As the Extraordinary Jubilee of Mercy draws to a close, and I prepare to introduce another group of students to this privileged time of grace, I have been thinking about the image of Divine Mercy that Christ entrusted to St. Faustina. Recently, the Catholic world has been buzzing with discussion about which is the “best” of the various images of Divine Mercy.

The ultimate answer is Christ’s to St. Faustina: after seeing the completed image, she recognized the impossibility of portraying the beauty of her vision, and she wept. Christ consoled her by explaining that the painting’s power lay not in its artistry but in the grace He would give through the image.

Having conceded the inadequacy of any representation of Divine Mercy, there is still a striking aspect of the original image, painted under St. Faustina’s direction, that has not been preserved in other versions: Christ’s downward gaze. St. Faustina insisted on this detail. But why? Why are we unable to see directly into His eyes?

The gaze of God can be terrifying: it was God’s glance that threw Pharaoh’s army into a panic during the Exodus (Exod. 14:24). In the New Testament, Christ looks around in anger at the Pharisees and scribes, grieved at their hardness of heart (Mark 3:5). I would not have wanted to be one of the people in that circle.

But most of the people along Christ’s path, whatever their sinfulness, did not arouse His anger by their stubbornness and pride. Instead, it was a tremendous love that shone from His eyes: a look and a love that overpowered His desire for solitude and launched Him into a long day of curing and teaching (Matt. 14:14), that invited the rich young man to a life of apostolic service (Mark 10:21), that confronted Peter’s denial and drew him close in an embrace of forgiveness (Luke 22:61).

So why would Christ not desire everyone to meet His gaze? He does, but not all of us are ready. His eyes are a gateway into the exchange of love at the heart of the Trinity, a beautiful gateway and yet also, for us finite beings, a fearful one. Locking eyes with Christ, Peter wept bitterly, his heart wrenched with a sadness similar to the one freighting the heart of the man too rich to follow Love. “Stern as death is love,” the Song of Songs reminds us, “relentless as the netherworld is devotion” (8:6).

In His profound desire for communion with us, Christ — at least in the original Divine Mercy image — spares us this intimate point of entry into the depths of His love. It is the same principle behind His Incarnation and His Eucharistic presence: He becomes a child so that no one will fear Him. He hides Himself under the sacramental veils so that we can consume Him and adore Him without being overwhelmed by His glory. Think what love it is for Love to dim the brightness of His love!

Sr. Maria Veritas Marks is a member of the Ann Arbor-based Dominican Sisters of Mary, Mother of the Eucharist.