Today is Divine Mercy Sunday, one of those more recent observations less familiar to those of us who came into the Catholic Church from Anglicanism and other traditions. The title was only instituted in 2000 by Pope St. John Paul II, at the same time that he canonized St. Faustina, the Polish nun whose visions gave rise to it.
I say that the “title” is new because in many ways very little has changed about the day. We still hear the gospel reading about St. Thomas which had previously been read on this second Sunday of Easter, or the Octave Day of Easter, since time immemorial. And while the secondary readings were revised in the 1970 Lectionary, they were not changed in with the name in 2000 because they didn’t need to be changed: they already gave a clear focus on the Divine Mercy. So while on one level it is somewhat unusual to promulgate in a formal way something stemming from a private revelation, in this case the revelation’s promotion of this celebration was endorsed by the Holy Father because it so obviously harmonized with public revelation. In other words, St. Faustina merely provided a set of popular vocabulary for what we already knew to be true: that in the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection the floodgates to the mercy of God are open for sinners.
Let us just note briefly the way this theme of mercy suffuses our readings for the day. In Acts, we see the Lord’s mercy towards the sick and afflicted extended, as he promised, to the ministry of his apostles. In this rare papal interregnum we might note that, while the papacy itself is not somehow a guaranteed locale for the miraculous, we see even in the very earliest years of the Church the centrality of Peter’s presence as a sign of Christ’s own enduring presence for his people. In Revelation, St. John sees a vision of Christ in glory dressed as a high priest, which is to say a dispenser of the divine mercy. In the gospel we see first Christ’s implicit mercy to the disciples who abandoned him—he shows up and starts giving them gifts without even waiting for them to repent. We then see his general dispensation of mercy to sinners in the institution of the sacrament of penance — the power of the apostles to absolve sin. Finally we see the Lord’s particular mercy towards St. Thomas who requires extra proofs of the Lord’s resurrection. As St. Augustine reminds us, the fact that the Lord’s wounds remain, when they could easiliy have been healed, is itself proof of his mercy: “For the healing of doubting hearts, the marks of the wounds were still preserved.”
Perhaps the greatest mercy, though, centers on the Lord’s words to St. Thomas: “Blessed are those who have not seen and believed.” How is this a mercy? It is a mercy because, as I pointed out last week, the Lord does not force his way. Faith is necessary, which is to say it is necessary to make a choice, to move of one’s own will towards God. God desires to save us, not to destroy our will. He gives us ample evidence for belief – indeed in some cases this is quite dramatic, as it is for Thomas. But ultimately he will not force the question, because what he wants for us is a real communion, not some kind of necessary servile submission.
Chrysostom argues, “If any one then says, Would that I had lived in those times, and seen Christ doing miracles! let him reflect, Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”
One of the subtler authenticities of St. Faustina’s revelation of the Divine Mercy is just this reminder of the function of miracles and private revelation. Sometimes, like with Thomas, the Lord just gives us what we need. The new description of the Divine Mercy in the 20th century wasn’t necessary in the way that the death and resurrection of Christ were necessary, but I think we might dare to say that it was necessary in the way that the revelation to St. Thomas was necessary — which is to say not strictly necessary, but an act of generosity and mercy and love.
And this brings us back to the subject of miracles in our reading from Acts, because private revelation is one modern version of the miracles we see in the apostolic age. Why didn’t the apostles — or really, why didn’t Jesus himself, just heal everyone? There is always this scandalous question embedded in the reality of miracles, whether it’s a miraculous healing or a miraculous message or event. We hear about these things and we want to make miracles and revelation into a kind of technology where we can guarantee results outside of the usual messy problems of human will and history. In other words, why didn’t the Lord, or his apostolic successors, just heal everybody? Especially in the Lord’s conquest over death in Easter it remains something of a mystery as to why anyone dies at all. Don’t we confess in all our hymns that Christ’s resurrection has destroyed death?
Again, it all comes down to the Divine Mercy. God doesn’t just fix everything that is fixable for the same reason that parents don’t do all their kids work for them, that a teacher doesn’t just do whatever the students want. He knows what he is about; he knows what is good for us better than we do. And it turns out that what is good for us is some miracles, some special revelation, but not so much that we forget the need for freedom and love. The Good News isn’t that we dissolve our humanity but that God care so much for our freedom that he wants to let us choose him and he will keep giving us opportunities to do so even when we might think it is crazy.
This is an unavoidable theme from Scripture and Tradition, and another occasion for Easter rejoicing: As much as we might want to limit the Divine Mercy, we need to settle on the fact that it is infinite. God’s nature is always to have mercy. When we accept this great and undeserved grace we can fully embrace the joy of the season.