Tepidity

By Fr. Conor Donnelly

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In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

My Lord and my God, I firmly believe that you are here, that you see me, that you hear me. I adore you with profound reverence. I ask your pardon for my sins and grace to make this time of prayer fruitful. My Immaculate Mother, Saint Joseph, my father and lord, my guardian angel, intercede for me.

“God is love” (1 John 4:8,16), an ever-new flame of love that does not diminish over time, leaving behind only a smoldering wick. Rather, His love burns eternally, giving warmth and light to those who allow themselves to be embraced by it.

God said to Moses, “I am who I am” (Exo. 3:14). He is Love, a faithful and ever-living love. By creating us in His image (cf. Gen. 1:27), He has destined us for such a love: our hearts are not capable of living with less. Our love can only be a burning love that renews and grows over time.

We may have had the experience of returning to a house where we used to live, a place where we loved and gave and received a lot of affection, and returning, we find it empty, abandoned, maybe even in ruins. A nostalgic pain pierces our hearts as we think of how happy we were there.

Something similar happens when our love grows cold and fades away. It is a sorrowful thing to see a love full of warmth turn to ashes, when it once held the promise of eternal joy, which was everything to us.

One writer said, “How terrible it is when you say ‘I love you’ and the person at the other end shouts back, ‘What?’” (J. D, Salinger, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction). This is a perfect description of lukewarmness or tepidity, which is when a precious love which once gladdened the heart and filled our lives with light, is consumed nearly to the point of going out.

It is love that has not withstood the passage of time. It’s sort of a death in slow motion. To cool down, one must have been previously ignited, in love.

Tepidity is not a risk for someone who has only just given their heart: their love is too elemental, too naive.

Tepidity, however, is a real danger for any love that has been burning for a while. It’s not a sudden death, but a disease that progresses almost imperceptibly: death in slow motion, like the so-called “white death” of mountaineers, a fatal mixture of cold and fatigue, where the body gradually loses its reactivity and eventually succumbs to a sweet but lethal sleep.

Reflections on tepidity arose very early in the history of the Church. In the third and fourth centuries, Origen and Evagrius Ponticus spoke of acedia, a state of disgust and laziness of the soul that does not appear in the early hours of the day of life, but when the sun has already traveled a good distance and shines [high in the sky].

Acedia literally means neglect, indifference. Although over time some authors distinguished it from lukewarmness, both terms refer to the same spiritual panorama: a “cooling off of charity, which gets muddied by neglect and laziness” (Fernando Ocáriz, In the Light of the Gospel), a carelessness that undermines dedication because “love cannot be idle” (Augustine, Exposition on Psalm 31); it does not take vacations.

Blessed Álvaro del Portillo once wrote very energetically about the dangerous advance of lukewarmness: “The will of the tepid person finds its capacity to see goodness blurred, while it is on the lookout for anything that flatters its own ego. In such a state, the dregs and rottenness of selfishness and pride accumulate in the soul.

“As these settle, they give a progressively carnal flavor to the person’s behavior. If this evil is not stopped in its tracks, the most abject desires, tainted by those festering sediments of lukewarmness, become progressively stronger.

“The desire for compensations arises. Irritability appears when faced with the slightest demand or sacrifice. Complaints are made for no real reason. Conversation becomes empty or self-centered. Failures in mortification and sobriety appear. The senses awaken, with violent starts. Charity grows cold and the apostolic zeal which enables one to talk about God, with real conviction, is lost” (Álvaro del Portillo, Pastoral Letter, January 9, 1980).

This is the path of lukewarmness. Gradually, sadness enters the soul and darkens everything: what once filled our hearts now means nothing to us, and we begin to reason in worldly terms.

Tepidity distorts the soul’s senses, causing it to weary of the things of God; we even start to convince ourselves that true life lies elsewhere.

Based on his own experience, St. Augustine wrote: “I found it no marvel that bread which is distasteful to an unhealthy palate is pleasant to a healthy one; and that the light, which is painful to sore eyes, is delightful to sound ones” (Augustine, Confessions).

How does one reach that state? How can a vibrant love grow so cold? We might say that it begins with a disenchantment with life, perhaps due to certain disappointments and difficulties, which lead the person to lose the candor and fervor of their early steps.

The turning point may pass relatively unnoticed, but it penetrates the soul. The person begins to cut back on time for God because the plan of life feels like an accumulation of obligations; he stops dreaming and striving for the apostolic mission, perhaps due to the hostility of the environment, or discouragement at seeing few fruits.

Pope Francis said, “We all know from experience that sometimes a task does not bring the satisfaction we seek, results are few and changes are slow, and we are all tempted to grow weary. Yet lowering our arms momentarily out of weariness is not the same as lowering them for good, overcome by chronic discontent and by a listlessness that parches the soul” (Pope Francis, Apostolic Exhortation, Evangelii gaudium, Point 277, November 24, 2013).

This type of discontent gradually cools the heart, [Blessed Álvaro] says, “by abandonment, by apathy, by indifference at the moment of the daily examination of one’s conduct. Today we leave out this, tomorrow we don’t give importance to that, we omit a mortification for no reason at all, we consent to a lack of sincerity…, and so we become more and more used to things that displease [God], and fail to convert them, by means of examination, into material for our struggle.

“Never forget it: that is how one embarks on the path of lukewarmness [or tepidity]. Through the fissures of a careless examination of conscience there enters a coldness that ends up freezing the soul” (A. del Portillo, Pastoral Letter, December 8, 1976).

In the opening verses of the Apocalypse [Revelation], there are lines that could surprise us by their severity: “I know your works,” it says, “you are neither hot nor cold. Would that you were hot or cold! But because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will vomit you out of my mouth” (Rev. 3:15-16).

The following lines, perhaps less familiar, help to understand what God means by those striking words: “For you say, ‘I am rich, I have prospered, I need nothing,’ not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked” (Rev. 3:17).

The accumulation of these descriptions, which might give the impression of harshness towards the lukewarm, actually allows us a glimpse of the heart of God. Our Lord speaks sternly to help people understand their situation, similar to the man in the Gospel parable who, after a bountiful harvest, said to himself, “Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry” (Luke 12:19).

His mistake was that he stored up treasures for himself instead of being “rich towards God” (Luke 12:21). He failed to realize that he is focused on himself and so headed for ruin.

Following the stern words in Revelation, there are others filled with paternal concern, showing how God not only does not despair of us but He does everything possible to change our hearts.

We are told: “I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire, so that you may be rich, and white garments so that you may clothe yourself and the shame of your nakedness may not be seen, and [salve] to anoint your eyes, so that you may see.

“Those whom I love, I reprove and discipline, so be zealous and repent. Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me” (Rev. 3:18–20).

God wants to lift us out of this lamentable state. He knocks at the door of our soul because He wants us to return to intimacy with Him…but He needs us to do our part, to take the steps to rekindle our love once more.

In the Song of Songs, it says, “Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil our vineyards, for our vineyards are in blossom” (Song 2:15).

Tepidity takes hold of the soul when sensitivity towards God is lost, when trust turns into negligence. We may not be able to offer Our Lord flawless perfection, but we can be thoughtful and attentive towards Him. Contrition is part of this thoughtfulness, when we realize that we’ve treated Him poorly or lacked affection.

We have to pay attention to the small things and awaken contrition for our resistance to love that might be expressed in skipping or delaying our prayer due to our busyness, or arriving late for dinner due to prioritizing our own matters, or delaying a service out of laziness, or showing a sour face to someone. Acts of contrition, even for these things, ignite the soul and allow us to start over.

“In my case,” said St. Josemaría, “and I imagine the same thing happens to you, I start anew each day, every hour, every time I make an act of contrition, I start anew” (Josemaría Escrivá, In Dialogue with the Lord, Point 29).

Earlier, we mentioned the need to cultivate that attitude of examination, which entails sincerity with God and with ourselves (J. Escrivá, Collected Letters, Letter No. 1, March 24, 1930).

This gives rise to sincerity with those who accompany us on our journey towards God; a sincerity full of docility, allowing ourselves to be challenged, thus keeping our love alive.

“Sincerity and lukewarmness,” he says, “are enemies, and they exclude each other. Whoever is sincere finds the strength to fight and to avoid the extremely dangerous path of lukewarmness” (J. Escrivá, Instruction, December 8, 1941).

Our love for God also stays youthful and is renewed when we share it with others. “When a coal fails to kindle a fire, it’s a sign that it’s cooling down, almost entirely turned to ashes,” St. Josemaría said (J. Escrivá, quoted in Cronica, 1973).

[Indeed], when our hearts don’t burn with the desire for others to approach God and even to walk our path with us, it is a sign that we may have fallen asleep. But there is a cure that reawakens us, said St. Josemaría in the Furrow: “Forget about yourself… May your ambition be to live for your brothers alone, for souls, for the Church; in one word, for God” (J. Escrivá, Furrow, Point 630).

Magnanimity is another great antidote to lukewarmness. It means dedicating what is best and most precious of our lives to the Lord. St. John tells us that while Jesus was in Bethany, Mary “took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the ointment” (John 12:3).

The finest perfume, our greatest treasure, our best time, should be for Our Lord.

In contrast, when we find ourselves making critical calculations, like Judas, judging everything spent on Jesus as waste, it’s a bad sign: “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?” (John 12:5). Later, Judas would sell the Master for the price of a slave (cf. Matt. 26:15, Exo. 21:32).

Sacrifices, victories, and mortifications—great or small—ignite us within and help us avoid the danger of lukewarmness. They remind our hearts that, despite all their fragility, they are capable of great love.

One spiritual writer says, “Make me like snow, Lord, for human joys; like clay in your hands; like fire for your love” (Ernestina de Champourcin, Presencia a oscuras).

All these remedies can be summed up in St. Paul’s moving words: “Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God” (cf. Eph. 4:30). The Holy Spirit, who does not rest in His efforts to form Jesus in us, needs us to be prompt and docile to His inspirations. Under His wings, our lives will acquire that sense of mission which has nothing to do with lukewarm calculation or mediocrity.

On the contrary, it turns our lives into adventures. Pope Francis has said, “Those who choose to model their entire life on Jesus no longer choose their own places; they go where they are sent, in ready response to the one who calls. They do not even choose their own times. The house where they live does not belong to them, because the Church and the world are open spaces of their mission. Their wealth is to put the Lord in the midst of their lives and seek nothing else for themselves. …

“Finding their happiness in the Lord, they are not content with a life of mediocrity, but burn with the desire to bear witness and reach out to others. They love to take risks and to set out, not limited to trails already blazed, but open and faithful to the paths pointed out by the Spirit. Rather than just getting by, they rejoice to evangelize” (Pope Francis, Homily, July 30, 2016).

Fulton Sheen says, “In many cases, those who lost the faith never did so for a reason; they left it for a thing. Souls generally do not fall away from Christ because of the Creed; they first have difficulty with the commandments.” The Creed later on becomes the handy tool of their rationalization.

“The most deadly poison of our times,” said St. Maximilian Kolbe, “is indifference. … And this happens, although the praise of God should know no limits. … Let us strive therefore to praise him to the greatest extent of our powers” (Maximilian Kolbe, Letter to Alphonse).

We are told in the Apocalypse, “You are not cold, but you are not hot either. You are not warm by the love of God. You do not do your prayer every day. You’re not as close to God as you could be. You don’t burn with the love of God. Would that you were hot or cold! But because you’re lukewarm, I will vomit you out of my mouth” (Rev. 3:15–16). It’s quite strong. Our Lord feels badly just thinking about this person.

There are also those people who think that they are good, and they don’t repent because they think that they do things well. That sickness of tepidity, also called mediocrity or weakness, is something we have to watch out for. People who have this illness of soul think, ‘What I want is not to condemn myself, and that’s enough.’

One day Our Lord went out preaching in Palestine, and without having had breakfast. He was walking in a place and He felt hungry. He approached a fig tree with many leaves. He knew that it was not the time for figs, because it was not September, which is when they come out in Palestine.

It seemed that the fig tree had fruit because it had many leaves. In spite of the fact that it was not the time of fruits, Our Lord condemned it because it did not have any fruit. He said, “‘May no fruit ever come from you again!’ And the fig tree withered at once” (Matt. 21:19). Our Lord, with this, wants to teach us something: that the person who approaches Him always gives fruit.

Seemingly, there are people who are good; they have leaves, but perhaps they don’t have figs. That’s not okay from God’s point of view. Tepidity can be seen as laziness for the things of God. People do the minimal.

The root is not tiredness, but a lack of love. It’s a lack of determination to deal with this problem seriously. In the end, it’s a form of cowardice or weakness.

The danger is that this laziness can spread over the whole soul to the point of making it grow cold. There’s only one step from laziness to lukewarmness. St. Josemaría used to say, “You say that you can’t do more? Could it not be that…you can’t do less?” (J. Escrivá, The Way, Point 23).

That verse from the Sequence on the feast of Stabat Mater can be very appropriate: Fac ut ardeat cor meum—“Make my heart burn.” Every day we can ask Our Lord to “enkindle in us the fire of your love”—Ure igne Sancti Spiritus.

We’re told in The Way, “You are lukewarm if you carry out lazily and reluctantly those things that have to do with Our Lord; if deliberately or ‘shrewdly’ you look for some way of cutting down your duties; if you think only of yourself and of your comfort; if your conversations are idle and vain; if you do not abhor venial sin; if you act for human motives” (J. Escrivá, The Way, Point 331).

This doesn’t mean that it doesn’t cost an effort to pray. Of course it can cost an effort.

Our conversations might be idle and vain—we can examine ourselves: what do I talk about? About music, about clothes, about the faults of others, about hair? It’s not wrong that we speak of the things that we have in our heart, but the lukewarm person does not have God in their heart, and because of that, they never speak about Him.

They’re happy to settle at a certain level of holiness. They act at times for human motives. We should think, what fruit does Our Lord expect from us? We should try and work to have that fruit all the time.

“Nevertheless,” we’re told in the Apocalypse, “I have this complaint to make: you have less love now than formerly” (Rev. 2:4).

Tepidity is characterized by a loss of fervor, a loss of actual willingness in the life of self-giving, thinking more about what is difficult rather than what is good, more in the pleasure one would get than the evil it may entail.

This leads to discouragement. One feels incapable of struggling, not having the strength or resources to react. One then does things badly or only partially. It is a type of sickness of the will, allowing ourselves to be carried along by feelings instead of reason enlightened by faith.

We have to try and help people around us to struggle—not just to diagnose problems, but to apply solutions.

Signs of a tepid spirit can be having a bourgeois spirit; leaving off the struggle to do the norms well; lack of concern for what is a general concern of our supernatural family: personal holiness and the holiness of everyone; thinking that we’re doing a lot and killing ourselves, when in reality we may be doing very little; not having interest to spread this madness of love through proselytism; lack of good use of time; habitually wasting time; not guarding our sight; doing small jobs poorly; being too focused on our professional work; having concern for little things in a wrong way that leads us to lose our peace or our charity.

If the care of others of little things leads us to be critical, then it’s a lack of love. The important thing is not the little thing, but the love.

Tepid souls can have a bitter zeal, lack of temperance at meals, complaints about the plan of life being an obstacle for living the day. Having unnecessary compensations, or maybe legitimate ones. Complaining that we can’t indulge in compensations because they’re not really our spirit.

In the Garden of Gethsemane, we see that Peter fell asleep in his prayer (Matt. 26:40-41). He followed Jesus at a distance. He is cold and seeks compensation by the fire, and he ends up denying Our Lord (Luke 22:55-60).

There is no taint of tepidity in Our Lady’s life. If the fire that makes the bush burn symbolizes God’s presence, the bush itself represents the person of Our Lady, shining without being consumed by the presence of the Holy Spirit, the fire of Divine Love: “You burned like the bush that was shown to Moses,” said one spiritual writer, “yet you did not burn out. Melted in the fire, you drew strength from that fire, remaining forever ardent” (Amadeus of Lausanne, Homilies in Praise of Blessed Mary).

We ask her and St. Josemaría to help us keep the love of God always burning. May love for Our Lady ignite our hearts with “a living flame” (J. Escrivá, The Way, Point 492).

I thank you, my God, for the good resolutions, affections, and inspirations that you have communicated to me during this meditation. I ask your help to put them into practice. My Immaculate Mother, Saint Joseph, my father and lord, my guardian angel, intercede for me.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Note: This meditation draws extensively from an essay in the Opus Dei website entitled, “‘Do not grieve the Holy Spirit’: Lukewarmness” by José Brage.