Translate

More Prayer for Invigorating Souls

Divine Appeal Reflection - 188

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 188: "Pray more that souls may be invigorated with the love of My Heart."

There is a hidden mystery in “invigorated”: Our Adorable Jesus is not simply asking weakened souls to try harder, but inviting what has grown faint within them to receive fresh life (cf. Is 40:29–31; Ps 42:5). A priest may continue offering Mass while carrying silent exhaustion; a mother may serve faithfully while inwardly losing courage; a religious may maintain every observance while prayer becomes dry; a young person may kneel before the Blessed Sacrament while secretly believing holiness is beyond reach (cf. Mt 11:28–30; 1 Kgs 19:4–8; Rev 2:2–5). Outward fidelity can sometimes conceal an interior flame that is slowly fading. Christ therefore calls the soul not merely to greater effort, but back to the Source of its life (cf. Jn 15:4–5). Elijah reached such a threshold after Carmel. The prophet who had stood before fire from heaven eventually collapsed beneath an ordinary tree, (cf. 1 Kings 18:36-39; 19:1-13) and God met him first through tenderness before leading him deeper into silence . At Emmaus, the disciples were not without religious knowledge; they were without interior fire. Their eyes were unable to recognize Christ until His presence gradually transformed their despair . This reveals a profound apostolic principle: some souls do not need more information about God; they need an encounter with the God they already know about. The Catechism (CCC 2565) describes prayer as living communion with the Trinity . Therefore intercessory prayer becomes a hidden place where Christ can reach a soul beyond the limitations of our words. Saint Elizabeth of the Trinity perceived the soul as a sanctuary of the Divine Presence. The soul who prays for another consequently becomes, in a mysterious way, a doorway through which the forgotten fire of God may touch someone who has almost ceased expecting it.

The command “Pray more” contains another astonishing revelation: Jesus entrusts part of the spiritual welfare of souls to the hidden charity of others. This is the mystery of intercession within the Mystical Body. Moses remained between a wounded people and Divine Justice, pleading for mercy (cf. Exodus 32:30-34). Abraham stood before God carrying the fate of a city whose inhabitants did not know that someone was pleading for them (cf. Genesis 18:22-33). Job eventually prayed for the very friends who had misunderstood his suffering, and his prayer became part of his own restoration (cf. Job 42:7-10). The friends of the paralytic carried a man physically because he could not carry himself; their faith became, mysteriously, part of his encounter with Christ (cf. Mark 2:1-12). The Catechism calls intercession a prayer of petition that conforms us to Christ's own intercession (CCC 2634-2636). This means that when a mother kneels at midnight for a wayward child, she is doing more than expressing maternal concern; she is allowing her heart to participate in Christ's concern for that soul. When a priest spends his Holy Hour praying for unknown penitents, when a religious offers a Rosary for persecuted Christians, when a young person prays for a classmate who ridicules faith, when a sick person offers suffering for the conversion of sinners, a hidden exchange takes place within the Mystical Body. The soul that intercedes becomes spiritually porous to the needs of others. Saint Monica teaches the sanctity of persevering prayer, while Saint Gemma Galgani illustrates the possibility of offering prayer and suffering for souls. Perhaps the most beautiful consequence is that intercession slowly destroys spiritual isolation: another person's salvation becomes something we carry within our own prayer.

But the Appeal reaches its summit when Jesus identifies the source of this invigoration: “the love of My Heart.” He does not ask us merely to transmit encouragement, human affection, optimism, or emotional consolation. He asks that souls receive something proceeding from the very Heart of the Incarnate Word. Human love can become exhausted because it frequently depends upon reciprocity. Christ's love does not. He loves the sinner before conversion, the wounded before healing, the returning child before restoration, and the disciple even after failure (cf. Romans 5:6-8; John 21:15-19). The Catechism presents the Heart of Christ as the sign and symbol of the Redeemer's love (CCC 478). The Sacred Heart therefore becomes the school in which Christian love is purified. Zacchaeus discovered that an encounter with Christ had consequences for the money he possessed (cf. Luke 19:1-10). The Samaritan woman discovered that Divine Mercy could enter the most complicated areas of her history without reducing her identity to her wounds (cf. John 4:7-30). Peter discovered that after his denial, Christ's question would lead him from shame into renewed mission (cf. John 21:15-17). This is what it means for souls to be invigorated by the Heart of Jesus: they begin to receive His way of looking at people. The nurse begins seeing the difficult patient as a person rather than an inconvenience. The teacher sees the repeatedly failing child as a soul rather than a problem. The spouse stops measuring love by emotional reward. The employer refuses to use another person's weakness for personal advantage. Saints Gertrude the Great and Mechtilde of Hackeborn, immersed in devotion to the Heart of Christ, illuminate this transformation. The true miracle of Eucharistic prayer is not merely that Christ changes the circumstances around us, but that He gradually changes the heart with which we enter those circumstances.

The word “souls” opens yet another dimension. Jesus is not asking merely that successful Christians become stronger; He is concerned with those whose interior life is barely surviving. Some souls have been weakened by years of sin. Others by grief. Others by poverty, loneliness, family conflict, persecution, rejection, migration, imprisonment, or chronic disappointment. Others have become weary through carrying responsibilities nobody sees. Scripture contains people whose spiritual strength was almost exhausted before God reopened their future. Hagar sat beneath a bush believing that the end had come, yet God saw her and opened her eyes to a well she had not perceived (cf. Genesis 21:14-19). The widow of Zarephath possessed almost nothing, yet Divine Providence entered her poverty (cf. 1 Kings 17:8-16). The woman bent over for eighteen years encountered Christ and discovered that her long captivity had not made her invisible to God (cf. Luke 13:10-13). The disciples (cf. John 20:19-22; Acts 2:1-4) hiding behind locked doors were transformed from frightened men into witnesses through the gift of the Spirit . The Catechism teaches that the Holy Spirit awakens and strengthens the theological life within us . Therefore intercession should become profoundly particular. Pray for the seminarian who secretly wonders whether he has made a mistake. Pray for the mother who smiles publicly while grieving privately. Pray for the priest whose pastoral burdens have become heavier than anyone realizes. Pray for the young person who has fallen so many times that confession itself has become frightening. Pray for the elderly person whose body has become weak but whose soul may be carrying enormous grace. Pray for the prisoner who thinks society has forgotten him. Pray for the abandoned spouse who is tempted to become permanently bitter. Christ does not despise the smallest remaining flame; He knows how to breathe upon it until it becomes a fire.

The final mystery is perhaps the most beautiful: Jesus is teaching us to become custodians of spiritual life in one another. The Christian does not live only for his own sanctification. Through Baptism, every Christian belongs to the Mystical Body, and therefore another person's weakness becomes an invitation to charity rather than an excuse for judgment . Mary at Cana teaches this hidden sensitivity:(cf. John 2:1-11) she notices what others have failed to notice and carries the need toward Jesus . The widow (cf. Mark 12:41-44) who gives her small offering reveals how heaven measures love differently from the world. Epaphras(cf. Colossians 4:12) becomes a picture of hidden apostolic labour through persistent prayer for the maturity of others . A grandmother praying every evening for descendants may be building a cathedral invisible to history. A sick person offering pain for priests may be participating in an apostolate impossible through physical activity. A worker whispering a prayer before serving a difficult customer may be sanctifying an ordinary workplace. A religious making reparation before the Blessed Sacrament may be spiritually accompanying souls she will never meet. A father refusing to answer anger with anger may interrupt an inheritance of violence. A mother blessing a sleeping child may entrust an entire future to God. In this way prayer becomes a hidden circulation of Divine Love throughout the Mystical Body. Christ's Heart becomes the source; intercessory souls become channels; weakened souls become recipients; and the final glory belongs entirely to God. This is why Jesus says “Pray more.” He is not merely asking for more words. He is asking for more room in our hearts for His own intercession. Before the tabernacle, therefore, one can silently bring souls by name: Jesus, breathe upon this vocation. Revive this marriage. Strengthen this priest. Awaken this sinner. Console this widow. Protect this child. Restore this family. Rekindle this young heart. Remember the forgotten. We may never witness the answer. But somewhere, perhaps unknown to us, a soul may suddenly find strength to resist one temptation, make one confession, forgive one person, return to one Mass, remain faithful for one more day, or choose life instead of despair. The world may never know who carried that soul to the threshold of grace. Heaven will know. And perhaps this is one of the most hidden meanings of the Divine Appeal: Jesus asks us to pray more because somewhere within His Mystical Body, another soul is waiting for the grace that our prayer may help carry to it.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, kindle within us the fire of Your Heart and make us faithful guardians of the souls You place upon our path. Remember the weary, restore the fallen, strengthen priests, protect children, revive families, awaken sinners, console the forgotten, and let our hidden prayers become channels through which Your Divine Love reaches souls we may never know. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 188

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1


“My love cannot be overcome by any obstacle.” “I love mankind so much.”

“Listen, My daughter, My love cannot be overcome by any obstacle. I was conceived by love so that mankind may prepare themselves for great mysteries. I love mankind so much and this gives Me great joy to stay among mankind under the form of food. I willed that upon earth souls may share in My sacramental life where I dispose Myself and remain day and night in the prison of My tabernacle. I love mankind so much. I need them to know that love does not rest until it has given and united itself to the object it loves.

The Sacrament of My Love is a mystery which exceeds all powers. I hide my countenance so that many may have a good chance to practice faith. Assure souls that it is My great love for mankind that I expose Myself to all humanity. I call each and every soul to be united to Me in the Church and defend it at this grave moment. Pray more that souls may be invigorated with the love of My Heart.  Time is short for saving souls.”

12.00 a.m., 25th July 1988

Copyright © 2015 The Late Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir | Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya. All rights reserved. Reproduced by adivineappeal.com from "On the Eucharist: A Divine Appeal" (Vol. 1).

Corruption from Godless Consciences

Divine Appeal Reflection - 187


Today, consider in Divine Appeal 187: "The obstinacy of long ago continues to dominate and exist in My Church... With godless consciences corruption has reached the limit."

The words of this Appeal descend into one of the most hidden mysteries of the spiritual life: a soul can remain outwardly religious while becoming inwardly resistant to God. “The obstinacy of long ago continues” reveals that what was once a wound can become a habit, what was once tolerated can become a culture, and what was once resisted can eventually appear normal. Pharaoh saw signs and remained hardened (cf. Ex 7–14); Israel tasted manna from heaven and still returned to murmuring (cf. Ex 16:2–8; Num 14:1–4). Yet Jonah reveals something even subtler: he knew God's mercy, but resisted the manner in which God desired to distribute it (cf. Jon 4:1–11). His heart had become unable to rejoice in a mercy that exceeded his expectations. Here lies a hidden form of obstinacy: the soul no longer permits God to surprise it. We can unconsciously construct a God who agrees with our preferences, blesses our judgments, confirms our plans and forgives according to our calculations. We may pray for conversion while secretly asking God to convert everyone except ourselves. We may desire holiness provided it does not disturb our comfort. Grace is never merely an ornament placed upon an otherwise unchanged life; it is God's living action drawing the soul beyond its present limits and into deeper conformity with Christ . The unsettling question is therefore profoundly personal: Can Jesus still contradict me? Can He ask me to forgive when my wounded heart demands justice, surrender when I insist on control, remain hidden when I hunger for recognition, speak gently when I feel justified in retaliating, or love someone whom I have already condemned within myself (cf. Mt 5:44–48; Lk 6:27–36; Rom 12:17–21)? Here prayer becomes more than consolation; it becomes the place where Christ touches the resistance of the will and invites the soul beyond what it would naturally choose . Obstinacy begins when our own certainty becomes more precious to us than obedience to God's truth. The soul can kneel before God while secretly demanding that God agree with it. True surrender begins when we allow Him to correct our judgments, purify our desires, and lead us where self-love would never choose to go (cf. Prov 3:5–7; Is 55:8–9; Heb 12:5–11).

The words concerning “godless consciences” lead us into the most secret chamber of the human person. Conscience is sacred precisely because there God summons the person toward truth; it is not a private court where truth may be rewritten according to desire (cf. CCC 1776–1802). Yet something frightening can happen when truth is repeatedly resisted. The first compromise hurts. The second requires an explanation. The third becomes easier because the explanation has become familiar. Eventually the soul may cease defending the action because it has ceased noticing the wound. What once wounded the conscience can become part of the furniture of the soul. Scripture speaks of hearts becoming hardened and consciences losing their sensitivity . This is more mysterious than the mere presence of sin: the soul can gradually lose the inner sight by which it recognizes that it has drifted from God. Conscience can become accustomed to darkness until what once caused trembling is renamed prudence, necessity, affection, discipline, or even zeal (cf. Is 5:20; Eph 4:18–19; 1 Tim 4:2). A worker may manipulate figures and call it professional cleverness; a student may cheat repeatedly until integrity appears foolish; a married person may nurture an emotional attachment outside the covenant while continually calling it innocent friendship; a parent may wound a child through humiliation and defend it as discipline; a parish volunteer may reveal another's private weakness while presenting the disclosure as concern for the community . More subtly, the soul can surround itself with religious practices while avoiding the conversion those practices demand: many prayers without forgiveness, frequent devotions without restitution, Eucharistic reception without examination of conscience, service without charity, or spiritual conversation without obedience . The frightening point is that sin can eventually become invisible to the person who repeatedly excuses it. Prayer then becomes essential not merely for consolation but for illumination: before God, the soul asks Him to uncover what self-love has taught it not to see . Conversion begins when grace restores the capacity to call things by their true names. St. John Henry Newman emphasized the formation of conscience in truth, while St. Mary of Jesus Crucified manifested an extraordinary simplicity before God. The examination of conscience therefore needs a deeper question than “What have I done?” It must enter the silence beneath our excuses and ask: “What has stopped troubling me? What have I learned to defend that I once knew I needed to surrender? Where have I become incapable of being pierced by truth?” A living conscience trembles when grace touches it. A dying conscience explains why it should not tremble.

“The obstinacy of long ago continues to dominate and exist in My Church” also unveils the mystery of spiritual inheritance. Some patterns are consciously chosen; others are absorbed so gradually that people scarcely recognize them as patterns at all. A family can inherit anger. A community can inherit suspicion. An institution can inherit secrecy. A religious environment can inherit rivalry. A generation can normalize what the previous generation merely tolerated. Yet Scripture refuses to imprison the human person within inherited history (cf. Ezek 18:1–23). Joseph received betrayal from his brothers but refused to make betrayal his identity (cf. Gen 50:15–21). Ruth entered an unfamiliar people and became part of a history of redemption far greater than she could see (cf. Ruth 1:16–17; 4:13–17). St. Josephine Bakhita's life reveals with extraordinary force that what has happened to a person does not have to become the final definition of that person. Thus one soul can become a place where an old pattern loses its future. A father who refuses to raise his children through the violence he himself endured may be performing a hidden work of redemption. A mother who teaches children to apologize may be breaking an inheritance of pride. A priest who embraces transparency may interrupt a culture of concealment. A religious who refuses competition may change the atmosphere of an entire community. A young person who chooses truth where compromise has become normal may become the first place where an inherited pattern of darkness is interrupted. This reveals a quiet mystery of grace: God can begin a new history through the obedience of one heart . Renewal does not necessarily announce itself through crowds, programmes, or visible achievements. It may begin with someone kneeling beside a dying parent and praying for forgiveness, entering Confession after years of avoidance, apologising in the privacy of a kitchen, returning money obtained dishonestly, refusing to falsify a document at work, or remaining faithful to a vocation when no one notices . Joseph's fidelity preserved a future generation during famine (cf. Gen 45:5–8); Samuel's obedience opened a new prophetic chapter in Israel (cf. 1 Sam 3:9–21); Mary’s fiat became part of the mystery through which the Word entered human history . In the same hidden way, one parent who refuses to transmit hatred, one spouse who chooses fidelity after betrayal, one priest who renews his fidelity, or one young person who breaks with dishonesty can prevent an old pattern from being handed onward . The soul can become a threshold of grace through which Christ reaches a family, a vocation, a parish, and perhaps people the person will never know (cf. 1 Cor 3:6–9; Jn 12:24). What begins invisibly in one obedient heart can, under Providence, bear fruit far beyond that heart.

The words, “corruption has reached the limit,” should therefore awaken neither despair nor fascination with darkness, but a profound urgency for truth. Scripture repeatedly reveals hidden disorder so that healing may finally begin. Nathan brought David into the light of truth (cf. 2 Sam 12:1–13); Christ addressed the wounds of the churches in Revelation because He desired repentance and renewed fidelity (cf. Rev 2–3). Even Calvary, where human violence seemed to reach its terrible culmination, became the place where mercy opened its deepest door (cf. Lk 23:33–43). The opposite of corruption is therefore not merely increased activity. It is transparency before Christ. The soul stops protecting its image and brings everything into His light: resentment, ambition, jealousy, attachment, fear, impurity, wounds, failures, dryness and hidden compromises (cf. Jn 3:19–21; CCC 2711). St. Mary of Egypt demonstrates how completely grace can reorder a life surrendered to God, while St. Hildegard of Bingen shows how fidelity to the Church can coexist with courageous confrontation of spiritual disorder. Authentic renewal begins when we stop asking only, “Who is corrupt?” and allow Christ to ask, “Where have you become opaque to Me?” A priest may rediscover reverence at the altar. A religious may recover the tenderness of a forgotten vocation. A husband and wife may return to forgiveness before resentment becomes permanent. A young person may return to Confession before temptation becomes identity. A parish may rediscover silence before the tabernacle. A family may place the Rosary back into its evenings. These seemingly small movements can become enormous before God because they restore the soul's receptivity. The first miracle of reform is not that everything around us changes; it is that something within us becomes capable of being changed again.

Perhaps, then, the deepest meaning of this Appeal is hidden in the phrase “has reached the limit.” There are moments when God permits the exhaustion of our human solutions so that we may discover the beginning of divine healing. David's exposed sin became the doorway to repentance (cf. 2 Sam 12:13); Peter's collapse became the place where love was purified and his mission renewed (cf. Jn 21:15–19); Lazarus entered the silence of death before Christ revealed Himself as the Resurrection and the Life (cf. Jn 11:1–44). The limit is therefore not necessarily where grace ends; sometimes it is where our resistance is finally exposed. What must never reach its limit is the soul's willingness to return. A hardened heart can become tender again. A silent conscience can awaken. A family pattern can end. A priest can begin again. A religious can recover first love. A wounded parish can rediscover Eucharistic reverence. Mary shows the opposite of obstinacy: a heart sufficiently empty of self-possession to receive what God had never previously revealed to her (cf. Lk 1:26–38). Before the Eucharistic Christ, we are invited into that same poverty of spirit. We do not come to prove that we are good; we come to allow Him to make us truthful. We do not come merely to ask Him to change the world; we allow Him to change the place from which we encounter the world. The soul becomes transparent, receptive, teachable, correctable and therefore alive. Perhaps the most piercing prayer of this Appeal is consequently very simple: “Lord, do not allow us to become so accustomed to Your presence that Your grace can no longer move us.” Let us remain capable of wonder before the Eucharist, capable of repentance in Confession, capable of tenderness toward the wounded, capable of accepting correction, capable of forgiving, capable of beginning again. For when Jesus passes through our lives, the greatest sign that grace is alive may be this: our hearts still move when He touches them.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, enter the hidden places of our consciences and awaken what has become numb. Break every inherited pattern that resists Your grace. Restore our holy wonder, purify our intentions, soften our hearts, and make us transparent before You. May our families, vocations and communities become places where Your mercy begins anew. Amen.

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

Jesus’ Sweat of Blood and the Seriousness of Salvation

Divine Appeal Reflection - 187

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 187: "Meditate on how painful I underwent the  salvation of mankind, the degree of My sweat... drops of blood trickling down from My Face. I want mankind to know the seriousness of this state. I desire them to understand the inexorable justice of My Eternal Father."

“Meditate on how painful I underwent the salvation of mankind.” Jesus does not merely ask us to remember His Passion; He asks us to enter its mystery by meditation. There is a difference between knowing that Christ suffered and allowing the soul to stand spiritually beneath the weight of that suffering. Gethsemane is the place where eternity seems to become silent and the Son stands alone beneath the burden of humanity's refusal of Love (cf. Mt 26:36–46; Lk 22:39–46). The Incarnate Word, through whom all things were made, permits Himself to experience anguish within a human nature capable of suffering (cf. Jn 1:1–3; Phil 2:6–8). Saint Maximus the Confessor contemplated the mystery of Christ's humanity and divinity in profound union; the Church teaches that the Son's human will freely embraced the Father's saving will (cf. CCC 475; 609–612). Here lies the first mystical astonishment: the salvation of mankind passed through a Heart capable of feeling the cost of what mankind had done. Jesus knew the betrayal before Judas arrived. He knew the denial before Peter spoke. He knew the abandonment before the disciples fled. He knew the scourging, mockery and Crucifixion before they occurred. Yet He remained. A mother may remain beside a dying child when there is nothing more she can medically do. A priest may continue praying for a soul that repeatedly rejects every invitation to return. A spouse may continue choosing fidelity after trust has been wounded. These human situations offer only faint shadows of Gethsemane. The soul begins to understand that divine Love does not retreat merely because Love is refused. Christ remains before the mystery of human freedom, loving where Love will be rejected (cf. Rom 5:6–8).

“The degree of My sweat... drops of blood trickling down from My Face.” The extraordinary detail draws the soul toward the physical manifestation of an interior agony that surpasses ordinary comprehension. The Gospel records Christ's extreme anguish in prayer (cf. Lk 22:44), while Catholic devotion has contemplated this mystery as part of the Passion. But the deepest meditation should not become fascination with the phenomenon itself. The question is: What was pressing upon the Heart of Jesus? He was entering freely into the hour for which He had come, accepting the cup rather than fleeing from the human cost of redemption (cf. Jn 12:27–28). Saint Ephrem the Syrian contemplated the Passion with a sense of wonder before the humility of the Word made flesh. Saint Bridget of Sweden likewise developed a profound meditation upon Christ's Passion as a school of interior conversion. The sweat of Gethsemane becomes a profound mirror in which the soul begins to see the hidden weight of what it habitually minimises. What appears small to human eyes may carry a deep wound against love: a false signature can deprive a struggling family of its livelihood (cf. Jas 5:4; Lev 19:13); a cruel message sent in seconds can leave another person wounded long after the sender has forgotten it (cf. Prov 12:18; Eph 4:29); a whispered accusation can slowly destroy a reputation while the same lips continue to praise God (cf. Jas 3:5–10). An employer may call exploitation ordinary business while forgetting the dignity of the worker (cf. Deut 24:14–15; Jas 5:1–6); a spouse may protect resentment beneath the language of justified hurt (cf. Eph 4:31–32; Col 3:13); a Christian may repeatedly postpone prayer because of tiredness until communion with God gradually loses its place in the heart (cf. Mt 26:40–41; 1 Thess 5:17). Even a priest may discover that pastoral negligence has left souls without the guidance and care they needed, and respond through repentance, renewed fidelity, prayer, and reparation . Gethsemane teaches the conscience to measure life not merely by the apparent size of an action, but by the love it wounds or serves . Before the agony of Christ, the soul awakens to a sobering mystery: sin is never merely an isolated act; it is a refusal of love that wounds communion with God and neighbour .

“I want mankind to know the seriousness of this state.” This sentence moves the Appeal from Gethsemane into the mystery of humanity's spiritual condition. Jesus is not merely revealing that He suffered once; He is warning against a civilisation and a soul becoming accustomed to sin. The terrifying danger is not always dramatic rebellion. It is the gradual dulling of conscience. David's first glance toward Bathsheba became desire, then manipulation, then deception and finally death (cf. 2 Sam 11:1–17). Judas's story similarly reveals the possibility of an interior trajectory in which attachment can grow until betrayal becomes conceivable (cf. Jn 12:4–6; Mt 26:14–16). Esau's exchange of his birthright for immediate satisfaction becomes an image of humanity sacrificing something enduring for something momentary (cf. Gen 25:29–34). The mystical danger is therefore spiritual trivialisation: the soul stops being astonished by what separates it from God. A person no longer feels disturbed by missing prayer repeatedly. A family normalises contemptuous speech. A Catholic becomes comfortable receiving Communion without examining serious sin. A businessperson gradually regards corruption as necessary.  A community becomes entertained by another person's humiliation. A priest becomes accustomed to pastoral exhaustion until prayer becomes optional. The seriousness of the state lies in what repeated choices are forming within us. Saint John Henry Newman reflected deeply upon conscience as an interior witness that must be obeyed and cultivated. The Church (cf. CCC 1776–1802; 1454) therefore insists upon examination of conscience, conversion, confession and the formation of moral conscience . Jesus' appeal is an awakening cry: do not wait until the conscience becomes so accustomed to darkness that darkness feels like light. Gethsemane asks us to recover holy sensitivity before the soul becomes incapable of recognising the wounds it is inflicting upon Love.

“I desire them to understand the inexorable justice of My Eternal Father.” These words take us to the most formidable mystery of the Appeal: nothing false can finally be reconciled with divine truth. God's justice is not human revenge magnified into infinity. The Father is not an angry deity demanding that someone suffer before He can decide to love humanity. The Father and the Son are perfectly united in one saving will: Christ does not undergo the Passion as a helpless victim of events, but freely embraces His self-offering in filial obedience and boundless love . His surrender reveals the profound harmony between divine justice and divine mercy. Justice means that God's holiness is not indifferent to sin, truth cannot be redefined according to human desire, and the moral order established by God possesses real significance (cf. Ps 11:7; Rom 2:6–8; CCC 1991–1993). Yet this justice is never opposed to His love; in Christ, justice and mercy meet within the mystery of redemption (cf. Ps 85:10–11; Rom 3:21–26). Evil cannot simply be declared harmless. Yet the Cross reveals that divine justice is penetrated by mercy: Christ takes upon Himself the consequences of sin and opens reconciliation to the sinner (cf. Rom 3:21–26; CCC 1991–1995). Saint Anselm's reflections on justice and satisfaction can be contemplated alongside the Church's fuller teaching on Christ's free and loving self-offering. Here is the mystical paradox: the Cross does not reveal that God loves only after justice has been satisfied; it reveals how far divine Love is willing to go to restore humanity to communion. The prodigal son must still arise and return; mercy does not remove the necessity of conversion (cf. Lk 15:17–24). Zacchaeus encounters mercy, but that mercy leads him toward restitution rather than leaving him unchanged (cf. Lk 19:8–10). The good thief (cf. Lk 23:39–43) turns toward Christ even when death has left him no earthly future to rebuild . His final movement reveals the mystery of mercy: grace can reach a soul even at the edge of eternity, yet authentic mercy never invites the sinner to remain as he is. It awakens the courage to turn, repair, and begin again . The corrupt official must abandon dishonest gain (cf. Lk 19:8); the person who has wounded another must seek reconciliation where this can rightly be done (cf. Mt 5:23–24); the spouse who has broken trust must patiently accept the long work of rebuilding what has been damaged ; and a priest who has harmed a soul must face the truth, accept appropriate accountability, and seek healing rather than concealment . Thus no one should use God's mercy as an excuse to postpone repentance. The Cross holds together two realities that the human heart often separates: sin is truly destructive, yet the mercy flowing from Christ is greater than the sinner who sincerely returns to Him (cf. Ps 51:3–19; Is 1:18; 1 Jn 1:9; CCC 1427–1429). Divine mercy does not merely leave the door of the Father's house open; it enters the wounded heart, gives it light to acknowledge its sin, strength to renounce it, and courage to begin the journey home .

The final invitation is the most mystical: “Meditate.” Jesus is asking the soul to remain before this mystery until contemplation becomes transformation. Mary stood near the Cross when there was nothing she could materially do to stop the suffering of her Son (cf. Jn 19:25–27). John remained near when flight would have been easier. Veronica's traditional act of compassion toward the suffering Christ expresses this mysterious vocation to console Love by presence.  But meditation must not remain inside a chapel. A father who looks upon Christ crucified may find strength to forgive. A mother may learn to carry the hidden suffering of her family without making everyone else pay for her exhaustion. A priest may spend an hour before the Eucharist repairing for indifference toward the Sacred Presence. A young person may look upon Gethsemane before choosing whether to surrender purity for a few minutes of pleasure. A doctor may remember the wounded Christ when touching the body of a frightened patient. A business owner may contemplate the Crown of Thorns before choosing profit at the expense of another person's dignity.  A dying person may surrender the final possession—the control of one's own future—into the hands of Christ. This is where the Appeal becomes fire: Our Adorable Jesus desires the soul to enter so deeply into the mystery of His agony that sin gradually loses its sweetness, mercy can no longer be treated lightly, sacrifice no longer appears foreign, Confession becomes a return rather than a humiliation, the Eucharist awakens wonder rather than routine, and eternity becomes a living horizon rather than a distant idea . Gethsemane becomes an interior sanctuary where the soul learns the silent language of Love poured out unto the end. The sweat of blood awakens holy seriousness; Calvary teaches gratitude; divine justice awakens the conscience to truth; and mercy opens the road back to the Father's embrace (cf. Lk 22:44; Jn 19:30; Rom 2:4; Lk 15:17–24). The more deeply the soul contemplates what Christ has suffered for love, the less easily it can remain comfortable with what wounds that Love. The deepest response to the Appeal is therefore not merely to feel sorrow for Jesus. It is to allow His sorrow for mankind to become our own concern for souls—to pray for those who are falling, to repair where Love is rejected, to warn without condemning, to forgive without calculation, and to live as though the salvation purchased at such a cost is the most precious reality entrusted to humanity (cf. 1 Tim 2:1–6; CCC 618).

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, lead us into the silence of Gethsemane. Let us understand the weight of sin, the greatness of Your sacrifice and the tenderness hidden within Your justice. Give us hearts that repent, adore, repair and intercede, until Your sorrow for souls becomes our own desire for their salvation and return to You. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 187

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1


“Meditate on how painful I underwent the salvation of mankind, the degree of My sweat... drops of blood trickling down My Face. I want mankind to know the seriousness of this state, I desire them to understand the inexorable justice of the Eternal Father. My Church will not flourish again if those who are responsible for it do not return to love and humility.”

“Pray, My daughter, in this secret and difficult hour. In the Sacrament of My Love you are a victim. Meditate on how painful I underwent the salvation of mankind, the degree of My sweat... drops of blood trickling down from My Face. I want mankind to know the seriousness of this state. I desire them to understand the inexorable justice of My Eternal Father. Time is short for saving souls.

I want priests, the consecrated, to come back to Me. Otherwise they will cast down innumerable souls into eternal fire. In My Church... hurl torrents of blasphemies and lies against My Divine Presence in the Sacrament of My Love. What a tremendous pain for Me to lose souls! Pray a great deal and cloister souls in your heart.

Continue to tell them and assure souls that if they do not repent, My Justice will exterminate what is rotten. The everlasting ages are mine. Pray a great deal. My Church will not flourish again if the ones responsible for it do not return to love and humility.

What a pain! The obstinacy of long ago continues to dominate and exist in My Church. In the Sacrament of My Love I am so much blasphemed. With godless consciences corruption has reached the limit. As I am exposed I will pour the treasures of My Infinite Mercy into human souls.”

“I give My blessing.”

12.00 a.m., 24th July 1988

Copyright © 2015 The Late Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir | Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya. All rights reserved. Reproduced by adivineappeal.com from "On the Eucharist: A Divine Appeal" (Vol. 1).

Meritoriously Improving in Virtue and Prayer

Divine Appeal Reflection - 186

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 186: "Learn to do good. Let it not be enough for you to pray only; meritoriously, I want you to improve in virtue and prayer. "

There is a mysterious moment in authentic prayer when the soul gradually moves from asking God merely to change its circumstances to allowing Him to reveal what must be transformed within it. This is the hidden wound of the Divine Appeal. Our Adorable Jesus does not diminish the value of prayer; He purifies it from becoming a sacred hiding place where we can remain unchanged. A soul may kneel before the tabernacle asking for a difficult person to change, while Christ quietly points toward the resentment that must be surrendered; it may ask for peace while He reveals the pride that continually creates conflict; it may ask for healing while He exposes an attachment that refuses conversion (cf. Ps 139:23–24; Mt 7:3–5; Jas 4:3). Prayer becomes a profound challenge to selfishness when the soul genuinely permits Christ to enter its will. Gehazi stood close to the prophetic ministry yet remained enslaved to greed (cf. 2 Kgs 5:20–27); the rich young man encountered Jesus Himself but discovered an attachment he could not surrender (cf. Mk 10:17–22); Zacchaeus,(cf. Lk 19:1–10) however, allowed his encounter with Christ to reorganize his relationship with possessions, justice, and restitution .  The Catechism(cf. CCC 1427–1429; 1700) presents conversion as an ongoing task in which the Christian continually turns more completely toward God . The deepest evidence that prayer has reached the heart is therefore not simply consolation or religious emotion, but conversion of conduct: what was once excused begins to trouble the conscience; what was habitually postponed becomes obedience; what was answered with anger begins to receive patience; what was possessed selfishly begins to be offered generously .Thus, “learn to do good” means allowing grace to educate the entire person—our vision, desires, decisions, speech, relationships, suffering, and responses—until Christ begins to govern not only our great choices but also the small reactions that reveal who we are becoming (cf. Is 1:16–17; Col 3:12–17; Gal 2:20). Prayer reaches its deepest fruit when the person who enters before God is not quite the same person who rises from prayer.

“Learn” means far more than acquiring knowledge about goodness; it means allowing goodness to become a spiritual language written into the instincts of the soul. Virtue is the gradual transformation by which grace forms stable dispositions toward what is true, just, holy, and loving (cf. CCC 1803–1804). This is why God sometimes permits us to encounter precisely the person or circumstance that exposes the virtue we have not yet allowed Him to form. Abigail stood between David’s anger and Nabal’s foolishness, entering a dangerous situation with humility, wisdom, courage, and restraint, thereby preventing violence (cf. 1 Sam 25:14–35). Her holiness was not theoretical; it appeared precisely where another person’s disorder created a test for her own heart. A wife may discover that her deepest spiritual examination is not how long she prays but whether Christ governs her voice when exhaustion makes tenderness difficult; a father may discover that his morning prayer becomes real when he listens patiently to a troubled adolescent instead of dismissing him; a priest may discover that his breviary is leading him toward the lonely parishioner whose repeated need tests his patience; a student may pray for holiness and then refuse dishonest examination practices; a businessman may adore Christ and still be summoned to restore justice to an employee whom he has treated unfairly . St. Isaac the Syrian’s profound meditation on mercy points toward this interior revolution: contemplation must eventually change how the heart looks upon every creature. Grace seeks incarnation in conduct. Patience must enter the irritated voice; chastity must purify the imagination; humility must survive disagreement; justice must govern financial decisions; mercy must penetrate old family wounds; and courage must remain faithful when goodness becomes costly . Virtue is prayer after it has entered the battlefield of ordinary life. What is repeatedly chosen with grace slowly becomes interior, until the soul no longer merely performs goodness but begins to perceive, desire, and spontaneously choose according to Christ (cf. Phil 2:13; Rom 12:2; Col 3:10). The deepest fruit of “learning to do good” is therefore not simply better behaviour; it is the gradual formation of a person whose very reactions are becoming an echo of the Heart of Christ.

The Appeal becomes even more penetrating in the words “let it not be enough for you to pray only.” Our Adorable Jesus is not diminishing prayer; He is exposing the possibility of religious activity that increases outwardly while the heart remains untouched. The danger is not praying too much, but praying without allowing prayer to examine, purify, and redirect us. The Pharisee prayed while secretly measuring himself against another (cf. Lk 18:9–14); the priest and Levite encountered a wounded man yet continued their journey without allowing his suffering to disturb their priorities (cf. Lk 10:30–32). The Good Samaritan, however, permitted compassion to interrupt his plans, consume his resources, and alter his journey (cf. Lk 10:33–35). Cornelius joined prayer with almsgiving,(cf. Acts 10:1–4) and his devotion became visible through concrete generosity . This is the searching question of authentic prayer: What has my prayer changed in me? A person may pray novenas for family reconciliation while refusing to make the first gesture of peace; pray for vocations while discouraging a young person who is discerning; pray for the poor while remaining indifferent to waste; pray for priests while damaging their reputation through careless speech; or receive the Eucharist while deliberately feeding resentment (cf. Mt 5:23–24; Jas 2:14–17; Eph 4:29–32). The Eucharist exposes such contradictions because Christ does not give us a portion of Himself; He gives Himself completely and draws us into His own self-offering (cf. CCC 1368; 1391–1397). The monstrance does more than reveal Jesus; in the silence of His Presence, it exposes what within us still refuses to become gift—an unforgiven wound, an attachment, a fear, or a comfort we keep from Him (cf. Ps 139:23–24; Rom 12:1). Adoration therefore becomes a school of surrender: Christ does not merely ask us to gaze upon Him, but to let His love possess and transform us . Holiness then ceases to be a collection of spiritual experiences and becomes Christ’s love taking possession of our hands, feet, time, speech, resources, and courage for the service of others .

The word “meritoriously” opens an immense mystery of grace. The Church does not teach that we purchase salvation through our works; salvation begins entirely in God’s gratuitous grace, and even our capacity to respond lovingly comes from Him (cf. CCC 1996–2001). Yet God graciously permits the justified person to cooperate with grace, and accepts such acts as meritorious because they are made possible and sustained by Christ (cf. CCC 2008–2011). This means that heaven sees dimensions of ordinary life that earth may never notice. A nurse who returns to a frightened dying patient after her shift may offer an act known only to God; a seminarian who quietly rejects a compromising relationship may be protecting a priesthood whose future fruits he cannot yet see; a mother who refuses to repeat a family pattern of harshness may begin healing wounds passed through generations; an elderly man who offers his loneliness for priests may possess a hidden apostolate; a prisoner who sincerely forgives another may accomplish an interior victory no institution can measure (cf. Mt 6:3–4; Col 3:23–24). Tobit practiced mercy when generosity was costly (cf. Tob 1:16–20), while Onesimus’s transformed relationship with Philemon shows how grace can enter relationships marked by failure and inequality (cf. Philem 8–21). St. Zita sanctified ordinary domestic labour, while St. Marianna Cope made compassionate service to abandoned sufferers a profound witness of Christ's charity. Nothing lovingly surrendered to Christ is spiritually insignificant. A resisted temptation can become a hidden victory; a truthful word can prevent greater harm; a forgiven injury can interrupt a chain of resentment;(cf. Mt 5:44; 1 Cor 3:8) a patient sacrifice can become intercession for a soul we may never meet . This is the mystical economy of grace: what appears small before human eyes can carry eternal weight when love offers it to God.

“Improve in virtue and prayer” unveils a profound movement of grace: Our Adorable Jesus is calling the soul not simply to spend more time with Him, but to allow that communion to reshape its entire manner of living. Prayer draws the soul into the hidden life of Christ; virtue carries what is received there into decisions, relationships, sacrifices, and responsibilities . If prayer remains detached from conversion, it can become words repeatedly offered without surrender; if virtue is pursued without dependence upon God, it can quietly become confidence in oneself rather than cooperation with grace . Mary of Bethany teaches the soul to receive before it acts (cf. Lk 10:38–42), while Paul discovers that surrendered weakness can become a place where Christ's strength is revealed . Ruth embodies fidelity when remaining with Naomi costs her security (cf. Ruth 1:16–17); Joseph allows grace to transform betrayal into forgiveness (cf. Gen 50:19–21); (cf. 1 Kgs 17:8–16)and the widow of Zarephath turns scarcity itself into an offering of trust . Every vocation can likewise become an interior workshop of holiness: a husband learns love when he chooses gentleness after being misunderstood; a wife sanctifies ordinary family life through patient fidelity; a priest discovers pastoral charity by remaining available to the difficult and forgotten; a seminarian learns humility through unnoticed service; a teacher refuses to label a struggling child as hopeless;  a farmer continues faithfully while awaiting uncertain rain;  and an elderly soul turns declining strength into an offering for the Church . In this way, prayer becomes more than something we do; it becomes something we become. The angry soul begins to acquire Christ's gentleness (cf. Mt 11:29); the wounded soul learns mercy (cf. Lk 6:36); the dishonest heart becomes truthful (cf. Eph 4:25); the fearful person discovers courage to defend what is right (cf. Acts 4:19–20); and the self-centred soul begins carrying others before God . This is the hidden miracle of prayer: Christ gradually passes from the sanctuary of prayer into the architecture of the person's life. The soul kneels asking to be transformed, and little by little its very existence becomes the prayer it once only spoke.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, teach us to pray until Your grace transforms our choices, habits, relationships, suffering, work, and hidden thoughts. Make every virtue an offering, every sacrifice an apostolate, and every ordinary kindness a channel of mercy. May our lives become living prayers, revealing Your Heart wherever souls encounter us each day. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 186

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1

“Learn to do good. Let it not be enough for you to pray only; meritoriously I want you to improve in virtue and prayer.”

“Listen, My daughter, to the warning of My Mercy to mankind. I ask you to exert yourself. Acquire the habit of enjoying My Presence. Keep yourself in the true peace as you pray and bring Me souls. I beg you, be at my disposal.

Day and night souls are running into perdition. Pray a great deal. Consider how I love mankind. I thirst and wait for souls. Time is short and the devil knowing this is using other souls to capture souls for himself. Do not be afraid of demonic powers. I keep you under the guidance of My servant. Through him I will make My will known to you. Take heed of his words. Through him I want to erect an altar in your heart for the good of souls. In the Sacrament of My Love I come to seek shelter.

Learn to do good. Let it not be enough for you to pray only; meritoriously, I want you to improve in virtue and prayer. I teach and enlighten you through My servant. Do not allow the devil to defeat you by keeping you in doubt and fears. Do not hide anything from him.”

“There is a struggle which the world cannot see.”

12.30 a.m., 23rd July 1988

Copyright © 2015 The Late Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir | Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya. All rights reserved. Reproduced by adivineappeal.com from "On the Eucharist: A Divine Appeal" (Vol. 1).

Diseases With No Physician or Medicine

Divine Appeal Reflection - 185


Today, consider in Divine Appeal 185: "There are very many diseases as an admonishment...Time is approaching and there will come many diseases which will be allowed by My Eternal Father. There will be no physician or medicine to cure them. If souls listen to Me and respond to My Call of Mercy then it will be their salvation and peace."

The words “There are very many diseases as an admonishment” lead us into a mystery that must be approached with both reverence and theological sobriety. The Gospel does not permit us to look at another person's illness and declare that a particular sin caused it; Jesus Himself rejected that simplistic conclusion when speaking about the man born blind (cf. Jn 9:1–3) and about those who died in tragic circumstances (cf. Lk 13:1–5). Yet Scripture(cf. Rom 8:20–23) does reveal that humanity lives within a creation wounded by sin, mortality, and disorder, and that suffering can become an awakening to realities the comfortable heart easily forgets . An admonishment is not necessarily a sentence; it can be an alarm. A fever can tell the body that something requires attention; similarly, the fragility of human existence can expose the illusion that we possess tomorrow. The remarkable king Hezekiah discovered this when illness suddenly brought the brevity of life before him (cf. 2 Kgs 20:1–6). The prophet Elisha's servant Gehazi provides an entirely different picture: outward health can coexist with an inward disease of greed that gradually possesses the person (cf. 2 Kgs 5:20–27). Simon the Pharisee also reveals an invisible disorder when he can sit near Jesus while remaining unable to recognize the greatness of mercy (cf. Lk 7:36–50). There are diseases of the body that medicine can diagnose and diseases of the soul that truth must expose. Envy can grow into hatred, pornography can distort the imagination, resentment can harden the heart, greed can weaken compassion, and religious pride can resist repentance (cf. Mt 5:27–28; Mk 7:20–23; 1 Tim 6:9–10; Lk 18:9–14). Scripture(cf. Ps 139:23–24; Prov 4:23) calls us to examine what is hidden within . The Catechism(cf. CCC 1500–1510) recognizes human vulnerability to illness while affirming medical care, prayer, and the possibility of uniting suffering with Christ . Thus the Appeal calls not to fear, but to honest examination: What within me is quietly becoming unhealthy before God? What habit is weakening my love? What wound is becoming resentment? Prayer brings these hidden places into God's light, where truth can lead to repentance and healing .

The phrase “Time is approaching” becomes especially powerful when understood not as a timetable for predicting particular catastrophes, but as an unveiling of the urgency of conversion. Every human life is moving toward an encounter with God, and nobody knows the precise hour in which earthly opportunities will close (cf. Mt 24:42–44; Heb 9:27). The five foolish virgins discovered too late that preparedness cannot be transferred from one person to another (cf. Mt 25:1–13). The rich man in Jesus' parable had carefully arranged his earthly future but had not prepared his soul for eternity (cf. Lk 12:16–21). There is therefore a terrifying spiritual possibility: a person can spend years preparing for retirement while never preparing for eternity. A surgeon can schedule every medical examination yet postpone Confession indefinitely. A student can plan an entire career while allowing the vocation of holiness to remain undefined. A couple can insure their property, educate their children, and accumulate savings while allowing resentment to become permanent within the home. A priest can prepare homilies, budgets, meetings, and parish programmes while neglecting the silent friendship with Christ from which his priesthood receives its meaning. The unusual biblical figure of Baruch, Jeremiah's scribe, shows how God can interrupt a person's ordinary plans with a call to reassess what he is seeking amid a collapsing world (cf. Jer 45:1–5). St. Joseph Pignatelli's life of patient fidelity during the suppression of the Jesuits shows that holiness may require remaining faithful when the structures one trusted suddenly disappear. The Gospel's urgency is not “be afraid of what is coming”; it is “do not postpone what grace is asking of you today.” The Catechism calls conversion a continual task because the baptized remain in need of ongoing purification (cf. CCC 1427–1429). Every sunrise is therefore another opportunity to return before the soul is forced by circumstances to ask why it waited.

The words “If souls listen to Me and respond to My Call of Mercy” reveal the extraordinary tenderness hidden within the warning. Jesus does not merely tell humanity that danger exists; He announces that mercy is already moving toward the danger. Notice the sequence: listen → respond → salvation → peace. Listening is more than hearing religious language. It means allowing Christ's word to penetrate the place where the soul has constructed its defences. Naaman initially resisted the simplicity of the prophet's instruction because he expected something more spectacular, yet his healing began when pride surrendered to obedience (cf. 2 Kgs 5:9–14). The disciples on the road to Emmaus had knowledge of Scripture but needed Christ to open their understanding from within their disappointment (cf. Lk 24:25–32). The Ethiopian official was already reading Isaiah but needed Philip to help him recognize the One toward whom the Scripture pointed (cf. Acts 8:26–39). A soul may possess religious information and still remain deaf to the particular grace God is offering today. Responding to mercy can therefore become remarkably concrete: making a long-delayed Confession, breaking a relationship that repeatedly leads into serious sin, asking a child for forgiveness, returning money obtained dishonestly, seeking professional help for destructive dependence, reconciling before resentment becomes a family inheritance, returning to Sunday Eucharist after years away, or accepting the sacrifice demanded by one's vocation (cf. Mt 5:23–24; Lk 19:8–9; Heb 10:24–25). St. Mary Magdalene of Pazzi’s writings reveal the seriousness with which she understood God’s transforming love, while St. Mark Ji Tianxiang’s perseverance amid prolonged weakness and his eventual martyrdom show how grace can remain at work even amid a difficult spiritual struggle (cf. 2 Cor 12:9–10). The Catechism(cf. CCC 1422–1424) teaches that Penance is the sacrament of conversion and reconciliation through which the sinner returns to communion with God and the Church . Mercy does not ask whether our wounds are impressive enough to deserve healing; it asks whether we will finally open them to the Divine Physician.

The statement that there may come a time when “there will be no physician or medicine to cure them” requires particular discernment. Catholic faith does not oppose medicine, physicians, scientific research, vaccination, hospital care, or responsible public-health measures. Jesus Himself used medical imagery positively(cf. Lk 5:31) and praised the physician's role in relation to the sick . The Church has consistently regarded healthcare as a work of mercy and encourages appropriate medical treatment (cf. CCC 1509). The deeper spiritual force of the Appeal therefore lies beyond a prediction about medical science. There is a boundary before which every physician eventually stands: medicine can sometimes restore a body, but it cannot abolish mortality. A doctor may remove a tumour but cannot remove humanity's final encounter with death. A psychiatrist may help heal psychological suffering but cannot replace the forgiveness of sins. A surgeon can repair a heart but cannot teach it whom to love. Medical care can strengthen the body, but Christian healing reaches deeper, asking where life finds its ultimate meaning and to whom it is finally entrusted (cf. Ps 16:5–11; Rom 14:7–9). King Asa’s experience offers an important distinction:(cf. 2 Chr 16:12–13; Jer 17:5–8) the problem was not that he sought physicians, but that his dependence on them was not accompanied by a return of his heart to God . Faith therefore does not reject medicine; rather, it places human skill beneath divine providence, recognizing that every form of healing remains within God’s greater purpose . The Anointing of the Sick reveals this mystery even more deeply: Christ comes to the suffering person with strengthening grace, forgiveness, and spiritual consolation, uniting the person’s suffering with His own Passion and preparing the soul for eternal life . Healing may restore the body, but Christ desires to restore the whole person to communion with God. Thus healing may come through treatment, through unexpected recovery, through grace to endure prolonged illness, or through peaceful preparation for eternity . The Christian therefore seeks healing of the body while entrusting the whole person to Christ, the Divine Physician whose saving work reaches beyond the limits of earthly life.

And then comes the astonishing promise: “it will be their salvation and peace.” This is the destination toward which the entire Appeal moves. Our Adorable Jesus does not merely desire humanity to endure sickness, hardship, or uncertainty; He desires souls to return to communion with Him, where true salvation and peace are found (cf. Jn 17:3; 1 Tim 2:3–4; CCC 161–162). Christian peace is therefore far deeper than the removal of difficulties. A person may still face illness, unemployment, persecution, bereavement, family conflict, or an uncertain future and yet possess an interior peace rooted in Christ . Like the disciples in the storm,(cf. Mk 4:37–41) the soul may remain surrounded by frightening circumstances while learning to entrust itself to the Lord who is present within the boat . Peace is not necessarily the disappearance of the storm; it is discovering that Christ remains Lord. Consider Eleazar,(cf. 2 Macc 6:18–31) the elderly scribe in the Maccabean persecution, who refused to preserve his life through apostasy because he understood that a person's fidelity could become an instruction for generations after him . Consider the widow of Zarephath, (cf. 1 Kgs 17:8–16)who faced famine yet learned to entrust the last of her resources to God's providence . Consider Paul, whose bodily weakness became a place where divine grace was experienced as sufficient rather than as an excuse for despair (cf. 2 Cor 12:7–10). The Christian does not ask only, “Will God remove this?” but also, “What can God make of this if I surrender it to Him?”  A physician can silently entrust each patient to Christ. A person who has received a frightening diagnosis can use suffering to reconcile with an estranged sibling. A healthy person can stop postponing gratitude. A parish can become a place where the sick are not hidden away but surrounded by prayer and practical care. The Catechism teaches that Christian hope sustains the heart amid trials and directs it toward eternal blessedness (cf. CCC 1817–1821). Thus the deepest response to this Appeal is neither panic nor speculation about future diseases. It is immediate conversion. Pray while you can pray. Reconcile while you can reconcile. Confess while you can confess. Love while you can love. Receive the Eucharist with awakened faith. Visit the sick. Forgive the offender. Abandon the sin that has become habitual. Entrust tomorrow to Providence. The greatest disease may be believing that there will always be another opportunity to return. Mercy is calling now. And the soul that responds discovers that even when earthly healing has limits, Christ's mercy has no horizon.

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus, uncover every hidden sickness within us and heal what only Your mercy can reach. Teach us not to fear suffering but to use every moment for conversion, reconciliation, prayer, and love. When human remedies fail, keep our hearts peaceful, trusting Your Cross, Resurrection, mercy, and eternal healing. Amen.

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

Pray More and Love One Another

Divine Appeal Reflection - 185

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 185: "Make people pray more and love one another. My Heart is filled with pain. I ask many to help souls to return to Me."

“Make people pray more and love one another.” There is a hidden order in these words that reaches into the very structure of Christian existence. Our Adorable Jesus places prayer before love because the heart cannot continually give what it has not first received from God. Prayer opens the soul to grace, teaches it to remain in Christ, and allows divine love to become the source of human charity . The branch bears fruit only by remaining united to the vine;(cf. Jn 15:1–5; Gal 5:22–23) likewise, the Christian gradually becomes capable of patient, sacrificial love by remaining rooted in Christ .  Prayer brings them back to the Source. We do not merely pray because we need God; we pray so that God's love may increasingly become the love with which we meet others. Yet He places love immediately beside prayer because prayer that truly encounters God eventually becomes responsible for another human being. The soul enters prayer alone but should not emerge alone. It returns carrying names, wounds, families, enemies, forgotten people, priests, sinners, the dying, the unborn, and souls whose existence it may never know. Moses discovered this mystery when Israel's sin became something he carried before God rather than merely something he condemned (cf. Ex 32:30–32). Job prayed for his friends after enduring their misunderstanding, and his own restoration became mysteriously connected with intercession for those who had wounded him (cf. Job 42:7–10). This is a profound form of spiritual maturity: the heart ceases asking only, “Lord, what will You do for me?” and begins asking, “Lord, whom are You asking me to carry?” The Catechism teaches that intercession is a prayer of petition that conforms us to Christ's own prayer for humanity (cf. CCC 2634–2636). A mother praying over a sleeping child, a priest kneeling before an empty tabernacle, a farmer praying before beginning his work, a student praying for a troubled classmate, or an elderly person offering a Rosary for unknown sinners may therefore become hidden bearers of souls. Prayer is where God secretly teaches one heart to become spacious enough for many hearts.

Then comes the command that exposes whether prayer has truly enlarged us: “love one another.” Jesus does not say merely to admire one another, agree with one another, or remain pleasant toward one another. He asks for the difficult charity by which one person's salvation becomes important to another person even when affection is absent. Consider the obscure figure of Abigail (cf. 1 Sam 25:23–35). She recognized that David's wounded honour was about to become violence and intervened before blood was shed . Her love was not passive kindness; it entered another person's anger and prevented destruction. Consider also Jonathan, who loved David enough to surrender his own prospects of kingship rather than allow jealousy to govern him (cf. 1 Sam 18:1–4; 20:30–34). Love becomes most supernatural when it protects another person's good at a cost to our own preference. A supervisor can protect an employee from unjust blame. A priest can refuse to ridicule a penitent's repeated weakness. A wife can interrupt a cycle of retaliation by becoming silent long enough to pray before answering. A young person can refuse to participate in humiliating someone on social media. A sibling can visit the relative whom everyone else has abandoned. St. Isaac the Syrian's vision of mercy reaches toward this astonishing interior freedom: another person's weakness is no longer an opportunity for superiority but a summons to compassion. The Catechism(cf. CCC 1827) calls charity the bond of perfection because it orders the entire Christian life toward communion with God and neighbour . The person who tests your capacity to love may be revealing the precise place where your prayer still needs conversion.

The words “I ask many to help souls to return to Me” reveal another hidden dimension: Christ does not merely ask us to bring people into religious activity; He asks us to help them return to Him. Return implies that something has been lost: innocence, trust, prayer, sacramental life, vocation, truth, hope, or the sense of God's presence. The prodigal son’s return begins with an interior awakening: before he can repair what has been broken, he must first dare to believe that the Father’s house remains open to him (cf. Lk 15:17–24; Rom 2:4). Many souls stay away from Confession not because they consider sin insignificant, but because shame has persuaded them that they are no longer worthy of mercy . Some young people withdraw from prayer not because they reject God, but because prolonged suffering and unanswered questions have obscured His nearness . Some priests experience deep exhaustion not because their love for Christ has disappeared, but because even those who carry others need moments of renewal, fraternity, rest, and prayer . A Christian may therefore participate in another person’s return simply by making the possibility of return visible. A patient listener, a sincere invitation to Confession, a Rosary offered for someone who has stopped praying, or a gentle word after a painful failure can become a small doorway through which grace is recognized again . Philip approached Nathanael not by forcing him into an argument, but by leading him toward an encounter with Jesus (cf. Jn 1:43–51). Likewise, Andrew brought Simon into Christ’s presence (cf. Jn 1:40–42), and the Samaritan woman (cf. Jn 4:28–30, 39–42) became a witness through whom others were drawn toward Jesus. Sometimes evangelization begins by becoming living evidence that God’s mercy is still waiting at the door . The Samaritan woman(cf. Jn 4:7–30, 39–42) returned to her town carrying testimony after Christ had reached the hidden wound beneath her public life . The Gerasene man(cf. Mk 5:1–20) who had been isolated among the tombs became a witness among his own people after encountering Christ . St. Mary Magdalene de’ Pazzi’s intense concern for the conversion and renewal of souls reveals how contemplative love can become deeply missionary without becoming noisy. A heart immersed in God cannot remain indifferent to those who are far from Him. The Catechism(cf. CCC 863–865) teaches that every Christian participates in Christ’s mission according to his or her vocation and circumstances . Thus a parent, nurse, farmer, student, religious, mechanic, lawyer, catechist, prisoner, contemplative, or priest can become a keeper of the door through which another soul quietly returns to Christ—sometimes through a word, sometimes through patient presence, sometimes through hidden sacrifice, and sometimes through a prayer known only to God.

But Jesus' command to love one another reaches its highest intensity when love becomes a form of spiritual warfare against the fragmentation caused by sin. The devil divides; Christ gathers. Sin isolates; charity restores communion. Bitterness creates invisible prisons in which two people can remain physically close while spiritually separated. Prayer begins breaking those walls because it brings the other person into the presence of God before bringing the person into our argument. The two disciples travelling to Emmaus were walking away from the community in disappointment, but Christ entered their conversation and gradually restored their understanding (cf. Lk 24:13–35). Onesimus' story reveals the Gospel entering a relationship marked by social inequality and transforming the possibility of domination into Christian brotherhood (cf. Philem 10–16). The four men who carried the paralytic teach another astonishing form of love: when the suffering person cannot reach Jesus by himself, other people can carry him (cf. Mk 2:1–5). Sometimes loving someone means carrying them in prayer until they can walk toward Christ for themselves. This has extraordinary practical consequences. Offer up prayers for the alcoholic who declines assistance. Offer up prayers for the family member who has left the church.  Pray for the priest whose weaknesses scandalize you. Pray for the child who has stopped speaking. Pray for the colleague who envies you. Then ask what concrete act of charity corresponds to that prayer. Perhaps a phone call. Perhaps an apology. Perhaps financial assistance. Perhaps patient silence. Perhaps truthful correction. Perhaps simply refusing to speak maliciously about the person. St. Vincent de Paul and St. Louise de Marillac demonstrated that charity must eventually acquire hands and feet. A prayer that asks God to help someone while refusing every opportunity to help that person ourselves has not yet reached its full apostolic maturity.

The deepest word in the Appeal may therefore be “one another.” Jesus does not envision isolated saints competing for individual holiness. He envisions a humanity in which grace circulates from heart to heart through prayer and charity, like blood through one living body . Your holiness can become another person's shelter; another person's fidelity can become your strength. A hidden nun may pray for a missionary. A missionary may baptize a child. That child may one day become a priest; that priest may hear the confession of a stranger who returns to God and reconciles with his family; that family may raise a child who later becomes a physician serving the poor. One hidden act of prayer can therefore become the beginning of a chain of grace whose final fruits may remain unknown to us until eternity . Heaven alone may know the complete genealogy of a single prayer. This is the mystical dimension of the communion of saints (cf. CCC 946–962). St. Thérèse of Lisieux discovered an apostolic universality hidden within a life apparently confined to Carmel. St. Josephine Bakhita transformed suffering received into a life of forgiveness and witness. St. André Bessette became an instrument of consolation through apparently humble service. Their lives expose our earthly obsession with measurable influence. Jesus may be asking you to do something whose fruit you will never see. Perhaps the most important prayer you will ever pray will be offered when you are tired and nobody knows you prayed. Perhaps the person you patiently love today will carry that memory for decades and return to Christ because of it. Perhaps your forgiveness will prevent bitterness from entering another generation. Pray more until another person's salvation becomes part of your daily concern. Love one another until another person's wound becomes impossible for you to ignore. Then prayer will cease being an escape from humanity, and love will cease being merely human affection. The two will become one movement of Christ's own Heart: ascending toward the Father in prayer and descending toward wounded humanity in mercy. And perhaps this is precisely what Our Adorable Jesus desires when He asks us to make people pray more and love one another: that the earth may quietly begin to resemble heaven—not through extraordinary achievements, but through one praying heart, one forgiven wound, one hidden sacrifice, and one act of love at a time. As prayer draws the soul toward God, charity makes His presence tangible among His children .

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, teach us to pray until we carry souls before You, and to love until their wounds become our concern. Expand our hearts beyond preference, resentment, and convenience. Make our ordinary prayers and hidden charities channels of Your grace, reconciling divided hearts and gently leading wandering souls back home. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 185

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1


“If souls listen to Me and respond to My Call of Mercy, then it will be their salvation and peace. Make people pray more and love one another. I ask many to help souls to return to Me.” 

“Listen, My daughter. My will and desire is that mankind be converted through prayer, through the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

In the world and My Church there are distractions of all kinds. This is a grave moment. Time is short for saving souls. There are very many diseases as an admonishment. Pray a great deal to atone and appease the wrath of My Eternal Father.

I beg you not to allow My Word to die. If you do not do what I tell you then you will be captured by satan, the Red Lucifer, who is very conscious of this serious moment. These are times of overwhelming violence. Time is approaching and there will come many diseases which will be allowed by My Eternal Father. There will be no physician or medicine to cure them. If souls listen to Me and respond to My Call of Mercy then it will be their salvation and peace. Make people pray more and love one another. My Heart is filled with pain. I ask many to help souls to return to Me.

Lucifer has taken possession of many souls and he tells them that My Eternal Father does not exist. What more could I have suffered for mankind.

...speak to souls, many are eternally lost. Many do not see the torment and pain of perdition. I call them all. My Mercy is immense, their repentance is sufficient. I ask for prayers.”

“I give My blessing.”

Copyright © 2015 The Late Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir | Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya. All rights reserved. Reproduced by adivineappeal.com from "On the Eucharist: A Divine Appeal" (Vol. 1).

Jesus in the Tabernacle, Looking and Loving

Divine Appeal Reflection - 184

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 184:  "Many come before My Tabernacle, while in front of Me and I looking and loving them, they turn their mind and attention away."

“Many come before My Tabernacle” begins with a mystery that human language can scarcely contain: the soul enters a place in which the King is already waiting for it. We often think adoration begins the moment we kneel before the tabernacle, yet the mystery is deeper: Christ’s Presence did not begin when we entered the chapel; our awareness of the Presence began (cf. Mt 28:20; Jn 6:35–40). Our Adorable Jesus is not waiting to become present; He is waiting because He is already there, loving, offering, and inviting the soul into communion . We do not enter the Presence to make Him present; we enter so that His Presence may become more deeply present within us. He does not begin looking when we begin praying; He has already been looking. He does not begin loving when we become recollected; He is loving before our attention becomes capable of receiving that love (cf. Jn 6:37–40; 1 Jn 4:9–10). This reverses the ordinary understanding of prayer. We think adoration means looking at Jesus, yet the deeper mystery is that we first enter the gaze of One who eternally sees us. Hagar encountered the God who saw her in the desert when nobody else appeared to care about her existence (cf. Gen 16:7–14). Nathanael (cf. Jn 1:47–49) discovered that Jesus had seen him before their physical meeting, revealing a divine knowledge that precedes human recognition . The tabernacle therefore becomes a school of being seen. The ashamed sinner, the exhausted mother, the priest carrying hidden wounds, the religious experiencing dryness, the young person confused about vocation, the elderly person who feels forgotten—all arrive beneath a gaze that knows everything and withdraws nothing of love. The most profound act of Eucharistic adoration may therefore begin before words: allowing Jesus to look at the person we spend our entire life trying to hide. We may conceal our weakness from family, disguise failure before friends, hide fears from colleagues, and even refuse to acknowledge our sins within ourselves; yet before the tabernacle, we stand before the One from whom nothing within us is hidden (cf. Ps 139:1–4; Heb 4:13). Our Adorable Jesus already knows what we struggle to reveal, yet His knowing is not rejection; it is the beginning of mercy . Yet His knowledge does not become rejection. It becomes love. This is the first mystical wound of the Appeal: He sees us completely, and He remains.

Then comes the painful contrast: “while in front of Me… they turn their mind and attention away.” There is something deeper here than ordinary distraction. The human person possesses a remarkable capacity to escape from the One who is closest. Adam hid from God after sin, not because God had disappeared but because shame had altered Adam's ability to remain beneath the divine gaze (cf. Gen 3:8–10). Cain similarly withdrew into a self-enclosed world after his brother's murder (cf. Gen 4:8–16). The soul before the tabernacle can reproduce this ancient movement in miniature. The body remains, but the interior person flees. The mind may flee into memories, calculations, imagined conversations, resentments, anxieties, ambitions, or rehearsed fears because remaining quietly before Jesus can disturb the fragile securities around which we have built our inner world (cf. Ps 139:23–24; Mt 6:21). Sometimes distraction is therefore more than simple difficulty concentrating; it can reveal a heart reluctant to remain exposed before divine Love . We may escape into thoughts because Christ’s Presence gently reaches places within us that we have learned to avoid. Yet precisely there, Our Adorable Jesus waits—not to condemn the wounded soul, but to receive what it has been afraid to surrender (cf. Heb 4:15–16; 1 Jn 4:18). A man kneels before Jesus after betraying his wife but spends the entire Holy Hour planning how to justify himself. A religious receives a correction and spends adoration mentally proving that the superior was wrong. A businesswoman brings a financial anxiety before the Eucharist but refuses to surrender control of the outcome. A young person asks Jesus for freedom from an attachment while secretly protecting the attachment in imagination. A parish leader kneels before the Blessed Sacrament while internally rehearsing how to defeat another parishioner. These are not simply failures of concentration. They reveal the places where attention is protecting an attachment from the gaze of Christ. St. Teresa of Ávila's teaching on recollection is profound here: prayer gathers the scattered powers of the person back toward the divine Friend. The Catechism(cf. CCC 2709–2711) presents this interior recollection as fundamental to contemplative prayer, where the heart gathers itself before God and lovingly turns toward Him . Therefore, when the mind drifts away, we need not become impatient with ourselves. We can quietly turn inward and ask: What drew my heart away, and what fear, longing, wound, memory, or attachment was seeking my attention? . The distraction itself can become an invitation to deeper self-knowledge and a gentler return to Christ . The wandering mind can become a quiet map revealing what still occupies the interior life . Then every return to Jesus becomes more than the recovery of concentration; it becomes a little surrender, a renewed choosing of His Presence over whatever has captured the heart (cf. Jn 15:4; Phil 3:13–14).

“I am looking and loving them” contains perhaps the most astonishing sentence in the Appeal. Jesus does not say merely that He sees them; He joins seeing and loving. Divine vision is not cold observation. He sees everything and loves without abandoning truth. This is precisely what humanity struggles to do. We often see people's failures and withdraw affection; Jesus sees the entire wound and continues to love while calling the person toward conversion (cf. Jn 8:1–11). The gaze of Christ upon Peter after his denial was not merely accusation; it pierced him into repentance without destroying him (cf. Lk 22:61–62). The gaze of Jesus upon the rich young man(cf. Mk 10:17–22) contained love even though the man ultimately walked away from the invitation to surrender his possessions . This gives Eucharistic adoration a profound reparative dimension: the soul comes before the One whose love is repeatedly refused, and chooses to remain where others have chosen to leave. At this point adoration becomes companionship. The world may ignore Him; the soul remembers Him. The world may hurry past; the soul remains. The world may use His Name carelessly; the soul speaks it with reverence. The world may receive His gifts while forgetting the Giver; the soul returns thanks. A hospital cleaner may spend five minutes before the tabernacle before beginning a night shift and offer the coming hours for dying patients. A truck driver may stop at a small roadside church, kneel briefly, and entrust to Jesus the strangers he will meet. A mother may adore while holding the knowledge that her child has abandoned the faith. A priest may remain before the Eucharist after hearing accusations against himself, refusing to let wounded pride dictate his next pastoral decision. St. Margaret Mary Alacoque's Eucharistic spirituality of reparation illuminates this mystery of remaining near Love that is not adequately loved. Yet the deeper mystery is not that we console Our Adorable Jesus because His divine Love lacks power, but because He freely desires the loving response of the creature (cf. Jn 15:9–13; Rev 3:20). When love is refused, the adoring soul offers a free response where indifference has closed the heart: one act of adoration, one hour of loving presence, becomes a quiet human “yes” answering the divine Love that has been neglected (cf. Mt 26:40–41; Jn 4:23–24). In this way, the soul before the tabernacle becomes a small but real response of love to Love.

There is another mystical paradox hidden here: Jesus remains perfectly present even when the soul is imperfectly attentive. The Eucharistic presence does not fluctuate according to our emotions. The consecrated Host does not contain “more Jesus” when we are recollected and “less Jesus” when we are distracted. Christ remains wholly present by the sacramental reality of His Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity (cf. CCC 1374). This is spiritually devastating to the ego because it destroys our tendency to make experience the measure of reality. A person may feel nothing and yet be before infinite Love. A person may experience profound consolation and yet be spiritually resisting conversion. The prophet Elijah discovered God not in the spectacular manifestations he expected but in the mysterious stillness that followed them (cf. 1 Kgs 19:9–13). The disciples(cf. Mk 4:35–41) on the stormy sea believed themselves abandoned while Jesus was physically present with them, even though they interpreted His silence as absence . Likewise, the soul may say, “Jesus seems far away,” while the deeper truth is that Jesus has not moved even one step. This becomes crucial for the sick, the elderly, the depressed in spirit, the exhausted parent, the religious in dryness and anyone who cannot sustain prolonged concentration. An elderly woman whose memory permits only brief moments of attention may repeatedly turn toward the tabernacle and whisper the Name of Jesus. A dying patient may be unable to formulate a prayer but can offer a single conscious movement of love. A person with a restless mind may spend an hour returning to Christ a hundred times. Heaven does not measure prayer merely by the length of our concentration, but by the love with which we return whenever distraction, weakness, or dryness carries the mind elsewhere (cf. Mt 6:6; Lk 18:1). St. John of the Cross reveals through his teaching on spiritual dryness that the disappearance of sensible consolation does not signify the departure of God; often, the soul is being invited to love Him more purely, beyond feelings and spiritual sweetness . The distracted soul that lovingly returns to Christ may be offering Him something more precious than it realizes: the freedom to begin again. The soul may actually be learning a purer faith: to adore not because adoration feels beautiful, but because Jesus is worthy of adoration even when the soul feels nothing (cf. CCC 2729–2731). This is one of the deepest forms of Eucharistic fidelity.

The final mystery is perhaps the most demanding: what Jesus asks to receive from us before the tabernacle is ultimately not our attention alone, but our entire attention transformed into love. The mind is the doorway through which the heart gathers itself; attention is therefore capable of becoming an offering. When we deliberately return from resentment to Jesus, we offer Him our memory. When we stop planning revenge, we offer Him our imagination. When we surrender anxiety, we offer Him our future. When we refuse impurity, we offer Him our desires. When we forgive, we offer Him our wounds. When we choose silence instead of immediately reaching for the phone, we surrender our attention to Christ and allow our time to become an offering (cf. Ps 46:10; Mk 1:35). When we kneel before the tabernacle after a serious fall and refuse to hide from His mercy, even our shame can become the beginning of repentance and return . Nothing sincerely surrendered to Our Adorable Jesus is wasted—not even the time we give Him, nor the shame we bring before His merciful Presence. This is why Eucharistic adoration can become a hidden school of self-emptying. Jesus is not merely asking, “Will you look at Me?” He is gradually asking, “Will you allow Me to possess the places to which your attention continually escapes?” The Samaritan woman discovered that Jesus could enter the hidden history she preferred not to expose (cf. Jn 4:16–19). Peter discovered that Christ could enter the wound of his denial and transform it into pastoral love (cf. Jn 21:15–17). Mary Magdalene(cf. Jn 20:11–18) discovered that the place of her deepest grief could become the place of resurrection encounter . Thus the tabernacle becomes more than a destination; it becomes an interior furnace. We enter carrying scattered thoughts and gradually learn recollection; we enter carrying wounds and learn trust; we enter carrying sins and learn mercy; we enter carrying other souls and learn intercession; we enter carrying ourselves and learn surrender. St. Gertrude the Great's Eucharistic devotion, St. Clare of Assisi's profound Eucharistic contemplation and St. Peter Julian Eymard's spirituality of Eucharistic self-giving each point toward this transformation of presence into offering. The final question of the Appeal is therefore terrifyingly intimate: While Jesus is looking at me with uninterrupted love, where exactly am I looking? And if I discover that I have wandered, the answer is not despair. It is simply to turn again. To look again. To remain again. To let His gaze find us again. For perhaps the greatest Eucharistic miracle within us is not that we never become distracted, but that after every wandering, grace teaches us how to return to the One who never stopped looking at us.

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus, You remain before us, looking and loving when our minds wander. Gather our scattered hearts back to You. Teach us to adore You in silence, consolation and dryness. May every return to Your Eucharistic Presence become an act of love, reparation and surrender to Your Sacred Heart. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 184

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1


“Contemplate My Love from My Divine Mercy in the sacrament of My Love, behold what I represent...”

“My daughter, contemplate My Love from My Divine Mercy in the Sacrament of My Love; behold what I represent, I am very present in every Consecrated Host.

By replication of My Presence in each particle all over the world I dwell and abide sacramentally. This is the very and universal Presence of My Divine Love.

To the souls consecrated to Me, I am a stranger. Many come before My Tabernacle, while in front of Me and I looking and loving them, they turn their mind and attention away. Many possess the devil willingly within them. They come before My mystery, receive Me, then cast Me at the feet of the devil to whom they have consecrated themselves.

Day and night I continue bearing these sacrileges with tears of blood. My Love is greater than their sins. I love mankind more than they offend Me. With love I call them back bearing abuses, insults and blasphemies. If only they listen and respond to My calling! My desire is to save them. I love mankind so much and that is why I did not hesitate to lay down My Life for them. I was dead and now I live forever. The everlasting ages are mine.

I only receive insults. I have nowhere comfortable for Me in the souls I love so much. I have nothing more precious like the souls of mankind. Many souls are running to perdition and they are eternally lost. I do not wish anyone to perish. The world is full of perils. I come to exhort sinners.

As I am exposed, I will pour the treasures of My Infinite Mercy into human souls.”

“I give My blessing.”

12.00 a.m., 14th July 1988

Copyright © 2015 The Late Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir | Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya. All rights reserved. Reproduced by adivineappeal.com from "On the Eucharist: A Divine Appeal" (Vol. 1).

Considering Jesus, Receiving His Grace

Divine Appeal Reflection - 183

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 183:  "Consider Me. Open your heart to receive My graces in order that you may get more strength to bring souls to Me. "

“Consider Me” may be one of the most penetrating invitations in the entire Appeal because Jesus does not begin by asking for activity. He asks for attention to His Person. Before the soul carries His message, it must become captivated by His presence; before it attempts to change others, it must allow itself to be gazed upon and changed by Him. To consider Jesus is to place Him at the centre of interpretation:(cf. Heb 12:2–3; 2 Cor 5:14–15) His wounds interpret suffering, His silence interprets abandonment, His mercy interprets failure, His Cross interprets sacrifice, and His Resurrection interprets hope . The disciples on the road to Emmaus possessed Scripture,(cf. Lk 24:25–32) memories and disappointment, yet their hearts began burning only when Christ Himself entered their darkness and interpreted everything around Him . Mary Magdalene illustrates another depth: she remained near the tomb when others had departed,(cf. Jn 20:11–18) and precisely within that fidelity she encountered the Risen Lord . There is therefore a mystical discipline hidden in “Consider Me”: do not allow the event to become greater than the Person.  A father discovers his son has secretly failed in something important and, before reacting, pauses to imitate Christ’s patience and mercy (cf. Lk 15:20–24; Col 3:12–13). A doctor receives an angry complaint from a patient’s family and silently remembers Jesus who endured unjust accusation without hatred (cf. 1 Pet 2:23; Isa 53:7). A priest hears the same confession again and recalls the Shepherd who patiently seeks the wandering sheep (cf. Lk 15:4–7; Jn 10:11). A young woman is publicly shamed online and, before responding, looks toward Christ who entrusted His cause to the Father rather than retaliating . A businessman loses a contract through another person's dishonesty; before allowing bitterness to govern him, he considers Calvary. Such moments are hidden chapels. The Catechism(cf. CCC 2715) calls contemplation a gaze fixed upon Jesus . Thus the first apostolate of the soul is not speaking about Christ—it is learning to look at Christ until His way of seeing becomes our own.

“Open your heart to receive My graces” then reveals the extraordinary vulnerability required of a soul that wants to become apostolic. God can pour without measure, yet the human heart can remain strangely closed. The tragedy is not that grace is scarce; it is that the soul may become skilled at protecting itself from the very grace it requests. Naaman initially resisted the simplicity of the prophet's instruction because his pride expected something more dramatic; healing began when he surrendered his preferred method and entered the Jordan (cf. 2 Kgs 5:9–14). Peter similarly resisted the vision of the sheet because grace was asking him to cross a boundary his religious imagination had considered fixed (cf. Acts 10:9–20, 34–35). Ananias(cf. Acts 9:10–19) had to open his heart to the terrifying possibility that the persecutor Saul could become his brother . Grace frequently arrives carrying something we would not have ordered. A parishioner asks forgiveness from someone who has never apologised first.A religious sister is sent to an apostolate she considers unimportant; a father discovers that his adult child no longer needs advice but the safety of being heard; an accountant is required to expose wrongdoing by a respected superior; a young man recognizes that a cherished friendship repeatedly draws him toward sin; a widow discovers that loneliness can become a hidden sanctuary of intercession . These are not merely disturbances to spiritual life; they may be the very thresholds through which grace enters. St. Gertrude the Great’s Eucharistic devotion and St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross’s profound surrender illuminate this receptive mystery: holiness grows not by controlling grace, (cf. Jn 15:4–5; Rom 12:1–2) but by yielding the interior freedom to God . Grace is God’s free participation in His divine life, entirely undeserved and freely given . Yet the soul must cooperate with this gift (cf. CCC 2002). Sometimes that cooperation becomes one costly prayer: “Jesus, I surrender my expectations; let Your grace take whatever form You desire.”

“Receive My graces in order that you may get more strength” contains a profound apostolic paradox: Jesus gives strength before He gives the assignment for which that strength will be needed. Often we discover only afterwards why a particular suffering, discipline, prayer or humiliation was permitted. David learned courage while protecting sheep before he needed it before Goliath (cf. 1 Sam 17:32–37). Esther entered the hidden discipline of royal life before discovering that her position had become a means of protecting her people (cf. Esth 4:13–16). Joseph endured betrayal,(cf. Gen 37:23–28; 41:37–57; 50:20) slavery and imprisonment before understanding how those hidden years had prepared him to preserve countless lives . The same mystery unfolds in ordinary souls.The nurse who patiently cultivates gentleness while caring for a difficult patient may one day carry that same tenderness into the room of a dying stranger (cf. Col 3:12–13; 2 Cor 1:3–4). The seminarian who learns to listen before speaking may eventually sit with a wounded penitent who needs compassionate presence more than immediate answers . A mother patiently caring for a child with difficulties may unknowingly be prepared to comfort another grieving mother years later. The worker who refuses a small dishonest gain may acquire courage to confront greater corruption;(cf. 2 Cor 1:3–4; Rom 5:3–5) the soul that perseveres through spiritual dryness may later sustain someone whose faith has collapsed . Grace often prepares the soul long before its future purpose becomes visible. St. Ignatius of Loyola taught attentiveness to the interior movements of the soul, while St. Francis de Sales revealed how fidelity in small duties becomes ordinary soil for holiness . Grace does not destroy our humanity but perfects it . Christ sanctifies the person we actually are—the parent, priest, farmer, teacher, artisan, student, doctor, religious, or grandparent . What grace quietly forms in us today may become the strength by which Christ carries another soul tomorrow.

Then comes the astonishing purpose: “to bring souls to Me.” Jesus does not say merely to bring souls toward religious activity, institutions, arguments or even our own example. He says “to Me.” The apostolate terminates in the Person of Christ. Andrew did not gather admiration around himself; he brought Peter toward Jesus (cf. Jn 1:40–42). Philip did not make himself the centre of the Ethiopian's search; he opened the Scriptures until the traveller encountered Christ and entered the sacramental life (cf. Acts 8:26–39). The Samaritan woman did not possess theological credentials, yet her encounter with Jesus became sufficiently real that others were drawn to investigate for themselves (cf. Jn 4:28–30, 39–42). Here lies a severe examination for every apostolic soul: Am I bringing people to Jesus, or am I unconsciously bringing them to myself? A catechist can become more interested in being admired than in awakening hunger for Christ. A preacher can become attached to applause. A Catholic social-media creator can begin measuring apostolic fruit through numbers. A parish leader can defend a ministry because it has become part of personal identity. A parent can confuse transmitting faith with controlling an adult child's spiritual decisions. The genuine apostle eventually becomes transparent. Consider the obscure servant girl in Naaman's household: she possessed almost no social power, yet her simple witness became a bridge toward healing (cf. 2 Kgs 5:1–4). Consider Onesimus, (cf. Philem 10–16) whose transformed relationship with Paul became part of a deeper reconciliation with Philemon . Consider the friends who carried the paralysed man through the roof:(cf. Mk 2:1–12) their faith did not merely seek physical improvement; it placed him directly before Jesus . Today, bringing souls to Christ may mean refusing to join gossip so that another person's dignity remains intact; helping a confused teenager distinguish attraction from vocation; accompanying a dying neighbour to receive the sacraments; quietly paying school fees for a child whose parents are struggling; explaining the faith to someone who has only encountered Catholicism through hostility; or simply remaining beside a grieving person without filling the silence with religious clichés. The Catechism(cf. CCC 849) describes the Church as missionary because she exists to communicate Christ and His salvation . The deepest evangelisation is therefore not making ourselves unforgettable but making Christ encounterable.

The whole Appeal finally forms a mystical ladder: consider, open, receive, strengthen, bring. Yet beneath these five movements is one extraordinary truth: Jesus wants to transform the soul into a living passage for grace. The soul looks at Him until it receives His gaze; it opens until grace enters; grace strengthens it until fear no longer dictates its choices; then Christ's own love begins reaching other souls through its ordinary existence. This is why hidden holiness can possess immense apostolic power. A contemplative nun who spends decades unknown may carry missionaries in the sanctuary of prayer. A bedridden man may offer every painful hour for priests. A grandmother may entrust her grandchildren by name to Christ before the Blessed Sacrament each morning (cf. 1 Sam 1:27–28). A lorry driver may pray a decade of the Rosary at each safe stop, offering his journeys for families he will never know (cf. 1 Thess 5:17–18). A cleaner may restore dignity to a neglected hospital room while quietly interceding for every patient who will enter it (cf. Col 3:23–24). A prisoner's sincere conversion may become a testimony that reaches another prisoner who has lost all hope. A child who sees his father kneel beside his bed every night may carry that image of prayer for fifty years. The hidden apostolate is full of mysteries because God can attach enormous spiritual consequences to acts whose earthly visibility is almost zero. St. Bruno's hidden contemplative vocation, St. Mariana de Jesús's penitential intercession for her people, and St. André Bessette's humble ministry of receiving countless troubled people each demonstrate different forms of this fecundity. The Eucharist reveals the summit: Christ gives Himself completely, remains hidden, and nevertheless becomes the source from which the Church receives life (cf. CCC 1324, 1325, 1368). Therefore, “Consider Me” is not merely an invitation to think about Jesus. It is an invitation to let Christ’s Presence become the hidden sun around which the whole soul turns (cf. Jn 15:4–5; Col 3:17). Then the eyes learn mercy, words carry truth without wounding, suffering becomes intercession, work becomes service, silence becomes prayer, and relationships begin to bear His fragrance (cf. Eph 4:29; Col 3:12–15; 2 Cor 2:15). Eventually, evangelization is no longer merely something the soul plans to do; the transformed life itself becomes its quiet proclamation . Having contemplated Jesus deeply, the soul begins to leave traces of Him wherever it goes.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, teach us to consider You until Your gaze becomes our gaze. Open every hidden part of our hearts to Your grace. Strengthen us for the souls You entrust to us. May our words, silence, work, suffering and love become hidden channels through which souls encounter You. Amen.

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