We live in strange times. Our culture has long been looking to Sodom and Gomorrah not as warnings but as models to emulate. We lived through a worldwide pandemic that we’ve since discovered originated not from nature but from man’s hubris…and there’s reason to suspect another “plandemic” might be coming. Technology threatens to blur the distinction between human and machine. And instead of being a light of the world, the Church herself staggers under the weight of confusion and apostasy.
It’s no surprise, then, that some Catholics, especially those of a traditional bent, look at the chaos and whisper, “The End is near.” The Book of Revelation starts to feel less like a symbolic vision and more like a news ticker. I get it—believe me, I do. I’ve felt that same tug, that urge to connect the dots between our crumbling culture and the apocalyptic warnings of Scripture. But here’s the thing: obsessing over the imminent End of the world is a spiritual trap, one that can lead us away from the very faith we’re trying to defend.
Let’s be clear: the Church has always taught that Christ will return. The Second Coming is no mere metaphor—it’s a dogma etched into the Creed we recite every Sunday: “He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead.” The well-formed Catholic mind doesn’t shy away from eschatology; we know history has a climax, and it’s not a utopian dream cooked up by secular progressives. But there’s a vast difference between acknowledging the reality of the End Times and fixating on them as if we’ve cracked some cosmic code. Too many of us are falling into the latter camp, and it’s doing more harm than good.
This isn’t a new problem. Catholics have been here before. Back in the year 1000, some Christians—lay and cleric alike—were convinced the millennium marked the end. The Book of Revelation speaks of a thousand years, after all, and surely the round number meant something. Historians debate how widespread the panic was, but we know it existed. Rodulfus Glaber, a monk of the time, chronicled tales of apocalyptic fervor, with people hoarding food or abandoning their fields. Yet the sun rose on January 1, 1001, and the world kept spinning. The Church didn’t collapse; Christ didn’t descend. Life went on.
Fast forward to the 19th century, and you’ve got the Millerites in America predicting Christ’s return in 1844. When it didn’t happen—termed the “Great Disappointment”—some doubled down, birthing groups like the Seventh-day Adventists, who still carry an apocalyptic streak. Catholics aren’t immune either. These days you’ll find traditionalist corners of the internet buzzing with claims that the latest advancement in artificial intelligence or supposed alien sighting is proof of the imminent rise of the Antichrist. Or that the latest controversy coming out of the Vatican is “proof” that Christ’s return is right around the corner. The pattern is sadly the same: a fixation on the End blinds us to the present reality around us.
From a Catholic perspective, this obsession is dangerous not because it’s entirely wrong—Christ will return someday—but because it distorts how we’re meant to live our faith. The Church has never encouraged us to play eschatological detective. Our Lord Himself said, “But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only” (Matthew 24:36). If the Second Person of the Trinity didn’t claim that knowledge in His human nature, what makes us think we can pin it down?
The first danger of this apocalypse-now mindset is spiritual pride. When we convince ourselves we’re living in the final act, we start to see ourselves as the elect, the remnant who “get it” while everyone else stumbles in darkness. It’s a short step from there to a kind of Gnosticism—a belief that we’ve unlocked secret knowledge unavailable to the average pew-sitter. Catholicism, however, has always rejected that Gnostic temptation. Our faith isn’t a treasure hunt for hidden signs; it’s a call to humility and holiness rooted in the sacraments, the liturgy, and the unchanging deposit of faith. The moment we trade public revelation for a conspiracy chart, we’ve lost the plot.
Another problem with an obsession with the End Times is that it blinds one to the good in this world. Good news in the Church or an exciting scientific or technological discovery are automatically seen in a negative light; such news is twisted into yet another sign of the coming cataclysm. Such a relentlessly negative outlook is not consistent with a proper Catholic attitude, which sees God still working in this fallen world of ours.
At its worst, this fixation can twist our view of God. If we’re always scanning the horizon for the apocalypse, we risk turning God into a cosmic killjoy, a deity who can’t wait to smite the wicked and wrap things up. That’s not the God who offers Himself daily in the Eucharist for our salvation. It’s not the God who invites us to meditate on His Divine Mercy. Catholics know (or should know) that God’s justice and mercy aren’t at odds—they’re two sides of the same divine coin. Obsessing over the End Times tilts the balance, making us forget the mercy that’s available right now.
If we’re always scanning the horizon for the apocalypse, we risk turning God into a cosmic killjoy, a deity who can’t wait to smite the wicked and wrap things up.Tweet ThisBeyond the spiritual, there’s a practical cost. When we’re consumed with apocalyptic thoughts, we neglect the duties of the present. The father who spends his evenings decoding the latest apparitions might miss tucking his kids into bed. The mother stockpiling candles for the “Three Days of Darkness” might not notice her friend’s quiet struggle with faith. I’m not saying we ignore the signs of the times—our culture’s rejection of natural law and the Church’s internal crises are real—but we’re called to focus on those around us far more than potential “signs” around the world.
The Church, in her wisdom, has always steered us away from this trap. St. Thomas Aquinas warned against speculating on the timing of the end, writing that “The day of the last judgement is altogether uncertain… and it is not for us to know the times or seasons which the Father hath put in His own power” (Summa Theologiae, III Suppl., q. 88, a. 3). Even the great popes of the past, like Pope St. Pius X, who saw the storm clouds of modernity gathering, didn’t waste time predicting Armageddon—they fought for the faith.
So where does that leave us? In the here and now. I don’t deny that we’re in dark times—maybe even the darkest since the Arian crisis—but we shouldn’t leap to the conclusion that the credits are about to roll. Instead, we must cling to the Mass, the sacraments, and the daily grind of sanctity. We should pray the Rosary, not to ward off an imminent apocalypse, but to align our hearts with Our Lady’s. We should teach our kids the Baltimore Catechism, not because the world’s ending tomorrow, but because truth endures.
If the End comes in our lifetime, so be it—if we’re faithfully praying, doing penance, and following the precepts of the Church, we’ll be ready. But if the End doesn’t come soon, we won’t have wasted our days chasing shadows. The danger of thinking the apocalypse is imminent isn’t that we might be wrong; it’s that we might miss the real battle: the one for our souls, fought not in some future cataclysm, but in the quiet of this very moment.