When the Eucharist Is Stolen

Divine Appeal Reflection - 24

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 24:  "My Divine Sacrament is always stolen by them. Just like Judas they sell Me yet I came to save them."

This Appeal is not spoken from accusation but from wounded love. Jesus does not say they reject Me—He says they steal Me. Theft implies closeness, familiarity, even trust. Judas did not seize the Eucharist through violence or open rebellion; he remained close to Jesus while slowly consenting to an inward distance. Scripture notes almost in passing that he held the common purse, yet this quiet detail unveils a long formation of the heart—hands trained to weigh silver until they forgot the weight of grace (cf. Jn 12:6). In monastic wisdom, this is the most dangerous form of infidelity: not departure, but divided presence. Many souls know this silence well. We come to the altar faithfully, our bodies kneeling, our lips reverent, while the heart shelters a private enclosure where Christ is not permitted to reign. You may remain here, Lord—but not there.

 The Eucharist is not profaned only by grave public sin, but by concealed refusal—resentments carefully guarded, addictions quietly justified, pride left untouched, dishonesty baptized by habit.The Catechism cautions that Eucharistic communion requires interior truth, not the choreography of devotion (cf. CCC 1385).In such moments, Christ is not rejected outright; He is received under conditions. Monastic tradition names this as spiritual theft: to take the Bread of Life while withholding one’s life. Yet even here, the mystery remains severe and merciful. Jesus still allows Himself to be placed into wounded hands, not because He is deceived, but because He waits. The Eucharist endures our slowness, but it does not bless our divisions. It calls the soul, patiently and relentlessly, toward undivided truth. Saints like Charles de Foucauld described this as “living beside Jesus without living from Him.” In daily life, this theft is very human: a parent exhausted and bitter, receiving Communion but refusing tenderness; a worker praying yet justifying small injustices; a consecrated soul faithful externally but inwardly numb. Jesus allows Himself to be taken into such hearts because His desire to save exceeds His desire to be defended. The sorrow of the Appeal is not that He is taken, but that He is not allowed to change us once He enters.

Why is the Eucharist sold? Because the human heart fears losing control. Every Christian faces this same interior crossroad. We sell the Eucharist when we turn Communion into reassurance instead of surrender. Judas did not want a suffering Messiah; he wanted outcomes, clarity, power. When Jesus refused to conform, Judas cashed out(cf. Mt 26:14–16) . When that cost feels too high, the Sacrament is quietly reduced to comfort. For professionals, this sale happens when success matters more than conscience. For students, when integrity is sacrificed to pressure. For priests and ministers, when the Eucharist becomes a function rather than a flame. Saint John Vianney wept over communicants who received Christ but refused conversion, saying, “They leave Him at the door of their lives.” Scripture shows this tragedy in the rich young man who desired eternal life but walked away when possessions were threatened (cf. Mk 10:21–22). Practically, Jesus is sold every time we say yes at the altar and no in our choices. Yet He does not withdraw. He remains, hoping that love will eventually soften what fear has hardened.

The Eucharist is also stolen when its suffering is ignored. “This is My Body, given up for you” (cf. Lk 22:19) reveals that Communion is inseparable from sacrifice. Judas accepted the Body but rejected the path of self-emptying. Many believers desire Eucharistic closeness without Eucharistic crucifixion. The Catechism explains that the Eucharist draws us into Christ’s offering to the Father (cf. CCC 1368). When daily crosses are resisted—patience with illness, fidelity in dryness, forgiveness when wounded—the Sacrament is stripped of its transformative power. Saints who lived close to Calvary understood this deeply. Saint Teresa of Calcutta taught that the Eucharist extends itself in small, hidden sacrifices offered with love. In family life, theft occurs when prayer is maintained but self-gift is withheld. In marriage, when vows are honored publicly but neglected privately. In suffering, when bitterness replaces offering. The Eucharist does not wait for flawless souls but for truthful ones. Christ consents to enter wounded and divided hearts because He knows that pain united to Him can restore what human effort alone cannot heal. Scripture places Judas and Peter side by side: both fell, yet only one let grief open the door to conversion (cf. Lk 22:62).

This Appeal also exposes a collective tenderness: the Eucharist is stolen when reverence fades into routine. The moment the holy turns into a routine, we can lose the sense of awe without even realizing it. The Catechism urges the soul to go back to the practices of giving prior thought, being quietly still, and attending to the Eucharist with adoration (cf. CCC 1378, 1387). It was hardly imaginable for saints such as Francis of Assisi, who had the greatest devotion, that the Lord of the universe would actually want to be very close, very unprotected, and even very simply accessible to the touch of man. For catechists, when doctrine is taught without awe. For liturgical servants, when service replaces prayer. For leaders, when public piety masks private compromise. Scripture recalls how sacred things were mishandled when treated casually, not maliciously (cf. 1 Sam 4). Yet Jesus remains. “I came to save them” reveals a God who chooses vulnerability over distance. Practically, this Appeal invites simple remedies: pausing before Communion, frequent reconciliation, time before the tabernacle. When reverence is restored within, the Eucharist ceases to be stolen and begins again to be received as fire—gentle, purifying, and demanding love in return.

At its deepest level, Divine Appeal 24 reveals mercy’s strange patience. Jesus knows He will be sold, yet He gives Himself anyway. Like Joseph betrayed by his brothers yet becoming their salvation(cf. Gen 50:20) , Christ allows human infidelity to become the very place redemption unfolds. More demanding still, it means allowing Communion to shape costly choices: refusing unethical gain even when finances are tight, stepping away from relationships that compromise conscience, accepting professional loss rather than betraying truth, remaining present in a difficult marriage or vocation, and trusting God’s providence when obedience appears to threaten security rather than protect it. For the young, it means resisting the slow normalization of sin. For workers, refusing corruption. For the elderly and sick, offering dependence and pain as participation in Christ’s gift. Saints teach that the Eucharist works slowly, like leaven, when received with humility. Judas fled despair; Peter stayed in sorrow. Every Communion invites that same choice. Christ is still stolen, still sold—but always still saving. This Appeal does not arise from judgment but from a wounded tenderness that seeks full communion. The Eucharist is not asking to be taken and fitted into our plans, but to be trusted enough to shape our lives from within.This Appeal is not a rebuke but a gentle call to stop holding back and finally come home.

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus, so patient in Your Eucharistic humility, forgive us for receiving You without fully surrendering to You. Enter our compromises, our fears, our divided loves. Do not withdraw from us. Remain, heal us, and teach our lives to echo the gift we receive. Amen

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