity is genuinely scarred by original sin, social sin, violence, injustice, oppression, and the misuse of human freedom . Thus the spiritual question is not, “Why has this suffering come to me?” but, “What will I allow this suffering to make of my heart?” In that hidden answer, grace can transform even what was not chosen into an offering of trust, perseverance, forgiveness, and deeper union with Christ (cf. Rom 8:28; 2 Cor 4:16–18; CCC 618).Yet Jesus reveals something more intimate: a soul can become its own accomplice when it repeatedly welcomes what grace is asking it to surrender. Cain first carried Abel's death in the secret sanctuary of resentment before his hands enacted it (cf. Gen 4:3–8). David's fall with Bathsheba began with an unguarded gaze before it became a chain of adultery, deception and death (cf. 2 Sam 11:1–17). Ananias and Sapphira first permitted falsehood to possess their hearts before it reached their lips (cf. Acts 5:1–11). The mystical tragedy is therefore not simply that man commits evil; it is that the heart can gradually become accustomed to what once wounded its conscience. St. Macarius of Egypt spoke profoundly of the heart as the place where the invisible struggle occurs. The soul can become a temple—or slowly become a territory disputed by competing loves.
The deepest meaning of this Appeal enters the soul when sin is seen not merely as the breaking of a divine command, but as a mysterious turning of the creature away from its Centre. The human soul was made for God; its deepest rest, order, identity, and fulfilment are found in Him. Sin therefore wounds the soul at the level of its loves: something created begins to occupy the throne that belongs to the Creator alone (cf. CCC 1849–1850; Mt 6:21). Money is a gift when received with gratitude, but becomes an idol when the heart secretly says, “My security is here,” rather than resting in Divine Providence . Human affection is sacred, yet it becomes possessive when another person is unconsciously asked to fill the infinite hunger that only God can satisfy (cf. Ps 62:2–3; 1 Cor 13:4–7). Work can become participation in God’s providence, yet it becomes self-worship when achievement becomes the measure of existence (cf. Col 3:23–24). Even prayer, apostolate, sacrifice, and religious service can become spiritually dangerous when the soul begins seeking itself beneath the appearance of seeking God (cf. Mt 6:1–6; Jn 5:44). This is the hidden tragedy of the Pharisee: he enters the Temple apparently facing God, yet his interior gaze has quietly returned to himself; the publican, emptied of spiritual pretence, stands helpless before mercy and therefore becomes capable of receiving it (cf. Lk 18:9–14). Here lies the mystical secret: holiness is not simply the accumulation of good actions; it is the gradual reordering of the entire interior universe until God becomes its living Centre. The soul ceases merely to work for God and begins, by grace, to live from God, through God, and toward God . Then even ordinary things become transparent to Divine Love, because the heart no longer possesses them as substitutes for God but receives them as gifts from the One it loves above all things.St. Isaac of Nineveh repeatedly led the soul toward interior compassion and humility, while St. John of the Cross warned against subtle spiritual possessiveness—even possessiveness of spiritual experiences. A person can possess prayers, devotions, knowledge, ministries and sacrifices while still secretly possessing himself. The soul may kneel before God while retaining the throne of the heart. Thus perdition can begin not only through deliberate wickedness, but through the quiet, repeated refusal to let God be God within us—the subtle enthronement of self where Divine Love alone should reign (cf. Rom 1:21–25; CCC 1850). The soul can remain outwardly respectable while inwardly resisting surrender, guarding hidden territories where it refuses God’s light, correction, or lordship . The decisive mystical question is therefore not merely what we do before others, but: Who occupies the deepest room of the heart when nobody is watching? . For whatever secretly governs that hidden room gradually shapes the whole person. When Christ is welcomed there, grace begins to reorder everything; when self becomes enthroned there, even good things can slowly become instruments of self-love (cf. Gal 2:20; Rom 12:1–2).
There is another frightening mystical dimension: the enemy does not always need to persuade a soul to embrace evil; sometimes it is enough to persuade it to delay surrender. The foolish virgins were not portrayed as hating the bridegroom;(cf. Mt 25:1–13) their tragedy was that they remained unprepared when the decisive hour arrived . The rich fool (cf. Lk 12:13–21) was not condemned simply because he possessed wealth, but because his interior horizon had gradually closed around himself, his possessions, and his plans, leaving no real room for God . Herod was troubled by John’s truth, yet fear, reputation, and attachment to his promise eventually overcame obedience (cf. Mk 6:17–29). Pilate likewise perceived the gravity of the situation,(cf. Jn 18:28–19:16) yet allowed political pressure and self-preservation to silence conscience . These become terrifying mirrors for the soul because perdition can grow through dividedness rather than open rebellion. The soul says, “I know,” but postpones obedience; “I should forgive,” but preserves the wound; “I should confess,” but delays; “I should leave this relationship,” but keeps negotiating; “I should pray,” but repeatedly chooses distraction; “I should speak the truth,” but protects its reputation (cf. Jas 1:22–24; Heb 3:12–13). What is postponed repeatedly can eventually become what the heart no longer desires to surrender. Thus delay is not always neutral: when grace repeatedly calls and the soul continually postpones, postponement can become disposition, and disposition can gradually become a settled direction of the heart (cf. Eph 5:15–17; CCC 1777–1782).This is why Our Adorable Jesus directs attention, in the first place, to what happens within the human heart. The abyss does not always open through a dramatic act of rebellion; sometimes it begins with a door only slightly opened—a tolerated thought, an excused attachment, a postponed repentance, a cherished resentment—and the soul simply refuses to close it (cf. Mk 7:20–23; Jas 1:14–16). What begins as a small opening can gradually become an interior passage through which disordered desires gain greater influence . The tragedy is not merely that the door was opened, but that grace repeatedly invited the soul to close it, while the soul continued to negotiate. Thus vigilance is a work of love: to close quickly what separates us from Christ, to return quickly when we fall, and to keep the inner sanctuary guarded for the One who alone can fill it .
Yet here the Appeal suddenly becomes luminous rather than merely frightening. If the soul can turn away from God within the hidden sanctuary of the heart, then it can also turn back to Him there. The very interior place that once sheltered resistance can become the secret altar where repentance awakens and grace quietly begins its work of transformation . Zacchaeus encountered Christ, (cf. Lk 19:1–10)and that encounter reached the places where his heart had become attached to wealth, restoring his relationship with neighbour through concrete restitution . The Samaritan woman met Jesus beside the well, and what began amid wounds, concealment, and searching gradually became a movement toward truth and witness (cf. Jn 4:4–42). Peter’s tears after his denial became part of a deeper passage from confidence in his own strength toward humble dependence upon Christ and a renewed pastoral mission (cf. Lk 22:54–62; Jn 21:15–19). The good thief had almost no time for outward religious achievement, yet one interior turning toward the Crucified opened before him the horizon of eternity (cf. Lk 23:39–43). This reveals an extraordinary mystery of grace: God does not wait for the soul to become perfect before beginning His work. He enters the poverty of the soul precisely where it finally stops defending itself and begins to yield (cf. Ezek 36:25–27; Phil 2:13). Grace does not destroy human freedom; it heals, strengthens, and draws it toward God, enabling the sinner to respond freely to His loving initiative . The decisive movement may therefore be almost hidden: a sincere confession, the release of resentment, the surrender of an unhealthy attachment, a return to prayer, or the humble acceptance of correction . What appears insignificant to the world may be immense before Heaven—the first quiet movement of a heart turning away from itself and beginning to return home to God (cf. Lk 15:17–24; Lk 15:7; CCC 1430). St. Augustine's conversion illustrates this movement from a divided will toward surrender, while St. Mary of Egypt reveals how a radically disordered life can become radically reordered by grace. A businessman can begin today by refusing one dishonest transaction. A spouse can stop feeding one resentment. A young person can delete what repeatedly leads him toward impurity. A priest can return to the silence he has neglected. A religious can surrender an attachment hidden beneath obedience. A wounded person can begin praying for the one who hurt them. The first movement toward heaven can be almost invisible: one interior “yes” where yesterday there was a “no.”
This Appeal ultimately leads the soul into the mystical school of interior vigilance. Our Adorable Jesus does not ask us to become terrified of our weakness, but truthful enough to recognise where our freedom is still being surrendered (cf. Mt 26:41; CCC 2846–2849). The saints understood holiness as the purification and reordering of love, until God becomes the hidden centre of the heart (cf. CCC 2012–2014). The Eucharist makes this mystery especially profound:(cf. Jn 6:56; CCC 1374, 1391) the same Christ adored by the angels enters the human person, not merely to touch the surface of life, but to call every hidden chamber into communion with Himself . A soul may receive the Eucharist while secretly protecting resentment, vanity, unforgiveness, or an attachment it does not wish to release. Yet Christ does not cease calling; His Presence patiently exposes, heals, and sanctifies what we place before Him . Thus the Appeal becomes an examination not merely of our actions, but of the hidden architecture of the person—our desires, attachments, memories, wounds, choices, and loves—until nothing within us remains deliberately closed to Divine Love . Before blaming society, we are invited to examine our own hearts; before condemning another, to ask whether an unhealed wound has become resentment; before becoming preoccupied with Satan, to recognise the compromise that may have given temptation room;(cf. Ps 139:23–24; Mt 7:3–5) and before despairing of humanity, to allow Christ to begin His reign within us . Evil may propose, circumstances may pressure, others may wound, and history may leave deep scars, but the mystery of human freedom still contains the capacity to respond to grace rather than surrender to what wounds the soul . The heart can become the place where temptation gains ground, but it can also become the sanctuary where grace quietly overturns that ground. When freedom is surrendered to Christ,(cf. Rom 6:12–14; Eph 3:16–17) what was once an opening toward darkness can become an opening toward redemption . The deepest victory, therefore, is not merely that Christ conquers evil around us, but that He establishes His loving reign within us until our desires, choices, wounds, and relationships increasingly belong to Him .
Prayer
Our Adorable Jesus, enter the hidden sanctuary of our hearts and reveal every place where we resist Your grace. Deliver us from self-deception, divided loves and delayed conversion. Take possession of our freedom, desires and affections. May the place where sin once found entrance become a dwelling place of Your mercy and holiness. Amen.
Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.