When Tempted, Do Not Be Shaken

Divine Appeal Reflection - 167

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 167: "Everywhere you will find difficulties outside and within, both secret and in the open. When you are tempted, do not be shaken."

There is a profound difference between being shaken and being uprooted. A tree may bend violently beneath the storm while its roots remain firmly buried in the earth; likewise, a soul may pass through fear, confusion, temptation, tears, dryness, and even moments that feel like spiritual collapse without truly losing its belonging to God . Faithfulness is not the absence of inner storms, but remaining turned toward God while the storm passes . This is one of the deepest mysteries of the Appeal. Christ does not say that difficulties will disappear. He reveals that difficulties will be found everywhere—outside and within, hidden and visible. The soul is therefore warned not to build its peace upon the absence of struggle. A Christian who expects a life without interior warfare will eventually mistake every temptation for defeat. Consider the mysterious life of Jeremiah. He was chosen by God,(cf. Jer 1:4–10; Jer 20:7–18; Jer 37:11–16) yet his vocation brought him rejection, loneliness, misunderstanding, imprisonment, and profound interior anguish .(cf. Jer 20:14–18) His suffering reached so deeply that he sometimes wished he had never been born . Yet his pain did not erase his calling. Here is a striking truth for every vocation: sometimes the soul is most tempted precisely while remaining faithful. A priest may kneel after Mass and feel absolutely nothing. A religious may recite prayers while carrying a darkness she cannot explain. A married man may remain faithful while feeling emotionally exhausted by responsibilities. A young woman may resist sin while wondering why the battle has not become easier. A person may pray sincerely and still wake up afraid. The temptation then whispers: “If you truly belonged to God, you would not feel this way.” But this is a dangerous lie. Christ Himself entered agony without ceasing to be the beloved Son . Feeling the storm does not mean leaving the Father. The soul can tremble and still trust. It can cry and still love. It can experience darkness and still walk toward God. St. Mark Ji Tianxiang, despite a long struggle with weakness, kept returning to God rather than allowing his failures to define him (cf Lk 18:13–14; Mic 7:8–9). St. Jane Frances de Chantal endured bereavement and deep interior trials, yet holiness grew through persevering surrender . Their lives remind us that God does not wait for us to become unshakable; He meets us in our weakness and teaches us to depend upon His grace . He teaches the shaking soul where to place its roots.

The most hidden difficulties are often not sinful actions but secret interpretations of reality. The soul begins telling itself stories that slowly separate it from trust. “God has forgotten me.” “Everyone else is progressing except me.” “My prayers are useless.” “I will always remain this way.” “I cannot change.” “There is no point resisting.” These interior voices can become more dangerous than the external difficulty itself. A remarkable biblical example is Elijah beneath the broom tree. After an extraordinary victory, he entered exhaustion and despair, believing that his mission had reached a hopeless end (cf. 1 Kgs 18:36–40; 19:1–10). The same prophet who had witnessed God's power became convinced that he was alone. Yet his interpretation was not the whole truth. God revealed that Elijah's vision had become narrowed by exhaustion (cf. 1 Kgs 19:11–18). This is profoundly human and mystical. An exhausted soul should not always trust the conclusions it reaches in the middle of exhaustion. A priest who has not rested may conclude that his vocation has failed.  A student repeatedly failing examinations may conclude that life itself is over. A religious who has experienced years of community tension may begin believing that charity is impossible. A widower may interpret loneliness as abandonment by God. Yet the soul's interpretation of suffering is not always God's interpretation. Elijah (cf. 1 Kgs 19:5–8)needed silence, nourishment, rest, and a renewed encounter with God before he could see clearly again . Here lies a magnificent mystical insight: sometimes God does not immediately remove the difficulty because He first wants to remove the false meaning we have attached to it. The difficulty says, “You are weak.” Grace says, “Come closer.” Failure says, “You are finished.” Mercy says, “Begin again.” Temptation says, “This desire defines you.” Christ says, “You are free to choose.”  Blessed Benedetta Bianchi Porro, amid immense physical suffering, discovered an interior communion with God that circumstances could not destroy.St Benedict the Moor, born into slavery and living a hidden life of humble service, demonstrates that human circumstances do not possess the power to determine the deepest identity of a soul. The Catechism(cf. CCC 2846–2849) teaches that temptation must be distinguished from consenting to temptation and that vigilance and prayer belong to the spiritual battle . Therefore, when darkness speaks, do not immediately believe it. Bring its words before Christ. A thought becomes less powerful when it is placed under the gaze of the One who knows the truth of the soul. (cf. Ps 139:1–12; 2 Cor 10:3–5).

There is an even deeper mystery: temptation often does not first ask the soul to commit a great sin. It asks the soul to become inwardly tired of resisting. This is the temptation of gradual surrender. The person does not wake up one morning intending to destroy his spiritual life. Instead, he begins making small agreements with discouragement. He stops praying for five minutes. He postpones confession. He allows one resentment to remain. He begins entertaining a temptation he once immediately rejected. He becomes careless with words. He stops asking forgiveness. He slowly becomes accustomed to what previously troubled his conscience. Scripture gives us the haunting story of Samson. His strength did not disappear in one moment. His downfall developed through repeated movement toward danger and repeated failure to protect the mystery entrusted to him (cf. Judg 13:24–25; 16:4–21). His sorrow was the slow erosion of vigilance rather than just temptation.  This is deeply relevant to modern life. A married person may not suddenly decide to become unfaithful. It may begin with secret emotional conversations that are allowed to become increasingly intimate. A priest may not suddenly lose his love for prayer. It may begin with repeatedly choosing distraction whenever silence becomes uncomfortable. A religious may not consciously reject her vows. She may gradually build an interior life in which resentment, self-pity, or attachment becomes more protected than surrender. A businessperson may not suddenly become corrupt. He may first accept a small dishonest advantage and later discover that conscience has become quieter. A young person may not intend to lose purity but repeatedly expose the imagination to things that slowly weaken freedom.The enemy of the soul often works through slow erosion rather than sudden collapse, weakening vigilance through small compromises that gradually become habits (cf Song 2:15; Lk 16:10). St. John Climacus understood how quietly the passions can gain ground when the heart ceases to watch and pray . St. Moses the Black reveals the opposite mystery: even a deeply wounded past cannot have the final word when a soul repeatedly turns toward grace (cf 1 Cor 6:9–11; 2 Cor 5:17). Spiritual battle is therefore not won by pretending weakness does not exist, but by refusing, again and again, to let weakness become our master (cf Rom 6:12–14; Gal 5:16). The Appeal therefore calls the soul to a holy attentiveness. Do not wait until temptation becomes overwhelming before turning toward God. Do not negotiate with what destroys peace. Do not repeatedly stand at the edge of the same spiritual cliff and call it freedom. Christ Himself teaches vigilance because temptation can be overcome only through communion with God . A soul that is unshaken is not one that is immune to temptation. Before the darkness starts to rearrange its desires, the soul must detect temptation early enough to flee towards Christ.

Perhaps the deepest mystery is that our weakest moments can become places of closest encounter with Christ. We often expect Him most in peaceful prayer, Eucharistic consolation, harmonious relationships, and clear answers (cf Ps 16:8; Jn 14:23). Yet He may draw us more deeply through dryness, confusion, and suffering, teaching us to trust His presence beyond what we feel . But Scripture repeatedly reveals God entering places of contradiction. Hagar, abandoned and desperate in the wilderness,(cf. Gen 16:7–14; 21:14–19) encountered God in a place where she had expected only abandonment . Her wilderness became a place of divine seeing. Jonah, trapped in the darkness of the great fish,(cf. Jon 1:17; 2:1–10) discovered that even rebellion could not place him beyond the reach of God's call . Manasseh, after profound sin and spiritual disaster,(cf. 2 Chr 33:10–13) encountered humility and repentance when affliction stripped him of pride . These uncommon biblical figures reveal something astonishing: God is able to enter the very place where the soul thought nothing good could happen. A person may discover genuine humility through a humiliating failure. A professional humbled by unemployment may become compassionate; a priest who discovers his own weakness may become a merciful confessor; a betrayed woman may become a refuge for the wounded; a religious purified by spiritual dryness may understand struggling souls more deeply (cf Rom 8:28; 2 Cor 1:3–7). Evil remains evil, and suffering is not automatically holy, yet Christ can mysteriously enter what wounded us and make it a place where grace bears greater fruit. St. Eustochia Smeralda, St. Maria Faustina Kowalska, and St. Charles Lwanga and his companions reveal how suffering, misunderstanding, and persecution can become occasions of deeper fidelity (cf Jas 1:2–4; Rom 5:3–5). The soul should therefore ask a new question in temptation. Instead of only asking, “Lord, when will this end?” it may sometimes ask, “Lord, where are You hidden within this?” The answer may not come immediately. Yet contemplation gradually discovers that Christ is not merely waiting at the end of the struggle. He is mysteriously present inside the struggle, inviting the soul to find Him where it would never have searched voluntarily.

The call not to be shaken reaches its deepest meaning when the soul finally abandons the illusion that its safety depends upon its own ability to keep everything under control (cf Ps 46:1–3; Prov 3:5–6). We can easily imagine that, if only we were wiser, stronger, more disciplined, better organised, holier, or more emotionally composed, we could somehow prevent every possible disappointment or collapse (cf Prov 16:9; Jas 4:13–15). Yet life eventually leads every soul to situations where personal strength reaches its limits and our carefully gathered resources prove insufficient (cf 2 Cor 12:9–10; Ps 127:1).Jehoshaphat encountered such a moment when faced with an enemy beyond his human capacity, and he turned to God in humble recognition of his helplessness (cf. 2 Chr 20:12; CCC 150–152). This is not the failure of faith, but its purification. True spiritual stability begins when we stop trying to save ourselves and learn to place our weakness in the hands of God (cf. Ps 46:1–3; 2 Cor 12:9–10). His turning toward God began precisely where self-sufficiency ended (cf. 2 Chr 20:1–12). The three young men in Babylon entered the furnace without possessing control over the outcome, yet their fidelity was not dependent upon receiving an immediate rescue (cf. Dan 3:16–18). This is a magnificent image of mature faith. 

The unshaken soul does not say, “Nothing terrible can happen to me.” It says, “Whatever happens, I will not willingly leave the One to whom I belong.” A mother may lose control over her adult child's choices but refuse to stop loving and praying. A priest may face accusations and misunderstanding but refuse to become bitter. A person may lose employment but refuse dishonesty. A religious may experience the collapse of long-held plans but remain available to God's new direction. An elderly person may lose physical independence while discovering a deeper dependence upon Christ. A young person may be tempted repeatedly and still return repeatedly to confession and prayer. This is spiritual immovability: not emotional hardness, but faithful return. Sometimes He gives the soul a Presence within the furnace (cf. Dan 3:24–25). He does not always remove the cross. Sometimes He prevents the cross from removing love. The Catechism(cf. CCC 2725, 2849) teaches that Christian victory over temptation is inseparable from prayer and vigilance . This is the final secret: temptation becomes truly dangerous when it persuades the soul that Christ is absent. But when the soul remains turned toward Him, even through tears and weakness, the very place of temptation can become the place where a deeper union is born. The soul may be shaken—but beneath the shaking is the Rock. It may be surrounded—but it is not abandoned. It may fall—but it can return. It may enter darkness—but darkness cannot possess the soul that continues searching for the Face of Christ (cf. Mic 7:8; Ps 73:23–26; Rom 8:35–39). Do not be shaken, therefore, because the battle is not the proof that Christ has left you. Sometimes the battle is the mysterious place where you discover how firmly He has been holding you.

Prayer 

O Adorable Jesus, when hidden battles rise within us and difficulties surround us, keep us from believing that You have abandoned us. Give us vigilant hearts, holy perseverance, and humble trust. When we tremble, hold us. When we fall, raise us. When darkness speaks, let Your Presence remain our unshakable truth. Amen.

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

The Holy Habit of Praying

Divine Appeal Reflection - 167

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 167: "I ask you to pray and I beg you not to grow faint.  I call you today to strive with diligence. I want you in the holy habit  of praying. Behold the very dawn found Me at prayer. Even in My  labours, I lifted Myself to My Eternal Father."

There is a tender urgency in Christ’s call to prayer: He patiently draws the soul back when prayer begins to fade (cf. Lk 18:1; CCC 2567). The danger is often not rejecting God, but slowly allowing prayer to become optional through tiredness, busyness, distraction, or discouragement . Yet Christ continues to invite the heart to return. Scripture shows this struggle in unusual ways. Moses grew weary while Israel fought below, and his weakness affected the battle until others helped him remain steadfast (cf. Ex 17:8–13). Prayer is therefore not always an experience of strength; sometimes prayer is simply refusing to let tired hands fall completely. Habakkuk stood watch in darkness, waiting for an answer he could not yet see (cf. Hab 2:1–4). Anna, the prophetess, remained near the temple through long years of worship and expectation,(cf. Lk 2:36–38) and her hidden fidelity enabled her to recognise the Messiah when others passed by . These personalities reveal that perseverance in prayer changes the eyes before it changes circumstances.  A priest may pray for a divided parish while misunderstandings continue. A young unemployed graduate may continue praying while submitting application after application. The temptation is to conclude that prayer has failed. Yet Christ(cf. Lk 18:1–8; CCC 2725–2745) calls the soul not to measure prayer merely by visible results . Blessed Maria of Jesus Crucified, Mariam Baouardy, reveals a spirituality of profound humility and abandonment amid extraordinary interior experiences, suffering, and trials . Yet the mystery of persevering prayer is also illuminated by lesser-known witnesses. St. André Bessette spent his life receiving the burdens of ordinary people and quietly carrying them into prayer before God, while Blessed Solanus Casey transformed countless conversations and disappointments into trusting intercession . Their lives remind us that prayer does not always produce dramatic feelings, immediate answers, or visible consolation. Often, its deepest fruit is the quiet transformation of a heart that continues to return to God . Sometimes it produces something more hidden: a soul that refuses to stop turning toward God. The holy habit of praying is therefore not a prison of religious routine. It is the gradual formation of the heart into a place that instinctively returns to the Father. Eventually, disappointment itself begins to pray, work begins to pray, suffering begins to pray, and even silence becomes prayer (cf. Rom 8:26–27). The soul that repeatedly returns to God discovers that perseverance is not first the strength to hold onto prayer; it is the grace of allowing prayer to hold onto the soul. (cf. Phil 1:6).

Prayer becomes especially deep when we understand Christ's example of the dawn finding Him at prayer. Before crowds gathered, before demands multiplied, before healing and preaching began, Jesus withdrew toward the Father (cf. Mk 1:35; Lk 4:42). This reveals a mystical law: the first movement of the day should belong, as far as possible, to the One from whom the entire day receives its existence. Dawn carries a deep spiritual significance because it offers the soul a brief freedom before the noise of the world begins to claim the heart . The mind has not yet been drawn into worries, conversations, financial concerns, meetings, traffic, messages, news, or social media. In that quiet beginning, the soul can first turn toward God, allowing His Presence to become the centre from which the day unfolds . Consider Jacob rising early and marking the place where he had encountered God, recognising that ordinary ground had become sacred through divine presence (cf. Gen 28:18–22). Consider Job,(cf. Job 1:4–5) who regularly interceded for his family rather than waiting for disaster before turning toward God . Consider King Hezekiah, who spread a threatening message before God when human circumstances became overwhelming (cf. 2 Kgs 19:14–19). Morning prayer can similarly become the place where tomorrow's fears are placed before God before they become the day's master. A hospital doctor may spend five minutes before leaving home, quietly entrusting unknown patients to Christ. A bus driver may begin the engine only after briefly asking God to protect every passenger. A mother with an infant who wakes repeatedly during the night may offer her exhaustion before she begins another demanding day. A farmer may stand outside before sunrise and entrust the uncertain weather to the Creator (cf. Ps 65:9–13). A student may place books before God before beginning revision. A priest may enter the sacristy early—not merely to arrange liturgical objects—but to become interiorly recollected before offering the Holy Sacrifice. A businessperson may resist beginning the day with emails and instead spend a few minutes asking whether ambition is directing decisions more than conscience. 

St. Macrina the Younger shows how family life, suffering, and contemplation can become a single path toward God, while St. Gregory of Narek demonstrates how deep repentance can gather the brokenness of the human heart and place it before Divine Mercy (cf. Ps 51:17; CCC 2567). Their witness reveals that dawn prayer is not an escape from reality;(cf. Ps 5:1–3; CCC 2697–2698) it is entering reality after first remembering Who holds it . The person who begins the day with God may still encounter disorder, difficult people, unexpected news, disappointments, or demanding responsibilities, but these things meet a heart that has already been entrusted to Christ (cf. Ps. 5:3; Prov. 3:5–6). When possible, morning Mass is one of the most beautiful devotions with which to begin the day, placing the whole of our coming hours upon the altar and receiving Our Adorable Jesus in the Eucharist before entering the demands of ordinary life (cf. Lk. 24:30–35; CCC 1324–1327). A morning Rosary can likewise gather the mind from its scattered concerns and place the day beneath the maternal gaze of Our Lady, teaching us to walk through each responsibility with Christ at the centre (cf. Lk. 2:19, 51; CCC 2678). Thus, the first moments of the morning can quietly determine the day's deepest direction: before the world speaks, the soul listens; before demands arise, the heart offers itself; and before we face the world, we place ourselves in the presence of God . What follows may still be difficult, but the soul does not enter the day alone.

Yet Christ's example reaches further: His communion with the Father did not end when prayer ended. Even amid labour, preaching, travelling, healing, opposition, and encounters with suffering, His entire human life remained oriented toward the Father (cf. Jn 5:19–20; 8:28–29). Here lies one of the deepest mysteries of the holy habit of praying: prayer is meant eventually to become a way of existing. This is not the same as constantly reciting words. It means developing an interior direction toward God that can survive activity. Nehemiah provides a remarkable biblical example. While standing before the king in a politically dangerous moment, he makes an immediate interior appeal to God before answering (cf. Neh 2:1–5). His prayer occurs inside responsibility. Eleazar, one of David's warriors, remains steadfast in battle when others retreat,(cf. 2 Sam 23:9–10) showing the hidden perseverance required when duty becomes exhausting . Likewise, the Christian learns to lift the heart toward God in the middle of ordinary labour. A cashier silently asks for patience before serving a difficult customer. A police officer quietly asks for wisdom before entering a tense situation. A teacher pauses internally before responding to a disruptive student rather than humiliating the child. A mechanic offers the day's work to God while repairing a vehicle honestly.  A farmer working alone in the field turns physical labour into gratitude. A person washing clothes, preparing food, cleaning a house, typing a report, changing a baby's clothes, or standing in a queue can whisper the name of Jesus. Brother Lawrence, in his spirituality of practising the presence of God, discovered that ordinary work could become a continual turning of the heart toward God. St Isidore the Farmer similarly became a powerful symbol of holiness within humble labour. The Catechism(cf. CCC 2565; 2697–2699) teaches that prayer is the relationship of God's children with their Father and should extend into the whole of Christian life . This does not remove concentration from work; authentic prayer often makes work more attentive, honest, and charitable. We do not leave our daily work to find God; we learn to work while remaining with Him. The office can become a sanctuary, the kitchen an altar, the road a path of intercession, and even a hospital corridor a place of silent prayer .

The command to strive with diligence reveals that prayer requires more than occasional religious emotion. A habit is formed through repeated return. This is particularly important because prayer has seasons. There are days when the soul desires prayer and days when prayer feels dry. There are moments of light and long periods of apparent darkness. The prophet Daniel continued his established pattern of prayer even when faithfulness became personally dangerous (cf. Dan 6:10–11). His example reveals that holy habits protect the soul when emotions become unreliable. Judith (cf. Jdt 8:4–8; 9:1–14) prepared herself through prayer and fasting before entering a situation filled with danger and uncertainty . Prayer was not an emergency technique invented at the last moment; it was part of her spiritual identity. This becomes intensely practical. A priest who waits for inspiration before praying may slowly discover that fatigue has crowded out intimacy with Christ. A husband and wife who pray only when problems arise may awaken one day to find that unspoken wounds have created a distance between them (cf. Eph. 4:26–27; Col. 3:12–15). A religious soul who depends upon spiritual consolation may mistake dryness for God's absence (cf. Jn. 15:4–5; 2 Cor. 5:7). A student who remembers God only during examinations may unknowingly treat prayer as an emergency measure rather than a relationship with the Father (cf. Mt. 6:31–33). A young person can spend hours before a screen and yet feel that a few minutes with God are impossible (cf. Eph. 5:15–16). Holy perseverance therefore needs concrete habits: a regular time for prayer, Sacred Scripture, silence, examination of conscience, the Rosary, the Divine Office, Holy Mass, Eucharistic adoration, and brief acts of prayer throughout the day . Yet prayer is more than a schedule. Repeated fidelity makes the heart available to God.  True diligence is simply returning—again and again—to allow Our Adorable Jesus to love, purify, strengthen, correct, and send us (cf. Jn. 15:9–10; Phil. 2:13). Gradually, prayer reaches places we scarcely notice: it changes our desires, softens our reactions, purifies our choices, and teaches us to love differently, often long before we recognize any outward answer .

Finally, the call not to grow faint reveals the apostolic power of a praying soul. Prayer is not withdrawal from the world; it is one of the ways through which the world is secretly carried before God (cf. 1 Tim 2:1–4). Consider Epaphras, whose hidden labour for Christian communities is described as intense spiritual striving for others (cf. Col 4:12–13). Consider Moses, who interceded for a rebellious people rather than simply abandoning them in disappointment (cf. Ex 32:30–32). Consider Samuel,(cf. 1 Sam 12:23) who regarded neglect of intercession as a serious failure of responsibility toward God's people . These biblical personalities reveal that mature prayer eventually becomes apostolic. A grandmother praying quietly for grandchildren may be participating in a battle she cannot see. A sick person confined to bed may carry missionaries, prisoners, victims of war, priests, families, and dying souls before God. A young professional can pray for the colleague who constantly irritates him instead of merely complaining about that person. A priest can place the name of a difficult parishioner before the Eucharist before preparing a response. A religious community divided by misunderstanding can begin praying for one another before attempting difficult conversations. A business owner can pray before deciding whether to dismiss workers. A politician or public servant can ask God for freedom from corruption before entering an environment of pressure. A person caring for a relative with dementia can transform repetitive acts of care into repeated acts of prayer . St Lidwina of Schiedam, confined by prolonged illness, became a hidden centre of intercession. St Josephine Bakhita, after terrible human suffering, allowed grace to prevent bitterness from becoming the final language of her life. Their witness shows that prayer does not require an impressive external life. A person may appear powerless while becoming spiritually fruitful in ways known only to God. The person who does not grow faint may never see the results of intercession on earth. A child may return to faith twenty years after a parent's death. A person forgiven silently may later remember the mercy that prevented despair. A stranger may be protected by a prayer offered without knowing his name. The holy habit of praying creates invisible histories of grace. (cf. Gal 6:9; Jas 5:16). The dawn prayer of one ordinary person, the whispered prayer during work, the prayer offered in exhaustion, and the final prayer before sleep may appear insignificant. Yet Christ teaches that a life continually lifted toward the Father becomes gradually transformed into communion with the Father's will (cf. Mt 6:9–13; Jn 17:20–26). The highest mystical secret is therefore simple: we begin by setting aside moments for prayer, but if we persevere, prayer eventually begins setting aside the whole person for God. (cf. Rom 12:1–2; CCC 2565).

Prayer 

O Adorable Jesus, teach us never to grow faint in prayer. Form within us the holy habit of returning to the Father at dawn, in labour, suffering, silence, and joy. Transform our ordinary duties into prayer and our prayer into love. Make us persevering intercessors, contemplative workers, and faithful witnesses of Your Presence. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 167

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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

VOLUME 1

“I am thirsty.”

“My daughter, listen to My cry. Do not let it be enough to pray at certain times. I ask you to pray and I beg you not to grow faint. I call you today to strive with diligence. I want you in the holy habit of praying. Behold the very dawn found Me at prayer. Even in My labours, I lifted Myself to My Eternal Father. Everywhere you will find difficulties outside and within, both secret and in the open. When you are tempted, do not be shaken. “I am thirsty, bring Me souls in your prayers. The souls I love so much do not understand to what extent. This is My word. I ask souls to come back to My sheepfold. Take a long look at My Face full of pain.

Now that you understand Me better in the Sacrament of My Love, do not go away from My Loving look. I want you and call you to make amends for so many glances of souls especially those who are consecrated to Me. Do not leave Me alone. Great is My thirst for souls.”

“I bless you.”

19th June 1988

Copyright © 2015 The Late Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir | Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya. All rights reserved. Reproduced by adivineappeal.com from "On the Eucharist: A Divine Appeal" (Vol. 1).

Jesus Deserted by Consecrated Souls

Divine Appeal Reflection - 166

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 166: "My grief is for the many souls consecrated to Me who always leave Me deserted and they never believe in My presence in the Eucharist... I am a prey to sadness. I am still enduring more deadly grief. My Heart is crushed by the heavy weight of offences especially those of the souls consecrated to Me."

There is a particularly hidden tragedy in the spiritual life: a soul can spend years physically near the Eucharist and gradually cease to live from the reality of the Eucharist. This does not permit us to judge the interior conscience of priests or consecrated persons, for God alone sees the heart (cf. 1 Cor 4:5; CCC 1861). Yet the possibility of spiritual numbness before holy things is deeply biblical. The priest Eli served near the sanctuary while his spiritual sight had become dim,(cf. 1 Sam 3:1–10) whereas the child Samuel was learning to hear the divine voice in the silence of the night . The mystery is striking: years around sacred things do not automatically produce wonder. A priest may have celebrated thousands of Masses and still need to rediscover Who stands mysteriously before him.  The Church teaches that Christ is truly, really, and substantially present in the Eucharist—whole and entire, Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity . The terrible possibility is therefore not merely intellectual doubt. It is existential unbelief: behaving as though the Real Presence were not sufficiently real to rearrange one's life. A priest finishes Mass and immediately reaches for his telephone before making thanksgiving. A consecrated person spends an hour discussing another person's faults but considers ten minutes before the tabernacle excessive. A religious community can spend weeks preparing a public celebration while neglecting the silent interior preparation through which Christ desires to transform those celebrating Him. The Eucharist then remains doctrinally affirmed but existentially neglected. St Manuel González spent his life profoundly affected by neglected tabernacles and became known for calling attention to the abandoned Eucharistic Jesus. Blessed Maria Candida of the Eucharist discovered that Eucharistic faith was not simply an idea to defend but a reality into which the entire personality must disappear in adoration. The deepest question for a consecrated soul is therefore not merely, “Do I profess faith in the Eucharist?” but, “If Jesus is truly here, why does my life sometimes proceed as though He were not?” (cf. Jn 6:51–58; CCC 1374–1380). This question should not produce despair but holy trembling. The tabernacle does not accuse the priest or religious with noise. It waits in silence until the soul finally notices that the One it serves has been waiting for the servant to return. (cf. Rev 3:20).

One of the deepest dangers in consecrated life is not open rebellion, but the quiet fading of wonder—when what was once received with awe becomes ordinary, and the soul slowly stops recognizing the sacred mystery before it .The first Mass or profession may burn brightly in the memory, filled with awe, tears, and wholehearted surrender. But what begins in wonder can slowly become routine if the soul ceases to contemplate the mystery it encounters. Sacred duties must continually be renewed by love, lest familiarity obscure the presence of Our Adorable Jesus (cf. Rev 2:2–4; Lk 10:38–42; CCC 1324, 1378).The extraordinary becomes professionally familiar. This mystery appears in the strange biblical story of Uzzah and the Ark. The sacred object had travelled among the people, yet familiarity did not abolish reverence (cf. 2 Sam 6:1–7). Another mysterious image appears in Nadab and Abihu,(cf. Lev 10:1–3) whose approach to sacred worship became gravely disordered .  A surgeon may perform the same operation repeatedly but still remain conscious that a human life lies before him. A pilot may fly hundreds of times but cannot treat the aircraft casually. How much more should the priest approach the Eucharistic Mystery with living reverence? Yet constant pastoral demands can gradually weaken wonder. A priest may celebrate several Masses, answer urgent messages, attend funerals, resolve conflicts, and visit the sick until exhaustion makes him stop interiorly seeing the Jesus he serves. He needs silence before the Eucharist to remain with Christ before working for Christ .Imagine a religious superior responsible for finances, community tensions, elderly sisters, and institutional demands. She enters the chapel carrying spreadsheets rather than silence. Imagine a priest whose every Mass is livestreamed. Gradually he becomes conscious of cameras, sound systems, mistakes, comments, and appearances. The hidden danger is that the liturgy begins to feel like something performed rather than a Mystery entered. Imagine a young priest becoming so concerned about preaching well that he spends more time watching recordings of himself than gazing upon Christ. These are not necessarily sins of deliberate malice. They can be symptoms of an interior life slowly displaced by activity.  St Conrad of Parzham spent much of his hidden life serving quietly at a monastery door, showing that intimacy with God does not require spiritual visibility. The Eucharistic mystery demands that the consecrated person repeatedly become a beginner again. Each genuflection must recover meaning. Each entrance into the sanctuary must become a return. Each Mass must be received not as another obligation but as another descent of eternity into time (cf. Heb 9:11–14). Perhaps the soul loses faith gradually whenever it stops being astonished that God still permits it to stand so close. (cf. CCC 1380).

There is a mystical contradiction that can occur in priesthood and consecrated life: a person can become extraordinarily busy serving Christ while becoming increasingly unfamiliar with His silence. The Gospels (cf. Mk 1:35; Lk 5:15–16) reveal this danger through the disciples who wanted to act immediately while Jesus repeatedly withdrew to pray . But an especially unusual biblical figure is Jehu. He carried out an impressive mission and accomplished visible reforms, yet his heart did not fully remain obedient to God (cf. 2 Kgs 10:28–31). His life reveals a frightening possibility: external religious achievement can coexist with incomplete interior surrender. A priest can build churches, organise successful projects, attract large congregations, establish schools, raise funds, and become publicly admired while secretly becoming incapable of sitting quietly before the Blessed Sacrament without feeling useless. He has learned to work for Christ but forgotten how to receive from Christ . A consecrated soul may serve everyone yet avoid Christ in prayer; preach the Gospel yet hide from its demands within; build for others yet flee the silence where buried wounds speak. The greatest danger is serving God everywhere except in the sanctuary of one’s own heart . Sometimes prayer is avoided not because the soul has nothing to tell God, but because silence may reveal what the heart has buried. Before the tabernacle, a priest may suddenly meet the grief of an unanswered hope, a hidden wound, or a dream that never came to pass . The religious may encounter anger toward a superior. The missionary may encounter loneliness he has disguised as zeal. The bishop may encounter fear that he has made wrong decisions. The seminarian may encounter uncertainty about vocation. Constant activity can become a refuge from interior truth.  The priest does not possess Christ because he represents Him sacramentally. He must also receive Christ as a poor and dependent disciple. The religious does not cease needing conversion because vows have been professed. Vows do not end the journey; they expose the whole life to deeper surrender. (cf. Phil 3:12–14; CCC 915–933). The tabernacle is therefore not merely where the consecrated person goes to prepare for ministry. It is where ministry itself must repeatedly die, so that Christ—not exhaustion, ambition, personality, or human success—can remain its source. (cf. Gal 2:20).

The mystical sorrow contemplated here becomes especially profound when we consider the meaning of consecration. To be consecrated is to belong in a particular way to God. Yet belonging can become divided without outwardly appearing broken. A heart can pronounce vows while reserving secret rooms into which Christ is never permitted to enter. The biblical figure Gehazi provides a startling example. He lived close to the prophet Elisha and witnessed extraordinary manifestations of God's power, yet greed quietly entered the place where discipleship should have produced freedom (cf. 2 Kgs 5:20–27). He was near holiness without allowing holiness to possess him. Another striking figure is Joash, who did what was right while guided by the priest Jehoiada,(cf. 2 Kgs 12:2; 2 Chr 24:17–22) but later revealed instability when that external support disappeared . These lives force a searching question: has our faith merely shaped our routines, or has it reached the hidden freedom where the heart belongs entirely to Christ? (cf. Rom 12:1–2; Gal 5:13)

A consecrated soul may preserve every observance while love quietly dies within—reciting the Office while becoming impatient, preaching mercy while protecting an old wound, professing poverty while clinging to comfort or human approval, guarding celibacy outwardly while entertaining secret desires, and promising obedience while inwardly submitting only when personal preferences are satisfied. (cf. 1 Cor 13:1–3; Mt 6:1–6; Phil 2:3–5; CCC 915, 2349) The tragedy is not abandoning the vocation externally, but preserving its form while Christ disappears from its centre . The Eucharist becomes particularly painful here because Jesus gives Himself without division . He does not give a percentage of Himself. He does not remain partially available. The Eucharistic Christ confronts divided consecration simply by being entirely given. Blessed Mary of the Divine Heart learned to unite personal interior love with ecclesial mission and intercession.St Margaret Mary Alacoque experienced rejection and misunderstanding within religious life, yet allowed suffering to deepen her surrender to Christ.  Christ enters most deeply where we cease defending our wounds, surrender our disappointments, and unlock the hidden places we fear to expose—even to Him . Perhaps a priest needs to place before Jesus his secret envy of another priest's popularity. Perhaps a religious needs to admit that she no longer feels joy in her vocation. Perhaps a bishop needs to confess that fear of public criticism influences his decisions. Perhaps a seminarian needs to acknowledge that he desires admiration more than service. Perhaps a consecrated soul needs to admit that years of disappointment have made the Eucharist emotionally distant. The deepest reparation begins here—not in pretending greater holiness but in becoming truthful before the Host (cf. Ps 139:23–24). The crushed Heart of Christ encounters the divided heart not first to destroy it, but to gather its scattered pieces into one undivided gift. (cf. Ezek 36:25–27; CCC 1430–1432).

The most astonishing mystery is that Christ remains faithful even when the consecrated soul has forgotten how to remain faithful. The Eucharistic Jesus does not become absent because the priest has become distracted. He does not cease loving because the religious has become spiritually dry. His Presence is not sustained by the intensity of human emotion but by His own divine fidelity (cf. 2 Tim 2:13; CCC 1374–1377). This is why no priest or consecrated soul should believe that routine, doubt, spiritual exhaustion, or past negligence must become the final chapter of vocation. Consider Baruch, Jeremiah's discouraged companion. He had served amid catastrophe and finally reached the point of profound personal weariness (cf. Jer 45:1–5). God did not pretend that his burden was insignificant. Consider Elijah, who moved from prophetic courage into collapse and exhaustion. Before giving him another mission,(cf. 1 Kgs 19:1–8) God allowed him to rest and receive nourishment . These stories reveal a deeply human truth: renewal may begin with repentance, but it can also require rest, friendship, healing, silence, and the humility to admit that we are not strong enough alone. Grace often begins where pretence ends . A priest who has secretly lost the ability to pray should not merely increase his workload. He may need to sit before the tabernacle and say nothing except, “Jesus, I no longer know how to come to You.” A religious sister who feels nothing during adoration should not automatically conclude that faith has disappeared. She may remain, even in darkness, and offer Christ her poverty of feeling (cf. Rom 8:26–27). A priest wounded by scandals committed by others may bring his confusion to the Eucharist rather than allowing disappointment with human ministers to become distance from Christ Himself. A consecrated person suffering from hidden temptation should seek wise spiritual direction rather than living behind a perfect religious appearance. A young seminarian frightened by vocational uncertainty should not perform certainty; he should seek truth. St Leopold Mandić spent years in a hidden confessional, receiving broken people repeatedly and witnessing the patience of mercy.  The priest returns not because he feels worthy, but because Jesus remains present. The religious returns not because she has solved every interior problem, but because Christ still waits. The consecrated soul returns with doubt, grief, fatigue, temptation, failure, and tears—and discovers that the tabernacle is not only the place where perfect souls adore Christ; it is also where wounded souls learn again how to believe (cf. Mk 9:24; Jn 20:24–29). This is perhaps the deepest mystery of the appeal: the Heart wounded by the absence of consecrated love still becomes the refuge to which the absent consecrated soul is invited to return. Love remains waiting for love. The Priest remains waiting for His priests. The Consecrated One remains waiting for those consecrated to Him (cf. Jn 21:15–19; CCC 1562–1566). And perhaps one quiet hour before the Eucharist, honestly lived, can become the beginning of a completely renewed vocation.

Prayer

O Adorable Eucharistic Jesus, awaken every priest and consecrated soul to Your living Presence. Heal familiarity, routine, hidden unbelief, exhaustion, divided love, and forgotten prayer. Draw Your servants back to Your tabernacle. Give them truthful hearts, silent faith, renewed wonder, and undivided love, that they may belong completely to You. Amen.

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

Nameless Abominations Before the Altars

Divine Appeal Reflection - 166

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 166:    "All nameless abominations  are committed against Me in the lonely days and long hours of thirst.  I remain all alone before the altars. "

There is a terrible mystery hidden in the loneliness of the Eucharistic Jesus: God can be infinitely present and yet almost completely unnoticed. The angels adore Him in heaven, yet on earth the tabernacle may remain before a generation too hurried even to remember that He is there (cf. Rev 4:8–11; CCC 1377–1380). The mystery is not that Christ lacks glory. He remains the victorious and glorified Lord. The mystery is that His love accepts concealment. He chooses not to overwhelm the human person with visible majesty but remains beneath the humility of sacramental signs,(cf. Phil 2:5–8; CCC 1374–1378) allowing freedom to approach or pass by . This resembles the mysterious encounter of the risen Christ with the disciples on the road to Emmaus. He walks beside them while they fail to recognize Him,(cf. Lk 24:13–32) even as their hearts are being secretly moved . How many people live similarly today? A university student walks past a chapel daily but never enters because an examination, relationship, or career appears more urgent. A nurse finishes a night shift emotionally exhausted and believes that scrolling through a phone is the only possible consolation, while a church stands quietly nearby. An unemployed man spends hours searching for work, carrying humiliation and fear, yet never considers bringing his anxiety before the Eucharistic Christ. A widow returns to an empty house and speaks continually to television voices while the One who conquered death waits silently in the tabernacle (cf. Jn 11:25–26). The deepest loneliness may therefore belong not only to Jesus but also to humanity. We leave Christ alone while remaining unable to understand why our hearts feel alone. The prophet Baruch experienced exhaustion while serving in a collapsing world, yet God met him personally within his discouragement (cf. Jer 45:1–5).  The tabernacle is therefore a school against the tyranny of visibility. Jesus seems to say through His silence: You need not be important to come to Me. You need only come. A person may enter for three minutes, kneel without words, and leave carrying a grace invisible even to himself (cf. Rom 8:26–27). Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies of modern life is that we travel everywhere searching for presence while passing daily before the Presence itself. (cf. CCC 1380).

The mystery of nameless abominations is deeper than shocking sins that society publicly condemns. Some of the most serious spiritual disorders appear perfectly respectable. Sin often becomes nameless because people give it another name. Greed becomes “ambition.” Manipulation becomes “leadership.” Lust becomes “personal freedom.” Cruelty becomes “honesty.” Pride becomes “self-respect.” Indifference becomes “protecting my peace” (cf. Is 5:20–23; CCC 1849–1851). The biblical story of Micah's private shrine is striking because religious language and religious objects coexist with spiritual confusion and idolatry (cf. Judg 17:1–13). Everything may appear religious while the centre has quietly shifted from God to the desires of the human heart. Another disturbing example is Simon the Magician, who encounters apostolic power but desires spiritual gifts as instruments of personal advantage (cf. Acts 8:9–24). The sacred becomes dangerous when it is used to magnify the self. Consider a preacher secretly measuring his ministry by applause. Consider a choir member becoming angry when someone else receives praise. Consider a person donating publicly while privately refusing to pay a domestic worker fairly. Consider a Catholic social-media personality speaking beautifully about holiness while deliberately humiliating strangers online. Consider a businessman sponsoring religious events while building his wealth through exploitation (cf. Jas 5:1–6). Consider a young woman constantly posting prayers while secretly destroying another person's reputation through private messages. These sins may never be called “abominations” by society because they wear respectable clothing. Yet the Eucharist sees through appearances (cf. 1 Sam 16:7). The Host is silent, but nothing before the Host is hidden. The Eucharistic Jesus receives our genuflection while seeing the resentment we carried into church. He receives our hymns while seeing the person we refuse to forgive. He receives our external reverence while seeing the secret habit we have no intention of abandoning (cf. Ps 139:1–12). St Joseph of Cupertino, whose extraordinary mystical experiences were accompanied by profound humility, reminds us that supernatural experiences without humility would be spiritually empty.  St Benedict Joseph Labre, wandering without worldly status, exposes another truth:(cf. Lk 18:9–14) God is often closer to the forgotten sinner who honestly cries for mercy than to the respected person who no longer believes he needs conversion . Eucharistic reparation therefore begins when we stop asking, “What terrible sins are others committing?” and begin trembling gently before the question, “What have I learned to call normal that grieves the Heart of Christ?” .

Christ's thirst is perhaps the most mystical word in this appeal. The thirst of Jesus is not the weakness of One who needs something we possess. Rather, it reveals the astonishing vulnerability of divine love: Love desires to be received . At the Cross, Jesus enters the extremity of human abandonment; in the Eucharist, He continues to remain where human freedom may either welcome or ignore Him (cf. Heb 4:14–16; CCC 1380). Consider the strange biblical figure of Hannah,(cf. 1 Sam 1:9–18) whose silent prayer was so interior that Eli misunderstood what he was seeing . Her lips moved, but her voice was not heard. There is something Eucharistic about this: the deepest prayer sometimes occurs where nothing spectacular is visible. The lonely person before the tabernacle may not know how to pray. He may simply sit. He may cry. He may feel nothing. Yet the silence can become an encounter. Consider Hagar, who encounters God when she has been sent into the wilderness and has no human future she can see . Consider the Shunammite woman,(cf. 2 Kgs 4:18–37) whose grief is so profound that she refuses superficial consolation and perseveres toward the prophet while carrying the mystery of her dead child . These souls teach us that genuine thirst does not always look religious.A woman who has suffered infertility may visit the Blessed Sacrament after attending another baby's baptism and silently struggle with envy and grief. A young man may sit in his car outside a church after losing his job because he does not know where else to go.  A father may kneel before the tabernacle after discovering his son has entered addiction. A priest may sit in darkness after celebrating a funeral for a child and have no words left for God. A religious sister may experience decades of hidden dryness while remaining faithful to the Divine Office. These are not necessarily failures of prayer;(cf. Rom 8:26–27) sometimes they are the places where prayer becomes stripped of performance . St Maria Francesca of the Five Wounds lived an intensely hidden spirituality of suffering and intercession. St Lydwine of Schiedam transformed years of physical suffering into intercession for others. Their lives reveal that Christ can unite human thirst to His own. Before the Eucharist, we do not merely bring Jesus our thirst; we discover that our thirst is being received into His greater thirst for us (cf. Jn 4:7–14). The astonishing mystery is this: the soul believes it has come to search for Jesus, only to discover that Jesus has been waiting longer for the soul than the soul has been searching for Him. (cf. Lk 19:1–10).

The Eucharistic loneliness of Christ carries an apostolic consequence that is rarely considered: those who learn to notice the hidden Jesus should gradually become people who notice hidden suffering (cf. Mt 25:31–40; CCC 1397). The Bible contains remarkable examples. Rizpah, a largely forgotten woman, (cf. 2 Sam 21:1–14) keeps watch over the bodies of her dead sons through a long season of exposure and mourning, refusing to abandon them to disgrace . Her vigil eventually moves David to act. Her hidden faithfulness becomes a cry against the indifference surrounding her. There is another mysterious figure: the little servant girl of Naaman's household. She is captive, foreign, powerless, and unnamed, yet she becomes the instrument through whom healing begins for the very household connected to her displacement (cf. 2 Kgs 5:1–4). The Eucharistic soul learns from such people that greatness may consist in noticing someone nobody considers important. A parishioner may spend an hour in adoration but walk home without noticing the mentally ill man sitting outside the church. Something remains unfinished. A Catholic employer may kneel reverently before the Blessed Sacrament while refusing maternity leave or fair wages to vulnerable workers. Something remains divided (cf. Jas 2:14–17). A family may sponsor beautiful church decorations while their ageing grandmother eats alone every evening. A seminarian may love Eucharistic adoration while despising the classmate who struggles academically. A religious superior may defend community discipline while ignoring a sister who has quietly become isolated. The Eucharist exposes the contradiction between loving Christ sacramentally and refusing Christ relationally . St Jeanne Jugan discovered Christ in abandoned elderly people who had become burdens to society. Blessed Benedetta Bianchi Porro endured progressive illness while revealing the dignity of a life increasingly dependent upon others. St Marguerite Bays lived ordinary domestic life with hidden holiness, reminding us that sanctity often develops without public recognition. These witnesses suggest a demanding apostolic principle: every hour spent before the hidden Host should make us less capable of overlooking hidden people (cf. CCC 2447). Perhaps the person Jesus is asking you to visit is not impressive. Perhaps it is the neighbour whose conversation is repetitive. Perhaps it is the colleague everyone avoids because she is difficult. Perhaps it is the prisoner nobody visits. Perhaps it is the disabled person whose presence makes others uncomfortable. Perhaps it is the old man who has become invisible even inside his own family (cf. Lk 14:12–14). The soul that has truly learned to recognise Jesus beneath the appearance of bread should become more capable of recognising Him beneath the broken appearances of humanity. (cf. Mt 25:40).

The deepest mystical response to this appeal is not simply to visit the church more frequently. It is to allow the Eucharistic Christ to teach us the spirituality of remaining. Humanity easily abandons what no longer gives immediate satisfaction. We leave conversations when they become uncomfortable. We abandon marriages internally before abandoning them externally. We leave elderly relatives when care becomes demanding. We change communities when we are no longer appreciated. We stop praying when consolation disappears (cf. Gal 6:9). But Jesus remains. He remains through forgotten afternoons. He remains through empty churches. He remains when people receive Him with distracted hearts. He remains when humanity sins. He remains—not because sin does not matter,(cf. Lk 15:1–7; CCC 604) but because His mercy refuses to stop seeking the sinner . The obscure biblical figure Barzillai offers a beautiful image of faithful presence. When David is humiliated and fleeing,(cf. 2 Sam 17:27–29; 19:31–39) Barzillai provides practical assistance without seeking political advantage . Onesiphorus likewise searches for Paul when association with the imprisoned Apostle is dangerous,(cf. 2 Tim 1:16–18) refusing to be ashamed of a forgotten prisoner . Their holiness is not spectacular. They simply remain present when others withdraw. This is profoundly Eucharistic. A wife remains beside her husband during years of disability.  A priest faithfully celebrates Mass in a mission station where only six people attend. A teacher continues encouraging a child repeatedly labelled “slow.” A nurse washes the same abandoned patient day after day without receiving gratitude. A young adult refuses to abandon an ageing parent because care has become inconvenient. A Christian visits a friend suffering depression and accepts that conversation may sometimes be silent. This is where Eucharistic adoration becomes flesh. St Leopold Mandić spent countless hidden hours reconciling sinners, remaining available to souls who returned repeatedly with the same wounds. St Charbel Makhlouf chose a life of profound hiddenness in which silence became intercession. St Joseph Cafasso accompanied condemned prisoners, refusing to allow those society had rejected to face death without spiritual companionship. Their lives reveal that the Eucharistic Christ forms souls capable of staying where love becomes costly (cf. Jn 13:34–35). The tabernacle teaches us that love is not proven only by intense moments; it is proven by remaining faithful during long hours when nothing appears to happen (cf. Jn 15:9–10). Therefore, when you enter an apparently empty church, do not think you are merely visiting a lonely place. You are entering a mystery in which Love has chosen to remain. Sit down. Become still. Let your presence answer His Presence. Bring Him the sins of the world, the forgotten, the dying, the addicted, the abused, the lonely, and those who no longer know how to pray (cf. 1 Tim 2:1–4). Perhaps the greatest consolation we can offer the Eucharistic Jesus is not extraordinary words, but the simple decision: “Lord, You have remained for me; therefore, for this moment, I will remain with You.” (cf. Mt 26:40–41; CCC 1380).

Prayer 

O Adorable Eucharistic Jesus, forgive us for forgetting You while You remain so faithfully near. Awaken our hearts to Your hidden Presence and give us the grace to remain with You in love and silence . Teach us to recognise Your loneliness in souls who are abandoned, forgotten, wounded, or far from You . May our adoration grow into faithful love, our fidelity open our hearts to compassion, and our compassion become a living reflection of Your own love in the world . Amen.

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