Divine Appeal Reflection - 177
Today, consider in Divine Appeal 177: "I called you for the good of souls. Be ready to undergo anything. In the Sacrament of My Love you are a victim. True love desires to testify effectual its fidelity and tenderness."
Our Adorable Jesus does not say simply that true love possesses fidelity and tenderness; He reveals something far more demanding: true love longs to become visible for the good of another. Love carries within itself an apostolic fire. What has truly been received cannot remain imprisoned within the heart. It seeks an opening through which grace can reach another soul—a patient word when anger would be easier, a sacrifice offered without recognition, a presence beside someone who is suffering, a forgiveness that interrupts resentment, or a hidden service known only to God . Love therefore possesses a holy restlessness: it continually asks how the good within us can become a gift beyond us. Like the oil of the widow that flowed when poured out, love seems to increase precisely when it is given away (cf. 2 Kgs 4:1–7). The heart touched by Christ does not merely contain His love; it becomes a passage through which His love can reach someone else. The eternal Son did not leave divine love concealed within the inaccessible mystery of God. He entered our history, assumed our humanity, and allowed divine love to acquire human hands that could touch, eyes that could weep, feet that could seek the lost, wounds that could suffer, and a Heart capable of revealing tenderness in a language wounded humanity could understand (cf. Jn 1:14; Phil 2:6–8; CCC 456–460). The Incarnation is divine love refusing to remain invisible.
This same mystery appears in the obscure servant girl of Israel, whose simple witness directed Naaman toward the prophet through whom God would heal him (cf. 2 Kgs 5:2–14). She possessed neither position nor public influence, yet her small act became a bridge through which grace entered another person's misery. Abigail likewise stepped into a dangerous situation and,(cf. 1 Sam 25:18–35) through courageous wisdom, prevented David from multiplying violence and bloodguilt . Neither needed a pulpit to exercise an apostolate. Their love became apostolic precisely because it intervened for another's good. Here lies a profound law of divine love: love does not merely desire another’s blessing; it consents to become the passage through which that blessing arrives. It asks not simply, “What do I wish for this person?” but, “What must I surrender, endure, forgive, or do so that grace may reach them?” (cf. 1 Jn 3:16–18; Phil 2:3–5). A mother who prays through the night for her child, a priest who listens patiently to a wounded penitent, a teacher who protects a struggling student from humiliation, a spouse who chooses reconciliation over retaliation, or a stranger who stops to lift the fallen may become hidden vessels of Christ’s tenderness (cf. Gal 6:2; Col 3:12–14). Heaven often becomes perceptible through a human being who allows divine love to pass through his ordinary flesh, hands, words, patience, and sacrifice. Therefore the Christian must ask a question far more searching than, “Do I love?”—“Can the person standing before me actually encounter Christ’s love because I was there?” (cf. Jn 13:34–35; 2 Cor 5:20).
The word “fidelity” then enters a deeper mystery. Fidelity is not simply remaining physically present. A person can remain somewhere while the heart has already departed. One can remain married while emotionally abandoning the spouse; remain in religious life while inwardly rejecting one's vocation; remain in ministry while secretly loving recognition; remain at Mass while the heart wanders elsewhere. Biblical fidelity is something much more profound:(cf. Hos 1:2–3; 3:1–5) it is the steadfastness of love when the conditions that originally made love pleasant have disappeared. Hosea's prophetic life(cf. Hos 1:2–3; 3:1–5) became a painful sign of God's persistent covenant love toward an unfaithful people . The prophet Jeremiah(cf. Jer 20:7–13) continued carrying God's word even when his mission brought loneliness, rejection and inner anguish . Ruth(cf. Ruth 1:6–18) remained beside Naomi when almost every practical calculation suggested returning to security in Moab . These are not merely examples of endurance; they reveal something deeper: love refusing to permit circumstances to rewrite the covenant it has already made. Fidelity becomes most luminous precisely when there is no emotional reward for remaining faithful. It is the daughter who continues patiently accompanying a father who can no longer recognise her name; the priest who keeps praying for a former parishioner who now avoids him; the religious sister who quietly serves a difficult community member without waiting for gratitude; the teacher who continues believing in a student whom repeated failure has taught everyone else to dismiss; the friend who protects another person's confidence even when revealing it would make him appear important; the seminarian who continues discerning honestly after discovering that his imagined future may not be God's call; the nurse who treats the difficult patient with the same dignity as the grateful one; the neighbour who continues praying for a household that has never returned his kindness. Here love becomes almost invisible—and therefore profoundly pure. It is no longer sustained by appreciation, reciprocity, admiration, or usefulness. It simply remains because the person loved has become, before God, a gift entrusted to one's fidelity (cf. 1 Cor 13:4–8; Col 3:12–14). This is radically different from transactional affection, which quietly asks, What am I receiving in return? Divine love asks instead, What good can I still desire for you, even when you can give me nothing? It is the mystery of Christ, who continues to offer Himself to souls who forget Him, neglect Him, resist Him, and return to Him only after wandering . True fidelity therefore becomes a hidden form of Eucharistic love: remaining, giving, and blessing without demanding that the beloved first become worthy of the gift.
But Jesus joins tenderness to fidelity, and here the Appeal becomes even more mystical. Fidelity without tenderness can preserve a relationship while wounding the person within it. Tenderness without fidelity can soothe someone temporarily while allowing the deeper disorder to continue. Christ unites both. He does not abandon the Samaritan woman to her past,(cf. Jn 4:7–26) but neither does He pretend that her life requires no conversion . He does not humiliate Peter for his denial; He restores him through a personal encounter that reaches the wound beneath the failure (cf. Jn 21:15–19). He does not simply tell Jairus to accept his daughter's death;(cf. Mk 5:35–43) He enters the father's anguish and restores the child . Even more mysteriously, when Jesus meets the widow of Nain,(cf. Lk 7:11–15) He notices her grief before she asks anything from Him . Divine tenderness notices what another person has stopped having the strength to explain. This is a profound apostolate. A wife notices the unusual silence of her husband rather than interpreting it immediately as rejection. A priest recognises shame behind a penitent's repeated sin. A teacher notices that the child who once answered eagerly has become withdrawn and quietly creates space for him to speak . A superior looks beyond an employee’s unusual resistance and considers whether fatigue, confusion, or discouragement lies beneath it, choosing patient discernment rather than immediate condemnation . A friend hears “I am fine” but recognizes the silence behind the words and remains close enough to say, without pressure, “You do not have to carry this alone” . A neighbour notices an elderly widow gradually disappearing from community life and begins visiting her, not with grand solutions, but with faithful presence . Love becomes tender when it learns to notice what suffering cannot always articulate. A priest notices a parishioner lingering after Mass and offers presence before advice. Tenderness looks beneath behaviour to the person struggling within it . Such attentiveness reveals a mystical truth: tenderness is love learning to see with the eyes of Christ. Tenderness listens beneath words, notices what others overlook, (cf. Rom 12:15; Phil 2:4) and refuses to abandon another's hidden wound merely because it is inconvenient . Like Christ walking beside the discouraged disciples at Emmaus,(cf. Lk 24:13–32) it draws near, listens patiently, and allows light to enter gradually . Tenderness is love becoming attentive enough to notice—and courageous enough to remain.
The word “effectual” gives the Appeal an extraordinary depth. Jesus does not speak of love that merely intends good. He speaks of love that desires to testify effectually. In other words, love wants to accomplish something in the beloved. The Good Samaritan does not merely feel compassion; he approaches, binds wounds, carries the injured man,(cf. Lk 10:30–37) provides care and assumes responsibility for his recovery . The four men who carried the paralytic do not merely pray for their friend from a distance;(cf. Mk 2:1–12) they dismantle a roof because love searches for a way to bring him before Christ . The friends of the blind man at Bethsaida bring him directly to Jesus and persist until healing begins (cf. Mk 8:22–26). The widow of Zarephath shares what appears to be her final food, turning hospitality into an act of trust (cf. 1 Kgs 17:8–16). Dorcas' compassion becomes visible in garments actually made for widows (cf. Acts 9:36–39). These scenes reveal something rarely considered: charity becomes more mystical when it becomes more concrete. A prayer becomes embodied when it leads us to reconciliation. Forgiveness becomes embodied when we stop reopening the person's past. Compassion becomes embodied when we visit someone nobody visits. Eucharistic love becomes embodied when Mass sends us toward the hungry, lonely, grieving and forgotten. The Catechism (CCC 1822–1829; 2447) teaches that charity must manifest itself in concrete love of neighbour and works of mercy . Therefore, “effectual” love asks uncomfortable questions: What has my love actually repaired? Whom has my fidelity protected? Whose loneliness has my presence interrupted? Whose dignity has my tenderness restored? Love that never reaches another person remains an intention; love that reaches another person becomes testimony.
The final mystery is that Our Adorable Jesus desires His testimony to continue through those who receive Him. In the Eucharist, He does not give merely a blessing, an idea, or a spiritual consolation; He gives Himself, drawing the communicant into His own pattern of self-offering . A profound exchange begins: His fidelity enters us so that our fidelity can reveal Him; His tenderness enters us so that our tenderness can become His touch. The tabernacle remains hidden beneath Eucharistic silence, yet the charity of the hidden Christ seeks visibility through His members . A mother who receives an exhausted child without irritation can make Christ's patience tangible (cf. Col 3:12–14). A priest who welcomes a ashamed penitent without contempt can allow the mercy of the Father to be encountered again (cf. Lk 15:20–24; Jn 20:21–23). A consecrated person who performs an unnoticed duty without resentment can manifest Christ's hidden obedience . A business owner who rejects a lucrative injustice can let Christ's truth enter economic life (cf. Prov 11:1; Mk 8:36). A student who refuses to mock the lonely can become an unexpected shelter against despair . The Eucharist is therefore not merely where we encounter Christ; it is where Christ prepares us to become places where others encounter Him. An elderly person who spends years praying for descendants may exercise an apostolate whose fruits will never be measured on earth. St. Joseph reveals the power of a life whose fidelity was almost entirely hidden.Thus the deepest question after Holy Communion is not merely “Have I received Jesus?” but “Where does Jesus desire His fidelity and tenderness to become visible through me?” True love eventually wants to testify because divine love is missionary by its very nature. It does not want merely to be admired; it wants to reach, heal, remain, restore and save. And perhaps the greatest testimony is this: that someone who encountered us in their darkest hour could truthfully say, through this person's fidelity and tenderness, I caught a glimpse of the Heart of Christ .
Prayer
Our Adorable Jesus, form Your fidelity within us until we remain steadfast in every trial. Let Your tenderness teach our hearts to notice, approach, forgive, and serve. Make our ordinary lives hidden vessels of Your compassion, so that the forgotten, wounded, discouraged, and searching may encounter through us the warmth of Your merciful Heart. Amen.
Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.