The Blessing of Listening to Jesus

Divine Appeal Reflection - 261

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 261:  "I bless you for listening."

How tender is the Heart of Jesus, that He notices not only our great sacrifices, but even the hidden listening of the soul. In a world clamoring for noise, acclaim, and action, our Adorable Jesus stoops low to bless the one who simply listens—not out of curiosity, but out of love. To listen is to open the door of the heart and let Him enter with His wounds, His desires, and His divine longing. It is not only the labour of the ears; it is the assent of the whole soul: the will bowed low in devotion, giving way to the silence where God chooses to reside; memory stripped of ego and soaked in mercy; understanding not conquered but caressed by grace.In such holy silence, the soul is no longer striving to grasp God but is instead being quietly held by Him. It is, as St. Teresa of Avila described, “an intimate sharing between friends,” where God does not overwhelm, but whispers His presence into the receptive heart. This is the liturgy of interiority, the worship that happens when the soul consents to be still and knows that He is God. In listening, love becomes purified, hope is renewed, and faith deepens—not as an effort, but as a gift received. The listener does not merely hear; he becomes a living “yes,” echoing Mary’s fiat, allowing the Word to take flesh anew within him (cf. CCC 2700–2706).

The mystery of the Incarnation reveals a divine logic radically opposed to worldly triumph: God enters through receptivity, not force—through silence, not spectacle. To be blessed for listening is to participate in the same mystery that allowed the Word to become flesh in Mary’s womb, to grow in the quiet trust of Joseph’s obedience, and to speak in parables only those who listened could truly understand. The receptive soul mirrors this mystery by relinquishing control and consenting to be formed in the hidden life of grace. As St. John Henry Newman reminded us, every soul has a divinely ordained purpose—but this “definite service” is first unveiled not through doing, but through deep listening. In a culture obsessed with visibility and self-expression, to listen becomes a kind of martyrdom: a dying to one’s ego, a surrender of the compulsion to be heard. Yet this very surrender draws us into Christ’s own self-emptying (kenosis), into the poverty of the Word made flesh, who knocks patiently at the door of every heart. In this profound act of spiritual hospitality, listening is no longer passive—it becomes adoration, an interior liturgy where God is given space to act as God. Here, in this humble assent, the soul becomes the new Bethlehem where Christ is born again in time and eternity (cf. Phil 2:5–11, CCC 2716).

Theologically, listening binds us to the communion of saints, those men and women who became transparent to the Divine Word not by speaking more, but by being more—by becoming docile instruments of grace. The Church, in her deepest identity, is a listening Bride. She receives before she proclaims, contemplates before she evangelizes. This Marian character of the Church—silently conceiving the Word in faith—is the model for every soul entrusted with shepherdship in any form. Whether priest or parent, bishop or catechist, spiritual director or mentor, one must learn first to listen with the heart of Christ before speaking with His voice. The saints remind us that holiness begins not in doing but in becoming—a transformation born of listening to the Eternal Will in prayer and sacrament, in the cries of the poor, in the needs of the wounded Church. Listening is the divine pedagogy by which God raises apostles who can carry both truth and tenderness, justice and mercy. In this, the Church becomes the ear of God in a suffering world—attentive to war-torn lands like Palestine, to souls crushed by injustice, to the unheard cry of the abandoned and voiceless (cf. Lumen Gentium 1, CCC 2030).

Philosophically, to listen is to accept that the self is not the originator of meaning, but its receiver and steward. In a postmodern age skeptical of absolutes, listening is countercultural; it implies that there is something—and Someone—worth receiving. As Romano Guardini noted, the true listener becomes “a vessel of sacred silence,” not because he has no voice, but because he understands that wisdom does not erupt, it unfolds. Listening invites us to dwell in the space where love precedes logic, where presence precedes comprehension. It is the metaphysical humility that marks the saints—not a silence of apathy, but of reverence. The Word does not force His way in; He knocks. And blessed are those who hear that knock and open. For in opening, we do not just welcome truth; we become living hosts of it. To listen is already to believe, already to say ‘Fiat,’ already to dwell in the mystery of Divine intimacy, where the eternal Word is heard not through noise, but through love echoing in silence (cf. Rev 3:20, CCC 1779).

Prayer

O our Adorable Jesus, give us hearts that listen as the saints listened—silently, reverently, and with burning love. Silence every noise within us that resists Your Word. Let our listening become union, our stillness become sanctuary, and our openness become Your dwelling place. Bless us, that we may be wholly Yours. Amen.

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