Living Images of the Sacred Heart

I stand at the back of a darkened room as another group of visiting students watch a video interview of my dear friend Anita, a Black woman in her fifties and the matriarch of four generations. I have heard her words many times before, but each time they hit me differently. 

She describes standing by her 22-year-old great-grandson when he was arrested for attempted murder. She reports how he was called a “menace to society” by the judge in bond court. She recounts how she broke down when she visited him in jail, something she had previously told him — sternly — that she would never do if he got himself in trouble.

“But I knew where his heart was,”  she says.

She knew his heart. 

I realize I am on holy ground. Words from a popular Catholic hymn come to mind, Lord, you have searched my heart. Anita sees her great-grandson the way God sees us, and it’s led her to advocate tirelessly on his behalf: writing letters, talking to student groups, sharing their story… and yearning desperately for his freedom, not because he’s innocent necessarily, but because she loves him.

June 7 is the Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, one of the most widely practiced devotions in Catholicism. Statues, prayer cards and framed images bear a pristine, light-skinned Jesus pointing at a ruby-red heart gift-wrapped with a ribbon of thorns and a little bow of flames. While held up as a symbol of Jesus’ unwavering and infinite love for us, and the admirable patron of countless schools, hospitals, and religious communities, I admit that this devotion has always felt dry and distant to me — the stuff of religious zealots, far removed from the dynamic, immersed faith that I’ve sought through my adulthood. 

Yet as I contemplate the fierce love that women like Anita show for themselves, their children, and their communities, in a society that disregards their humanity and value, I am drawn to reconsider. After all, it would be foolish to think that Jesus would choose only one definitive way to invite us into his heart, and this popular image would be it. 

St. Mechtilde, a Benedictine nun, spiritual advisor, theologian, liturgical musician, and mystic in 13th-century Germany, was one of the first to record detailed encounters with Jesus inviting her into his heart.

Even in her own visions, Jesus presented his heart to her in countless different ways: a cup from which to drink, a mother’s breast, a source of tears, even a kitchen — “a public room open to all” — where the Holy Spirit is a chef preparing “sweet and priceless gifts” and placing them in dishware that is our hearts. 

These images draw me in, engaging my imagination and sparking a connection. 

I experiment with these images as a bridge to encounter Jesus in my daily life. Admittedly, my body goes into crisis mode on a regular basis: exhaustion from working in ministry and raising a family; sensory overload at the noise, physicality, and energy that characterize young children; financial and other life-management stressors. 

Grounding myself in a moment of prayer, placing my hand over my heart, I can go into my inner room. Rather than attempting to leave behind the worries and failures that weigh me down, I take them with me. I imagine drinking mercy from the cup of Jesus’ heart, feeling its cool, refreshing flow. I allow the empty plate of my heart to be filled with course after course of abundant grace. I receive the motherly nourishment of “interior consolation and unutterable sweetness,” as St. Mechtilde recalls in Jesus’ promise.

Embraced in this way, Jesus’ heart is not a static object to observe and admire, but a dynamic, interactive force, seeking a heart-to-heart encounter with us. What a gift to fill our own hearts with fierce, unconditional love for others and for ourselves, allowing God’s love to penetrate deep within us so that the mantle of justice and human dignity can be taken up and co-carried by us all.

As we commemorate this feast day of the Sacred Heart and perhaps seek new images for our prayer life, let us contemplate this intense love as it is reflected in women like Anita. It is a ferocity of love that emulates Jesus’ love for us, his tireless advocacy on our behalf, and his desperate yearning for our freedom.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Cortina is a mother raising three bilingual, bicultural children alongside her Mexican husband. She advocates for transformative and restorative justice through her work in prison ministry and parish outreach at Kolbe House Jail Ministry in Chicago, Illinois.