We Know Not the Day nor the Hour — If You Get My Drift

By Fr. Jerry Pokorsky ( bio - articles - email ) | Dec 01, 2025

Advent begins with the same warning that ended the liturgical year: Be watchful. Stay awake. You do not know the day nor the hour (cf. Mt. 24:37-44). Jesus speaks these words not to frighten us, but to shake us free from spiritual lethargy. Advent is our time to wake up, purify our souls with God’s grace, and clear the obstacles that keep us from receiving Jesus—in Bethlehem, at the end of time, and at every Mass.

Advent is the season of spiritual readiness for the coming of Jesus. Not paranoia, not anxiety: readiness. Jesus tells us to stay awake because He desires to come to us with mercy, not catch us off guard with judgment. The Church gives us these weeks to reorder our lives, examine our habits, and prepare the way of the Lord.

Let’s begin with a good, honest Advent confession. Mortal sin doesn’t take place in a vacuum. An ensemble of venial sins usually accompanies grave sins. And to prepare for confession, we must avoid the many occasions of sin—and the distractions that lead us there.

Exemplary Catholic parishes are filled with families, with parents struggling to control their little children. But parents, are you being parents in the little things? Do you dine together as a family? A family that prays together stays together. And a family that dines together grows in affection, manners, gratitude, and patience. God gives us hunger not only to sustain our bodies, but so that mealtime can teach us generosity. If we’re too busy for regular family meals, something’s out of order. Advent provides a spiritual tingle to reorder our lives.

Impressive young folks come to Mass every week. They pray. They are on the right path. But holiness also starts at home. Do they help around the house? Clean their rooms? Control their access to the Internet? Keep the bathrooms presentable? Because—who knows—visitors may show up unexpectedly. Suppose a priest comes for a house blessing. You know not the day nor the hour.

Here is a story from my vast pastoral experience. First, a riddle: what’s the difference between a diocesan pastor and an Opus Dei or religious order priest? Give up? You would never tell an Opus Dei or a religious order priest that the church lavatory is flooding! The diocesan pastor? He’s on call for everything—and he knows not the day nor the hour. (But I’m not bitter.)

A while back, while doing my usual after-hours patrol, I noticed a car parked off to the side in the darkness. The occupants ignored the sign warning against night parking. Suspiciously hidden—never a good sign. Smartphone in hand, I crept up, snapped a picture of the license plate—unexpectedly, with the flash. Inside: a very young man, maybe not yet 18, and a slightly older young lady who seemed… shall we say… experienced, if you get my drift. He was petrified. She was unbothered. Both knew not the day of their visitation.

He demanded, “What are you going to do with that photo?” I answered, “Call the police, identify the car’s owner. Your dad, right? I’m going to call your father and rat you out, explaining what his son is doing behind the church in the dark.” The bored young lady suggested that he would be pleased that his son took his girlfriend to church. But the threat of dad’s involvement was an existential threat to the young man. In a panic, he peeled out of there, shouting, “I’ll see you in hell!” I didn’t have an opportunity to give him the bulletin with the confessional schedule. (All true!)

Mortal sin rarely “just happens.” Much of our preparation is painstakingly elaborate as we sneak about. But the dark corners of the parish parking lots are not as hidden as people think. “For every one who does evil hates the light, and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed.” (Jn. 3:20) From God’s perspective, there are no dark corners of our lives. Advent provokes us: stay awake. The Lord sees. And sometimes the pastor sees too.

A pleasant and popular devotional plaque reads:

Christ is the Head of this house, the unseen Guest at every meal, The silent Listener to every conversation.

How ironic it is that as the world sinks more deeply into debauchery, priests are increasingly forbidden (from the cultural standpoint) from preaching purity from the pulpit. To the dismay of some Catholics, the old Baltimore Catechism warns youngsters of the pains of hell for unrepentant sins. It even teaches “modesty” and “purity.” We can’t have that from the pulpit!

But St. Paul also doesn’t mince words:

Besides this you know what hour it is, how it is full time now for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we first believed; the night is far gone, the day is at hand. Let us then cast off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us conduct ourselves becomingly as in the day, not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires. (Rom. 13:11-14)

Here is the good news: we need not fear. Confession is good for the soul. So is a healthy sense of shame that reminds us we are made for holiness and with every confession increases or restores us to the state of sanctifying grace. Every sin confessed is wrapped forever under the seal of confession—protected, forgiven, obliterated.

This Advent, let’s be watchful. Let’s return to prayer, to confession, to family life, to purity of heart. Jesus desires to enter the cluttered inn of our souls. And when He comes—at Christmas, at Mass, or at the end of time—may He find us awake, attentive, and ready with clear consciences.