The last few weeks of the liturgical year are always
difficult for me. The end of the long, long stretch until Advent. Thirty-four
weeks of waiting around. We’ve been going through the parables for a while.
There’s increasing urgency in the readings. Sheep and goats and virgins’ lamps.
Stay awake, get right with God, for he’s coming any moment. It’s true, I know,
but I don’t feel the urgency. It starts to sounds like a Baptist altar call. I
don’t respond to threats of hell.
But I realize that the problem is me (of course).
The message is urgent, but I bop along in my same routine. Recently
I was talking about evangelization with some other people, and how St.
Catherine of Sienna prayed for the salvation of others’ souls. And I just don’t.
I pray for others and their struggles, but I rarely outright pray for the
salvation of their soul. It doesn’t seem like a pressing matter.
And I realized other’s salvation doesn’t seem pressing
because mine doesn’t either. I don’t treat my soul’s care with the urgency that
I should. I get in routines. I don’t pray. I let weeks pass without confession.
I don’t do anything particularly bad, but I don’t do anything particularly good
either. I’m waiting out the weeks. I’m daydreaming while listening to the call
to stay awake.
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