Repairing Through the Eucharistic Presence

Divine Appeal Reflection - 169

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 169: "By means of My Presence in the Blessed Sacrament repair whenever you see Me"

Reparation begins with a sacred question: when we behold Our Adorable Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament, do we see only the Host—or the hidden Love who gazes back at us? (cf. Jn 6:51–58; CCC 1374). The eyes see a small Host, silent and apparently powerless. Faith sees the living Christ, whole and present, giving Himself in love (cf. Jn 6:51–58; CCC 1373–1377). The Appeal invites us into a profound Eucharistic response: whenever we come before Jesus, we should not remain merely spectators. We are called to repair through His Presence. Reparation is not an attempt to improve Christ, for the risen Lord is eternally glorious and cannot be diminished in His divinity. Rather, it is the loving response of the Church to the wounds caused by sin, unbelief, indifference, sacrilege, and rejection. The soul stands before the Eucharistic Christ and says through its love: “Where love has been refused, let me love; where gratitude has disappeared, let me adore; where people have forgotten You, let me remember.” Scripture offers a unique image in Phinehas, whose zeal interrupted a destructive movement among the people (cf. Num 25:1–13). While the Christian understanding of reparation is never violence, the spiritual principle is striking: when sin spreads, someone must stand before God with a heart that refuses to become indifferent. Another beautiful biblical image is Ezra,(cf. Ezra 9:1–15) who grieved, prayed, and confessed before God over the sins of the people . He did not excuse evil, but neither did he stand proudly outside the community as though he had no connection with its wounds. This is the beginning of Eucharistic reparation: not saying, “Look how sinful they are,” but asking, “Jesus, how can I love You here?” A woman entering a church may see an empty sanctuary and choose to remain for ten minutes in adoration. A priest may bring the wounds of a difficult day before the tabernacle; a student may pause at a church and kneel briefly before Our Adorable Jesus instead of passing by (cf. Mt 11:28–29; Ps 62:1–2). An exhausted worker may spend a few minutes before Jesus instead of allowing fatigue to become complaint. These acts appear small, but love changes their meaning. The deeper mystery is this: Jesus does not ask the soul merely to feel sorry for sin. He invites the soul to let sorrow become adoration, adoration become love, and love become self-gift for others (cf. Rom 12:1; 2 Cor 5:14–15). Reparation before the Blessed Sacrament is not merely a devotion; it is an encounter in which Christ quietly repairs the soul that comes seeking to repair (cf. Ps 147:3; Jn 15:4–5).

The words “whenever you see Me” contain another mystical depth: the Eucharistic encounter should awaken a response every time Christ is consciously approached. Familiarity can become one of the greatest dangers in spiritual life. A priest may handle sacred things daily and gradually lose astonishment. A sacristan may prepare the altar as a routine task. A religious may pass the chapel several times each day without interiorly pausing. A Catholic may receive Holy Communion frequently while becoming less attentive to the greatness of the Gift. The mystery of reparation begins again when the soul recovers holy astonishment. Consider Jacob(cf. Gen 28:10–17) at Bethel. He discovered that a place he had considered ordinary was mysteriously filled with the presence of God . His awakening changed his awareness of the ground beneath him. Likewise, the Eucharistic soul gradually discovers that the church is not merely a building and the tabernacle not merely an object, but a sacred dwelling where Our Adorable Jesus remains truly present among His people . Someone is there. This awareness can change everything. Consider also Moses before the burning bush,(cf. Ex 3:1–6) who was commanded to recognise the holiness of the place because of the divine Presence . The bush itself remained a creature, but God's presence transformed the encounter. In the Eucharistic mystery, the Christian encounters something incomparably greater: Christ is truly and substantially present under the sacramental signs (cf. CCC 1374–1377). A farm worker, a cleaner, a child, a prisoner, or an elderly person can adore. The practical question becomes: What happens inside me when I realise that I am before Jesus? Perhaps I stop scrolling through my phone before entering the church. Perhaps I arrive a few minutes early for Mass. Perhaps I make a reverent genuflection rather than moving mechanically. Perhaps I spend one minute after Communion in conscious thanksgiving. Perhaps I visit the church during an ordinary weekday. Reparation is often the recovery of attentiveness. Indifference wounds love, while attention consoles love. The mystical soul does not seek extraordinary emotions every time it sees the Eucharist. It seeks fidelity. Some days the heart will feel devotion; other days it may feel dry. But love can remain. A mother does not cease loving her child because she is tired. Likewise, the soul can kneel before the tabernacle and say, “Jesus, I have little feeling today, but I have come.” This is already a profound act of reparation. The greatest consolation we can offer Christ may sometimes be simply refusing to treat His Presence as ordinary.

The deepest form of Eucharistic reparation, however, is not confined to the chapel. The soul that adores Christ in the Blessed Sacrament must gradually learn to repair the wounds of Christ's Body in the world. The Eucharist cannot authentically lead us into adoration while leaving us indifferent to the suffering of human beings (cf. 1 Cor 11:17–29; CCC 1397). St Paul confronted a Christian community whose Eucharistic celebration was contradicted by divisions and neglect of the poor. This is a frightening lesson: it is possible to approach the altar while failing to recognise the consequences of Christ's presence in the lives of others. The Appeal therefore opens an apostolic dimension of reparation. A person leaves adoration and encounters a lonely neighbour. The love offered before the tabernacle must become patience at the neighbour's door. A nurse receives Christ at Mass and later encounters a difficult patient. Reparation may mean treating that patient with dignity when nobody is watching. A businessman may adore Our Adorable Jesus and then correct an employee’s costly mistake without humiliating him; a priest may leave the tabernacle and welcome a wounded sinner with Christ’s mercy in confession (cf. Col 3:12–13; Lk 15:20–24). A priest spends time before the Blessed Sacrament and then meets a wounded sinner in confession. Reparation may mean allowing the tenderness of Christ to shape his words. A young person participates in Benediction and later sees a classmate being mocked. Reparation may mean refusing to laugh and courageously protecting the humiliated person. Consider the unusual biblical figure Boaz,(cf. Ruth 2:8–16; 4:13–17) who used his position not to exploit the vulnerable Ruth but to protect her dignity and future . His ordinary acts became instruments of God's providence. Consider Ebed-melech, (cf. Jer 38:7–13) the foreigner who courageously intervened to rescue Jeremiah when others had abandoned him . He recognised suffering and acted. These figures reveal that reparation has hands. It does not remain only in sentiment.  St Marianne Cope carried compassionate care into places where fear caused others to withdraw. St Alberto Hurtado asked Christians to recognise Christ's call within the social wounds surrounding them. Their lives teach that Eucharistic devotion must become Eucharistic availability. We repair before Jesus so that we may stop increasing the wounds around us. We repair by refusing gossip. We repair by reconciling relationships. We repair by paying workers honestly. We repair by protecting children. We repair by visiting the forgotten. We repair by refusing corruption. We repair by treating the poor as persons rather than inconveniences. Thus, a profound mystery emerges: the soul that kneels before the Eucharistic Christ eventually becomes a small place of repair wherever it stands. (cf. Mt 25:31–46; Jas 2:14–17).

There is also a hidden and very personal reparation: allowing Christ to repair the damage within our own hearts. Reparation is not merely offering for the sins of others. Before the Blessed Sacrament, Christ’s light must also expose what remains wounded within us. We may grieve over the world’s unbelief while secretly withholding forgiveness, forgetting that the first altar of reparation is our own heart (cf. Mt 5:23–24; 1 Jn 1:9). A priest may grieve over irreverence toward the Eucharist while allowing pride to harden his own heart. A religious may pray for the conversion of sinners while nurturing resentment against a member of her community. A parent may pray for a child's return to God while communicating anger more often than tenderness. The Eucharistic Christ invites us to bring the world's wounds before Him, but He also asks us not to hide our own wounds behind religious activity. Consider King Asa,(cf. 2 Chr 14:1–15; 16:1–12) who began with faithfulness but later struggled to maintain the same dependence upon God . His story warns that a good beginning does not remove the need for continual conversion. Consider Naaman, who expected God's healing to occur according to his own preferences and initially resisted the humble means offered to him (cf. 2 Kgs 5:1–14). His healing required humility. Before the Eucharist, the soul discovers that Christ often heals through humble steps: confession, apology, restitution, reconciliation, spiritual guidance, abandoning harmful habits, seeking help, and admitting our wrongs . Blessed Charles de Foucauld embraced radical surrender, (cf. Lk 9:23; Gal 2:20) allowing Christ to transform even the hidden foundations of his life . Their witness suggests a mystical paradox: the person who comes to repair may discover that he himself is the broken vessel Christ wants to mend. This is not humiliation. It is mercy. The Eucharist does not expose us in order to shame us but to draw us more deeply into communion (cf. Jn 13:1–17; CCC 1391–1395). A powerful act of reparation may therefore be a sincere confession after years of postponement. It may be returning stolen money. It may be apologising to someone we wounded. It may be ending a hidden relationship that is destroying a marriage. It may be asking for help with addiction. We cannot genuinely offer Christ our love while deliberately protecting what contradicts His love. Reparation begins with adoration, but it reaches fulfilment when the adoring soul allows Christ to rearrange its life.

Finally, the highest mystical secret of this Appeal is that Christ allows us to enter His own work of repairing the world through love. The Cross is the supreme revelation of this mystery. Jesus does not answer humanity's sin with greater violence. He enters the consequences of human sin with redeeming love (cf. Isa 53:4–12; 1 Pet 2:21–25). The Eucharist makes present sacramentally the sacrifice of Christ and draws the Church into thanksgiving and self-offering . Therefore, Eucharistic reparation is ultimately participation in the love of Christ who continues to offer Himself for the salvation of the world. Consider Baruch, Jeremiah's faithful companion, (cf. Jer 36:4–8, 27–32; 45:1–5) who continued carrying the burden of God's word during difficult and uncertain times . Consider Anna the prophetess,(cf. Lk 2:36–38) who spent her life in worship, prayer, and expectation, remaining faithful when redemption was not yet visible . These hidden biblical lives reveal that not every apostolic mission is dramatic. Some souls repair through faithful presence. An elderly man who spends an hour before the Blessed Sacrament may be participating mysteriously in the salvation of people he will never meet. A bedridden woman who offers her suffering with Christ may become a hidden intercessor for missionaries. A university student who spends ten minutes in adoration before an examination may learn to offer not only anxiety but also the future to God. A priest may carry wounded souls before the tabernacle; a mother may unite her sleepless care for a sick child with Christ’s self-giving love (cf. Col 1:24; 2 Cor 1:3–4). Reparation transforms helpless love into prayerful offering, even through ordinary duties sanctified for God (cf. Rom 12:1; Col 3:17). St. Josemaría Escrivá especially witnessed to this hidden sanctification of daily work . Thus, reparation is not reserved for extraordinary mystics. The mechanic can repair through honest labour offered to Christ. The teacher can repair through patience. The doctor can repair through reverence for life. The judge can repair through justice without cruelty. The politician can repair through integrity. The priest can repair through reverent celebration of the Eucharist. The religious can repair through faithful hidden obedience. The married couple can repair through forgiveness and fidelity. The young person can repair through purity and courage. Every vocation can become Eucharistic when it is returned to Christ as an offering of love. The most astonishing truth is this: when you come before the Blessed Sacrament to repair, you are not simply looking at Jesus. Our Adorable Jesus looks upon you. His Presence reveals the world’s wounds and invites you to become part of His healing (cf. Jn 20:21; 2 Cor 5:20). Though your offering seems small, united with Him it can carry a mystery greater than itself . Therefore, do not merely pass Him by: adore where He is forgotten, repent where sin has wounded, intercede for lost souls, and love where charity has grown cold (cf. Mt 25:40; 1 Tim 2:1–4). Let your surrendered life become a quiet offering through which Eucharistic Love continues His work of restoration .

Prayer 

O Adorable Jesus, truly present in the Blessed Sacrament, teach us to repair through love, adoration, repentance, and faithful service . Where You are forgotten, make us remember; where sin wounds, make us love. Heal our hearts and make our lives instruments of reconciliation, mercy, reverence, and salvation . Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 169

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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

VOLUME 1

“I am pierced by sacrileges of all kinds.”

“My daughter, listen to Me. Pray more and heed My words. I come here to seek shelter. My Divine Sacrament is profaned, abused and blasphemed so much. I spill tears of blood for all this corruption and almost all of mankind is destroyed by the devil. Pray a great deal. I need them to hear and know that it is mankind who brings upon itself punishments, famine, war, and the threat of Divine Justice.

The world is destroying itself. I am pierced by sacrileges of all kinds. The priests and many of those consecrated to Me do not believe in My afflicted appeal. I pour tears of blood over mankind. I come

to beg for souls. The majority are racing towards the precipice of perdition. Pray a great deal. I am thirsty. Bring Me souls.

I do not want anyone to perish. Be at My disposal. Spend these dark and terrible hours with Me...

Time is short for saving souls. When only one soul is lost it is eternally lost. By means of My Presence in the Blessed Sacrament repair whenever you see Me. I want mankind to repent otherwise it will cast down innumerable souls into perdition. Time is approaching and the everlasting ages are mine.”

“I bless you.”

2.00 a.m., 21st 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).

The Flower of Holy Silence

Divine Appeal Reflection - 168

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 168:  "For the sake of souls, keep silent, as though you are picking a flower for Me. I love you to the point of doing good for the souls of mankind. I want you to be full of indulgence and compassion for lost souls. Take care of them through your prayers."

There is a silence that is merely the absence of words, but there is another silence that becomes an act of love offered to God for another soul. This Appeal reveals the second kind. To keep silent “as though picking a flower” suggests that a sacrifice which appears small, unnoticed, and almost insignificant can become precious when consciously offered to Christ. A flower does not resist or retaliate; it simply gives what it has received. Likewise, when we feel the impulse to defend ourselves, expose another’s fault, answer an insult, repeat gossip, or prove ourselves right, love may invite us to become silent—not because truth is unimportant or injustice should be ignored, but because charity sometimes asks us to surrender the satisfaction of having the final word . In such silence, the soul does not become weak; it allows Christ to possess its response and transform wounded pride into an offering of love (cf. Rom 12:19–21; Col 3:12–14). Scripture gives us the unusual figure of Abigail,(cf. 1 Sam 25:14–35) who entered a dangerous conflict with wisdom and restrained the violence that was ready to erupt . Her intervention shows that a soul can prevent spiritual destruction by refusing to add more fire to an already burning situation. Likewise, David, when cursed by Shimei, refused to allow immediate retaliation to control him (cf. 2 Sam 16:5–14). His silence became an opening through which he surrendered judgment to God. This is deeply practical. A husband receives an unfair accusation from his wife after a difficult day and feels the exact words that would wound her deeply. He knows her weakness and could easily use it. Instead, he becomes silent, prays, and waits until anger passes. That silence may become a flower for Christ. A woman discovers that a colleague has been speaking badly about her, yet instead of retaliating,(cf. Ps 55:22; 1 Pet 2:23) she carries the hurt to prayer and entrusts the matter to God . She wants to expose the person publicly but first brings the pain before God. A priest hears criticism about his ministry and resists the temptation to retaliate from the pulpit. A religious sister is misunderstood by her community and chooses not to recruit supporters for her own side. Such silence is not weakness. It is strength placed under the government of charity (cf. Jas 1:19–20; CCC 1804, 1808). The mystical soul begins asking, before speaking, “Jesus, can this word save? Can it heal? Can it lead someone closer to You?” Sometimes Christ asks for speech. Sometimes He asks for courageous correction. But sometimes the most apostolic word is the one that remains unspoken and is transformed into prayer for the person who caused the wound .

The phrase about doing good for souls reveals an extraordinary mystical economy: Christ allows love to become intercessory. A hidden sacrifice can become a prayer. A surrendered reaction can become an offering. A painful silence can become a mysterious participation in Christ's concern for someone who may never know that another person suffered and prayed for him. This does not mean that human beings “save” souls by their own power. Salvation belongs to God alone through Christ . Yet the Church teaches that believers can cooperate with grace and participate in Christ's mission through prayer, charity, sacrifice, and witness . The mystery is breathtaking: a hidden act of love may become part of God's providential work in another person's journey. Consider Moses, who stood between a rebellious people and disaster through intercession (cf. Ex 32:9–14, 30–32). Consider Samuel,(cf. 1 Sam 12:19–23) who regarded intercession for God's people as part of his responsibility . Yet Amos, the shepherd whom God called into prophecy, offers another striking image: when shown visions of coming destruction, he stood before God and pleaded for mercy for a people who had gone astray (cf Amos 7:1–6). His response reveals the heart of contemplation: we do not merely look at another person’s brokenness from a distance; we quietly carry that brokenness into God’s presence. Moses did something similar when he interceded for Israel after its grave failure (cf Ex 32:30–32), while Samuel continued praying for a people who had repeatedly disappointed God (cf 1 Sam 12:19–23). This spirit can enter the most ordinary places. A teacher may have a disruptive student whom everyone has labelled difficult, yet she quietly prays each morning for the wounded story she cannot see (cf 1 Sam 16:7; Col 3:12–14). A shopkeeper cheated by a young person may take necessary action while still praying that the young man will not ruin his future (cf Lk 6:27–28; Rom 12:20–21). A prison officer may encounter hardened offenders and silently ask Christ to reach the place within them that human conversation has never touched (cf Ezek 36:26; Lk 23:39–43). An elderly person confined to one room may discover that physical limitation does not imprison love; each offered day can become an unseen apostolate for souls scattered throughout the world (cf Col 1:24; 2 Cor 4:16–18).

St. Lidwina of Schiedam shows how prolonged suffering can become hidden fruitfulness when united to Christ (cf Rom 8:17–18). Blessed Pauline Jaricot transformed concern for the missions into prayerful and practical missionary cooperation (cf Mt 28:19–20). St. Claude La Colombière witnessed to the power of fidelity when success remained hidden from human eyes (cf Jn 15:4–5). Their lives remind us that spiritual fruit is not always measurable. The person who forgives silently may never see what that forgiveness accomplishes; the one who intercedes may never know which soul was strengthened; the one who remains silent rather than retaliating may prevent a wound that could have spread through an entire family or community (cf Prov 15:1; Jas 3:5–6). This is why the contemplative soul gradually stops asking, “Did anyone notice?” and begins asking, “Did I love?” A hidden sacrifice offered to Christ is never wasted (cf Heb 6:10). A prayer whispered for someone who may never know about it can become an unseen bridge between suffering and grace (cf 1 Tim 2:1–4). The world measures influence through visibility, numbers, recognition, and results; heaven measures differently (cf Mt 6:1–6). What appears insignificant—a restrained word, a concealed sacrifice, a patient prayer, a decision not to retaliate—may possess an eternal reach known only to God (cf Mt 10:42; 1 Cor 15:58). The mystical soul therefore learns to love without needing to witness the harvest, trusting that Christ can take the smallest offering and mysteriously multiply its fruit (cf Jn 6:9–13).

Yet Christ's invitation to be full of indulgence and compassion for lost souls brings us into an even deeper mystery: we must learn to look at sinners without becoming fascinated by their sins. The world often gives people an identity based upon their worst action. “The addict.” “The criminal.” “The corrupt person.” “The immoral woman.” “The failed priest.” “The difficult child.” But the gaze of Christ penetrates further. This does not minimise evil or deny the need for repentance. Rather, it remembers that no human person can be reduced entirely to the ruins he has created. Consider the strange and powerful story of Gomer, whose broken marital life became part of Hosea's prophetic experience of divine faithfulness (cf. Hos 1–3). The story reveals the painful mystery of love pursuing what has wandered. Consider Manasseh, whose life was marked by grave wrongdoing and idolatry,(cf. 2 Chr 33:1–13) yet who humbled himself and turned toward God in affliction . His story is a warning against despairing of anyone's conversion. The soul who loves Christ must therefore guard against a subtle spiritual pride: enjoying the thought that another person is worse. A Catholic may pray for “sinners” while secretly thinking only of people whose sins are visible. Yet compassion begins when we recognise that every human being is capable of becoming lost in some way without grace (cf. Rom 3:22–24). A priest may meet someone deeply entangled in sin and feel impatience, yet he must speak truth while remembering that he too approaches the altar as one who lives by mercy (cf Heb 4:15–16; CCC 1846–1848). A parent may watch an adult child struggle with addiction and feel humiliation before others, but Christ invites that parent to look beyond the bondage and continue carrying the person in prayer (cf Lk 15:20–24; Jas 5:16). A parishioner may pass the same homeless man outside the church each day until his presence becomes invisible; compassion begins when we stop seeing a problem and begin wondering about the wounded story of a human being (cf Mt 25:35–40; 1 Jn 3:17–18). A woman whose husband falls into serious sin may need truth, protection, wise counsel, and appropriate help; Christian compassion never asks her to tolerate abuse or pretend that evil has not wounded her (cf Ps 82:3–4; CCC 2265). Yet she can refuse to let hatred become the final authority over her heart . St. Maria Goretti witnesses to the astonishing possibility of forgiveness without minimizing the horror of violence, while St. Moses the Black reveals how radically grace can transform a life once marked by grave wrongdoing . Compassion is therefore not blindness toward sin;(cf Rom 5:20–21) it is the courage to see sin clearly without believing it is stronger than mercy . The mystical apostle learns to ask Christ for His eyes: eyes that recognize the wound beneath rebellion, fear beneath anger, loneliness beneath addiction, and the beloved person beneath the sinner (cf 1 Sam 16:7; Jn 8:10–11). Truth remains necessary,(cf Eph 4:15; 1 Cor 13:4–7) but truth severed from charity can become another weapon . To look with Christ is to hold together justice and mercy, firmness and tenderness, protection and forgiveness. It is to believe that no person should be reduced to the worst thing he or she has done, because grace can still call the sinner home (cf Lk 19:1–10; 1 Tim 1:15–16).

The Appeal's command to take care of lost souls through prayer introduces a magnificent apostolic vocation available to every person: the hidden ministry of carrying souls whom we cannot control into the Heart of God. This is especially important because there are many people we desperately want to change but cannot. A mother cannot force her adult son to return to the Church. A priest cannot force a parishioner to repent. A wife cannot force her husband to abandon destructive habits. A teacher cannot force a student to choose virtue. A friend cannot force another friend to seek healing. Here prayer becomes an act of humility. Intercession acknowledges that the soul belongs finally to God, not to us. Consider Hannah, (cf. 1 Sam 1:9–20) who carried her deepest sorrow before God rather than allowing disappointment to become resentment . Consider Job, who continued praying even for friends whose words had wounded him (cf. Job 42:7–10). Consider Stephen,(cf. Acts 7:54–60) whose final concern included those participating in his death . These biblical personalities reveal an astonishing development of love: the mature Christian eventually learns to pray not only for those who love him but also for those whose lives have wounded him. Imagine praying for the relative who destroyed a family relationship. Imagine praying for the former friend who betrayed you. Imagine praying for the person whose corruption caused you financial loss. Imagine praying for the priest whose weakness scandalised you. Imagine praying for the politician whose decisions you believe have harmed society. This prayer does not necessarily mean immediate reconciliation, trust, or removal of necessary boundaries. Christian charity is not naïve. Some relationships require distance, accountability, justice, or protection. But even when the door of ordinary relationship must remain closed, the door of intercession can remain open (cf. Mt 5:43–48; CCC 2262, 2302–2303).St Elizabeth Ann Seton carried suffering, widowhood, and uncertainty into a life that eventually became spiritually fruitful for many others. The soul who intercedes enters into the patience of God . Perhaps the one you have almost given up on is still living a story whose ending God has not yet written.

The image of picking a flower for Christ reveals the highest mystical secret of the Appeal: love transforms little renunciations into offerings that belong to eternity. The world teaches us to express every feeling immediately. Speak when angry. Respond instantly. Defend your image. Correct every misunderstanding. Reveal every offence. But the Gospel introduces another freedom: the freedom not to obey every interior impulse. This freedom becomes a profound act of love when the soul no longer feels compelled to explain, defend, or justify everything. Mary carried mysteries she did not immediately understand or disclose,(cf Lk 2:19, 51) pondering them quietly before God . Joseph likewise received realities beyond his understanding and answered not with argument but with obedient action (cf Mt 1:18–25; 2:13–15). Their hidden lives reveal that God often works most deeply when we surrender the demand to understand everything immediately (cf Is 55:8–9; Prov 3:5–6). Thus, the “flower” may be very small: remaining silent when you could embarrass someone; refusing to repeat a piece of gossip; allowing another person to receive recognition; accepting a minor inconvenience without complaint; not responding immediately to a provocative message; praying before replying to an insult; surrendering the desire to know what others think of you. But the soul must be wise. Silence must never excuse abuse, conceal serious wrongdoing, or leave the vulnerable unprotected; charity also requires courage to defend truth and safeguard those entrusted to us . There are times when love demands speaking, reporting, correcting, and seeking justice . Holy silence is not cowardice. It is the deliberate surrender of unnecessary self-defence for the sake of love. Sometimes Christ asks us to speak for the voiceless. Sometimes He asks us to remain silent about ourselves. The discernment is found in charity. Before speaking, the contemplative soul asks: “Is this my wound to defend, or is this a truth that another person needs to hear for their salvation?” The soul becomes spiritually free when it learns this distinction: love does not deny injustice; it simply refuses to let another’s wrongdoing govern the condition of its own heart.

Prayer

O Adorable Jesus, teach us to offer You silence, patience, compassion, and hidden sacrifice. Save us from harsh judgment and give us hearts that pray for lost souls. Transform our wounds into intercession and our sacrifices into channels of Your mercy . Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 168

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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

VOLUME 1

“I dictate to you.”

“Listen to Me, My daughter, do not be afraid of writing down My words. I, Myself, dictate to you. You cannot put anything down by yourself. Slowly by slowly you will see the results. Do not be amazed to see your faculties alight.

For the sake of souls, keep silent, as though you are picking a flower for Me. I love you to the point of doing good for the souls of mankind. I want you to be full of indulgence and compassion for lost souls. Take care of them through your prayers.”

“I bless you.”

12.00 a.m., 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).

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.