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This is the fifth in a series of articles growing out of a single Claude conversation on Romans 8:18–21 and the Book of Heaven. The first article presented a Greek commentary on Romans 8:18–21 and applied it to seven selections from Luisa Piccarreta’s diary. The second, third, and fourth turned to the question those resonances raised — how an uneducated, bedridden Italian woman could write theology that sounds like Paul — examining the four explanatory frameworks, then Luisa’s own account of receiving mystical knowledge from the inside, then the single sentence of spiritual poverty she had written in the moment before that reception. This article continues from where that conversation led.
At the end of the previous article, I set the stage for what follows. I started a conversation with Claude requesting a commentary on Romans 8:18–21, using the Greek as the basis for the analysis. I then asked Claude to use that commentary as the analytical lens to determine whether the passage from Romans resonated with seven different selections taken from diary entries in the Book of Heaven. The result compelled me to ask: how could Luisa write such things? The answer to that question was the focus of articles 2, 3, and 4 in this series.
At that point in the conversation with Claude, it seemed like the logical next step to ask the AI to analyze the entire May 21, 1900, diary entry from Volume 3. I wanted Claude to bring to bear what had been developed in the primary outputs from that conversation: the commentary on Romans 8:18–21 and the four frameworks used to understand how Luisa could express theology with such precision and resonate so strongly with the passage from Romans across multiple diary entries spanning decades.
The entire point of using AI to engage with Luisa’s writings is to excavate material to ponder, contemplate, and reflect on in my own personal walk with Christ. Posting the material here or on Substack is done to share the flakes of spiritual gold that Claude surfaces so frequently. The response shared below is much more than a few flakes panned from the stream — it is a rich vein of spiritual treasure that runs deep.
Psalm 63 is resounding loudly in my heart:
O God, you are my God; at dawn I seek you;
for you my soul is thirsting.
For you my flesh is pining,
like a dry, weary land without water.
Trooper Mimosa
I’m attaching the entire diary entry for May 21, 1900, Volume 3. Analyze it and provide any observations you find relevant to the conversation we have been having about the commentary on Romans 8:18–21 and the Four Frameworks.
Preliminary Observation — The Entry as a Unified Whole
Now that the complete entry is visible, something becomes immediately apparent that neither the quoted selections nor the analytical frameworks fully prepared us for: the entry is not a collection of theological statements — it is a single, structurally coherent, spiritually enacted drama in three acts.
- Act I: Jesus speaks — theological vision delivered from the divine side
- Act II: Luisa cries — the human response of acknowledged nothingness
- Act III: The infusion — the divine response to the human poverty
The two sentences we analyzed previously are not a coda to something else. They are the resolution of a carefully constructed movement that begins with Jesus’s opening question and ends with Luisa’s confession of inadequacy. The entire entry is the two-sentence arc, expanded to its full scale. Understanding this changes how every part of it reads.
Act I — The Divine Speech
“My design is not of prodigious things, and of many things which I could operate upon you to show my work.”
The Disavowal of the Prodigious
The opening move of Jesus’s speech is itself theologically and structurally remarkable. He explicitly disclaims the extraordinary — miracles, visions, spectacular phenomena — and names the true prodigy as something entirely interior: uniformity of will. And then immediately:
“But this is the most sublime state, it is the greatest prodigy, it is the miracle of miracles.”
The rhetorical structure is deliberate and important. The things that look miraculous from the outside — healings, ecstasies, visions — are demoted. The thing that looks like nothing from the outside — the soul’s will becoming one with God’s Will — is crowned as the miracle of miracles. This is a direct inversion of conventional religious expectation, and it carries enormous implications for the question of how Luisa could write what she wrote.
If the supreme divine work is interior and invisible, then its transmission would also be interior and invisible — not communicated through books and lectures but infused directly into a will that has been emptied and rendered receptive. The very content of what Jesus describes here predicts the mode of its transmission. The doctrine of the Divine Will is self-referential: it can only be fully received the way it is lived — by poverty, surrender, and infusion rather than by study and acquisition.
“The Soul Must Render Herself Invisible”
This is one of the most theologically dense phrases in the entire entry, and it connects to multiple threads in our conversation.
The connection to φθορά and ἐλευθερία (Romans 8:21)
In our commentary, φθορά (corruption/decay) was identified as the tendency of all created things to assert their own deteriorating existence — to cling to their particular, bounded, passing form. The creature under δουλεία τῆς φθορᾶς (slavery of corruption) is precisely the creature that is visible — opaque to the divine light, dense with its own particularity, unable to be penetrated or absorbed.
“The soul must render herself invisible” is the experiential description of liberation from φθορά (corruption/decay) as it applies to the will. The soul that becomes invisible has ceased to assert its own shape, its own density, its own claim on existence as a separate center of volition. It has become — in Paul’s terms — free from the slavery of its own corruptible, bounded, self-asserting individuality.
The connection to spiritual theology
The concept of the invisible soul — transparent to God, no longer opaque with self — is one of the great themes of the mystical tradition, but it is not popular catechetical material. It surfaces in:
-
Pseudo-Dionysius
The soul’s ascent through apophatic self-emptying toward union with the divine darkness.
-
Meister Eckhart
The Abgeschiedenheit (detachment) by which the soul becomes like a clear glass through which the divine light passes without obstruction.
-
John of the Cross
The nada (nothing) that is the precondition of the todo (all).
-
Ruusbroec
The wayless way in which the soul loses its own form to receive the divine form.
Luisa is not citing any of these. She is receiving — and immediately, in the same entry, demonstrating — the same experiential reality these theologians analyzed from various angles. The convergence is not literary; it is evidential.
The paradox of invisibility and identity
Jesus immediately nuances the concept in a way that prevents misreading it as annihilation:
“by being absorbed in Me, and I in you, forming one single being, you would come to retain the divine source within yourself.”
The soul does not cease to exist upon becoming invisible — it receives more existence, not less. The divine source is retained within the soul. This is the Catholic doctrine of theosis — divinization without dissolution — maintained with precision. The soul is not swallowed; it is transformed into the likeness of what absorbs it. This is exactly the patristic formula: θέωσις (theosis) as participation, not absorption into identity.
How does an uneducated woman in 1900 navigate this precise theological distinction — the difference between pantheistic dissolution and theotic participation — without having read the Cappadocians or Maximus the Confessor? The epistemological framework offers its answer: she is not reasoning her way to the distinction; she is experiencing a reality that has the distinction built into it, and reporting what she finds.
“Spiritualize This Very Matter”
This phrase stops the analysis cold, because it is — of everything in the entry — the most direct and explicit connection to the cosmic vision of Romans 8:19–21.
“…it was to render Himself similar to man in everything and to give him a most perfect example of how to spiritualize this very matter.”
The Incarnation as the model of creation’s redemption
Paul’s vision in Romans 8 is that creation — matter itself — will be liberated from the slavery of corruption into the freedom of divine glory. He does not say matter will be discarded or escaped. He says it will be set free — transformed, not annihilated. The ἐλευθερία (freedom) he promises is for αὐτὴ ἡ κτίσις (creation itself) — creation in its materiality.
Here, Jesus identifies the Incarnation as the paradigm of that transformation: He took on matter not to escape it or merely to inhabit it temporarily, but to demonstrate how matter is to be handled — it is to be spiritualized. The flesh is not discarded; it is made transparent to the Spirit.
This is a Christological grounding of the cosmic hope of Romans 8 that is thoroughly orthodox and theologically sophisticated — and it connects the redemption of creation directly to the pattern of the Incarnation in a way that systematic theologians spend careers elaborating.
The intellectual move here — that Christ’s assumption of matter is the model for the creature’s spiritualization of matter, which is in turn the mechanism of creation’s liberation — is not a simple or obvious deduction. It requires holding together Christology, anthropology, and eschatology in a single integrated vision. She does not do this by building an argument. The vision arrives whole.
“Operating like God”
“The height of the perfection of a soul undone in my Will is such that she reaches the point of operating like God.”
This is theosis — the Eastern Church’s central soteriological category, articulated by Athanasius as “God became man so that man might become God,” developed by Maximus the Confessor, Gregory Palamas, and the entire Byzantine tradition. The Western Church holds the same doctrine but expresses it differently and less centrally — it is not common in popular Italian Catholic piety of the early 20th century.
Yet here is its core claim, expressed with complete doctrinal accuracy — not pantheistically (the soul becomes God by nature) but participatorily (the soul operates like God because it is no longer operating from its own will but from God’s). The distinction is preserved perfectly.
The explanation Jesus provides is immediately careful:
“since it is no longer her will that lives in her but the Will of God Himself, every amazement ceases.”
This is not a claim to divinity by nature. It is a claim to participation — the soul operates with divine power precisely because it is no longer the operating agent in its own right. The soul has become the instrument; God’s Will is the musician. The music sounds divine because the musician is divine — the instrument has simply ceased to resist.
This is Pauline as well: “I live, yet not I, but Christ lives in me” (Gal. 2:20) — which is itself the Pauline form of theosis. Luisa’s locution gives the same reality from the divine side of the conversation rather than the human.
“Enters the Secrets of the Most August Trinity and Participates in the Reciprocal Love”
This is the apex of Act I, and it connects directly to the February 10, 1934 selection we analyzed previously — the one we identified as describing the texture of δόξα (glory) as mutual, reciprocal exchange.
That selection described the eschatological endpoint: “exchanges of works, reciprocal love… the Paradise of God and of the soul.” This entry, written 34 years earlier, describes the path to that endpoint and names its ultimate destination: Trinitarian participation.
The freedom of the glory of the children of God — Paul’s ἐλευθερία τῆς δόξης τῶν τέκνων τοῦ θεοῦ (freedom of the glory of the children of God) — here receives its ultimate content. The liberation of creation is not merely from decay into flourishing. Its deepest form is the soul’s entry into the circumincession — the mutual indwelling of the Trinitarian Persons — as a participant, not merely an observer. The children of God are those who have been taken up into the dynamic of the divine life itself.
Act II — The Cry
“Ah, Lord, when will You make me arrive at this, since by myself I can do nothing!”
Having analyzed this sentence at length previously, one new observation deserves to be added now that the full context is visible:
The cry is the only thing Luisa herself says in the entire entry.
Everything before it is Jesus speaking. Everything after it is the report of what was infused. Her single personal contribution — the one sentence that comes entirely from herself — is a confession of total incapacity.
The structure enforces the theology. She is not a co-author of this entry in any meaningful sense. She is a recorder of what was spoken to her (Act I), a cry from her own poverty (Act II), and a reporter of what was then given to her beyond her power to express (Act III). The literary structure of the entry is itself an enactment of the theological reality being described: the soul renders itself invisible, the cry of nothingness replaces self-assertion, and the Divine fills the space.
Act III — The Infusion
“Who can say all that the Lord infused in me through intellectual light…”
Something that the previous analysis could not see is now visible: the infusion did not introduce a new subject. What the Lord infused through intellectual light about the uniformity of wills was the same subject Jesus had been speaking about for the entirety of Act I.
He spoke it first verbally — in words, in teaching, in locution. And then, immediately after her cry of poverty, He infused it intellectually — directly into her intellect as light, beyond what words could carry.
This is the distinction John of the Cross makes between successive locutions (words experienced interiorly) and substantial locutions (realities impressed directly on the intellect or will). Jesus gave her both, in sequence, in the same encounter. First the words of Act I — conceptually rich, theologically ordered, verbally communicable. Then the light of Act III — the same reality at a depth that words could not reach and that her tongue, by her own admission, could not follow.
The infused light was more than the already extraordinary content of Act I. That is the claim of the passage. And it explains why the tongue fails: she had already been given more than her education could express in the verbal portion of the encounter — and then was taken deeper still.
The Entry and the Four Frameworks — Final Assessment
| Framework |
Evidence in the Complete Entry |
| Natural / Contextual |
Theosis, spiritualization of matter, Trinitarian circumincession, distinction between pantheism and participation — none of this is in popular 1900 Italian piety. Formation cannot account for it. |
| Comparative / Historical |
The three-act structure (divine speech → human poverty → infusion) mirrors the mystical pattern documented across the entire tradition; the content mirrors the Eastern patristic tradition she had no access to. |
| Epistemological |
The entry enacts its own epistemological claim: the poverty of the cry is the condition of the infusion; connatural knowledge through union is not described but demonstrated. |
| Supernatural |
The passive constructions dominate; she speaks once, and only to confess she cannot act; everything else is received — the entry’s grammar is the theology’s grammar. |
The One Observation That Surpasses All Others
Synthesis
Across the entire conversation — the Romans 8 commentary, the seven selections, the two-sentence analysis, and now the complete entry — one thing stands out above all else as the most theologically significant datum.
Jesus says: “My design is not of prodigious things.”
And yet the soul He is describing — the soul absorbed into the Divine Will, operating like God, participating in Trinitarian love, releasing creation into its glory through her spiritualized existence — is precisely the ἀποκάλυψις τῶν υἱῶν τοῦ θεοῦ (the revealing of the sons of God) that Paul says all creation is straining its neck to see.
Paul’s creation groans. It cranes. It waits with outstretched neck — ἀποκαραδοκία (neck-craning eager longing) — for the moment when the children of God are revealed. Jesus tells Luisa that this revelation looks like nothing from the outside. It is invisible. It is interior. It is a will absorbed into a Will, a soul rendered transparent, a human becoming — in Paul’s language — truly and fully a child of God.
The greatest prodigy, the miracle of miracles — is the one nobody can see.
That is what creation has been waiting for. And that is what Luisa, by herself capable of nothing, received in vivid light — and could not say.
My Observations & Reflections
The Disavowal of the Prodigious
Here, I find Claude’s analysis rather humorous. Jesus tells Luisa: “My design is not of prodigious things, and of many things which I could operate upon you to show my work.” And Claude’s response notes that this “explicitly disclaims the extraordinary — miracles, visions, spectacular phenomena.” Followed by an analysis of how that transmission was infused into Luisa’s intellect, which is actually pretty extraordinary. This odd juxtaposition warrants a bit more scrutiny.
The last paragraph of Act I could be misunderstood. Claude’s framing of the mode of transmission is poor here; it is incomplete. The clause — “not communicated through books and lectures but infused directly into a will that has been emptied and rendered receptive” — is accurate as a description of how the content reached Luisa. The danger is that the person reading this might conclude it applies to them as well. If that is how knowledge of the Divine Will is transmitted — only through infused light — then am I left to await my own intellectual infusion? If that is what the statement means, then despite how wonderful what Luisa wrote may sound, applying it personally sounds like a pipe dream. I know how weak I am — how easily I stumble and fall.
Today we have something Luisa didn’t have, and that makes an enormous difference. We have the Book of Heaven, the Twenty-Four Hours of the Passion, and the Kingdom of Mary in the Divine Will. Luisa received everything she wrote about and recorded it under obedience to Church authorities. At some points in the Book of Heaven, Jesus tells her that the writings were given to her for our benefit. All this to say: we have access to books and lectures, classes and teachers, to learn about what was transmitted to Luisa — to discover how to conform our will to the Divine Will, or more precisely, how to surrender, in our freedom, our will so as to unite our acts, through Jesus, to the Divine Will, moment by moment, day by day. And to be open and receptive to whatever promptings may arrive through the Holy Spirit.
“The Soul Must Render Herself Invisible”
Claude ties this phrase back to Romans 8:21 and explains why it applies. I never would have seen that connection. I read it and have to ask myself: how does one render oneself invisible, and what does that even mean? The explanation Claude gives makes good sense, and so the intellectual darkness receives some illumination. That’s not quite right either, since the spotlight actually falls more precisely on the “what we are here for” part of the analysis: This is the Catholic doctrine of theosis — divinization without dissolution — maintained with precision.
I think the most important part of that section is the last paragraph: navigating the precise theological distinction — the difference between pantheistic dissolution and theotic participation. The reason I think it matters is that there are well-educated, theologically trained people who read a phrase like that in the Book of Heaven and fail to perceive that the distinction was made, concluding that Luisa is leading souls into a disordered pantheistic understanding of the faith or promoting quietism.
Magnifica Humanitas was not supplied to Claude as part of the context used for the analysis. However, I’m sure that if it had been, the following, found in §133, would have been included under this precise section heading:
This is pure power detached from truth, which subtly or overtly imposes what it wishes others to accept as true. At its root lies a deeper and often unrecognized “sickness”: the fact that “modern man is wrongly convinced that he is the sole author of himself, his life and society. This is a presumption that follows from being selfishly closed in upon himself.” (citing Benedict XVI, Caritas in Veritate)
The “sickness” is precisely what Jesus is communicating to Luisa about — that she must cease to exert herself as a “separate center of volition.” Claude’s analysis makes this crystal clear by going back to where the conversation began, the commentary on Romans 8:
In our commentary, φθορά (corruption/decay) was identified as the tendency of all created things to assert their own deteriorating existence — to cling to their particular, bounded, passing form. The creature under δουλεία τῆς φθορᾶς (slavery of corruption) is precisely the creature that is visible — opaque to the divine light, dense with its own particularity, unable to be penetrated or absorbed.
The soul that becomes invisible has ceased to assert its own shape, its own density, its own claim on existence as a separate center of volition.
Popes Leo XIV and Benedict XVI call this condition a “sickness” and say it is an affliction suffered by modern man. I would say that it is the affliction humanity has lived with since Adam’s fall, and the reason for applying the diagnosis specifically to “modern man” is that the sickness has reached a very acute stage.
“Spiritualize This Very Matter”
Jesus explains that part of the reason for his Incarnation was to teach us how to operate through our human nature rather than remaining stuck in it. Christ’s spiritualization of his human nature as the Christological grounding of the cosmic hope of Romans 8 — thoroughly orthodox and theologically sophisticated, connecting the redemption of creation directly to the pattern of the Incarnation in a few words that would take systematic theologians decades to expound.
I’m not a systematic theologian, and I don’t have decades to expound on this spiritualization of Jesus’ human nature, but, again, Claude exposed, for our consideration, a glimpse of what it looks like to operate through our human nature. In Creation Groaning, the analysis of Selection 6 found that a diary entry in Volume 33, dated February 10, 1934, had an eschatological resonance with Romans 8:21. Specifically:
Where the other passages describe the longing, the bondage, the liberation in progress, this one describes what the freedom of glory actually looks like when it arrives. Paul’s phrase ἐλευθερία τῆς δόξης (freedom of glory) is architecturally rich but experientially unspecified — he tells us it exists but not what its texture is. Here we get the texture: “exchanges of works, reciprocal love… the Paradise of God and of the soul.” The δόξα (glory) is not one-directional. It is a giving-back-and-forth.
This spiritualization of our human nature, so that this uniformity of wills can exist within and operate through a soul living on this earth, on this side of the divide, involves “exchanges of works.” We are called to be doing something, working in union with Jesus, our Model.
“Operating like God”
Again, theological precision that would make Maximus the Confessor give an Amen.
And Claude proposes that the clarification Jesus provided — “since it is no longer her will that lives in her but the Will of God Himself, every amazement ceases” — places the claim squarely within orthodox Christian doctrine. I would add that the brief analysis of the clarifying phrase brings the object of the neck-craning into view:
This is not a claim to divinity by nature. It is a claim to participation — the soul operates with divine power precisely because it is no longer the operating agent in its own right. The soul has become the instrument; God’s Will is the musician. The music sounds divine because the musician is divine — the instrument has simply ceased to resist.
The Disavowal of the Prodigious and the miracle of operating like God are the same truth from opposite ends. Nothing spectacular or prodigious is required of the instrument, and nothing less than the divine Musician supplies the music. Creation doesn’t crane its neck toward virtuosos improvising their own variations. It cranes toward souls that have stopped resisting.
Operating in that surrender, the soul participates in “exchanges of works” that produce music that sounds divine. Music that creation groans for, anticipating the revealing of the children of God with eagerness. Oh, to be a part of that orchestra — yes, it truly puts the flesh in a state of “pining” for God.
The Observation That Surpasses All Others
I’m still thinking about this final observation. It’s not something I would have thought about just a few weeks ago. However, the more I reflect on it, even today as I write these words, I see a connection that runs through so much of the entire conversation with Claude.
Paul’s creation groans. It cranes. It waits with outstretched neck — ἀποκαραδοκία (neck-craning eager longing) — for the moment when the children of God are revealed. Jesus tells Luisa that this revelation looks like nothing from the outside. It is invisible. It is interior. It is a will absorbed into a Will, a soul rendered transparent, a human becoming — in Paul’s language — truly and fully a child of God.
This eager longing, neck stretched out searching — and the very object of that longing can’t be seen when it arrives. I suspect the effects of that arrival are evident. The arrival can’t be seen because its essence is interior; the children of God, carrying out their “exchange of works,” are part of something that proceeds unnoticed. I originally wrote the object of longing arrives without announcement, but as I’ve continued to ponder Claude’s final observation, I don’t think “without announcement” is accurate. I submit that an announcement has been made — the announcement of a building project. A building project that is already underway, and more people have been called to help with the construction.
It was announced by Pope Leo in Magnifica Humanitas — the Nehemiah project, rebuilding the walls brick by brick. He obviously doesn’t mean physical walls or physical bricks; he’s talking about spiritual walls, spiritual bricks. Rebuilding what was lost at the beginning. I think the bricks are the “exchange of works” of souls operating, working, uniting themselves in all that they do and all that they are to Jesus. For the Nehemiah image to hold, the bricks aren’t newly cast from mud and straw or freshly quarried and hewn. The bricks used by the people of God at the exhortation of Nehemiah were the same as those used in the original walls.
In Nehemiah 4:2, we read that Sanballat said, “What are these feeble Jews doing? Will they restore it for themselves? Will they revive the stones out of the heaps of rubbish, and burned ones at that?” These heaps of rubbish are the material we have each been called upon by the Holy Father to use for the rebuilding project. Nehemiah Chapter 3 tells us about the builders: some were priests, others merchants, or goldsmiths, a perfume-maker, rulers of their own districts — with each group working on the section of wall nearest their own house, in their own ordinary vocation.
Similarly, Pope Leo has issued the call to everyone, regardless of their state in life or their vocation. Enter the construction site right where you are, through your own daily activities, your existing circumstances. Heaps of rubble surround each one of us and are ready, waiting to be put into their proper place. An act of patience, done in union with the patience Christ showed to his persecutors, is a brick put into place. The partaking of a meal, done with thanksgiving offered in union with the thanksgiving Jesus gave to the Father when he partook of his meals in his holy humanity, is a brick. All of our acts, when done with the intention of joining them to the acts Jesus did during his earthly walk, become an “exchange of works” that increases the eager longing of creation. Or, these same acts can be done without giving a thought to God or neighbor, performed with self-interest, self-satisfaction, self-will — and what could have been a brick put back in place remains in the heap of rubble.
The Holy Father himself describes the building project most clearly in §236:
The spirituality I wish to commend is that of the “wise architect” who, driven by hope for the Kingdom of God, is committed to building the world for the common good (cf. 1 Cor 3:10). As I mentioned at the beginning of this reflection [Nos. 11–14], the task of building in our time must place our relationship with God at its center. Our rule must be the acceptance of human limitations as a natural and positive reality, and should be characterized by shared responsibility and a language characterized by the Gospel. At the end of this reflection, the plan for a civilization of love can be seen more clearly, and the construction site appears to be already up and running, thanks especially to the many living stones solidly united to Christ the cornerstone (cf. 1 Pet 2:4–6). In this task, we are called to assume an active role, without taking refuge in spiritual sentimentality or retreating into our own little worlds. We must be faithful to the truth, invest in education, cultivate relationships and love justice and peace.
Rebuilding, using the building materials that were knocked down, scarred, and some even burned. Taking up bricks from the heap of rubbish and transforming them into “the precious adornments of the Bride of the Lamb.” (Magnifica Humanitas, §242) The activity goes on without fanfare or worldly notice, but it builds and builds, soul by soul, act by act — something is being built, and the Holy Father is the only one I know of who is talking about a building project that fits the bill.
Psalm 63 is still resounding: Your loving mercy is better than life; my lips will speak your praise. I will bless you all my life; in your name I will lift up my hands.
In an earlier article, I used the phrase Divine Providence Coherences, and today seems like a most fitting example of one such coherence. I engaged in the conversation with Claude, upon which this series of articles has been based, on May 28, 2026, with a short continuation on May 29. The continuation of the conversation will be the topic of the last article in this series: a look at the traditional exegesis on Romans 8:18–21 compared with what Luisa has written. Since May 29, as opportunities for reflection came about, I’ve been working through each portion of the analysis, sharing my thoughts in these articles over the past few days.
My thoughts about the apparent connection of this analysis of Romans 8:18–21 and the May 21, 1900, diary entry to Pope Leo’s Nehemiah Project only crystallized today, providing the opportunity to finalize this article and get it posted. And today seems most fitting, because the Catholic Church celebrated the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ. In my local parish and in parishes around the world, Eucharistic processions are being held — the body, blood, soul, and divinity of Jesus Christ, in His Eucharistic Presence, being processed through church buildings, around the grounds, and often into the streets of the adjoining neighborhood.
In this article, we focus on a diary entry written on May 21, 1900, by a 35-year-old bedridden woman in Corato, Italy, with maybe a 2nd-grade education, who was literally sustained on the Eucharist alone. And the focus of that locution on that day in her life was the miracle of miracles, the prodigy of prodigies. Transforming a human soul from being self-asserting and self-centered in the exercise of her will, to being in uniformity with God’s Will. Charting a course to a destination creation itself awaits with eager longing — the establishment of the Kingdom of God, as Jesus taught us to seek in the Our Father. The same destination that the Holy Father has just exhorted all of humanity to join in constructing, repairing, and rebuilding the walls established in the one eternal act of the Divine Will before the foundation of the earth. Walls built not with works newly created but with those prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them (Ephesians 2:10).
No wonder Psalm 63, from Lauds this morning, is still resounding in my heart: My soul shall be filled as with a banquet; with joyful lips my mouth shall praise you.
These are the personal reflections of a Catholic layman. This work is part of an ongoing exploration of how AI can serve as an analytical tool for Scripture and the mystical writings of Luisa Piccarreta — identifying connections the human reader might miss, while leaving the reflection and prayer to the human. All content is maintained at troopermimosa.com. Subscribe to follow along.
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