Spiritual Vigilance: Watching with Jesus

Divine Appeal Reflection - 53

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 53: "...watch with Me."

“Watch with Me” is not a command of anxiety but an invitation into companionship. Our Adorable Jesus does not ask for heroic feats first—He asks for presence. Spiritual vigilance begins not in fear of evil, but in love that refuses to sleep through grace. In Gethsemane, the disciples were not condemned for weakness, but for unconsciousness of the hour they were living in (cf. Mt 26:40–41). Vigilance is awareness of the moment as sacred. The Catechism describes the Christian life as constant conversion and interior watchfulness of heart (cf. CCC 1430–1432), meaning vigilance is not tension, but attentiveness to God’s movements. In daily life, this looks simple: a mother noticing impatience rising and choosing gentleness; a priest recognizing routine prayer becoming mechanical and returning to silence; a worker sensing dishonesty being normalized and quietly choosing integrity. St. Augustine wrote that the Christian must live “awake in heart even when the body rests,” because love itself keeps vigil. This is deeply pastoral: Jesus is not seeking perfect people, but present hearts. Like Samuel in the night, vigilance is the posture that says,(cf. 1 Sam 3:9–10) “Speak, Lord, Your servant is listening” .  To watch with Jesus is to live with eyes open to grace in small things.Spiritual vigilance humanizes us—it teaches us to recognize God not only in liturgy, but in interruptions, fatigue, noise, temptation, and ordinary responsibilities.

Spiritual vigilance is the art of discernment in ordinary life. Our Adorable Jesus teaches that the danger is not always obvious sin, (cf. Mk 13:33) but slow dullness of soul—the heart becoming insensitive to God’s voice . Church tradition bears this quietly in monastic wisdom: the Desert Fathers spoke of nepsis—a gentle, inner watchfulness that guards the heart not from spectacular sins (cf. Prov 4:23; Mt 26:41) but from small dispersions of attention. Their struggle was less against dramatic temptation than against forgetfulness of God, knowing that the heart is lost first through distraction before it ever falls through rebellion . This is deeply pastoral wisdom. In marriage, vigilance means noticing when love becomes habit without tenderness. In religious life, it means recognizing when obedience becomes efficiency without prayer. In ministry, it means serving people without losing the gaze of Christ. The Catechism  speaks of vigilance as part of prayer itself— (cf. CCC 2730–2733) “watchful expectancy” before God . Practically, vigilance looks like small daily acts: pausing before reacting, examining conscience honestly, guarding what enters the mind, choosing silence over noise, choosing truth over convenience. Even Peter’s denial was not born in hatred, (cf. Lk 22:54–62) but in tiredness and fear . Vigilance is compassion toward one’s own weakness while staying faithful to grace. Jesus’ appeal—“watch with Me”—is not about perfection, but fidelity in the small hours, when no one sees and no one applauds.

Vigilance also belongs to the Church as a body, not only to individual souls. She is called to remain awake in history, (cf. Mt 25:1–13; CCC 672–677)discerning the signs of the times without surrendering her gaze toward eternity . This is not anxious alertness but maternal attentiveness—a watch kept in hope. Pastoral vigilance means guarding truth without bruising the wounded, holding clarity and tenderness together in the same hands (cf. Is 42:3; Jn 1:14). In Scripture and tradition, bishops and priests were named watchmen, echoing the prophets who stood upon the walls,(cf. Ez 33:7; Is 62:6) listening through the night for danger and dawn alike . Today this watchfulness takes humble forms: priests who protect both doctrine and fragile hearts, catechists who teach truth without dilution or fear, parents who quietly guard the interior lives of their children, (cf. Mt 5:13–16) and lay faithful who live visibly Christian lives within secular spaces .Vigilance asks the soul hard, honest questions: What thoughts, words, and images do we allow into our hearts? What attitudes or habits do we quietly normalize until they reshape our desires? What compromises do we excuse, believing them small, until they quietly claim the shape of our conscience? (cf. Rom 12:2; Phil 4:8; Ps 101:3)What is forming our conscience,what is tutoring our desires? . St. John Chrysostom taught that the home is the first church—watchfulness begins there, in speech restrained, example given, forgiveness practiced, (cf. Jos 24:15) and prayer returned to again and again . Even silence (cf. Prov 17:27) can become vigilance when it protects charity . Our Adorable Jesus still stands at the door and knocks ; many hearts are not closed by grave sin but lulled by distraction. Spiritual vigilance is the courage to awaken—not with accusation, but with light. It is pastoral because it seeks restoration, and divine because it flows entirely from love.

“Watch with Me” also reveals the tenderness of Christ. He does not say, “Watch for Me,” but “with Me.” Vigilance is relational. It is companionship in suffering, in waiting, in hope. Mary embodies this perfectly—silent, faithful, attentive, (cf. Lk 2:19; Jn 19:25) present at every stage of redemption . Church tradition presents her as the model of watchful faith: serene, not restless, attentive without agitation (cf. Lk 2:19; CCC 1817). Vigilance in daily life is quietly incarnated: being emotionally present to another, listening fully without hurry, forgiving swiftly before resentment takes root,(cf. Mt 6:6; Jas 1:19) praying humbly without display .St. Thérèse taught that love is proven in little things done faithfully. Vigilance is fidelity in the hidden places. The Catechism (cf. CCC 162, 2849) reminds us that perseverance and watchfulness are necessary because love is tested over time . Our Adorable Jesus knows human fatigue. He knows distraction. He knows fear. That is why His appeal is gentle. He does not demand heroic strength; He invites the heart into intimacy. Vigilance becomes a quiet, enduring love—one that refuses to step away from Christ in His hidden suffering today, present in the poor who are overlooked, the confused who stagger, the sinner who wanders, the lonely whose hearts ache, and the Church herself, tenderly bruised yet alive . To watch with Jesus is to refuse indifference.

Spiritual vigilance unfolds gently at the edge of eternity, (cf. Phil 3:20) not by pulling us out of daily life but by teaching us how to carry heaven into it . It is the slow schooling of the heart (cf. Heb 13:14) to live responsibly now while listening for what lasts . The wise virgins were not tense or dramatic; they were simply faithful to what love required over time—oil added in small, unnoticed acts of care (cf. Mt 25:1–13). Readiness in the Gospel is rarely loud. It is affection practiced until it becomes instinct (cf. Lk 12:35). The saints learned this early. Francis of Assisi stripped his life not to escape the world but to stay awake within it, unburdened enough to hear God pass by (cf. 1 Kgs 19:12). Catherine of Siena spoke with courage because she listened first, (cf. Prov 8:34) allowing silence to tutor her speech .

Vigilance today feels very ordinary. It is the choice to pause before reacting, to pray before speaking, to tell the truth when it costs, (cf. Col 4:2; Mic 6:8) to forgive when the heart would rather harden . It enters kitchens and corridors, deadlines and disappointments, friendships stretched thin and ministries grown tired. Our Adorable Jesus is not asking us to monitor the world’s collapse; He asks us to stay close to Him when love grows tedious or unseen (cf. Jn 6:66–69). Divine Appeal 53 is whispered, not shouted. “Watch with Me” rises from the dust of Gethsemane, from a Heart that knows how heavy waiting can be (cf. Mt 26:38–41). It means staying when prayer no longer consoles (cf. Ps 42; Jn 6:67), staying when obedience quietly costs more than expected , (cf. Rom 8:24–25; Heb 11:1) staying when hope must be chosen without proof . Spiritual vigilance is not heroic tension; it is love that waits (cf. 1 Cor 13:7), love that remains seated beside the Beloved (cf. Jn 19:25), (cf. Mt 26:40–41)even when the night grows slow and heavy .

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, awaken our hearts when comfort dulls our love. Keep us near You in moments of weakness, routine, and trial. Teach us to watch without fear, to remain without distraction, and to love without conditions. Let our vigilance be tenderness, not anxiety. Stay with us. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.

Divine Appeal 53

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1

“I want humanity to repent.”

“My daughter, watch with Me. I want you to accompany Me. I want humanity to know the seriousness of the state of the world and to understand the inexorable Justice of God. I want humanity to repent, otherwise it will cast down innumerable souls into eternal fire together with satan who suggests to them that My Eternal Father does not exist.

In the Sacrament of Love I am always attacked on all sides. I pour tears over humanity; like a beggar, I ask for consolation for the evil which is being provoked in My presence.

Led by ... mankind is racing towards the precipice of perdition.

Pray a great deal. Lift souls to Me. My desire is that mankind be saved. I am very hurt by My own ... Like traitors they betray My Presence and drag souls down to perdition.”

“I bless you.”

13th December 1987

Copyright © 2015 Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir, Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya.  All rights reserved. Reproduced from ON THE EUCHARIST: A DIVINE APPEAL, Volume I by www.adivineappeal.com. 
Reproduced by www.adivineappeal.com

Receiving Our Adorable Jesus More and More

Divine Appeal Reflection - 52

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 52: "...receive Me more and more."

There is a quiet sorrow in the Heart of Our Adorable Jesus when love is reduced to the minimum.From the quiet of the Tabernacle, Jesus speaks in a way that feels almost fragile: Receive Me more and more. It is the voice of Love that does not force, but waits.  The Eucharist is His way of staying close when words fail. From the beginning, the Church sensed this closeness. The first believers did not ration the breaking of the Bread; they returned again and again, because life itself began to feel Eucharistic—received, blessed, broken, given (cf. Acts 2:42–46). The Church later guarded this truth solemnly, teaching that every Mass makes present the one Sacrifice of the Cross, not repeated, but re-entered, calling for the heart’s participation, not mere presence (cf. Mt 26:26–28; Jn 6:51; Council of Trent; Vatican II). Our Adorable Jesus is not looking for occasional visitors who pass through on Sundays and disappear by Monday. He longs for companions. Love grows by returning. Just as the Word truly became flesh and stayed among us , so the Christian, (cf. Jn 1:14) through frequent Mass, is slowly drawn into becoming flesh for others. This appeal hides a daring invitation: allow Me to live in you so often that you begin to look like Me—quiet, available, given.

Becoming a small host is not an image meant to impress; it is a way of living that hurts a little and heals a lot. The Church teaches that those who unite themselves to Christ’s sacrifice at Mass become a living offering with Him (cf. Rom 12:1; CCC 1368). Early Christians understood this instinctively. Some gathered before sunrise, others at risk of arrest, because they knew the day could not be faced without first being placed on the altar with Christ (cf. Jn 15:5). Councils and Fathers defended this hunger, insisting that the Eucharist truly feeds the Church’s life and unity, not symbolically but really (cf. Jn 6:55–57; Lateran IV; St. Ignatius of Antioch). To attend Mass more than once a day, when possible, is not excess—it is desire. Even when sacramental reception is limited, repeated participation forms the soul into Eucharistic shape. This becomes painfully practical: the teacher offering patience when exhausted (cf. Col 3:12), the laborer offering strength without applause (cf. Mt 6:3–4), (cf. Col 1:24)the sick offering pain without bitterness . Elijah, fed by heavenly bread, (cf. 1 Kgs 19:5–8) walked beyond what his body could endure . So too does the Eucharistic soul endure contradictions without growing hard. Saints like Francis of Assisi and Faustina learned to disappear into Christ this way. They did not carry Mass books everywhere—Mass carried them.

To receive Jesus more and more is to let Him gently empty us. The Eucharist comforts, yes—but it also burns. Scripture calls God a consuming fire, not to frighten us, (cf. Heb 12:29) but to free us from what keeps us small . The Church (cf. Jn 15:13; CCC 1394) teaches that frequent Communion loosens the grip of sin and binds the heart more tightly to Christ’s self-giving love . This is where the small host is formed—slowly, painfully, honestly. Each Mass touches a nerve: ego, defensiveness, impatience. In family life, this looks like forgiving again when no one notices (cf. Mt 18:21–22). In consecrated life, obedience without sweetness (cf. Phil 2:8). In professional life, truth chosen over advantage (cf. Prov 11:1). Early Christian teaching was blunt: if you receive the Body of Christ, (cf. 1 Cor 12:27; Didache; St. Justin Martyr) your life must become His Body . Later councils echoed this, reminding the faithful that the liturgy sends them back into the world as witnesses, not spectators (cf. Vatican II). Scripture shows us the pattern: Isaac laid on the wood (cf. Gen 22), (cf. 1 Sam 3) Samuel listening in the dark , (cf. Lk 1:38)Mary offering her body to the Word without guarantees . Frequent Mass forms this Marian availability—until surrender becomes instinct.

There is quiet missionary power in becoming a small host. The Eucharist (cf. Jn 20:21; CCC 1396) builds the Church and sends her out as bread broken for the life of the world . Early councils fought hard to protect this truth, (cf. Nicaea; Trent) refusing to let the Mass be reduced to symbol or memory alone . Those who return often to the altar—sometimes more than once a day—carry something invisible but real into ordinary places. Moses came down from the mountain changed, (cf. Ex 34:29)even before he spoke . So does the Eucharistic soul carry patience into meetings, mercy into homes, clarity into confusion. This is not dramatic holiness. A Eucharistic mother evangelizes by staying calm amid chaos. A Eucharistic priest by fidelity to repetition. A Eucharistic young person by choosing purity when compromise is easier (cf. Rom 12:2). Even when one cannot receive again sacramentally, (cf. Mk 12:43–44) attentive participation deepens oblation. Jesus counts desire, not numbers . St. John Chrysostom, aflame with the Word and the Eucharist, formed cities through the altar and the ambo alike. Long before councils spoke plainly, his life proclaimed this truth: (cf. Mt 5:14–16; Acts 2:42; Vatican II) holiness is not reserved for the extraordinary but demanded of every baptized soul, whether hidden in obscurity or exposed in public witness . The small host is rarely noticed—but heaven never misses it.

In the end, receive Me more and more is about heaven. The Eucharist is a promise of what awaits us: (cf. Jn 17:24; CCC 1402) endless communion, no separation, no fear of loss . Heaven is not scarcity; it is continual self-gift. Frequent Mass stretches the heart toward that capacity. The early Church lived with this awareness, gathering often as those already leaning into eternity (cf. Heb 12:22–24). Councils guarded this vision, teaching that the Mass is a true foretaste of the heavenly liturgy (cf. Rev 19:6–9). The small host learns to live now what will one day be complete. Simeon stayed near the Temple—and so he recognized salvation when others passed by (cf. Lk 2:25–30). Those who stay close see sooner. A Sunday-only faith easily thins under pressure; repeated communion thickens love, memory, hope. Our Adorable Jesus does not command frequency—He attracts it (cf. Jn 12:32). This is the quiet voice of the Bridegroom, leaning toward our ordinary days: do not measure love as if it were scarce, do not come to Me only when you are exhausted. Let Me be your daily Bread, (cf. Mt 6:11; Jn 6:35) taken into the rhythms of your mornings and your weariness . Holiness grows where Communion becomes familiarity, and love slowly learns to ache.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, living Host, teach us to stay. Draw us back to You again and again, until our lives take Your shape. Shape us into small hosts—unseen, consenting, softened by Your hands—ready to be fractured by duty, time, and love, so that without noise or notice, Your mercy may slip into the lives we touch. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.

Divine Appeal 52

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

 VOLUME 1

“Through my Sacramental veils I am gazing on anyone who has pity on Me.”

“My daughter, watch and pray. Keep Me in the light. This is My difficult hour. Abused and ridiculed, I am quiet in My tabernacle, whipped and turned upside down. I am inexorably wounded by My own... Through My Sacramental veils I am gazing on anyone who has pity on Me.

I must repose sacramentally in your heart. I want to strengthen you and give you new light. You must embrace the whole of mankind. You must be strong with this supreme proof of obedience and love. You pray and do penance. Expose me to souls. The blasphemers,  the image of worldly man, the action of his diabolical spirit, brings destruction and ruin. Pray. Through prayers I will call the attention of many souls.

What hurts Me most is My own ... who betray and attack Me on both sides. They are traitors in perdition. God, My Eternal Father, will do justice for all these iniquities. Beware, it will be worse than Babylon! Judgement is coming. The dealers will perish because they have drunk satan’s poison. They have turned against My Eternal Father. This is My painful hour when they are labouring hard to abolish My Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. They all oppose Me. My Eternal father has shown Me and has told Me ‘this is all the earth! Diseased in part. So few are the chosen ones!’ The good do not pray! Many nations
will disappear off the face of the earth. I, the Lord of revelation, order you to assure them that I appeal to their consciences, to the whole of humanity.

Pray, do penance, receive Me more and more. I want them to repent. Many do not listen to Me because they are not aware of this terrible reality. My Mercy is great if they repent!”

“I bless you.”

12th December 1987 

Copyright © 2015 Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir, Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya.  All rights reserved. Reproduced from ON THE EUCHARIST: A DIVINE APPEAL, Volume I by www.adivineappeal.com. 

Jesus Weeps Over His Abused Gospel

Divine Appeal Reflection - 51

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 51: "They abuse My very Gospel."

The Heart of Our Adorable Jesus trembles—not from hostility, but from neglect. He is wounded less by open rejection than by indifference: the kind that shows up with bodies present and hearts elsewhere. The Gospel is proclaimed, yet received as background noise. Christ’s Heart is turned upside down not by nails, but by distracted minds, hurried lips, and souls that no longer expect anything to happen. Yet the Gospel (cf. Jn 6:63; CCC 1084) is not information; it is living breath, capable of forgiving sins, reshaping conscience, and awakening the soul . The Church once taught the faithful to whisper, “May the words of the Gospel wipe away our sins,” because the Word itself acts when received. Today, eyes wander, fingers reach instinctively for phones, and thoughts race ahead to tasks and troubles. Even those entrusted to proclaim the Word may read it carefully yet not prayerfully, focusing on technique rather than surrender, forgetting that Scripture, like the Eucharist, is the living Word, meant to be received in reverence and interior devotion . Parents, students, workers, and teenagers often arrive unprepared, carrying noise within. The Gospel is not resisted; it is simply unattended to. Yet restoration begins quietly. A pause before Mass. A breath. A brief prayer for openness. A moment of silence before the reading. These small acts (cf. CCC 1414)realign the heart with the Eucharistic rhythm of listening and offering . When attention meets reverence, grace flows again. The Heart of Christ begins to right itself when someone listens as though their life depends on it—because it does.

The Word is also abused when it is softened, reshaped, or quietly stripped of its Cross. When the Gospel is edited to spare discomfort, it ceases to save. Many desire its warmth without its fire—consolation without conversion,(cf. Mt 16:24–25) mercy without truth, resurrection without surrender . To remove it is to render the Word incomplete and the heart unformed. Scripture proclaims a love that heals by wounding pride, liberates by binding the will to truth, (cf. Jn 12:24; CCC 618)and restores life by asking it to be laid down . When suffering is removed from Scripture, Christ is wounded again—not because He demands pain, but because love without sacrifice cannot heal. The Cross enters human life wherever desire is disciplined by truth. Teenagers live the Cross not primarily by suffering imposed, but by suffering freely embraced—when restraint is chosen over impulse, fidelity over popularity, silence over display . In such moments, the Gospel ceases to be abstract and becomes formative, shaping freedom rather than merely limiting it. The Cross educates the will, teaching that love matures through self-mastery. Workers embrace it when they act honestly despite cost. Parents carry it when they humble themselves before their children. These are not dramatic acts, but they are cruciform. The Gospel becomes flesh when it interferes with comfort, slows anger, challenges selfishness, and teaches endurance. Pope Francis reminds the Church that Scripture (cf. Heb 4:12) must be listened to, prayed with, and lived—not performed or reduced to slogans . When the Cross is welcomed, the Gospel regains its wholeness. Obedience becomes liberating, suffering becomes redemptive, and Christ’s wounded Heart finds consolation in disciples who receive His love faithfully, without editing or diminishing it (cf. Phil 2:5–8; 1 Pet 2:21; CCC 618–621, 1691).

The Mass exposes both our carelessness and our hope. When Scripture is proclaimed without interior participation—by readers rushing through words or by listeners drifting elsewhere— (cf. Lk 10:16)the Heart of Christ is quietly wounded . The Word, like the Eucharist,(cf. CCC 1333) asks not only to be present but to be received . Yet grace is never far. The Church (cf. Ps 1:2–3; CCC 1176–1178) proposes lectio divina not as an elite or rarefied practice, but as a way of reclaiming attentiveness: listening slowly, reflecting honestly, praying simply, and resting in silent communion with God . Even families without printed Scripture can live this rhythm by recounting the readings, sharing a single sentence that touched the heart, or praying together over the struggles of daily life . Teenagers can carry a verse in their pocket or mind while commuting. Workers can return to a phrase during routine tasks. Students can pause between responsibilities and let a word echo. In this way, the ordinary becomes sacramental. The Word teaches, corrects, consoles, and heals—not by force, but by steady presence. It forms conscience gradually and strengthens the courage to suffer with patience, forgive generously, and obey with love . When Scripture is received with intention, it restores the cruciform shape of Christian life (cf. Gal 2:20; Phil 2:5–8). The upside-down Heart of Christ finds rest in souls who listen slowly enough to be transformed (cf. Ps 46:10; CCC 1776). Daily life becomes sacred not through outward display, but because it is offered in union with Him (cf. Rom 12:1; CCC 1368–1369).

At the very heart of the Gospel flows forgiveness—not as a sentiment, but as divine power released into human history. When the risen Lord opened the minds of His disciples to understand the Scriptures, (cf. Lk 24:45–47) He revealed that repentance and forgiveness of sins are not secondary themes but the very fulfillment of His saving work . Every page of the Gospel carries this gravity: the possibility of return, the dignity of being restored, the miracle of becoming new. Distracted hearts—whether of young people pulled apart by comparison, workers crushed by urgency, or families deprived of texts yet not of grace—can miss the quiet authority of the Word.Yet this mercy often passes unnoticed, not because it is weak, but because it requires stillness to be received.  Scripture, however, is never confined to paper. It lives where it is remembered in the heart, spoken with reverence, and obeyed in concrete choices (cf. Rom 10:8–10). The ancient prayer, “May the words of the Gospel wipe away our sins,” proclaims a truth the Church has always known: attention is the threshold of mercy. Forgiveness becomes incarnate when patience triumphs over retaliation, (cf. Col 3:12–13) when truth is chosen over convenience, when humility disarms self-defense . The Word then forgives not only past transgressions but the ongoing rigidity of the heart, slowly re-forming the inner man.  In such lives, the Heart of Christ is no longer wounded by neglect. It rests, consoled, in souls that allow grace to accomplish its silent work. Forgiveness ceases to be abstract and becomes sacramental—renewing ordinary life from within and restoring it to God (cf. Ps 19:7–8).

Divine Appeal 51 ultimately calls for reverence that costs something. The cruciform Gospel (cf. Mt 16:24; CCC 618) demands obedience, humility, and the courage to lose oneself so the Word remains intact . This call is practical. Lectors prepare not only their voices but their hearts. Listeners cultivate silence, even when distracted or tired. Families honor Scripture through memory, conversation, and example even amidst busy schedules. Teenagers, parents, and workers allow the Word to interrupt routines, shape decisions, and purify intentions. In this way, no vocation is excluded from holiness. Every conversation becomes an occasion for truth. Every task becomes an offering. Every choice becomes a response to the living Word. When Scripture is approached with awe rather than familiarity, it regains its power to convert. Christ’s Heart is consoled not by perfection, but by availability. Attention becomes love. Obedience becomes freedom. The Gospel remains whole when it is lived without dilution. In such lives, sins are forgiven, consciences are formed, and ordinary actions radiate grace. The upside-down Heart of Jesus is gently restored by souls willing to listen, reflect, and obey—day after ordinary day.

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus, Word made Flesh and crucified Love, draw our souls into the silence of Your Heart. Purify us by the living Gospel, let its holy words wash away our sins, and seal us to the Cross. Make our lives a reverent echo of Your Word, consoling Your wounded Heart. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.

Divine Appeal 51

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

 VOLUME 1

“The freemasons have abused me totally. This is the dark hour when they are trying to abolish My Presence. They abuse My very Gospel.”

“My daughter, be patient and listen to Me. You know what I request of you: prayers, penance. Keep awake and keep expositions of My Divine Sacrament. These are difficult hours for Me, as dark as they are, satan works with ... in order to corrupt them, instilling in them that the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass should be abolished. The devil is very astute.

What suffering to Me! Weary of My vigil for mankind, day and night, I remain waiting through My sacramental veils. I love mankind. I have come to call them. I desire that all may be saved. I want them
to realise the terrible truth. The Freemasons have abused Me totally. This is the dark hour when they are trying to abolish My Presence. They abuse My very Gospel. Their iniquity is repugnant! They shout
‘we do not want Christ’ as they turn Me upside down. Satan has chained their souls.

My daughter, unite your heart to My tears. Look at Me in My Divine Sacrament. What great sorrow! How do I make them understand that I love them all? This is why I allow Myself to be seen.

The freemasons are executing themselves with their own hands. Hell awaits them! Pray a great deal without ceasing. Do not be afraid. I have given you many signs of My presence. You must always be
obedient, serene and humble; be prepared for everything. 

My daughter, be attentive to him for the good of souls. My Eternal Father wants it so. I want you to follow what I tell you. I have prepared you in many years. Pray. I must accomplish more; watch
with Me and hold mankind in your heart.

I make myself visible to beg for prayers and penance in order to convert souls and bring them to repent. Pray a great deal and unite yourself to them.”

“I bless you.”

2.00 a.m., 11th December 1987

Copyright © 2015 Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir, Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya.  All rights reserved. Reproduced from ON THE EUCHARIST: A DIVINE APPEAL, Volume I by www.adivineappeal.com. 

Our Adorable Jesus Turned Upside Down

Divine Appeal Reflection - 50

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 50: "I am being turned upside down. With tears in My Heart I gaze."

He is turned upside down not by enemies, but by love misunderstood. In the Eucharist, Our Adorable Jesus places Himself beneath us—literally beneath our hands, our schedules, our priorities. What should govern everything becomes something we fit in. Scripture (cf. Ps 118:22; Mt 21:42) already reveals this inversion: the Stone meant to be the cornerstone is treated as secondary . The Catechism (cf. CCC 1324) proclaims the Eucharist as the source and summit of Christian life , yet daily life often flows from other sources—work pressure, fear, distraction, survival. This is how Christ is overturned: adored on the altar, but displaced in decisions. He becomes the One we receive, then ask to wait. Like the Ark carried through the desert yet consulted only in crisis (cf. 1 Sam 4), His Presence is near but not central. For those who already know Him, this inversion is rarely deliberate. It doesn’t grow out of defiance. It grows out of tiredness. The soul does not reject God; it simply forgets how to lean. We become responsible, efficient, and inwardly exhausted, and without noticing, God-with-us is reduced to God-after—after the duties, after the decisions, after the worries that feel more urgent (cf. Mt 6:33). Scripture already names this quiet displacement when it speaks of Martha, “anxious and troubled about many things,” while the Presence sat silently within her reach (cf. Lk 10:41–42).

After Communion, He remains within the soul—not dramatically, but faithfully. The Lord of glory consents to dwell beneath unfinished plans,(cf. Jn 6:56; 1 Cor 6:19) unresolved anxieties, and prayers half-formed . He does not compete for attention. He waits. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1377; 1392) teaches that this indwelling is real, transforming, and demands a response of faith and adoration, not merely reception . Yet in our humanity, we often rise from the altar and return immediately to managing life, as though grace were fragile and responsibility absolute. Our Adorable Jesus allows this not because He is secondary,(cf. 1 Cor 13:4) but because love is patient .  Heaven bows low; the human heart stays upright with self. This is the sorrowful reversal Christ endures—patiently, lovingly—while still remaining.

Jesus is also turned upside down when intimacy does not lead to obedience. In the Gospel, those closest to Him often struggled most with this reversal. Peter professed love yet resisted the Cross (cf. Mt 16:22–23). The disciples shared the table while arguing about status . Scripture (cf. Lk 22:24) shows that familiarity can dull reverence if the heart is not surrendered. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1391–1395) teaches that Eucharistic communion commits us to live in conformity with Christ . When it does not, love is inverted—received but not followed. Saints spoke of this pain tenderly. St. Augustine confessed that he wanted God, but not yet on God’s terms (cf. Conf. VIII). The heart remains religious, active, and concerned for good—but divided. Saints recognized this danger precisely because it feels so reasonable. Saint Francis de Sales noted that many lose peace not through sin, but through doing too much without God at the center.

Our Adorable Jesus does not accuse this rearrangement; He feels it. He waits while we try to manage holiness alongside life, instead of letting holiness reorder life itself (cf. Mt 11:28–30). Yet eternity keeps whispering: Not less of your life—only let Me hold it. When Jesus is allowed to remain first rather than fitted in, prayer deepens, truth ripens, service becomes love again, and the soul finally rests where it was always meant to rest. He becomes an addition rather than the axis. Yet He stays. Like the Lord (cf. Hos 11:1–4) who remained faithful to Israel despite their divided heart , He continues to give Himself fully, even when the soul gives Him only part. His silence carries the weight of love waiting to be put back in its rightful place.Every postponed prayer, every good intention that did not reach Him, every act of service that replaced surrender—He holds them without complaint, letting them rest in His gaze. Scripture whispers this mystery: (Ps 46:10) “Be still, and know that I am God” . His silence is not absence; it is fullness waiting for our consent.

In the Eucharist, divine order is made visible: God first, self last, love poured out. When this order is reversed, the soul feels restless—even when outwardly faithful. Scripture names this disquiet as a sign of grace, not failure (cf. Ps 42:2). The Catechism explains that grace heals disordered desires and restores the soul’s orientation toward God (cf. CCC 1999–2001). Jesus is turned upside down when the heart seeks peace from control instead of trust, affirmation instead of truth, activity instead of presence. Saints recognized this inversion within themselves. St. Teresa of Avila admitted that she spent years with Christ near her, but not yet reigning within her. Eucharistic life exposes this gently. A spouse realizes that Communion must shape forgiveness at home. A priest senses that routine has dulled wonder. A young person recognizes that Eucharistic purity must reach private choices. These awakenings are mercy. Like Peter (cf. Jn 21:15–17) being questioned three times beside the charcoal fire , love restores what fear once reversed. Each honest response begins to turn the soul right-side up again.

Jesus is turned upside down in the Church when His sacrifice is remembered but not prolonged in life. In the tabernacle, He continues the posture of Gethsemane—lowered, waiting, trusting (cf. Mt 26:40). The Catechism (cf. CCC 1378) teaches that adoration extends the grace of the sacrifice and deepens union with Christ . Yet many pass Him by, absorbed in urgency. Saints felt this keenly. St. Margaret Mary perceived that indifference among His own wounded Him more than hostility. Scripture (cf. Ez 22:30) reveals God searching for souls willing to stand before Him on behalf of others . Eucharistic reparation restores order where love has been neglected. This reparation is lived quietly: choosing silence over noise, fidelity over recognition, prayer over constant reaction. A teacher teaching with integrity, a laborer working honestly, a mother offering exhaustion—these hidden acts lift Christ back to His rightful place. When someone remains with Him, even briefly, the inversion begins to heal.

The final word is not sorrow, but hope. Jesus allows Himself to be overturned because love still believes in restoration. Scripture (cf. Joel 2:25; Ez 36:26) promises that what has been scattered can be gathered again . The Catechism (cf. CCC 2010–2011) assures us that perseverance in grace bears lasting fruit . The Eucharist is God’s chosen way of re-ordering the world—quietly, patiently, from within. Those who already know Jesus are not called to dramatic change, but to rightful placement: letting Him be first again. One reverent Communion, one sincere confession, one decision to pause and listen can realign a life. Saints insist that heaven rejoices when love is finally allowed to lead. When Christ is restored to the center, the soul stands upright at last—not in pride, but in peace. And the One who once endured being turned upside down finds His joy in a heart reordered by love.

Prayer

Our Adorable Eucharistic Jesus, so often placed beneath our plans, restore Your rightful place within us. Gently reorder what we have inverted through fear and distraction. May every Communion, every act of fidelity, lift You again to the center of our lives. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.