There comes a moment every year when even the Alleluias sound as though they’ve had a long winter.
They are still there, still sung faithfully, still printed in bold in the bulletin — but they arrive slightly out of breath, like someone who has jogged up the church steps and is pretending not to be winded.
This is not a spiritual failure.
This is February.
We have had Christmas. We have had Epiphany. We have had light and revelation and declarations that the world has been turned right-side up again. And now — quite honestly — we are tired. Not despairing. Not faithless. Just… human.
The Church does not scold us for this. Instead, she gently acknowledges it by allowing these in-between days to exist at all. The calendar slows. The readings grow quieter. The Alleluias begin to pack their bags.
This, too, is grace.
Because God is not alarmed by our weariness. God does not panic when our spiritual enthusiasm drops a few degrees. God meets us precisely here — when our prayers are shorter, our singing more subdued, and our faith feels less like fireworks and more like a pilot light.
In fact, Scripture suggests God rather prefers it this way.
Elijah meets God not in the earthquake or fire, but in sheer silence. Jesus often prays after everyone else has gone home. Resurrection, after all, happens at dawn — when the world is still rubbing its eyes.
So if your Alleluias feel a little tired, let them rest. They will return soon enough, louder and bolder than before. For now, trust that even quiet praise is still praise — and that God listens just as closely.
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Companion Prayer
Faithful God,
when our voices falter
and our joy feels thin,
remind us that you are not disappointed.
Teach us that tired Alleluias
are still Alleluias,
and quiet faith
is still faith.
Hold us in your patience
until joy rises again,
rested and renewed.
Amen