Purgatory, the gentle furnace: a meditation on the muddy boots of souls on their way home
There are quiet, golden mornings in Montana when you wake to thin sun trembling on the aspens, and, if you’re very lucky, parents who still love each other, some hand-me-down shirts, and ideas about what, if anything, happens after the sun sets for good. I imagine this is where purgatory slips in, not with gothic thunder or the sharp whiff of sulfur, but like dew—ordinary and hopeful, a pause in the great hurrying home to God.
Fr. Chris Alar (in a video I recently watched) stands in a pulpit, borrowed from Augustinian memory and Catholic tradition, and he gently sets out three purposes for this holy mystery called purgatory: detachment, atonement, and preparation. In other words, souls—my stubborn, wandering soul included—need to shed the heavy backpacks of earthly clutter, repair threads of self or friendship left frayed by little sunders and selfishness, and finally, tune their hearts to be fit for the celestial symphony. Detachment: letting go of things that won’t fit through the door to heaven. Atonement: mending holes made by sharp words or days spent muddling. Preparation: a burning away, not to destroy, but to clarify, as gold is purified in a fire.
Scripture glimmers with this notion—a fire that tests, not obliterates, what is good. St. Paul writes of work passing through flame, remnants yielded to a greater glory (1 Corinthians 3:13–15). The Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us purgatory is a place “of purification, so as to achieve the holiness necessary to enter the joy of heaven,” reserved for those who die in God’s friendship, but not yet “perfectly purified” (CCC 1030–1031). St. Augustine, grand master of soulful wrestling, and the council fathers, nod. Yes, the heart must be swept, the porch washed, the boots cleaned for the wedding feast.
Now, what does this mean at 9:02 on a Tuesday in the middle of September, when the coffee is burning, and emails pop up with teeth? Purgatory, far from some medieval torture chamber, is a parable stitched into our present lives. It is a vision of hope, of God’s justice braided with mercy. True justice—God’s justice—doesn’t abandon or annihilate us for failing to love perfectly, but calls us to growth, conversion, restoration. Mercy grants us not just a ticket to heaven, but a loving process, a time to become truly free, to loosen our grasp on what wounds us and others.
If we believed, truly, that every careless word, every day lived half-blind or indifferent, was a thread in the tapestry of our souls, would we not pause and mend, more often? Purgatory says: yes—there is time. Time for forgiveness, for prayer offered for those gone before us. This doctrine dignifies our penance, our slow acts of love and letting go. It inspires urgency—the redemptive ache to be better, for ourselves and for others. When the world is weary with distraction and busyness, purgatory is a luminous interruption, a beckoning pause. It asks us to pray for others, to seek forgiveness, to let suffering teach us wisdom. To see every irritation, every heartbreak, as another rung on the ladder home.
And suffering, too, is transfigured. Not all suffering is redemptive, but purgatory whispers: what pains endured in faith and love can burn away pride, can gently call us closer to Christ, can inspire us to offer small joys and sorrows for the good of others, living and dead. This is not some cosmic insurance premium; it is a love story, stretched to the farthest ends of hope. The Church, our ancient mother, says: Be not afraid. There is no suffering you might endure—grief for a child, loneliness at midnight, embarrassment at your own repeated failures—that cannot be made holy, shined to gold in the hand of God.
People resist the very idea. We want heaven clean, immediate, cheap. But the rude urgency of purgatory speaks to a deeper truth: nothing valuable is cheap, no relationship worthwhile is frictionless, and even conversion is a process. Purgatory is love that lingers, that will not let go until every particle of beloved dust is gleaming. It is a reassurance that redemption is not a trap-door but a journey, that the spiritual journey today is still, as ever, the journey of hope. We pray for the dead because love does not yield to the silent hours. We repent, seek forgiveness, live tenderly, because our souls are shaped both by past injury and future glory.
If purgatory is fire, it is not the fire of destruction, but the fire of clarifying wheat and chaff in the heart. If it is an intermediate place, it is not a waiting room of despair, but the porch light left on, the gentle scrubbing before dinner. It is God’s final act of mercy—a promise that the door home will never be shut before we are ready, and that in the end, love wins, even if by the last copper, paid with tears and hope.
References
Alar, C. (2025, August 17). The Three Purposes of Purgatory [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/shorts/aU2XxcoNq-I
Catechism of the Catholic Church. (n.d.). 1030–1031. Vatican.
Catholic Answers. (2025, September 4). What Does the Catholic Church Teach About Purgatory?
Catholic Exchange. (2025, September 18). Examining the Church’s Concept of Purgatory.
Blessed Midland. (2025, January 14). Understanding Purgatory: A Journey of Purification.
Corpus Christi Catholic Church Phoenix. (2023, July 4). Purgatory.
Catholic Stand. (2016, March 23). Purgatory: God’s Last Act of Mercy.
