Transcription
My dear brothers and sisters, my beloved children in faith, I speak to you not as someone above you, but as one who kneels beside you. I speak to you as a pilgrim who has walked through doubt, silence, pain, and hope just as you have.
Today I ask you to listen not only with your ears but with your heart. Because what I am about to share is not loud, not dramatic, not something shouted from the rooftops. It is a whisper, a holy whisper. A whisper spoken at the most sacred moment of the mass.
When heaven bends low to earth, when time seems to pause, and when the eukarist is raised before our eyes, many people look at that moment. But very few understand what their soul can say in that instant. And yet that single whisper can change a life forever.
I have seen many churches around the world. grand cathedrals filled with light and small chapels hidden in poor villages. I have seen crowds and I have seen lonely souls sitting in the last pew and in every place the same moment arrives. The priest lifts the host. The bell rings. Silence falls. Some bow their heads. Some close their eyes. Some simply stare. But inside many hearts there is emptiness, distraction, routine. We know when to stand. We know when to kneel. But we forget what to say to Jesus when he is right there lifted before us offering himself again. Not in pain this time, but in love.
My brothers and sisters, the Eucharist is not a symbol to be observed. It is a person to be loved. When the host is raised, it is Jesus saying once again, "This is my body given for you." He is not speaking to the crowd. He is speaking to you, to your hidden wounds, to your secret fears, to the prayers you never dared to say out loud. And in that moment, he waits. Yes, he waits for your response. Not a long prayer, not perfect words, just a whisper from a humble heart.
I remember a woman I once met after mass. She was poor, her clothes worn, her eyes tired. She told me with tears, "Cardinal, when the host is lifted," I whisper, "Only one thing. Stay with me." She said she had lost her husband, her job, and her home. She had nothing left to offer God. But that whisper, "Stay with me," became her lifeline. And I understood then that the power of the eukarist is not unlocked by knowledge but by surrender.
So what should you whisper when the eukarist is raised. Not what sounds holy to others, not what you think you are supposed to say, but what your soul truly needs to say. For some of you, the whisper is, "Lord, I believe, help my unbelief." For others, it is, "Forgive me." For many, it is simply, "I am tired." And Jesus understands every one of these prayers because he himself once said, "Come to me all you who labor and are burdened and I will give you rest."
When the host is raised, remember this. You are not watching a ritual. You are standing at Calvary and at the empty tomb at the same time. The same Jesus who was born in a poor manger now allows himself to be held by human hands. The same Jesus who was rejected, mocked and crucified now chooses to be silent and small so that he does not frighten you. He lowers himself so that you may lift your heart.
Many people ask me, Cardinal Teagel, why do I not feel anything during mass? And I gently tell them love is not always felt but it is always present. A mother does not stop loving her child because she feels tired. A father does not stop caring because he feels numb. In the same way, Jesus is present in the eukarist even when your heart feels dry. Especially them. That is why the whisper matters most in moments of emptiness.
I want to tell you a secret, one that saints understood deeply. God listens more carefully to whispers than to shouts. Because a whisper requires closeness. When you whisper during the elevation of the eukarist, you are leaning your soul toward Jesus. You are saying, "I trust you enough to come close." And he never refuses that invitation.
In the gospel, we hear of the woman who touched the hem of Jesus garment. She did not shout. She did not ask for attention. She whispered her faith through a single touch and Jesus stopped. He turned. He noticed. In the same way, when you whisper during the Eucharist, Jesus notices, heaven pauses. Grace flows in ways you may never fully understand in this life.
Some of you carry heavy guilt. You come to mass but feel unworthy to look up when the host is raised. You think Jesus cannot be for me. My dear children, listen to me with all your heart. The eukarist is not a reward for the perfect. It is food for the weak. If you were worthy on your own, you would not need him. When the host is raised, your whisper can be, "Jesus, I need you." And that prayer opens the floodgates of mercy.
Others among you carry anger, old wounds, betrayals that still burn. You kneel, but inside you resist. In that moment, whisper, "Teach me to forgive." You are not asked to forgive by your own strength. You are asked to place your broken heart before the one whose heart was pierced. Forgiveness begins not with power but with honesty.
And then there are those who are joyful, grateful, full of life. Do not be ashamed of that joy. Whisper, "Thank you." Gratitude is a holy prayer. Jesus himself gave thanks before breaking the bread. When you whisper gratitude, you join his own prayer to the father.
My brothers and sisters, the world teaches us to speak loudly to be heard. God teaches us to whisper to be transformed. The elevation of the eukarist lasts only seconds, but its power echoes into eternity. Do not let that moment pass as habit. Claim it as encounter. Claim it as relationship. Claim it as love offered and love returned.
When the priest lifts the host, something invisible but real happens. Heaven does not open with thunder. Angels do not shout. Instead, God chooses silence. This should teach us something important. God is not competing with the noise of the world. He is inviting you out of it. The elevation of the Eucharist is God saying, "Be still and know that I am here." and your whisper is your way of saying I am here too.
I remember as a young priest I once asked an elderly nun what she prayed during the elevation. She smiled and said nothing new. The same words every day. I asked her why. She replied because love does not need many words. That answer stayed with me for years. We live in a time where people believe prayer must always be creative, emotional, and intense. But the deepest prayers are often simple and faithful, repeated not out of habit, but out of love.
My brothers and sisters, repetition does not weaken prayer. It deepens it. When you whisper the same words to Jesus again and again during the eukarist, those words slowly sink from your lips into your heart and from your heart into your life. Over time, they begin to change how you speak, how you act, how you forgive, how you hope.
Some of you whisper, "Jesus, I trust you." But inside fear still controls you. Do not be discouraged. Trust is not built in one mass. It is built mass after mass, whisper after whisper, moment after moment. Even the apostles struggled with trust. They walked with Jesus, saw miracles, and still doubted. Yet Jesus did not abandon them. He stayed. He continues to stay with you in the eukarist patiently forming your heart.
The whisper during the elevation is powerful because it is offered at the moment of self giving. Jesus is not standing before you as a teacher or judge. He is offered as bread broken given silent vulnerable. When you whisper to him in that moment, you are responding to love with love, weakness with honesty, fear with surrender. Think of the last supper. Jesus knew betrayal was near. He knew suffering was coming. And yet he still broke the bread and said, "This is my body given for you." He did not wait for perfect disciples. He gave himself anyway. Every mass is an echo of that night. Every elevation is Jesus choosing you again despite knowing your failures, your sins, your hesitations.
So what happens inside you when you whisper during the elevation? Something very gentle but very real. Your heart begins to soften. Not suddenly, not dramatically, but slowly. Hard hearts do not soften through force. They soften through presence. And the Eucharist is presence. Real presence. When you whisper honestly, you allow Jesus to sit with you exactly as you are, not as you pretend to be.
Many people think holiness means having no struggles. This is not true. Holiness means bringing your struggles to God instead of hiding them. When you whisper, "Help me," you are already walking the path of holiness. When you whisper, "I am sorry." Grace is already at work. When you whisper, "I cannot do this alone." You are finally speaking the truth.
I have met people who attend mass for years but never speak to Jesus from the heart. They know prayers by memory but not by intimacy. My dear brothers and sisters, Jesus does not desire your performance. He desires your presence. He desires your whisper more than your perfection.
There is also another secret hidden in this moment. When you whisper during the elevation, you are not praying alone. The church is praying with you. The saints are praying with you. Mary herself is near. She who first held Jesus in her arms now teaches you how to receive him in your heart. And what did Mary whisper throughout her life? Let it be done to me according to your word. That can also be your whisper, a prayer of surrender, a prayer of trust.
Some of you are praying for loved ones who are far from God. Children who no longer believe, spouses who are cold in faith, friends who are lost. When the host is raised, whisper their names. Jesus listens. You may not see immediate change, but no whisper offered in love is ever wasted. God works in ways hidden from our eyes just as he hides himself under the appearance of bread.
I want to speak especially to those who feel invisible. Those who feel forgotten by the church, by society, even by family, the eukarist is God's answer to your pain. It is God say you. I see you. I choose to stay with you. When you whisper, "Do not forget me." Know this. God never forgets those who come to him with a humble heart.
Over time, this whisper begins to shape how you live outside the church walls. You start to listen more. You start to speak less harshly. You begin to see others not as enemies but as fellow broken people loved by God. The Eucharist is not meant to end at the altar. It is meant to continue in your life.
My brothers and sisters, if you only remember one thing from this part, remember this. The whisper during the elevation is not magic. It is relationship. It is the language of love spoken quietly between the soul and its savior. And like all true relationships, it grows deeper with time. Patience and faithfulness.
We have spoken about the whisper you offer to Jesus when the eukarist is raised. Now we must speak about something equally important. Something many people forget. Prayer is not only about speaking. Prayer is also about listening. And the elevation of the eukarist is not only the moment when you whisper to Jesus. It is also the moment when Jesus whispers back to you.
We live in a noisy world. Noise outside us, noise inside us. Thoughts racing, worries repeating themselves, memories rising without permission. Even inside the church, even during mass, the noise follows us. We kneel, but our minds run. We look at the host, but our hearts are busy elsewhere. And yet Jesus does not shout over your noise. He waits for a small opening of silence. That is why the church gives us that pause, that stillness, that sacred hush when the host is lifted. It is an invitation to listen.
Some of you may say, "But cardinal, I do not hear God speak." My dear children, God rarely speaks in sentences. He speaks in movements of the heart. He speaks in peace that does not make sense. He speaks in a gentle conviction, a quiet clarity, a soft invitation to trust. During the elevation, when your whisper ends, if you remain still, something begins to happen. Jesus looks at you not with judgment, not with disappointment, but with love that knows you completely.
In the gospel, we hear that Jesus looked at Peter after Peter denied him. That look was not anger. It was mercy. In the same way, when the eukarist is raised, Jesus looks at you and sometimes without words, he says, "I know." He knows your struggle. He knows your weakness. He knows the effort it took just to come to mass. And that knowing is already healing.
There was a young man who once told me he felt nothing during mass. He said he whispered prayers but heaven seemed silent. I asked him after you whisper, "Do you stay?" He looked confused. I said, "Do you remain in silence or do you immediately fill the space with more words?" He realized then that he was afraid of silence, afraid of what he might feel, afraid of what might rise to the surface. But silence is not empty. Silence is where God waits.
During the elevation, after you whisper your prayer, try this. Simply say in your heart, "Speak, Lord, I am listening." and then do nothing. Do not force thoughts. Do not chase feelings. Just remain present. Like a child resting in the arms of a parent. In that stillness, Jesus begins his work. You may not notice it immediately, but grace does not need your awareness to be effective.
Many people expect God to speak clearly like a voice in the air. But more often, he speaks by changing your desires. A forgiveness that once seemed impossible begins to feel necessary. A sin that once felt small begins to feel heavy. A path you feared begins to attract you. These are whispers from Jesus. Born in moments of silent listening, especially before the Eucharist.
My brothers and sisters, silence before the Eucharist teaches humility. It teaches us that we are not in control, that we do not direct God, that we receive. The Eucharist itself is a lesson in receiving. You do not take Jesus. You receive him. And before you receive him sacramentally, he invites you to receive him interiorly through listening.
Some of you are carrying decisions that weigh heavily on your heart. Choices about family, work, relationships, faith. You ask God for answers, but you fear the silence that follows. Do not fear it. Silence is where clarity is born. When the host is raised, whisper your question. Then listen, not for instructions, but for peace. God often guides us by giving peace in one direction and restlessness in another.
There are also those among you who carry deep pain loss that words cannot express trauma that prayer feels too small to hold. In those moments, silence before the eukarist is not emptiness. It is companionship. Jesus does not always remove the cross, but he never leaves you alone under it. His whisper to you may simply be, "I am with you." And sometimes that is enough to survive another day.
I want to speak to those who feel unworthy to listen. Those who think God would not speak to someone like me. My dear brothers and sisters, if God spoke only to the worthy, no one would hear him. God speaks to sinners, to the broken, to the lost. He spoke to Moses who doubted, to David who fell, to Peter who denied. And he speaks to you. Not because you deserve it, but because he loves you.
The Eucharist is the school of listening. When you learn to listen there, you begin to listen differently everywhere else. You listen more patiently to others. You listen beyond words. You listen with compassion. And slowly your life becomes more eukaristic, more given, more open, more loving.
There is a beautiful truth many forget. When the priest lifts the host and says, "Behold the lamb of God." It is not only an invitation to look. It is an invitation to recognize to recognize Jesus in the bread. And later to recognize him in the poor, the suffering, the forgotten, the whisper and the listening together train your eyes and your heart.
My brothers and sisters, do not rush this moment. Do not treat it as a pause between actions. It is the heart of the mass, the beating heart. In that stillness, your whisper rises to heaven and heaven's mercy descends into you.
The whisper you offer during the elevation of the eukarist does not remain trapped in that sacred moment. It travels with you. It follows you into your home, your work, your relationships, your sleepless nights, and your quiet mornings. If the eukarist truly touches your heart, it must also shape how you live. Otherwise, it remains only a beautiful moment, not a transforming one.
I want you to understand something very important. The Eucharist is not an escape from reality. It is preparation for reality. When you whisper to Jesus as he is raised, you are allowing him to enter the real places of your life, not the ideal ones. He enters your fatigue, your frustrations, your habits, your reactions. Slowly, gently, he begins to change them from the inside.
Many people think that spiritual growth should be fast and visible. They expect sudden peace, immediate answers, instant holiness. But Jesus works differently. He works like bread works in the body, quietly, gradually, faithfully. You do not feel bread strengthening your body, but without it you grow weak. In the same way, the whisper during the eukarist feeds your soul little by little.
I have seen this transformation many times. A man who used to react with anger begins to pause before speaking. A woman who carried bitterness for years begins to feel a small opening toward forgiveness. A young person who felt lost begins to sense direction. None of this happens overnight. It happens because again and again they brought their real selves to Jesus during the elevation and whispered honestly.
When you whisper, "Jesus, change my heart," do not expect him to remove all struggle. Instead, expect him to walk with you through it. Expect him to give you strength at the moment you need it most. Expect him to remind you, often quietly, of the love you received kneeling before him.
There is a connection many people miss. The way you whisper during the eukarist affects the way you speak to others. If your whisper is humble, your speech becomes gentler. If your whisper is honest, your relationships become more truthful. If your whisper is forgiving, your heart becomes less heavy. The Eucharist teaches us how to live by teaching us how to receive.
I remember a mother who told me she began whispering her child's name during the elevation every Sunday. Her child was angry, distant from the church, distant from home. Nothing changed for a long time. But the mother changed. She became more patient, less controlling, more loving. And slowly her child felt that change. Grace often begins by changing us, not the people we pray for.
My brothers and sisters, the Eucharist also reshapes how you see suffering. When you kneel before Jesus, who offers himself broken and given, you begin to understand that brokenness is not the end of the story. Your wounds do not disqualify you from love. They become places where love can enter when you whisper your pain to Jesus during the elevation. You are placing it into his wounded hands.
Some of you suffer silently. You smile in public but cry alone. You carry grief, illness, disappointment that few know. The Eucharist does not ask you to explain your pain. It asks you to bring it, to lay it down, to trust that God can do something with what feels unbearable. Your whisper may be only here it is, and that is enough.
The transformation that flows from the eukarist is often most visible in small choices. Choosing patience instead of anger. Choosing honesty instead of comfort. Choosing prayer instead of distraction. These choices are not heroic. They are eukaristic. They reflect a life slowly shaped by kneeling, whispering, and listening.
I want to speak about forgiveness because this is where many hearts struggle. When you whisper during the elevation, you are standing before Jesus who forgave even from the cross. Forgiveness does not mean forgetting. It does not mean excusing harm. It means refusing to let pain define you. When you whisper, "Help me forgive." You open a door. God may not push you through it immediately, but he will walk with you toward it.
There is also a call hidden in the eukarist, a call to become what you receive. Jesus gives himself as bread so that you may become nourishment for others. Not by grand gestures but by presence, by kindness, by faithfulness. When you whisper during the elevation, you are also saying even without realizing it, use me. And God takes that seriously.
The world teaches us to protect ourselves, to build walls, to avoid vulnerability. The Eucharist teaches us to give ourselves, to trust, to love even when it costs us something. This is not easy. That is why we need to return to the altar again and again to be fed again and again to whisper again and again.
My brothers and sisters, if you ever wonder whether your whisper matters, look at your life after many masses. Look at at the small changes. Look at the strength you did not know you had. Look at the compassion that has grown in you. These are signs that the Eucharist is at work.
Now we come to the final part of this journey. A place where faith is tested not by emotion but by perseverance. Because there will come times in your life when the Eucharist feels distant, when the whisper feels empty, when heaven seems silent, and it is precisely in those moments that your faith becomes most precious.
I want to speak to you honestly as a shepherd who has also felt dryness in prayer. There are seasons when you kneel at mass, the host is raised and nothing stirs inside you. No warmth, no tears, no clarity, only routine, only waiting. My dear children, do not be afraid of these moments. Do not think that God has left you. Often this is when he is closest, teaching you to love him not for consolation.