Nameless Abominations Before the Altars

Divine Appeal Reflection - 166

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 166:    "All nameless abominations  are committed against Me in the lonely days and long hours of thirst.  I remain all alone before the altars. "

There is a terrible mystery hidden in the loneliness of the Eucharistic Jesus: God can be infinitely present and yet almost completely unnoticed. The angels adore Him in heaven, yet on earth the tabernacle may remain before a generation too hurried even to remember that He is there (cf. Rev 4:8–11; CCC 1377–1380). The mystery is not that Christ lacks glory. He remains the victorious and glorified Lord. The mystery is that His love accepts concealment. He chooses not to overwhelm the human person with visible majesty but remains beneath the humility of sacramental signs,(cf. Phil 2:5–8; CCC 1374–1378) allowing freedom to approach or pass by . This resembles the mysterious encounter of the risen Christ with the disciples on the road to Emmaus. He walks beside them while they fail to recognize Him,(cf. Lk 24:13–32) even as their hearts are being secretly moved . How many people live similarly today? A university student walks past a chapel daily but never enters because an examination, relationship, or career appears more urgent. A nurse finishes a night shift emotionally exhausted and believes that scrolling through a phone is the only possible consolation, while a church stands quietly nearby. An unemployed man spends hours searching for work, carrying humiliation and fear, yet never considers bringing his anxiety before the Eucharistic Christ. A widow returns to an empty house and speaks continually to television voices while the One who conquered death waits silently in the tabernacle (cf. Jn 11:25–26). The deepest loneliness may therefore belong not only to Jesus but also to humanity. We leave Christ alone while remaining unable to understand why our hearts feel alone. The prophet Baruch experienced exhaustion while serving in a collapsing world, yet God met him personally within his discouragement (cf. Jer 45:1–5).  The tabernacle is therefore a school against the tyranny of visibility. Jesus seems to say through His silence: You need not be important to come to Me. You need only come. A person may enter for three minutes, kneel without words, and leave carrying a grace invisible even to himself (cf. Rom 8:26–27). Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies of modern life is that we travel everywhere searching for presence while passing daily before the Presence itself. (cf. CCC 1380).

The mystery of nameless abominations is deeper than shocking sins that society publicly condemns. Some of the most serious spiritual disorders appear perfectly respectable. Sin often becomes nameless because people give it another name. Greed becomes “ambition.” Manipulation becomes “leadership.” Lust becomes “personal freedom.” Cruelty becomes “honesty.” Pride becomes “self-respect.” Indifference becomes “protecting my peace” (cf. Is 5:20–23; CCC 1849–1851). The biblical story of Micah's private shrine is striking because religious language and religious objects coexist with spiritual confusion and idolatry (cf. Judg 17:1–13). Everything may appear religious while the centre has quietly shifted from God to the desires of the human heart. Another disturbing example is Simon the Magician, who encounters apostolic power but desires spiritual gifts as instruments of personal advantage (cf. Acts 8:9–24). The sacred becomes dangerous when it is used to magnify the self. Consider a preacher secretly measuring his ministry by applause. Consider a choir member becoming angry when someone else receives praise. Consider a person donating publicly while privately refusing to pay a domestic worker fairly. Consider a Catholic social-media personality speaking beautifully about holiness while deliberately humiliating strangers online. Consider a businessman sponsoring religious events while building his wealth through exploitation (cf. Jas 5:1–6). Consider a young woman constantly posting prayers while secretly destroying another person's reputation through private messages. These sins may never be called “abominations” by society because they wear respectable clothing. Yet the Eucharist sees through appearances (cf. 1 Sam 16:7). The Host is silent, but nothing before the Host is hidden. The Eucharistic Jesus receives our genuflection while seeing the resentment we carried into church. He receives our hymns while seeing the person we refuse to forgive. He receives our external reverence while seeing the secret habit we have no intention of abandoning (cf. Ps 139:1–12). St Joseph of Cupertino, whose extraordinary mystical experiences were accompanied by profound humility, reminds us that supernatural experiences without humility would be spiritually empty.  St Benedict Joseph Labre, wandering without worldly status, exposes another truth:(cf. Lk 18:9–14) God is often closer to the forgotten sinner who honestly cries for mercy than to the respected person who no longer believes he needs conversion . Eucharistic reparation therefore begins when we stop asking, “What terrible sins are others committing?” and begin trembling gently before the question, “What have I learned to call normal that grieves the Heart of Christ?” .

Christ's thirst is perhaps the most mystical word in this appeal. The thirst of Jesus is not the weakness of One who needs something we possess. Rather, it reveals the astonishing vulnerability of divine love: Love desires to be received . At the Cross, Jesus enters the extremity of human abandonment; in the Eucharist, He continues to remain where human freedom may either welcome or ignore Him (cf. Heb 4:14–16; CCC 1380). Consider the strange biblical figure of Hannah,(cf. 1 Sam 1:9–18) whose silent prayer was so interior that Eli misunderstood what he was seeing . Her lips moved, but her voice was not heard. There is something Eucharistic about this: the deepest prayer sometimes occurs where nothing spectacular is visible. The lonely person before the tabernacle may not know how to pray. He may simply sit. He may cry. He may feel nothing. Yet the silence can become an encounter. Consider Hagar, who encounters God when she has been sent into the wilderness and has no human future she can see . Consider the Shunammite woman,(cf. 2 Kgs 4:18–37) whose grief is so profound that she refuses superficial consolation and perseveres toward the prophet while carrying the mystery of her dead child . These souls teach us that genuine thirst does not always look religious.A woman who has suffered infertility may visit the Blessed Sacrament after attending another baby's baptism and silently struggle with envy and grief. A young man may sit in his car outside a church after losing his job because he does not know where else to go.  A father may kneel before the tabernacle after discovering his son has entered addiction. A priest may sit in darkness after celebrating a funeral for a child and have no words left for God. A religious sister may experience decades of hidden dryness while remaining faithful to the Divine Office. These are not necessarily failures of prayer;(cf. Rom 8:26–27) sometimes they are the places where prayer becomes stripped of performance . St Maria Francesca of the Five Wounds lived an intensely hidden spirituality of suffering and intercession. St Lydwine of Schiedam transformed years of physical suffering into intercession for others. Their lives reveal that Christ can unite human thirst to His own. Before the Eucharist, we do not merely bring Jesus our thirst; we discover that our thirst is being received into His greater thirst for us (cf. Jn 4:7–14). The astonishing mystery is this: the soul believes it has come to search for Jesus, only to discover that Jesus has been waiting longer for the soul than the soul has been searching for Him. (cf. Lk 19:1–10).

The Eucharistic loneliness of Christ carries an apostolic consequence that is rarely considered: those who learn to notice the hidden Jesus should gradually become people who notice hidden suffering (cf. Mt 25:31–40; CCC 1397). The Bible contains remarkable examples. Rizpah, a largely forgotten woman, (cf. 2 Sam 21:1–14) keeps watch over the bodies of her dead sons through a long season of exposure and mourning, refusing to abandon them to disgrace . Her vigil eventually moves David to act. Her hidden faithfulness becomes a cry against the indifference surrounding her. There is another mysterious figure: the little servant girl of Naaman's household. She is captive, foreign, powerless, and unnamed, yet she becomes the instrument through whom healing begins for the very household connected to her displacement (cf. 2 Kgs 5:1–4). The Eucharistic soul learns from such people that greatness may consist in noticing someone nobody considers important. A parishioner may spend an hour in adoration but walk home without noticing the mentally ill man sitting outside the church. Something remains unfinished. A Catholic employer may kneel reverently before the Blessed Sacrament while refusing maternity leave or fair wages to vulnerable workers. Something remains divided (cf. Jas 2:14–17). A family may sponsor beautiful church decorations while their ageing grandmother eats alone every evening. A seminarian may love Eucharistic adoration while despising the classmate who struggles academically. A religious superior may defend community discipline while ignoring a sister who has quietly become isolated. The Eucharist exposes the contradiction between loving Christ sacramentally and refusing Christ relationally . St Jeanne Jugan discovered Christ in abandoned elderly people who had become burdens to society. Blessed Benedetta Bianchi Porro endured progressive illness while revealing the dignity of a life increasingly dependent upon others. St Marguerite Bays lived ordinary domestic life with hidden holiness, reminding us that sanctity often develops without public recognition. These witnesses suggest a demanding apostolic principle: every hour spent before the hidden Host should make us less capable of overlooking hidden people (cf. CCC 2447). Perhaps the person Jesus is asking you to visit is not impressive. Perhaps it is the neighbour whose conversation is repetitive. Perhaps it is the colleague everyone avoids because she is difficult. Perhaps it is the prisoner nobody visits. Perhaps it is the disabled person whose presence makes others uncomfortable. Perhaps it is the old man who has become invisible even inside his own family (cf. Lk 14:12–14). The soul that has truly learned to recognise Jesus beneath the appearance of bread should become more capable of recognising Him beneath the broken appearances of humanity. (cf. Mt 25:40).

The deepest mystical response to this appeal is not simply to visit the church more frequently. It is to allow the Eucharistic Christ to teach us the spirituality of remaining. Humanity easily abandons what no longer gives immediate satisfaction. We leave conversations when they become uncomfortable. We abandon marriages internally before abandoning them externally. We leave elderly relatives when care becomes demanding. We change communities when we are no longer appreciated. We stop praying when consolation disappears (cf. Gal 6:9). But Jesus remains. He remains through forgotten afternoons. He remains through empty churches. He remains when people receive Him with distracted hearts. He remains when humanity sins. He remains—not because sin does not matter,(cf. Lk 15:1–7; CCC 604) but because His mercy refuses to stop seeking the sinner . The obscure biblical figure Barzillai offers a beautiful image of faithful presence. When David is humiliated and fleeing,(cf. 2 Sam 17:27–29; 19:31–39) Barzillai provides practical assistance without seeking political advantage . Onesiphorus likewise searches for Paul when association with the imprisoned Apostle is dangerous,(cf. 2 Tim 1:16–18) refusing to be ashamed of a forgotten prisoner . Their holiness is not spectacular. They simply remain present when others withdraw. This is profoundly Eucharistic. A wife remains beside her husband during years of disability.  A priest faithfully celebrates Mass in a mission station where only six people attend. A teacher continues encouraging a child repeatedly labelled “slow.” A nurse washes the same abandoned patient day after day without receiving gratitude. A young adult refuses to abandon an ageing parent because care has become inconvenient. A Christian visits a friend suffering depression and accepts that conversation may sometimes be silent. This is where Eucharistic adoration becomes flesh. St Leopold Mandić spent countless hidden hours reconciling sinners, remaining available to souls who returned repeatedly with the same wounds. St Charbel Makhlouf chose a life of profound hiddenness in which silence became intercession. St Joseph Cafasso accompanied condemned prisoners, refusing to allow those society had rejected to face death without spiritual companionship. Their lives reveal that the Eucharistic Christ forms souls capable of staying where love becomes costly (cf. Jn 13:34–35). The tabernacle teaches us that love is not proven only by intense moments; it is proven by remaining faithful during long hours when nothing appears to happen (cf. Jn 15:9–10). Therefore, when you enter an apparently empty church, do not think you are merely visiting a lonely place. You are entering a mystery in which Love has chosen to remain. Sit down. Become still. Let your presence answer His Presence. Bring Him the sins of the world, the forgotten, the dying, the addicted, the abused, the lonely, and those who no longer know how to pray (cf. 1 Tim 2:1–4). Perhaps the greatest consolation we can offer the Eucharistic Jesus is not extraordinary words, but the simple decision: “Lord, You have remained for me; therefore, for this moment, I will remain with You.” (cf. Mt 26:40–41; CCC 1380).

Prayer 

O Adorable Eucharistic Jesus, forgive us for forgetting You while You remain so faithfully near. Awaken our hearts to Your hidden Presence and give us the grace to remain with You in love and silence . Teach us to recognise Your loneliness in souls who are abandoned, forgotten, wounded, or far from You . May our adoration grow into faithful love, our fidelity open our hearts to compassion, and our compassion become a living reflection of Your own love in the world . Amen.

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