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In the preceding chapter we discussed the defects of proficients
or the advanced, the remains of spiritual or intellectual pride found
in them, and the absolute need of purification for the depth of the
soul impregnated with self-love and subtle egoism. The Lord alone can
effect this profound purification.
We purpose here to describe this purification so that it may not be
confused either with sufferings springing only from melancholy or
neurasthenia, or with the sensible aridity of beginners. Such a
confusion would evidently be an unpardonable error.(1)
THE DARKNESS IN WHICH THE SOUL HAS THE IMPRESSION OF BEING
As the passive purification of the sensible parr of the soul is
manifested by the loss of the sensible consolations to which it was excessively attached, the passive purification of the spirit seems at
first to consist in the deprivation of the lights previously received
of the mysteries of faith. Having become too familiar, as it were, with them, the facility with which the soul considered them in
prayer caused it to forget their infinite elevation; it thought of
them in a manner somewhat too human. It dwelt, for example, a
little too much on Christ's humanity, without living sufficiently by
faith in His divinity; it attained as yet only the exterior aspects
of the great mysteries of Providence, of the Incarnation, of the
redemption, of the Mass, and of the life of the indefectible Church
in the midst of continually recurring trials. The soul had still only
a very superficial knowledge of these spiritual realities; its view of
these mysteries was like that of a stained-glass window seen from
without.
Then, what occurs? To lift the soul above this excessively inferior
and superficial knowledge of divine things, the Lord detaches it from this way of thinking and praying and seems to strip
it of its lights. In the words of St. John of the Cross: "God now
denudes the faculties, the affections, and feelings, spiritual and
sensual, interior and exterior, leaving the understanding in darkness,
the will dry, the memory empty, the affections of the soul in the
deepest affliction, bitterness, and distress; withholding from it
the former sweetness it had in spiritual things." (2)
The sadness then experienced is very different from that which has its
origin in neurasthenia, disillusions, or the contradictions of life.
The chief difference is that the sadness of the passive purification
of the spirit is accompanied by an ardent desire for God and
perfection, by a persistent seeking after Him who alone can nourish
the soul and vivify it. No longer only a sensible aridity, it is a
dryness of the spiritual order, which springs, not from the
deprivation of sensible consolations, but from the loss of the lights
to which the soul was accustomed.
The soul should then walk "in the dark, in pure .faith, which is the
dark night of the natural faculties." (3) It can no longer easily apply
itself to the consideration of our Savior's humanity; on the contrary,
it is deprived of such consideration, as were the apostles immediately
after Christ's ascension into heaven. During the months preceding the
Ascension, their intimacy with Him had grown daily; it had become
their life, and then one day He took final leave of them on this
earth, thus depriving them of the sight of Him and of His encouraging
words. They must have felt very much alone, as it were, isolated,
especially while thinking of the difficulties of the mission our Savior had entrusted to them: the evangelization of
an impious world, plunged in all the errors of paganism. On the evening of Ascension Day, the apostles must have experienced the
impression of profound solitude, similar to that of the desert and of death. We can get a slight idea of this solitude, when, after
living in a higher plane during a fervent retreat under the direction of a
priest who is closely united to God, we return to ordinary everyday
life, which seems suddenly to deprive us of this plenitude. The same
thing is true, and indeed much more so, after the death of a father,
of a founder of an order, for those whom he leaves and who must
continue his work. Thus after Christ's ascension, the apostles
remained gazing toward heaven; their beloved Master had been taken
from their gaze, and they felt alone in the face of all the sufferings
to come.
They must then have recalled Christ's words: "I tell you the truth: it
is expedient to you that I go. For if I go not, the Paraclete will not
come to you; but if I go, I will send Him to you." (4) "It is expedient
to you that I go," that I deprive you of My sensible presence. In his
commentary on St. John (loc. cit.), St. Thomas says: "The apostles
were attached to the humanity of Christ, they did not rise
sufficiently to the spiritual love of His divinity, and were not yet
prepared to receive the Holy Ghost. . . who was to be given to them to
console them and strengthen them in the midst of their tribulations."
This deprivation of the sensible presence of Christ's humanity which
preceded the transformation of the apostles, effected on Pentecost,
throws light on the state of darkness and desolation that we are
discussing. It seems to the soul in this state that it enters a
spiritual night, for it is deprived of the lights which hitherto
illumined it; darkness descends as when the sun goes down.
THE REVELATION OF THE MAJESTY OF GOD IN THIS DARKNESS
But does the soul see nothing in this dark night? In the natural order
when the sun has set and completely disappeared, at least some stars
are visible, which convey an idea of the depth of the
firmament. Hence at night we can see much farther than during
the day; true, hills or mountains, fifty or a hundred miles away, are
no longer visible, but we can see stars and constellations which are
thousands of leagues from the earth. The nearest star requires four
and a half years to send us its light. The sun seems larger than the
stars, although those of the first six magnitudes are far greater than
it.
In this natural fact we have a sensible symbol of a lofty truth. When
the soul enters the spiritual darkness we are speaking of, it no
longer sees what is near it, but it has an increasingly better anticipatory apprehension of the infinite majesty ana purity of God,
although it does not see it, an apprehension superior to all the ideas
that we of ourselves can have of Him; and, by contrast, it perceives
much more clearly its own indigence and wretchedness.
Thus after the Ascension, the apostles, deprived of the presence of
Christ's humanity, began to glimpse all the majesty of the Son of God.
On Pentecost, Peter preached to the Jews with unshakable faith: "But
the Author of life you killed, whom God hath raised from the dead."
(5)
"This [Jesus] is the stone which was rejected by you the builders,
which is become the head of the corner. Neither is there salvation in
any other." (6)
Such is the lofty contemplation born in the darkness of which we are
speaking. When the sun has set, we see the stars in the depths of the
firmament. But before enjoying the contemplation of the starry sky, we
must become used to walking fearlessly in the night and triumphing
over powerful temptations against faith and hope, just as, during the
night of the senses, it was necessary to overcome many temptations
against chastity and patience that have their seat in the sensible
part of the soul.
We may profit by recalling the case of the holy Cure of Ars. His
principal suffering sprang from the fact that he felt himself far from
the ideal of the priesthood, whose grandeur appeared increasingly to
him in the obscurity of faith, at the same time that he had an ever
clearer understanding of the needs of the innumerable souls coming to
him. The more he saw all the good that remained to be done, the less he
saw what had already been accomplished; consequently he could not be
complacent about it. His great suffering,
which approached that of Jesus, Priest and Victim, and of Mary at the
foot of the cross, was that which comes from the sight of sinand from
the loss of souls. This suffering presupposes a penetrating
view which is nothing else than the contemplation of the infinite
goodness of God, who is disregarded and outraged, and of the value
of eternal life. This contemplation grows more and more in the dark
night of faith which we are discussing.
St. Catherine of Siena pointed out in her Dialogue that the
contemplation of our indigence and wretchedness and that of the
infinite majesty and goodness of God are like the lowest and highest
points of a circle that could grow forever. In reality, in this contemplation there is a contrast, a clear-cut opposition between two
things which in an admirable manner mutually illumine each other.
In the life of Blessed Angela of Foligno we find a striking example
of this fact, which she recounts as follows: "I see myself deprived of
every good, of every virtue, filled with a multitude of vices; . . .
in my soul I see only defects. . . false humility, pride, hypocrisy. .
. . I would wish to cry out my iniquities to others. . . . God is
hidden for me. . . . How can I hope in Him? . . . Though all the wise
men of the world and all the saints of paradise were to overwhelm me
with their consolations, they would bring me no relief, if God does
not change me in the depths of my soul. This interior torment is far
worse than martyrdom." (7) Then, recalling that God Himself was
afflicted in Gethsemane, that during His passion He was scorned,
buffeted, and tortured, she wished that her suffering might be
increased still more, for it seemed to her a purifying suffering,
which revealed to her the depths of the Passion. Some days later, on a
road near Assisi, she heard these interior words: "O My daughter! I
love thee more than any other person in this valley. . . . Thou hast
prayed to My servant Francis, hoping to obtain with him and through
him. Francis loved Me greatly, I did much in him; but if anyone loved
Me more than Francis, I would do more for him. . . . I love with an
immense love the soul that loves Me without falsehood. . . . Now, no
one
has any excuse, for all the world can love; God asks only love from
the soul; for He Himself loves without falsehood, and is Himself
the love of the soul." (8) Causing her to glimpse His passion,
Jesus crucified added: "Look closely: dost thou find anything in Me
which is not love?" (9)
Another striking example of the spiritual night which we are speaking
of is found in St. Paul of the Cross, the founder of the Passionists.
We read in his Letters:
Little corporal or spiritual tribulations are the first steps of this
lofty
and holy ladder which great and generous souls climb. They ascend
step
by step until they reach the last rung. There, at the summit, they
find the purest suffering, without the slightest admixture of
consolation coming from heaven or earth (the suffering which comes
from offense offered to God). And if these souls are faithful in not
seeking consolations, they will pass from this pure suffering to the
pure love of God, without anything else being mingled with it. But
rare are the souls which reach such a degree. . . .
It seems to them that they are abandoned by God, that He no longer
loves them, that He is irritated against them. . . . This is almost
the pain of damnation, if I may express myself in this manner, a
suffering, whose bitterness is comparable to no other. But if the soul
is faithful, what treasures it amasses! The storms pass and go, the
soul approaches true, very sweet, and very close union with Jesus
crucified, who transforms it in Himself and reproduces His own
features in it.(10)
These excerpts show that St. John of the Cross is not the only one who
spoke profoundly of the night of the spirit because he had experienced
it. Before him, Hugh of St. Victor had compared the passive
purification of the soul by grace and the love of God to the
transformation which green wood undergoes when attacked by fire: "The
dampness is consumed, the smoke diminishes, the victorious flame shows
itself; . . . finally it communicates its own nature to the wood,
which is set completely on fire. Likewise the love of God gradually
grows in the soul, the passions of the heart at first resist, which
causes many sufferings and troubles; this thick
smoke must be dissipated. Then the love of God becomes more ardent,
its flame more lively. . . and finally it penetrates the entire soul.
The divine truth is found and assimilated by contemplation; the soul,
detached from self, no longer seeks anything but God.
He is for it all in all; it rests in His love and finds therein joy
and
peace. (11)
Speaking in like terms, Tauler says that the Holy Ghost creates
a void in the depth of our souls where egoism and pride still dwell.
He creates the void that He may heal us, and then He fills it to
overflowing while continually increasing our capacity to receive.(12)
St. Teresa speaks of the passive purification of the spirit in the
first chapter of the sixth mansion of The Interior Castle.
We read also in the life of St. Vincent de Paul that for four years he
endured a trial of this type, which was marked by a persistent
temptation against faith. The temptation was so strong that he wrote
the Credo on a sheet of paper, which he carried over his heart and
pressed from time to time to assure himself that he did not consent to
the temptation.(13)
We should also keep in mind that St. John of the Cross, after Tauler,
describes this state as it is in the saints in all its
amplitude and intensity, such as he himself must have undergone it. But the
purification is found in lesser degrees and under less purely contemplative
forms, united, for example, to the great trials met
with in the apostolate.
If the passive purification of the spirit seems extraordinary to us
outside the normal way of sanctity, this is because we do not give enough thought to what a profound purification of the soul is
necessary to receive immediately eternal life, the beatific vision of
the divine essence, without having to pass through purgatory or after
having done so. And when we read the exposition of this doctrine in
the great masters, we read it perhaps through a certain curiosity
about divine things, but without a sufficiently sincere desire for our
own sanctification. If we had this desire, we would find in these
pages what is suitable for us, we would see there the one thing
necessary.
We must in one way or another pass through this crucible in order to
have a concept of our Savior's passion, of the humility of Jesus and
His love for us, that will not be only a confused concept, or only a
theoretically distinct concept, but an experimental concept, without
which there is no love of the cross or true sanctity.
We must tell ourselves that the world is full of crosses that have
unfortunately been lost like that of the bad thief. God grant that our
sufferings may not be fruitless and that our crosses may
resemble that of the good thief, which served as a reparation for his
sins. May our crosses resemble even more closely the cross of Jesus
and configure us to Him. Sanctifying grace, as it grows, makes us
more and more like to God; inasmuch as it is Christian grace, it
assimilates us to Christ crucified, and should make us grow more like
Him until our entrance into heaven. It should mark us with the
likeness of our Savior who died for love of us.
We must also take into account the inequality between souls and
between their means. We must ask of souls only what they can give: of
some, a continuous upward surge of heroism; of others, little steps,
which bring them ever nearer the end to be attained. But, to be
configured to Christ, every soul must sacrifice itself under some form
or other.
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1.
The progress of the knowledge and love of God, which characterizes
this purification, is precisely what distinguishes it from sufferings
that, in certain respects, resemble it, like those of neurasthenia.
These latter may have nothing purifying about them, but they may also be borne for love of God and
in a spirit of abandonment. Likewise sufferings which are the result of a person's lack of
virtue, of an undisciplined and at times exasperated sensibility, are not of themselves
purifying, although a person may also accept them as a salutary
humiliation, the result of his sins, and as a means of making
reparation for them. 2. The Dark Night, Bk. II, chap. 3. 3. Ibid., chap. 4.
4. John 16:7. 5. Acts 3: 15. 6. Acts 4: 11 f. 7. Le Livre de ses visions et instructions, chap. 19.
8. Ibid., chap. 20. 9. Ibid. 10. Lettres, I, 153. Cf. also Father Cajetan of the Holy Name of Mary,
Oraison et ascension mystique de saint Paul de la Croix (Louvain, 1930)
chap, 3, pp. 115, 175. "Forty-five years of desolation: apparent
disappearance of the virtues of faith, hope, and charity. The saint
believes himself abandoned by God. Patience and resignation to the will of God. The saint is drawn
into the wounds of Jesus. Jesus on the cross says to him: 'You are in
My heart.' The Passion is imprinted on his heart, and he is held for three hours in
the side of Jesus." St. Paul of the Cross not only traversed a tunnel, but he dug it in
order to cause the religious of his Order to pass through it in their
turn. 11. In Eccli., Hom. I. 12. Cf. Tauler, Second Sermon for
Pentecost. See also the Sermon for
the Fifth Sunday after Trinity Sunday, where he says: "Then there opens up
a very deserted road, which is wholly somber and solitary. On this
road God takes back all that He has given. Man is then so completely
abandoned to himself that he no longer knows anything of God. He
reaches a state of such anguish that he no longer knows whether he is
on the right road. . . and this becomes so painful to him that this
vast world seems too narrow to him. He has no longer any feeling of his
God, he no longer knows anything about Him, and everything else
displeases him. It is as if he were fastened between two walls, with
a sword behind him and a sharp lance in front of him. Let him then sit
down and say: 'Hail, O God, bitter bitterness full of all graces.' To
love to excess and to be deprived of the good that one loves seems to
him more painful trial than hell, if hell were possible on earth. All that
one can then say to this man consoles him as much as would a stone. Less than
anything else, he does not wish anyone to talk to him about
creatures. . . . Take courage! The Lord is surely very near. Rest on
the trunk of a very living true faith: soon all will go exceedingly
well." This is the night and the profound emptiness which prepare the true deification of the soul.
Elsewhere Tauler compares this state to that of a ship which has lost its sails
and masts in a storm. 13. Cf. Abelly, Vie de saint Vincent de Paul, Bk. III, chap.
11,
sect. I, pp. 164-68. Cf. Revue d'ascetique et de mystique, 1931, pp. 398 ff. |
