The Arms Are Open. Why Aren’t You Running?

The Sacred Heart and the Fire That Melts Fear, Not Just Sin

A motif that often comes to mind when I write about the love of God is that moment in Matthew’s Gospel when the children are running toward Christ.

It’s such a small scene—just a few lines—but it burns with meaning.

The children are free. Light. Uncomplicated. Their hearts are set on one thing: to reach Him.
To run into the arms of the One who welcomes, who smiles, who stoops low to lift.

But before they arrive, something tragic happens.
They are stopped.

Like a dam halting a stream from pouring into the sea, the Apostles intervene.
Whether from misplaced reverence or a sense of order, they stand between the children and Love Himself.

And Jesus, in His usual way, flips everything:

“Let the children come to me. Do not hinder them. For to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.”

And then, in a move both tender and terrifying, He adds:

“Unless you become like them, you cannot enter.”

Oh, my soul.

How often am I the child—yearning, running, just wanting to be held?

And how often am I my own apostle?
Getting in the way.
Clutching old theologies of unworthiness.
Blocking the path with shame.
Declaring myself too messy, too distant, too complicated to be embraced.

But the Sacred Heart burns through all of that.

The Sacred Heart is the Jesus who rebukes every voice—internal or external—that tries to stand between you and Him.

It is the open furnace of a God who not only allows the children to come, but became a child, so that you would never be afraid to draw near.

It is the fire that burns through your defenses, not to punish you, but to melt the ice you’ve mistaken for humility.

You do not have to stay stuck behind your self-appointed guards.
You do not have to earn access to the arms of Love.

Christ is not distant.

He is here.
He is open.
He is burning.
And the flame is not there to test you—it is there to receive you.

The Sacred Heart: Not a Devotion But a Doorway

Too often we treat devotions as duties rather than doorways.

We remember the solemnity. We do our First Fridays. We pray the Act of Consecration. And then we move on—quietly forgetting the burning flame of Divine Love until next June.

(Or worse—we spend eleven months ignoring the Sacred Heart, only to suddenly “defend” it for thirty days as a political statement. We weaponize the image of Christ’s Heart not as an invitation to be consumed by love, but as a badge of ideological purity. You know exactly what I mean.)

But the Sacred Heart is not a slogan. It’s not a seasonal campaign. It’s the blazing center of our faith.

Christ didn’t appear to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque simply to hand out another devotional checklist. He came to give us a reminder—an unveiling of the Heart behind the veil.

At the time, the Church was steeped in the cold fog of Jansenism, a heresy that painted God as distant and severe, one who was quick to damn and reluctant to save. Heaven became a fortress for the few. Mercy, a rare exception. People were paralyzed by fear, not awakened by love.

So Christ came—not with thunder, not with wrath, but with beauty. He came to a cloistered nun, to show her a Heart on fire.

He revealed His Sacred Heart not to impose more duties, but to burn away the illusion that we must earn our place in His arms. He came to show us what love looks like when it’s pierced, and still chooses to embrace.

This devotion was never meant to be a box to check. It was meant to be a doorway. A doorway into the furnace of a God who desires not just obedience, but union.

The God Who Seeks

We often believe the spiritual life is primarily about us seeking God—trying to climb, reach, strive, impress.

But the Sacred Heart tells a different story.

It is the story of a God who searches. A Shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine. A Bridegroom who comes in the night, whispering through the veil. A Lover who doesn’t just wait for you to knock, but comes knocking Himself.

This Heart is not passive. It pursues. It longs. It comes to find us in the places where we have stopped trying to be found.

It doesn’t burn because we are on fire. It burns because He is.

And that fire isn’t there to test you—it’s there to receive you.

The Child and the Gatekeeper

This brings to mind a passage from the Gospel of Matthew: the moment when the children come running toward Jesus.

They are light. Free. Unburdened by shame or performance. They just want to be near Him.

But before they reach His embrace, they are stopped—not by Pharisees or Roman guards, but by the Apostles themselves.

The ones who loved Him most got in the way.

And how often do we do the same?

How often are we the child, running toward Christ—and also the apostle, blocking the path?

We let shame stop us.
We let a warped image of God stop us.
We let pride, perfectionism, and religious scrupulosity become self-appointed guards at the gate.

But Jesus rebukes that instinct.

“Let the children come to me. Do not hinder them.”

That is not just a verse about parenting. That’s a call to the soul. A warning to stop being your own obstacle. To stop standing between your heart and His.

You don’t have to earn the embrace. You just have to run.

The Sacred Heart and the Bridal Flame

And when you do run—when you finally surrender to the seeking—you don’t find a cold doctrine or a stern schoolmaster.

You find a Bridegroom. With His Heart torn open and burning.

Bridal mysticism reminds us: this isn’t about mere obedience. It’s about union. It’s about covenant. It’s about the sacred madness of a God who doesn’t just forgive, but weds.

The Sacred Heart is the furnace of the Bridegroom. It is where justice and mercy kiss. Where the flames don’t destroy, but consume everything that ever convinced you that you weren’t lovable.

He didn’t come to burden you. He came to find you.

So let yourself be found.

Let yourself be loved.

You were never meant to stand at a distance from love. You were made for the embrace.