Dig Deeper into Sunday’s Gospel: Read John 20:19–31
The gospel for Divine Mercy Sunday opens in a place we don’t often like to admit we know well: the upper room.
Let’s take a moment to visualize ourselves there.
The doors of this room are locked, and the disciples are gathered together. However, they are far from at peace. They are afraid—uncertain of what comes next, unsure of what to believe, and likely burdened by the weight and shame of their own failures. Among these disciples and followers of Christ, we find those who had fled, hid away, and watched from a safe distance while everything fell apart.
Even with the resurrection unfolding, with murmurings of sightings of our Lord, whispers of His return, they remained inside, behind locked doors, holding their breath.
It’s easy to look back on this moment from a distance, centuries into the future, knowing what will happen next. Yet, if I’m honest, the upper room is a place I know well.
The upper room isn’t just a location in Scripture; it reflects a posture of the heart.
It’s where we go when life feels overwhelming or fragile, when emotions feel too intense or too risky to share. Perhaps you, too, are familiar with this room. It’s where we go when we receive bad news, when relationships fracture, when the demands of our vocations feel heavier than expected, when loneliness creeps in, or when confusion clouds our minds. We retreat there, turning inward, seeking security the world cannot truly give.
In difficult or painful circumstances, our instinct is often to withdraw or isolate ourselves because it feels safer. Behind doors of our own choosing, we try to manage our emotions, controlling what we allow in and what we keep out. But this sense of control offers only a fragile and temporary sense of security.
In that confined space, doubt easily takes root, confusion grows, and we risk remaining stuck there. We quickly forget the reality of the empty tomb, the power of the resurrection, and the promise Jesus has already given, “In the world you will have trouble, but take courage, I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).
We were not created to remain sealed away in the darkness of an upper room, hidden in fear, shame, or regret. We were not made for the stagnant air of a locked room, in darkness, but for the breath of the Spirit in the garden, where, in freedom, we flourish in the light of God’s love.
And so, it is into this place of unease and distress that Jesus comes. He appears in their midst and says to them, “Peace be with you” (John 20:19).
Notice that He does not wait for the doors to be opened, nor for the disciples to find their courage or feel certain they were out of danger. Jesus enters the room and meets them where they are, knowing they would never leave on their own. Our Lord, all too well, understands how fear paralyzes, shame diminishes, and guilt convinces us to stay hidden.
Just as the tomb could not contain His power, locked doors will not prevent Him from entering in, drawing close, and overwhelming us with His divine mercy.
Into these closed-off rooms of our hearts, our Lord also comes, bearing peace. Not condemnation, correction, or even instruction, but peace. In the upper room, Jesus did not ask where they all were on Good Friday. He didn’t revisit their failures or question their fears. Instead, He spoke the words their hearts most needed to hear: “Peace be with you” (John 20:19).
The peace Jesus offers is not dependent on circumstances being resolved. It does not require complete clarity or control. It is not peace “as the world gives” (John 14:27), but rather a peace that “surpasses all understanding and will guard our heart and mind” (Philippians 4:7). It is the kind of peace that comes from His presence alone.
When we allow His very presence to be our peace, it is there we encounter His merciful heart. In His presence, with His peace, the posture of our hearts is transformed. No longer guarded or closed off, our hearts begin to open, to soften, and to receive all that He has to give us.
Our Lord was not afforded human mercy while here on earth, and yet He does not measure out His mercy toward us. He gives it freely, not because we have earned it or deserve it, but because of who He is. His words to Saint Faustina capture the depth of His tender heart toward us, “The greater the sinner, the greater the right he has to My mercy.”[1]
We need not fear Him entering our locked doors. We need not fear Him, seeing what we are hiding. He already knows it all. “Even before a word is on my tongue, Lord, you know it all” (Psalm 139:4).
We need not fear that He will hold back His love from us because of what He finds behind those locked doors. “There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1).
His gaze upon us, His precious little ones, is only ever filled with tenderness and love. We need not question this gaze, because He has “[proven] his love for us that while we were still sinners, [He] died for us” (Romans 5:8). Our Lord is “rich in mercy, because of His great love for us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, brought us to life with Christ” (Ephesians 2:4).
Peace is the fruit of being receptive to and allowing His mercy to wash over us. Sustaining peace, lasting peace, grows as we root ourselves deep in the grace of His divine mercy.
He is abounding in mercy for us, my friend, and His desire is for us to walk out of our upper rooms, past the sealed doors, and into the light, into His light of freedom and the purpose of mission. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you” (John 20:21).
Today, may we have the courage to unlock the door and step into the peace He already has prepared for us.
In His mercy,
Jeannine
Food for thought or journaling …
What “door” have I kept locked lately—is it a specific fear, a past shame, or a situation where I feel I’ve failed? What prevents me from believing that I have a “greater right” to His mercy?
Lord Jesus, I invite You into the hidden spaces, the “upper room” of my heart. Breathe Your Spirit upon me and replace my fears with Your peace. Give me the grace to trust Your merciful gaze and the courage to step out of my hiding place and into the light of Your mission. Amen.
[1] Maria Faustina Kowalska, Diary: Divine Mercy in My Soul (Stockbridge, MA: Marian Press, 2005), 723.
