Consummation in Christ

Divine Appeal Reflection - 156

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 156:  "Consummate yourself in Me. I command you, take action against evil and infirmity."

“Consummate yourself in Me” is not simply an invitation to become a better Christian; it is a summons to allow Christ to become the principle, atmosphere and final form of one's entire existence. Jesus does not merely desire to occupy a compartment of our lives reserved for prayer. He desires to penetrate the roots of our being until our thoughts, desires, decisions, memories, relationships and sufferings gradually acquire the shape of His own Heart. This is the mystery of abiding in Christ (cf. Jn 15:4–10). St Paul describes it as Christ living within the believer (cf. Gal 2:20), while St Peter speaks of becoming participants in the divine nature by grace (cf. 2 Pet 1:4). The Catechism(CCC 1996–2000) presents sanctifying grace as participation in God's own life . Thus consummation is not self-perfection; it is self-surrender into Divine Life. The soul ceases trying to manufacture holiness and begins permitting Christ to reproduce His holiness within it. The Eucharist reveals this mystery with extraordinary clarity. The Host is completely possessed by Christ, yet Christ gives Himself completely for others. Therefore, to become Eucharistic is to become increasingly possessed by God and increasingly available to others. A mother changing a child's clothes, a priest hearing a confession, a student resisting temptation, a worker performing an unnoticed duty, or a religious sister persevering in hidden prayer can all become places of consummation when performed in Christ. The soul gradually discovers that holiness is not an escape from ordinary life, but the mystery of allowing Christ to inhabit, transform, and sanctify the ordinary from within .

There is a hidden battlefield within every human heart, a sanctuary where the decisive movements of life often occur before they become visible to anyone else. Sin may begin as a thought quietly entertained, a desire secretly welcomed, or an interior consent given long before it becomes an outward action; likewise, charity often begins as a small movement of grace that the soul can either welcome or resist (cf. Mk 7:20–23; Prov 4:23). Our Adorable Jesus therefore seeks not merely our external conduct but the deepest chamber where thoughts are conceived, affections take root, and decisions are mysteriously formed. The Catechism presents the heart as the dwelling place of the person, where we encounter God and make our fundamental choices (cf. CCC 2562–2563). Here lies one of the most sobering mysteries of spiritual life: a person may appear devout before others while another kingdom quietly governs within. One may attend Mass while secretly feeding resentment, receive Holy Communion while refusing reconciliation, kneel in prayer while thirsting for admiration, or serve generously while inwardly longing to be noticed . “Consummate yourself in Me” therefore reaches beneath religious appearances and enters the places we rarely allow anyone to see. It is Christ saying, in the silence of the heart:(cf. Ps 139:23–24; Lk 12:2–3) surrender the memory you continually replay, the wound you secretly protect, the fear you refuse to entrust to Me, the ambition you cannot release, and the interior conversations through which you repeatedly judge, defend, or exalt yourself . Elijah discovered the presence of God not in the overwhelming manifestations surrounding him but in the profound silence before which his soul became attentive (cf. 1 Kgs 19:11–13). St. Elizabeth of the Trinity contemplated the soul as an interior dwelling of the Blessed Trinity, revealing that the deepest monastery may be hidden within the heart itself . Contemplation therefore begins not when thoughts disappear, but when thoughts cease to become rival masters. Anxiety can become surrender, memory can become thanksgiving, disappointment can become intercession, temptation can become fidelity, and silence can become adoration . Gradually, the heart becomes a living sanctuary in which Christ is not merely visited but continually welcomed, and from that hidden sanctuary His presence begins to pass quietly into the home, office, classroom, marketplace, hospital, convent, parish, and every ordinary place where the soul is sent .

The second part of the appeal prevents mystical spirituality from becoming passive or sentimental: “I command you, take action against evil and infirmity.” Our Adorable Jesus does not ask the soul merely to contemplate darkness but to confront it through the power of grace. Christian mysticism is inseparable from spiritual combat, because deeper union with Christ demands greater vigilance against whatever resists His reign. The Christian life is a hidden warfare requiring discernment, endurance, and steadfastness . The first battlefield is not the world outside us but the secret sanctuary within, where thoughts become desires, desires become choices, and choices gradually shape the spiritual direction of the person . Habitual sin, unforgiveness, impurity, pride, jealousy, dishonesty, gossip, spiritual negligence, addictions, hatred, and deliberate compromise with conscience can become small openings through which darkness gains influence over the soul . We cannot ask Christ to cast darkness out of society while protecting darkness within ourselves (cf. Mt 7:3–5). The soul must first allow the light of Christ to penetrate those hidden chambers where even religious appearances can conceal wounds, attachments, ambitions, and resistances to grace (cf. Ps 139:23–24; Heb 4:12–13). Yet spiritual combat is not merely defensive;(cf. Rom 12:21; 2 Cor 5:20) the soul united with Christ becomes an instrument through which His victory enters wounded places in the world . St. Ignatius of Loyola perceived the necessity of discerning the movements of consolation and desolation, while St. John of the Cross revealed how even apparently good attachments can quietly prevent the soul from belonging entirely to God . Thus warfare often hides beneath ordinary moments: refusing to return anger for anger, turning away from impurity, speaking truth when dishonesty is profitable, remaining silent when gossip would elevate us, forgiving when the wound still aches, returning humbly to Confession, fasting from whatever has begun to possess the heart, and praying for the person we secretly wish to condemn . Each such surrender becomes a small victory of Christ within the soul . A family becomes a sanctuary of spiritual warfare when one person refuses to continue a cycle of resentment; a workplace becomes holy ground when integrity survives pressure; a prayer group becomes a place of grace when rivalry gives way to charity; a parish becomes spiritually radiant when wounded members choose communion instead of factions . The mystical soul therefore does not seek escape from the battlefield; it allows Christ to transform the battlefield itself into an altar where love conquers darkness (cf. Rom 8:37; CCC 618). It does not merely avoid evil; it carries the presence of Christ into places where His light is most needed .

One of the deepest tests of whether Christ truly reigns in us is what happens when our plans are interrupted. Jesus continually allowed unexpected people and events to enter His earthly journey: Bartimaeus cried out on the road (cf. Mk 10:46–52); Jairus interrupted His journey with an urgent appeal (cf. Mk 5:21–43); children disrupted the disciples' expectations (cf. Mt 19:13–15). Christ transformed interruptions into encounters with the Father's will. This is profoundly relevant to modern life. A delayed journey, demanding child, sick parent, difficult colleague, cancelled appointment, financial problem or unexpected visitor may feel like an enemy of our peace. Yet Divine Providence can hide grace precisely inside what we did not choose (cf. CCC 302–314). St. Joseph lived almost entirely through interruptions:(cf. Mt 1:18–25; 2:13–23) a mysterious pregnancy, an unexpected command to flee, exile in Egypt and years of hidden work at Nazareth . He did not possess complete explanations; he possessed obedience. The same mystery applies to incompleteness. Abraham did not see the fullness of the promise;(cf. Heb 11:8–16; Deut 34:1–5; 2 Sam 7:1–17) Moses saw the Promised Land without entering it; David desired to build the Temple but another would accomplish it . Our unfinished stories can become hidden sanctuaries of consummation, where Christ completes what earthly life leaves incomplete. Some prayers remain within silence, some wounds stay tender for years, some vocations carry sacrifices unseen, and some dreams quietly die without explanation. (cf. Ps 13:1–6; Rom 8:24–26) Yet nothing surrendered to Our Adorable Jesus is wasted; He can transform unanswered prayers into deeper trust, wounds into places of communion, hidden sacrifices into intercession, and losses into pathways of divine union. (cf. Rom 8:28; Col 1:24) What appears unfinished to us may already be becoming the very place where Christ is bringing His hidden work to perfection (cf. Phil 1:6; 2 Cor 4:17–18). This is Christian hope (cf. CCC 1817–1821). The soul does not need everything around it to be complete when Christ has become its completeness. The contemplative heart learns to say: “I do not understand this, but I can surrender it.” In that surrender, incompleteness becomes an altar.

The deepest interpretation of “Consummate yourself in Me” leads inevitably to the Eucharist. Christ does not merely invite us to receive Him; He desires that what we receive should progressively transform the way we exist. In Holy Communion, the glorified Christ enters the poverty of our humanity, and grace begins its hidden work within us (cf. Jn 6:51–58; CCC 1391–1397). The Eucharist teaches the soul the grammar of divine love: receive, surrender, be broken, and be given. The Host does not seek recognition. Jesus hidden beneath the Eucharistic species teaches us the holiness of remaining small, silent and completely available to the Father. This is why Eucharistic transformation challenges our desire for applause. A soul deeply united to Christ becomes increasingly content that God alone should see its sacrifice . The Eucharist therefore cannot remain confined to the church. After Communion, the Christian becomes a kind of living continuation of the altar: carrying patience into the home, truth into business, mercy into conflict, purity into the digital world, compassion into suffering and Christ's peace into frightened hearts. St Paul (cf. Rom 12:1) therefore speaks of offering the entire body as a living sacrifice . The Mass continues mysteriously through the Christian's daily self-gift. The nurse caring for a dying patient, the father patiently correcting his child, the mother praying through exhaustion, the priest remaining faithful to his people, the religious sister persevering in hidden intercession, the worker choosing honesty when dishonesty would profit—all can become Eucharistic offerings. To be consummated in Christ is finally to reach the point where one's life says, without words: “Jesus, live in me, act through me, suffer in me, love through me, and give Yourself through me.” Then the soul no longer merely carries Christ; it becomes, by grace, an instrument through which Christ continues His loving presence in the world.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, consummate us in Yourself. Enter every hidden chamber of our hearts, destroy whatever resists Your love, and make us courageous against evil. May our wounds, duties, interruptions and sacrifices become Eucharistic offerings, through which Your Heart reaches many souls and Your Kingdom triumphs . Amen.

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