Always in the Presence of Jesus

Divine Appeal Reflection - 12

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 12: "... put yourself always in My Presence."

To dwell unceasingly in the Presence of the Adorable Jesus is to awaken within the soul the Eden that was never truly lost, but veiled—where divine intimacy once breathed freely, and where Love now longs to walk again in the cool of our interior garden. To live always in the Presence of God is to awaken to the most fundamental truth of existence: God is not distant, but nearer to us than we are to ourselves (cf. CCC 300). The entire spiritual life unfolds from this realization — that the Creator continually sustains His creature by the breath of His own Being. This nearness is not sentimental; it is ontological. To “put oneself” in His Presence, then, is to align one’s consciousness with Reality itself. Sin, distraction, and self-preoccupation distort this awareness, casting the soul into forgetfulness. But grace restores vision — enabling us to perceive the Eternal within the transient. The saints lived in this awareness not because they felt God, but because they believed Him to be there. Faith becomes the eye that pierces appearance. Moses before the burning bush, Mary before the overshadowing Spirit, and John at the bosom of Jesus — all stood in the same uncreated light, perceiving that Being Himself invites communion. To remain in this Presence is to let one’s thoughts, affections, and will be continually magnetized by Love. Every moment becomes Eucharistic: a meeting of the finite and Infinite, a sanctification of time through divine indwelling.

Presence is not achieved by sensory consolation, but by intentional attention to the One Who Is. It is the contemplative stance of faith that allows the soul to “pray at all times” (cf. Lk 18:1). The desert fathers called it nepsis—watchfulness: the art of guarding the heart. In practice, it means cultivating a sacred interior rhythm — short, loving recollections throughout the day, quiet glances toward the tabernacle, and silent invocations like “Jesus, You are here.” This habit becomes a spiritual muscle that resists dispersion. Thomas Aquinas taught that the intellect must rest in the First Truth to find peace; the will must adhere to the Supreme Good to be rightly ordered (cf. Summa Theologiae I-II, q.3). Thus, recollection unites intellect, will, and memory into a single act of worship. Even amid noise or emotion, the soul can withdraw inwardly, like the Blessed Virgin who “kept all things, pondering them in her heart.” To live in Presence is to interiorize prayer so completely that thought itself becomes adoration. The Presence does not depend on stillness around us, but on stillness within us — a sanctuary built not of walls, but of attention illumined by love.

To “put oneself in His Presence” during pain is the summit of spiritual maturity. Suffering tempts us to self-absorption, yet Presence redirects pain toward participation in the Cross. When Jesus hung abandoned, He still prayed — not because He felt God near, but because He knew the Father was near (cf. Ps 22:1). Presence in darkness is the supreme act of theological hope: believing in Light when only shadow is visible. This awareness does not remove suffering; it transfigures it into communion. In such surrender, the soul learns divine solidarity — discovering that God’s nearness is most intense when least felt. The mystics called this naked faith—a love purified of all consolation. The Eucharist teaches the same mystery: the Host is silent, veiled, and immovable, yet infinitely present. So too the soul, remaining faithful in inner aridity, becomes a living monstrance. In every tear, the hidden Christ prays within. When grief, temptation, or fatigue threaten recollection, one need only lift the heart, whisper “You are here,” and the sacred order of grace is restored. Presence thus becomes both shield and sacrifice, turning human limitation into divine habitation.

The ultimate fruit of constant Presence is transparency: the human person becomes a living revelation of the invisible God. As Augustine wrote, “Return to your heart, and there you will find Him.” The indwelt soul becomes what it contemplates — radiant with quiet sanctity. This Presence is not for private peace alone but for apostolic radiance. Every Christian, by baptism, carries within the Trinity’s dwelling (cf. CCC 260). Hence, to live aware of that indwelling is to become a tabernacle in motion, a silent proclamation of Emmanuel. The priest praying before his people, the nurse holding a dying hand, the mother soothing her child — all become sacraments of the unseen Christ. In a culture enslaved to speed and noise, such recollected souls bear prophetic witness to the stillness of God. Their peace reproves the world more deeply than argument. The mission of modern holiness, therefore, is not spectacular action, but continuous Presence — the hidden radiance of hearts that live before the Eucharistic Face even when unseen. To “put oneself always in His Presence” is to live already as one risen, moving through time illumined by eternity.

Prayer

O Adorable Jesus, draw us ceaselessly into the silence of Your Presence. Teach us to live beneath Your gaze, faithful in hiddenness and radiant in love. May our work, our suffering, and our rest become sanctuaries for You. Keep us recollected amid distraction, until our hearts burn wholly with Your Eucharistic nearness.

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