Episode 12 - Dark Night of the Soul

Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross  Sixteenth century Spanish mystic, St. John of the Cross, writes that “[i]f you purify your soul of attachment to and desire for things, you will understand them spiritually. If you deny your appetite for them, you will enjoy their truth, understanding what is certain in them.” To the material world, St. John of the Cross attributes spiritual qualities that only an intentional wandering through the desert can reveal. We must embrace what he calls an aridity or dryness of existence: detachment from what is seen and a clinging to what is not. Only then can we discern the hold much of the visible has on us and, from there, work to sever those holds and more fully step into the Divine. St. John of the Cross cautions his readers by reminding them that impatience toward this end is not, in fact, a sign of humility, but, in recognizing human frailty and concupiscence – that wheedling itch to fall away from what is good and true, which is to say, sin – he seems to suggest that the tortoise’s way, not the hare’s, is really best.  It takes a lifetime. The dark night is persistent.  Later, he recognizes that God seems to purge those with greater strength to suffer more intensely while he purges “gently and with slight temptation” those with weaker spiritual constitutions. Lightweights in the faith are treated with kid gloves while the formidable experience bouts of immense struggle. To both, the moon does not dazzle. To each according to their ability. Small proclivities for one. Grand impulses for the other.  And here we all sit. If we are honest, that is – not prone to self-diagnose with the latest and trendiest labels.  Over a century ago, it was called spiritual malaise. It emerged like an unsightly creature from the morass that became the Industrial Revolution. Many of the avante garde had shown God the door and wondered through their art why they were so sad. Others tried to drown the darkness with booze and sex while still others retreated to movements – social, political, and otherwise. We see it in their poetry, their prose, the songs they sang, the paint they manipulated and, eventually, we saw it in the wars fought over ideologies, perpetrated by demagogues.  We all know the names. We recite them like some twisted catechism in our secondary schools and universities.  We are, strangely, attached to our history to the extent that we are blinded by it. The “things” of our collective past hold sway over us. They are integral to our narratives, basic units of our reality. Powerful.  But healthy? Good for us?  What would St. John of the Cross say?  Perhaps that they have a spiritual dimension – something we must know, grapple with. And why? The Divine, of course. To step better into it. To release ourselves of crippling attachments.  Years ago, I swore off social media. I am no spiritual powerhouse, but I still knew enough to see that the mindless, ugly banter that is the lifeblood of social media was doing me no good. In a small way, then, I stepped into an arid place. I turned off the noise. I stopped believing it was essential.  Is this what we need right now? Do the powers that be fear a massive walkout?  The night does not have to be scary, but it does require a modicum of bravery to step into. There is truth to be found and, from it, peace. The world, at present, is very loud. But love whispers. It is not forced. The machinations of humankind have no jurisdiction.