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Message of Merciful : Love to Little Souls
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Published January 1, 1986
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July 19, 2025
First Reading (2020) - 5 Stars
This book - a lesser-known Catholic publication - was given to me by my father-in-law. Its premise is striking: Marguerite, an ordinary Belgian woman, claimed to receive visions and spiritual messages from Jesus Christ from the late 1960's to the early '70s.
That’s not a statement anyone should take lightly. And it must be noted that the Catholic Church does not rush to embrace such claims without thorough investigation. Whatever one’s inclination towards belief in cases like this, the truth is we can never fully know. We can only weigh, discern, and form our own opinions.
In this instance, the book carries a Pontifical imprimatur - though, according to Marguerite herself, this came reluctantly, after considerable persistence by her and her spiritual director. Even Jesus Himself had to intervene with some choice words to get things moving. If that doesn’t light a fire under your ass, I don’t know what would.
But, for clarity: an imprimatur does not mean the Church (or the Pope) certifies that the visions are indeed genuine or that Marguerite was truly communicating with God. Rather, it signifies that the content contains nothing contrary to codified Catholic teaching.
So where does that leave the reader? You can:
1) Accept this as authentic private revelation from Our Lord - a remarkable document, and infinitely precious if true.
2) Remain cautiously open, healthily sceptical, knowing the writer could have been well-meaning but misguided, if not mentally unstable, yet so steeped in Catholic thought that even her insanity was compelled to roam within the walls of that theology.
3) Dismiss the writer as an outright liar.
That last option is one that I personally reject - perhaps naively, perhaps not. As a practicing Catholic, I approach it with due reverence but not free of doubt. I loved this book far more the first time I read it several years ago; back then, I felt almost certain it was Jesus speaking. On this second reading, I find myself a little less sure. Still, I can’t deny the work’s beauty, its gravity, and its power. The message is often radiant with hope, yet at the same time deeply convicting - like how I imagine those crowds in Galilee and Judea would have felt, hearing Jesus preach two thousand years ago.
And yet … it was uncomfortable for me at times. Why? Because I wanted to believe it was genuine, and at the same time feared what that would mean for my own soul. For all its mercy and love, the text doesn’t sugarcoat its stipulations: these promises of eternal salvation assume strict fidelity to Roman Catholic teaching.
While there’s nothing overtly political - save for the occasional headshake towards communism, which was the big ideological baddy at the time - the underlying values are uncompromisingly conservative and traditional. The tone throughout is severe towards innovation or compromise for the sake of outreach. Some impressive mental gymnastics are required if you wish to accept its authenticity but still walk away without the unpleasant impression every non-Catholic is doomed to damnation - and many Catholics as well, especially priests who betray their holy orders.
God the Father appears frequently as a figure of Old Testament fury, barely restrained from unleashing destruction on humanity if only He hadn't made that pesky little promise to Noah. Jesus, aided by His Holy Mother, stands as the barrier between us and His wrath. This is consistent with Catholic doctrine - and perhaps Protestant doctrine as well, for all I know.
But it's still all very sobering. Humanity, we are constantly reminded, is absolutely wretched, despicable - even the most kind and humble souls are actually shits. Every virtue we seem to possess is nothing more than Christ’s work within us.
I actually do agree with this view to a large extent, even if I have become more universalist in some areas. I would never deviate from Church teaching in an attempt to seem rebellious or “edgy”; there are already enough of those people throughout the world, and I can't stand them. If anything, my hesitations come from trying to be humble, by recognizing that neither I, nor the Church, nor anyone else, is infallible.
Still, given this book’s unflinching tone of authority, one could almost liken its vision of God to the terrifyingly austere depictions of Allah in the Salafist form of Islam: “To the hellfire with you all -I’ve had enough of ya. Except for My precious Sunni Muslims. I'm not angry with you”.
The message here is uplifting - if you are a devout Catholic who has never approached Communion in mortal sin, who superhumanly disciplines every natural inclination that does not edge us closer to perfection, and whose only lament is that there aren’t more hours in the day to pray. For everyone else - all you lousy Catholics, you loud-mouthed and embarrassing Evangelicals, you scary Baptists and you freaky, tongue-waggling Pentecostals - you devout Muslims, you kind and generous Hindus, you normal, tolerant, if somewhat condescending, atheists- the outlook feels inescapably bleak.
But the book isn’t without its profound moments. I never forgot, from my first reading in the year Covid-19 made our happy and appreciative acquaintance, a moving passage where Jesus responds compassionately to Marguerite’s question about the soul of one who committed suicide. And another striking image never escaped my memory: early in the book, Marguerite dreams of Jesus crucified in the cellar of her own house - beaten, deformed, His body leaking blood. And every laceration, every bruise and every wound upon His precious body is a result of her own sins. It’s a devastating image, one that makes each sin we commit feel all the more painful and excruciatingly unjust. To imagine who yourself are spitting on Christ's tortured body, piercing it, defiling it, with each sin that you commit. And yet … it doesn't cure me. It doesn't make me stop sinning. It only leaves me still more broken under the weight of my own failure as one who professes to love Christ. It is undeniably powerful and arresting.
Second Reading (2025) - 4 Stars
This book - a lesser-known Catholic publication - was given to me by my father-in-law. Its premise is striking: Marguerite, an ordinary Belgian woman, claimed to receive visions and spiritual messages from Jesus Christ from the late 1960's to the early '70s.
That’s not a statement anyone should take lightly. And it must be noted that the Catholic Church does not rush to embrace such claims without thorough investigation. Whatever one’s inclination towards belief in cases like this, the truth is we can never fully know. We can only weigh, discern, and form our own opinions.
In this instance, the book carries a Pontifical imprimatur - though, according to Marguerite herself, this came reluctantly, after considerable persistence by her and her spiritual director. Even Jesus Himself had to intervene with some choice words to get things moving. If that doesn’t light a fire under your ass, I don’t know what would.
But, for clarity: an imprimatur does not mean the Church (or the Pope) certifies that the visions are indeed genuine or that Marguerite was truly communicating with God. Rather, it signifies that the content contains nothing contrary to codified Catholic teaching.
So where does that leave the reader? You can:
1) Accept this as authentic private revelation from Our Lord - a remarkable document, and infinitely precious if true.
2) Remain cautiously open, healthily sceptical, knowing the writer could have been well-meaning but misguided, if not mentally unstable, yet so steeped in Catholic thought that even her insanity was compelled to roam within the walls of that theology.
3) Dismiss the writer as an outright liar.
That last option is one that I personally reject - perhaps naively, perhaps not. As a practicing Catholic, I approach it with due reverence but not free of doubt. I loved this book far more the first time I read it several years ago; back then, I felt almost certain it was Jesus speaking. On this second reading, I find myself a little less sure. Still, I can’t deny the work’s beauty, its gravity, and its power. The message is often radiant with hope, yet at the same time deeply convicting - like how I imagine those crowds in Galilee and Judea would have felt, hearing Jesus preach two thousand years ago.
And yet … it was uncomfortable for me at times. Why? Because I wanted to believe it was genuine, and at the same time feared what that would mean for my own soul. For all its mercy and love, the text doesn’t sugarcoat its stipulations: these promises of eternal salvation assume strict fidelity to Roman Catholic teaching.
While there’s nothing overtly political - save for the occasional headshake towards communism, which was the big ideological baddy at the time - the underlying values are uncompromisingly conservative and traditional. The tone throughout is severe towards innovation or compromise for the sake of outreach. Some impressive mental gymnastics are required if you wish to accept its authenticity but still walk away without the unpleasant impression every non-Catholic is doomed to damnation - and many Catholics as well, especially priests who betray their holy orders.
God the Father appears frequently as a figure of Old Testament fury, barely restrained from unleashing destruction on humanity if only He hadn't made that pesky little promise to Noah. Jesus, aided by His Holy Mother, stands as the barrier between us and His wrath. This is consistent with Catholic doctrine - and perhaps Protestant doctrine as well, for all I know.
But it's still all very sobering. Humanity, we are constantly reminded, is absolutely wretched, despicable - even the most kind and humble souls are actually shits. Every virtue we seem to possess is nothing more than Christ’s work within us.
I actually do agree with this view to a large extent, even if I have become more universalist in some areas. I would never deviate from Church teaching in an attempt to seem rebellious or “edgy”; there are already enough of those people throughout the world, and I can't stand them. If anything, my hesitations come from trying to be humble, by recognizing that neither I, nor the Church, nor anyone else, is infallible.
Still, given this book’s unflinching tone of authority, one could almost liken its vision of God to the terrifyingly austere depictions of Allah in the Salafist form of Islam: “To the hellfire with you all -I’ve had enough of ya. Except for My precious Sunni Muslims. I'm not angry with you”.
The message here is uplifting - if you are a devout Catholic who has never approached Communion in mortal sin, who superhumanly disciplines every natural inclination that does not edge us closer to perfection, and whose only lament is that there aren’t more hours in the day to pray. For everyone else - all you lousy Catholics, you loud-mouthed and embarrassing Evangelicals, you scary Baptists and you freaky, tongue-waggling Pentecostals - you devout Muslims, you kind and generous Hindus, you normal, tolerant, if somewhat condescending, atheists- the outlook feels inescapably bleak.
But the book isn’t without its profound moments. I never forgot, from my first reading in the year Covid-19 made our happy and appreciative acquaintance, a moving passage where Jesus responds compassionately to Marguerite’s question about the soul of one who committed suicide. And another striking image never escaped my memory: early in the book, Marguerite dreams of Jesus crucified in the cellar of her own house - beaten, deformed, His body leaking blood. And every laceration, every bruise and every wound upon His precious body is a result of her own sins. It’s a devastating image, one that makes each sin we commit feel all the more painful and excruciatingly unjust. To imagine who yourself are spitting on Christ's tortured body, piercing it, defiling it, with each sin that you commit. And yet … it doesn't cure me. It doesn't make me stop sinning. It only leaves me still more broken under the weight of my own failure as one who professes to love Christ. It is undeniably powerful and arresting.
Second Reading (2025) - 4 Stars
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