The Sacred Heart of Jesus has always drawn me in. I’ve seen it depicted in many ways—ornate, traditional, stylized, even inked onto someone’s chest—but that image of the pierced, burning heart encircled by thorns never fails to pull me close. As a devotee and regular First Friday Mass-goer, I’ve grown familiar with its many interpretations. Still, one painting stayed with me in a way I hadn’t expected.
I first came across Heart of Faith on a gallery’s Instagram page: a 24-by-24-inch acrylic on canvas by Genzel San Jose, a young, emerging artist. The composition was quiet, yet quietly stirring. The Sacred Heart floated in a teal blue field—deep red and textured, encircled by soft gold rays. A small cross rose from a flame, while faint stars drifted around it. There was no drama, no grandeur. Just a stillness that invited contemplation.
The caption quoted Psalm 147:11: “The Lord delights in those who fear him, who put their hope in his unfailing love.” That verse, along with the image, lingered.
I messaged the gallery, asked about the work, and thought about it. But I didn’t reserve it. And by the time I finally visited, the painting was gone—either sold or returned to the artist.
Weeks passed. Then the painting appeared again—this time on Genzel’s own page. But the context had changed. Heart of Faith was no longer listed through a gallery but offered through a personal appeal. Genzel shared that his 11-year-old brother, Denzel, had just been diagnosed with leukemia.
The message was simple. He spoke of Denzel’s curiosity, his love for stories and games. No embellishments. Just a brother doing what he could. He was parting with the painting to help fund his sibling’s treatment. Every peso, he wrote, would go toward Denzel’s care.
Suddenly, the painting meant something more.
I reached out again—and this time, I didn’t hesitate.
Heart of Faith now hangs in my bedroom. It’s the last thing I see before sleep, and the first when I wake. In the morning, it glows soft and pale; by late afternoon, the gold shifts beneath the shadows. The heart remains steady. The stars still drift—quiet, constant.
At the time, it seemed like a small thing—a message, a decision, and a quiet yes. But some choices take on meaning over time. What starts simply can stay with you. I think about what it meant to say yes—not just to the painting, but to the story it carried. Buying art isn’t always about collecting. Sometimes, it’s about being present when someone reaches out.
When we support artists—especially when their work holds something deeply personal—we do more than affirm their craft. We honor their courage. Their story. Their offering.
Wishing you a gentle, grace-filled Holy Week.
