Not Deserting Jesus, Offering Him Shelter

Divine Appeal Reflection  - 97

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 97: "I beg you not to desert Me when I leave you as a prey to anguish. I have come to obtain shelter and to preach to you My feelings."

There are moments in the spiritual life when everything becomes profoundly personal—when faith is no longer something we hold, but something that holds us, wounds us,(cf. Heb 4:12; cf. Jer 20:7) and quietly reshapes us from within . It is in such depths that this Appeal is born. Our Adorable Jesus does not remain distant or untouchable; He draws near with a disarming closeness, revealing a Heart that freely chooses to feel the weight of human absence . This is not weakness, but the revelation of divine love in its most vulnerable form—a love that does not shield itself from rejection, but opens itself completely to it (cf. Phil 2:7–8; cf. Rev 3:20). Like in Gethsemane, where His anguish was not only physical but relational—yearning for companionship yet remaining alone —so here He allows the soul to glimpse something of that same interior solitude. His plea, “do not desert Me,” is not confined to the past; it enters into the hidden fabric of our lives—into fatigue, interior battles, silent disappointments—where the temptation to withdraw, to become distant, quietly emerges (cf. Ps 42:6; cf. Lk 22:45). The Catechism (cf. CCC 162; 164; 2731) teaches that faith is tested not to weaken it, but to purify and anchor it more deeply in God until it becomes a living surrender . And it is precisely here, in this purification, that Jesus is most intimately present—though not always perceptible (cf. Isa 45:15). Like the Blessed Virgin Mary who remained in silent, pierced fidelity beneath the Cross , the soul is invited into a love that is profoundly human and divinely sustained: to remain. To stay when prayer feels empty (cf. CCC 2731), when words fail (cf. Rom 8:26), when love no longer consoles,(cf. Mt 7:13–14) when the world offers easier paths that demand less sacrifice . This remaining is not passive—it is a quiet, courageous consent, a fidelity that chooses presence over escape (cf. Heb 10:36). And in that fragile yet persevering “yes,” the soul begins to share in Christ’s own love—not the love that depends on feeling, but the love that endures, that abides, that remains (cf. Jn 15:9–13). In this way, what appears as emptiness becomes a hidden communion, where the human heart meets the Heart of Christ in a silence filled with grace, and a darkness already bearing the dawn of resurrection .

When Jesus says He comes “to obtain shelter,” He unveils a mystery so profound that it overturns human expectations: the Infinite God seeks refuge within the finite human heart . This continues the humility of the Eucharist,(cf. Jn 6:56; cf. CCC 1374) where Christ entrusts Himself to human response under hidden signs . Divine love does not impose—it waits, it asks, it desires to be received. St. Teresa of Avila speaks of the soul as an interior dwelling where God longs to remain, yet often finds distraction, noise,(cf. Jn 14:23) or closed doors . To offer shelter, then, is to create interior space—through attention, through humility,(cf. Ps 51:17) through a willingness to let Him enter even into unfinished, imperfect places . In daily life, this shelter is often built in difficult and very concrete situations. It is the student who refuses to join in mocking another, even at the cost of being excluded (cf. Mt 5:11–12); the young person who chooses silence instead of reacting in anger during conflict at home (cf. Prov 15:1); the one who remains honest when pressured to compromise for success (cf. Prov 10:9); the person who resists the pull of constant distraction and instead chooses a moment of recollection (cf. Ps 46:10). It is also found in quieter struggles: staying present to prayer when the mind wanders repeatedly (cf. CCC 2729), returning to God after failure without giving in to discouragement (cf. Mic 7:8), choosing forgiveness when hurt lingers (cf. Eph 4:32), (cf. Mt 6:6)or offering hidden emotional burdens without seeking recognition . The Catechism(cf. CCC 901; cf. 1 Pet 2:5) teaches that such ordinary acts, united to Christ, become spiritual sacrifices . In this way, every vocation, every interior battle, becomes a living tabernacle—where Jesus is not only welcomed, but quietly consoled by a love that chooses Him in the midst of real life.

The phrase “I leave you as a prey to anguish” touches the deepest interior layers of the soul, where faith no longer rests on clarity but is asked to stand within darkness (cf. Ps 88:3–6). Yet this is not abandonment—it is a mysterious participation in the Cross. Our Adorable Jesus Himself entered into the depths of human desolation, crying out in apparent distance from the Father (cf. Mt 27:46), not because love had ceased,(cf. Heb 2:10) but because love was reaching its most hidden and redemptive form . In this light, anguish becomes a place where the soul is invited to share, however faintly, in that same mystery. St. John of the Cross describes this as a night of purification, where attachments, illusions, and even spiritual consolations are gently removed so that love may become pure, (cf. Jn 12:24) stripped of self-seeking . What feels like loss is often a deeper preparation for union . In daily life, this anguish takes very real and human forms: confusion about one’s direction (cf. Prov 3:5–6), feeling unseen or misunderstood among peers (cf. Ps 142:4), the quiet weight of trying to remain faithful in environments that do not support or understand faith (cf. Jn 15:18–19). It may also appear in interior struggles—prayer that feels empty, efforts that seem fruitless, or a longing for God that is not immediately consoled (cf. CCC 2731). Yet within all this, Jesus is not absent—He is intimately present in a hidden way,(cf. Isa 45:15) inviting trust beyond what can be felt . Like Job, who remained faithful without full understanding (cf. Job 2:10), the soul learns a deeper surrender. Thus, what feels like interior heaviness, silence in prayer, emotional fatigue, or the hidden burden of daily trials can become a “hidden altar” where the soul stands before God without needing words or strength (cf. Ps 62:1–2). It is often precisely in these unspoken moments—when no one sees and even the heart feels unable to pray—that love becomes most simple and most real (cf. Rom 8:26). The soul, stripped of consolation, remains present, and that very presence becomes its offering. In this way, Christ is not distant from human suffering; He is mysteriously present within it,(cf. Gal 2:20) receiving it and uniting it to His own self-gift on the Cross . And the person, even without fully understanding how, is quietly drawn into His redemptive love for the world,(cf. CCC 1521) where even hidden fidelity becomes part of His work of salvation .

It begins in a way the human heart does not expect: not in loud revelation, but in the quiet intrusion of a Presence that speaks from within ordinary struggle—“I have come to preach to you My feelings.” This is Jesus entering the interior rhythm of daily life, not as an observer, but as One who shares His own Heart with the soul (cf. Jn 15:15). He is not asking for abstract devotion; He is drawing the person into His own interior world—His longing, His sorrow,(cf. Lk 15:7) His joy over even hidden acts of love . This transforms prayer from speaking about God into being with God in what He feels. In very concrete life moments, this becomes startlingly real. It is the nurse in a crowded hospital ward who quietly continues caring for a difficult patient even when no one notices,(cf. Mt 25:40) and in that hidden fidelity senses a deeper compassion rising within her . It is the college student sitting in a noisy classroom where everything competes for attention,(cf. Ps 46:10) choosing instead a brief interior return to God before reacting in frustration . It is the parent cleaning up repeated messes at home with fatigue in the body but patience slowly deepening in the heart (cf. Col 3:13). It is even the person scrolling through constant noise on a phone, suddenly pausing—not because of obligation, but because something within becomes aware of being “seen” and gently called back (cf. Heb 4:13). In these very human, often unglamorous places, Christ does not remain outside. He enters them as One who communicates His own interior life, shaping reactions, softening judgments, and awakening love where irritation or numbness would normally take over. The Catechism(cf. CCC 1822) teaches that charity is the soul of Christian life and mission , but here that charity is shown as something deeper still: not merely what we do for God, but what we receive from His own Heart and then allow to pass through our lives. When Jesus “preaches His feelings” within the soul, He quietly re-educates the heart in love—until even ordinary decisions begin to carry His presence into the world .

To not desert Jesus is not first a heroic gesture, but a very human struggle lived in the ordinary fragility of the heart—a daily, sometimes painful decision to remain when everything within feels tired, distracted,(cf. Mt 26:41) or unsure . It is the quiet battle between love that endures and love that slowly slips away through neglect. Our Adorable Jesus does not speak here as one far away, but as One who knows this interior struggle from within human experience itself—He has felt abandonment, silence, (cf. Mt 27:46)and the weight of being misunderstood . That is why His Appeal does not accuse; it gently reveals how love can be quietly lost, not in a single moment,(cf. Rev 2:4) but in small inner withdrawals of the heart . The difference between Judas and John is not only moral, but deeply relational: one allowed despair to isolate him from mercy,(cf. Jn 19:26–27) while the other remained close even when everything collapsed externally . Remaining is not strength in the world’s sense—it is love refusing to let go even when it feels almost empty. In daily life, this mystery is painfully familiar. It is the parent who continues caring for family duties while feeling emotionally drained, yet still chooses gentleness in one more moment (cf. Col 3:12–13). It is the seminarian who sits with distraction and inner fatigue but still turns the heart back to God for a brief second of honesty (cf. Ps 34:18). It is the person who feels spiritually dry in prayer, tempted to stop, but instead stays just long enough to say, “I am here, Lord,” even without emotion (cf. Rom 8:26). It is also the quiet struggle of forgiving someone inwardly when the memory still hurts, or resisting the instinct to withdraw from prayer when life feels heavy. The Catechism (cf. CCC 162; 2010) reminds us that perseverance is sustained by grace, not self-confidence , meaning even the smallest act of staying is already grace at work. Eucharistically, this “remaining” becomes very concrete: sitting before the Blessed Sacrament not because the heart is full,(cf. Jn 6:68) but because love chooses presence over feeling . Mystically, it becomes the hidden offering of oneself as a “small host”—fragile, unnoticed, yet placed deliberately near His Heart (cf. Rom 12:1). In this quiet fidelity, something profound happens: the soul discovers that even in its poverty, it is not alone. Christ is not only the One it remains with—He is also the One who has been remaining with the soul all along .

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus, we desire not to leave You alone in Your sorrow. Let us stay united to Your Heart and share Your interior feelings for souls. Send us as Your witnesses, even in weakness, that our lives may speak of Your love where words cannot reach. Amen.

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