A Story of God’s Mercy

by Charles S. MacIsaac, O.S.

About a year ago I had a group of ten to twelve people at my residence. One of the guests related an event to me, of which I had no knowledge of. She told the story in front of her mother and other members of her family. They were aware of the event and witnessed some of the particulars. The circumstances were so unusual that I asked her to put the marvel in writing. One day I received some type written sheets from the person involved recounting the incident. This report matches the original account given to me.

The following is taken word for word from her report.

I heard about Divine Mercy Sunday shortly before Holy Week. One of my sisters handed me a card with a picture of Jesus on one side and the Divine Mercy Chaplet on the reverse. She told me that a 20th century nun received these prayers from Jesus with a promise that whoever recited this chaplet for nine days from Good Friday until the following Sunday, (Mercy Sunday), and then went to mass and confession within that week, received a full indulgence from purgatory time. It seemed a simple enough task and it promised so much that I decided to complete the request.

The chapel where Mercy Services were scheduled was unremarkable, except for a crucifix that hung above the altar. Jesus’ expression seemed so lifelike that a deep sense of compassion moved within me throughout mass. Afterwards, we all stood in a long line for confession, however, I was no longer inspired. In fact, I remember trying to think of something to confess and being impatient with the slowness of the line. I sighed and leaned my head against the wall.

It was then that my eyes wondered to the crucifix again and something completely started me. I felt and saw the entire corpus shudder. As if from an electrical shock, I jolted from wall and looked away. I was disoriented, dizzy. I scolded myself, thinking my vivid imagination caused me to think the corpus moved. I was sure that I was just suffering from a dizzy spell. Slowly, I looked up again. Emotions were rising within me that were very powerful and undeniable. I felt sorrow . . . black, black sorrow. It poured over my heart and did not allow me to take my eyes from Him.

That was when He moved again. His head rolled slightly and His shoulder seemed to rise then fall. I even felt Him groan. I trembled and felt sick as if I was caught in a half-dream, half-wake state. I turned toward my sister. “Terri, did you see that? Did you see it?”

She looked confused. “See what?”

“Look at the cross,” I whispered urgently. “Tell me what you see.”

Terri gazed at the cross for a long time, but then she shook her head. “I don’t see anything.”

Even though my back was to the cross, the sorrow continued to penetrate me as if God was trying to communicate something. Compelled by a force larger than my fear, I looked again. Immediately, His body twisted in pain. I felt the words, “I suffer for the babies.”

“It’s the babies,” I whispered anxiously. “It’s the babies.” I must have looked insane. My tears turned to tormented sorbs and I went up and down the confession line asking anyone I knew to verify movement of the Christ. “Look at the cross . . . don’t you see it?” I pleaded. No one saw anything unusual.

People gathered around me as I wept. Distraught and confused, I kept trying to explain that Jesus was suffering because of the babies, but no one understood. One final time I dared look at the cross . . . hoping, praying that it would turn to plaster again. Once more I saw His shoulder move and his head roll. I felt Him groan from deep within me.

And then I understood. Jesus agonized from the sins of abortion and contraception . . . and I was one of His tormentors. I used condoms to prevent pregnancy and thought I pretended to be a good Catholic, I ignored that this was a sin. In fact, I justified my sin. I told people who asked that, since I was not totally eliminating the possibility of children, God didn’t mind that I bent the rules. I never confessed this sin. Sometimes I would run across someone who would try to tell me that I was wrong. But I denied their truth while proudly believing that God made exceptions for me. “Let them walk in my shoes before they tell me it’s wrong,” I’d think.

Now, I realized it was all a lie . . . all that justification and pride. I was responsible for the nails in His hands, for the moaning and pain . . . for all the babies that were not born or allowed to live. I was being allowed to witness the pain I caused Him.

Ironically, just as I understood why I saw the cross move, it was my turn for confession. I cried out in immense anguish, “Father. I use condoms.”

Father MacIsaac replied quickly, “Oh, you can’t do that.”

Hardly able to speak through my sobs, I tried to explain my reasons. I used birth control because my husband threatened divorce if I didn’t. The last time I got pregnant, my husband almost left me. My husband has very little faith. One more child would break what little faith he is nurturing.

It was a grace that, even as I rambled on, I knew all my reasons were nothing more than the weakness of a faithless person. It also occurred to me why I saw the corpus move. Jesus needed to open my eyes to the sinfulness of contraception because I could not grow toward Him until I stopped offending Him. However, there was an ever more profound reason. Here I was, arrogantly thinking that all my purgatory time was about to be eliminated while simultaneously living with a terrible mortal sin. Jesus intervened so that I could be given the promise of the novena.

Father MacIsaac told me to pray fervently for assistance, and reassured me that God would assist me with my husband. Then he gave me a penance that literally sent me to the brink of hell. I was to pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet.

I couldn’t help but wonder if God had not inspired this final torment to forever impress me with the pain caused by contraception. Those words, “For the sake of His sorrowful passion,” pierced me personally. Never have I felt so much remorse. Never have I felt so bound to the crucifixion. The words penetrated to the depths of my soul and caused me to agonize for the sins of the many. All through the chaplet it seemed as if I repeatedly laid the cross upon my Lord for every woman who ever aborted her baby, used a condom, took a pill, or placed an IUD into her womb.

By the time I was finished, my soul felt shattered, my body exhausted. I dragged myself from the chapel and collapsed into a chair. I was too numb to move. I wanted to retreat somewhere very quiet and very hidden. Whether by design or not, people kept searching me out and asking me to repeat what had happened. Each time I retold the story, I cried again. I desperately tried to communicate how we all offend God from contraception. Words were so inadequate that I felt all the more frustrated.

God did reward me for my suffering by infusing me with undaunted courage. That very day, I told my husband with unwavering strength that birth control would never again play a role in my life. My husband ranted, as I expected. He threatened and tantrumed. Yet, I felt no hesitation about that decision. I knew God was directing the entire show and all would be well.

Sometimes I think back on my experiences from that Divine Mercy Sunday and I wonder, “Did I really see anything on that cross? Could my imagination bring plaster to life? Why would Jesus choose me to display His agony?”

I always come to the same answer. My life and faith and fortitude changed that day. Imagination can not do that.

There is very little that can be added to this account. This disturbing event shows the reality and horror of contraception and abortion. There are many people today that are unwilling to confront the implications of these evils. Let us hope and pray that they may, through this story, act in the same manner as this person did and appeal to Divine Mercy. She did not remain dormant but responded by the way of a good sacramental confession and a firm purpose of amendment.

Father MacIsaac is a priest of the Oblates of Wisdom and holds a Licentiate in Sacred Theology from the Angelicum.

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